A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Aaaggggh …’ She hauled in a huge whoop of air, both hands wrapped around her throat – as if Dugdale hadn’t done a good enough job throttling her and she was having a go herself.

  But Dugdale didn’t snatch up the money, he kept on going, smashing into Callum and the wee girl, sending them slamming back into the Volkswagen. Rocking it on its springs.

  A fist connected with Callum’s ribs. Arms and legs tangled. Flashes of sky, then concrete, then rusty metal, then sky again.

  Then bang – everything was at full speed again.

  Callum yanked the pepper spray from his jacket pocket. The little girl wriggled her way out from between them, trainers digging into his thigh as she went. Callum flipped the cap off the spray and thumbed the button, sending a squirt of burning pepper stink out at Dugdale’s face.

  Missed.

  Dugdale didn’t. He rammed his hand into Callum’s crotch, grabbed hold, and squeezed.

  Oh God …

  But when Callum opened his mouth to scream, all that came out was a strangled wheeze – eyes wide as every single ache and pain in his body disappeared, replaced by the thermonuclear explosion going off in his scrotum. It raced out through his stomach, down his legs, up into his chest – a shockwave ripping out from ground zero as Dugdale twisted his handful like a rusty doorknob.

  Oh sodding Jesus …

  Dugdale let go, but the nuclear war still raged.

  No …

  Water filled Callum’s eyes, making the word go all soft focus, but the pain remained pin-sharp. He lashed out with the pepper spray, swinging it in an arc with the button held down.

  Someone bellowed in pain.

  Then scuffing feet.

  Argh …

  The clatter of a very large man tripping over a fallen bicycle.

  A dull thunk, like a watermelon bouncing off a coffee table.

  Oh that hurt …

  ‘BLOODY PAEDO!’ Some more thunks.

  ‘Come on, leave him!’

  Thunk, thunk, thunk. ‘BLOODY BALDY PAEDO WANKER!’

  Ow …

  ‘Willow, come on! Before he gets up!’

  The sound of someone spitting.

  ‘Grab the cash, Benny. No, you spaz, get the wallet too!’

  Then trainers on concrete, the rattle of bicycles being dragged upright, and the growl of tyres fading away into the distance.

  One last cry of, ‘PIGGY, PIGGY, PIGGY!’

  The sound of that big black Mercedes pulling away now the floor-show was over.

  And silence.

  Callum cursed and panted and wobbled his way up to his knees, one hand clutching his tattered groin.

  Sodding … for … ooogh …

  Deep breaths.

  Nope. Not helping.

  He scrubbed a hand across his watery eyes.

  Dugdale lay on his front, one hand behind his back the other limp in the gutter. His face looked as if someone had driven over it with a ride-on lawnmower.

  Callum dragged himself over and slapped on the cuffs. ‘You’re nicked.’

  Ow …

  ‘Little monsters …’ Never mind saying thank you – no, that was too much to hope for these days, he’d only saved her life, not as if it was that big a deal – but did they have to take his sodding wallet?

  Dugdale twitched and groaned, eyes still closed, the blood crusting on his battered nose. A swathe of red crossed his face, following the pepper spray’s less than delicate path, swollen and angry looking. Like the lump on his head. It was going to be impressive when it finished growing – about the size and colour of a small aubergine. Probably have himself a gargantuan headache when he finally woke up. Maybe concussion too.

  Good. Served him right.

  Callum pulled out his mobile, staying where he was – standing, hunched over almost double, one hand on his knee, holding him upright as he dialled.

  Three rings and then a woman’s voice came on the line, sounding small and concerned. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Elaine, it’s me.’

  ‘Callum? Are you OK? You don’t sound OK. Is everything OK?’

  He gritted his teeth as an aftershock rippled its way through his groin. ‘No. Can you phone the bank? I need you to cancel my debit and credit card. Someone’s snatched them.’

  A sigh. ‘Oh, Callum, not your dad’s wallet …’

  ‘Don’t start, please. It’ll be bad enough when McAdams gets here, don’t need you kicking the party off early.’

  Silence.

  Yeah, way to go, Callum. Smooth. Nice and understanding.

  He took a deep breath. ‘Sorry, it’s … I’m not having the greatest of days.’

  ‘I’m not your enemy, Callum. I know it’s been difficult for you.’

  Understatement of the year. ‘All I get is snide comments, nasty little digs, and crap. It’s been three solid weeks of—’

  ‘It’s for the best though, remember? For Peanut’s sake?’

  Peanut.

  He closed his eyes. Tried to make it sound as if he meant it: ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We need the money, Callum. We need the maternity pay to—’

  ‘Yeah. Right. I know. It’s just …’ He wiped a hand over his face. ‘Never mind. It’ll be fine.’

  ‘And we really appreciate it, me and Peanut.’ A pause. ‘Speaking of Peanut, you know what he’d totally love? Nutella. And some pickled dill cucumbers. Not gherkins: the cucumbers, from the Polish deli on Castle Hill? Oh, and some onion rolls too.’

  ‘They stole my wallet, Elaine. I—’

  ‘I didn’t ask to get pregnant, Callum.’ A strangled noise came down the phone, like a cross between a grunt and a sigh. ‘Sorry. I don’t … There are times when I need a bit of support coping with all this.’

  Support? Seriously?

  ‘How am I not supporting you? I put my hand up, didn’t I? I took the blame, even though it was nothing to do with—’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s …’ Another sigh. ‘Don’t worry about the Nutella and stuff, it’s only cravings. I’ll make do with whatever’s knocking about here.’

  He limped over to the garden wall and lowered himself onto it with a wince. Took yet another deep breath. Scrunched a hand over his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Elaine. It’s not you, it’s … Like I said, I’m having a terrible day.’

  ‘It’ll get better, I promise. I love you, OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I know it will.’ It had to, because it couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  ‘Do you love me and Peanut too?’

  ‘Course I do.’

  A shiny red Mitsubishi Shogun pulled into the kerb, the huge four-by-four’s window buzzing down as Callum levered himself up to his feet. His crumpled suit and crumpled body reflected back at him in the glittering showroom paintwork.

  ‘Got to go.’ He hung up and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

  ‘Constable Useless.’ A thin, lined face frowned through the open car window, its greying Vandyke framed by disappointed jowls. The chin-warmer was little more than stubble, matching the patchy salt-and-pepper hair on that jellybean of a head. ‘Do these old eyes deceive me? Did you catch Dugdale?’

  Callum wobbled up to his feet, one hand on his ruptured testicles, the other holding onto the Shogun for support. ‘Oh: ha, ha.’ Another wave of burning glass washed through him, leaving him grimacing. ‘He’s been unconscious for a couple of minutes. You want to take him straight to the hospital, or risk the Duty Doctor?’

  Please say hospital, please say hospital. At least there a nice nurse might have an icepack and a few kind words for his mangled groin.

  DS McAdams raised an eyebrow. ‘I am shocked, Callum. Didn’t he have enough cash? No nice bribe for you?’

  ‘Sod off, Sarge.’ He let go of his crotch for a moment, pointing off down the hill. Winced. Then cupped his aching balls again. ‘Pair of kids got my wallet. We need to get after them.’

  ‘If I had
to guess. The reason you’re hunched in pain. You have met The Claw!’ He held up one hand, the fingers curled into a cruel hook, then squashed an invisible scrotum. ‘Dugdale’s claw attacks. Crush and squish, the pain is great. Bringing hard men low.’

  Callum stared at him. ‘They – got – my – wallet!’

  The frown became a grin. ‘A well-turned haiku. It is a beautiful thing. You ignorant spud.’ He actually counted the syllables out on his fingers as he spoke.

  ‘For your information, Sarge, I’ve never taken a bribe in my life. OK? Not a single sodding penny. No perks, no wee gifts, nothing. So you can all go screw yourselves.’ He limped over to the back door and swung it open. ‘Now are you going to help me get Dugdale in the car or not?’

  ‘That’s the trouble with your generation: no poetry in your souls. No education, no class, and no moral fibre.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing.’ He bent down. Winced. Clenched his jaw. Then hauled Dugdale’s huge and heavy backside across the pavement and up onto the back seat.

  ‘He better not bleed. On my new upholstery. I just had it cleaned.’

  ‘Tough.’ Some wrestling, a bit of forcing, a shove, and Dugdale was more or less in the recovery position. Well, except for his hands being cuffed behind his back. But at least now he probably wouldn’t choke on his own tongue. Or vomit.

  Mind you, if he spewed his breakfast all over Detective Sergeant McAdams’ shiny new four-by-four, at least that would be something. Assuming McAdams didn’t make Callum clean it up. Which he would.

  Git.

  Callum clunked the door shut, hobbled around to the passenger side and lowered himself into the seat. Crumpled forward until his forehead rested against the dashboard. ‘Ow …’

  ‘Seatbelt.’ The car slid away from the kerb.

  Callum closed his eyes. ‘Think they turned right onto Grant Street. If you hurry we can still catch them: wee boy in jeans and a blue tracksuit top, wee girl in jeans and a red one. About six or seven years old. Both on bikes.’

  ‘You got mugged by toddlers?’ A gravelly laugh rattled out in the car. ‘That’s pathetic even for you.’

  ‘They’re getting away!’

  ‘We’re not going chasing after little kiddies, Constable. I have much more important things to do than clean up your disasters.’

  ‘That’s it. Stop the car.’ Callum straightened up and bared his teeth. ‘Come on: let’s go. You and me. I battered the crap out of Dugdale, I can do the same for you.’

  ‘Oh don’t be such a baby.’

  ‘I’m not kidding: stop – the – car.’

  ‘Really, DC MacGregor? You don’t think you’re in enough trouble as it is? How’s it going to look if you assault a senior officer who’s dying of cancer? Think it through.’ The car jolted and bumped, then swung around to the left, heading down towards Montrose Road. ‘And any time our workplace badinage gets too much for you, feel free to pop into Mother’s office with your resignation. Do us all a favour.’ He slowed for the junction. ‘Until then, try to behave like an actual police officer.’

  Callum’s hands curled into fists, so tight the knuckles ached. ‘I swear to God—’

  ‘Now put your seatbelt on and try not to say anything stupid for the next fifteen minutes. I’ll not have you spoiling my remarkably good mood.’ He poked the radio and insipid pop music dribbled out of the speakers. ‘You see, Constable Useless, sometimes life gives you lemons, and sometimes it gives you vodka. Today is a vodka day.’

  The jingly blandness piffled to a halt and a smoke-gravelled woman’s voice came through. ‘Hmmm, not sure about that one myself. You’re listening to Midmorning Madness on Castlewave FM with me, Annette Peterson, and today my extra-special guest is author and broadcaster, Emma Travis-Wilkes.’

  McAdams put a hand over his heart, as if he was about to pledge allegiance. ‘Today is a caviar day.’

  ‘Glad to be here, Annette.’

  ‘A champagne and strawberries day.’

  ‘Now, a little bird tells me you’re writing a book about your dad, Emma. Of course he created Russell the Magic Rabbit, Ichabod Smith, and Imelda’s Miraculous Dustbin, but he’s probably best known for the children’s classic, Open the Coffins.’

  ‘A chocolate and nipple clamps—’

  ‘All right! I get it: everything’s just sodding great.’ Callum shifted in his seat, setting his testicles aching again. ‘One of us got thwacked in the balls, here.’

  ‘That’s right. He’s given joy to so many people, and now that he’s … well, Alzheimer’s is a cruel mistress. But it’s been a real privilege to swim in the pool of his life again.’

  ‘Pfff …’ McAdams curled his top lip. ‘Listen to this pretentious twaddle. Just because she’s got a famous dad, she gets to plug her book on the radio. What about my book? Where’s my interview?’

  ‘And it’s lovely to see these memories light up his face, it’s like he’s right back there again.’

  ‘Cliché. And, by the way, unless his face is actually glowing like a lightbulb, that’s physical hyperbole, you hack.’

  Callum glowered across the car. ‘We should never have chipped in for that creative writing class.’

  McAdams grinned back at him. ‘My heart: creative. My soul, it soars with the words. Divinity: mine.’

  ‘Wonderful stuff. Now, let’s have a bit of decent music, shall we? Here’s one of the acts appearing at Tartantula this weekend: Catnip Jane, and “Once Upon a Time in Dundee”.’

  A banjo and cello launched into a sinister waltz, over a weird thumping rhythm as McAdams pulled out of the junction, heading left instead of right.

  Silly old sod.

  Callum sighed. ‘You’re going the wrong way.’ He pointed across the swollen grey river, past the docks and the industrial units, towards the thick granite blade of Castle Hill. ‘Division Headquarters is that direction. We need to get Dugdale booked in and seen to.’

  ‘Meh, he’ll keep.’ That skeletal grin had widened. ‘It’s a vodka day, remember? We, my useless little friend, have finally got our hands on a murder!’

  3

  The first drop of rain sparkled against the windscreen, caught in a golden shaft of sunlight as McAdams’ huge four-by-four slid past the last few houses on the edge of Kingsmeath. A second drop joined it. Then a third. Then a whole heap of them.

  McAdams stuck the wipers on, setting them moaning and groaning their way across the glass, smearing the rain into grubby arcs. He pinned his mobile phone between his shoulder and ear, freeing his hand to change gears. Accelerating up the hill. ‘Yeah … Yeah, Dugdale was there … No … Not a word of a lie, Mother: the new boy actually caught him. That’s right: his anonymous tip-off paid off.’ He cast a glance across the car at Callum. ‘I know, I know … Ha! That’s what I said.’

  Callum folded his arms and pushed back into his seat. Stared out of the window at the dull green fields and their dull-grey sheep. The ache in his groin wasn’t a full-on testicular migraine any more, it’d settled to more of a dull throbbing – each pulse marking time with the groaning windscreen wipers. ‘Oh you’re both so hilarious.’

  ‘What did we say about you keeping your mouth shut?’ Back to the phone. ‘No, not you, Mother: Constable Useless here … Yeah, yeah. Exactly: an actual murder. How long has it been?’

  Probably never see his wallet again.

  McAdams put his foot down, overtaking a sputtering Mini. ‘You on your way? … Uh-huh … Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either. Since when does the great Detective Chief Inspector Poncy Powel hand over a murder investigation to the likes of us? … Exactly.’

  More fields. More sheep.

  OK, so it was just a scruffy, tatty lump of leather and the lining was falling apart, but it had sentimental value.

  Bloody kids.

  ‘Did he? … No! … No!’ Laughter. ‘And did you? … Sodding hell … Yeah, he’ll love that.’

  Bloody Dugdale too.


  He was just visible in the rear-view mirror, lying there with his mouth hanging open, face crusted with blood and bogies. Well, if Dugdale died in custody there was no way Callum was taking the rap for it. If anything happened it was McAdams’ fault.

  Accepting blame for Elaine’s cock-up was one thing, but McAdams? He could sod right off.

  ‘Uh-huh. We’re about … five minutes away? Maybe less? … Still can’t believe it: a real murder! How long’s it been? … Right. Yup. OK. See you there.’ He poked a button on his phone’s screen then slid the thing back in his pocket, big smile plastered across his skeletal face.

  ‘Am I allowed to ask where we’re going?’

  ‘No.’

  Git.

  McAdams took one hand off the wheel and pointed through the windscreen. ‘We go where life rots. Where man’s discarded dreams die. We go … to The Tip.’ Fingers twitching with each syllable.

  A large white sign loomed at the side of the road: ‘OLDCASTLE MUNICIPAL RECYCLING AND WASTE PROCESSING FACILITY’. Someone had scrawled ‘TWINNED WITH CUMBERNAULD!’ across the bottom in green graffiti.

  The Shogun slowed for the turning, leaving the well-ordered tarmac for a wide gravel road acned with potholes and lined with whin bushes. Their jagged dark-green spears rattled in the rain.

  It was getting heavier, bouncing off the rutted track as McAdams navigated his shiny new car between the water-filled craters and up to a cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape.

  He buzzed down the window and smiled at the lanky drip guarding the line. ‘Two cheeseburgers, a Coke, and a chocolate milkshake please.’

  A sigh and a sniff. Then Officer Drip wiped her nose on the sleeve of her high-viz jacket, sending water dribbling from the brim of her peaked cap. ‘Do you honestly think it’s the first time I’ve heard that today?’

  ‘Cheer up, Constable. A little rain won’t kill you.’ He nodded at the cordon. ‘You got our body?’

  ‘Depends. You on the list?’ She dug a clipboard from the depths of her jacket and passed it through the window.

  McAdams flipped through the top three sheets, making a low whistling noise. ‘There’s a lot of people here. All for one dead little body?’

  ‘Oh you’d be surprised.’