A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

  He printed two more names on the last sheet in blue biro, then handed the clipboard back. ‘There we are, right at the end. Now be a good girl and get out of the way. It’s the opening chapters: I need to draw the readers in, establish myself as the protagonist, and get on with solving the murder.’

  Constable Drip frowned at their names, then into the car. Her mouth tightened as she stared at the bloodied and unconscious Dugdale lying across the back seat. ‘Looks like you’ve already got a body.’

  ‘Oh, this one’s not dead, it’s just resting. DC MacGregor decided to try his hand at a little police brutality.’

  ‘MacGregor …?’ She peered at the list again, then across the car, top lip curling. ‘So it is you.’

  Callum stared right back. ‘Don’t: I’m not in the mood.’

  She shook her head, stowed her clipboard away, then unhooked a length of the tape barricade and waved them through.

  McAdams grinned across the car at Callum. ‘My, my, Constable. You just can’t stop making friends, can you?’

  No.

  ‘That offer of an arse-kicking is still valid, Sarge.’

  ‘Yes, because people don’t hate you enough already.’

  The Shogun pitched and yawed through the potholes like a boat. God knew how big the rubbish tip was, but from the wide, lumpy road, it stretched all the way to the horizon. A vast sea of black plastic, gulls wheeling and screaming in the air above – flecks of evil white, caught against the heavy grey sky.

  And the smell …

  Even with the car windows wound up it was something special. The rancid stench of rotting meat and vegetables mingled with the sticky-brown reek of used nappies, all underpinned by the dark peppery odour of black plastic left to broil in the sun.

  McAdams slipped the four-by-four in behind a line of police vehicles and grubby Transit vans. Had to be, what, eight cars? Twelve if you counted the unmarked ones. About three-quarters of the dayshift, all out here playing on the tip.

  The sarcastic half-arsed-poetry-spouting git was right: this was an awful lot of people for one dead body.

  McAdams hauled on the handbrake. ‘Right, Constable, make yourself useful for a change and go fetch us a couple of Smurf suits, extra-large. Ainsley and I need to have a little chat.’

  A chat?

  ‘He’s unconscious, Sarge. He needs a doctor. I told you he—’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ McAdams turned in his seat, staring through into the back. ‘Give it up, Ainsley, you’re not fooling anyone.’

  Dugdale didn’t move.

  ‘Don’t make me come back there, because if I have to …’

  One of Dugdale’s eyes cracked open. ‘I’m dying. Got a brain haemorrhage, or something.’

  ‘You have to have a brain to have a brain haemorrhage, Ainsley. What you’ve got is a lump of solid yuck wrapped in ugly. Now, Constable Naïve here is going to sod off like a good little boy and you’re going to tell me all about what Big Johnny Simpson’s up to now he’s walked free.’ McAdams made a dismissive little waving gesture in Callum’s direction. ‘Go on, Constable. Two Smurf suits, at the double. I won’t ask again.’

  One punch in the face. Just one. Right in the middle of his smug, wrinkly face …

  What was the point?

  It wouldn’t change anything.

  So Callum gritted his teeth and stepped out into the stinking mud. Closed the car door. Counted out his own muttered haiku. ‘Away boil your head. You patronising arse-bag. I hope you get piles.’

  Out here the smell was eye-watering. Like jamming your head in a dead badger.

  He turned up his collar and hurried through the slimy mud to the nearest Transit van, sheltering in the lee of its open back doors. From here, Oldcastle lay spread out beneath the heavy grey lid of cloud like a cancer beneath the skin. The vast prow of Castle Rock loomed out from the other side of the valley, wound round with the ancient cobbled streets of Castle Hill; the dark sprawl of Camburn Woods peered out from its shadow; the warehouses, shopping centres, and big glass Victorian train station punctuated Logansferry to the left of that. Spires and minarets stabbed up between the slate roofs on the other side of the river, like some vast beast was trapped under the surface, trying to claw its way out. And on this side: the grubby maze of council houses, high-rise blocks of flats, and derelict terraces of Kingsmeath; the rest of the city, hidden by a line of trees at the edge of the tip.

  Quite a view for a rancid mass of black plastic bags and mouldering filth.

  He reached into the Transit and helped himself to two large blue Tyvek oversuits, two sets of plastic bootees, a pair of facemasks and matching safety goggles. What every well-dressed Scene of Crime officer was wearing this, and every other, season.

  One of them appeared from the other side of the van, the hood of her SOC suit thrown back to reveal a sweaty tangle of dark brown hair. Her thin, pale oval face shone with sweat. She took a swig from a leopard-print Thermos, the words coming out on a waft of coffee breath with a faint side-order of Aberdonian. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘Don’t start, Cecelia, OK? I get enough of that from McAdams, don’t need the Scene Examination Branch chipping in.’ He tucked the suits under his arm. ‘We’re here for the body.’

  She curled her top lip. ‘Which one? Started digging at nine this morning and we’ve already turned up four of the things. Seven if you count those.’ She nodded in the vague direction of a red plastic cool box and helped herself to a wad of paper towels. ‘Three left feet, severed just above the ankle.’

  ‘Well … maybe their owners aren’t dead? Maybe they’re limping about somewhere, wondering where their other shoe’s gone?’

  ‘Urgh. I’m melting in here.’ Cecelia scrubbed the paper towels across her damp face, turning it matt again. ‘Bet they don’t have this problem in G Division. Bet if you go digging in a Glasgow tip all you turn up is rubbish. Can’t open a bin-bag in Oldcastle without finding a sodding corpse.’ A sigh. ‘Have you got any idea how much work it is to process crime scenes for seven different murder enquiries, all at the same time?’ She ticked them off on her fingers. ‘One stabbing, one shotgun blast to the face, one God-knows-what, and I’m pretty sure the body we found over by the recycling centre is Karen Turner. You know: ran that brothel on Shepard Lane? Beaten to death.’

  At least that explained why most of Oldcastle Division was in attendance, picking their way through the landfill landscape.

  ‘Wow.’ Callum frowned out at the acres and acres of black-plastic bags. Suppose it wasn’t that surprising the tip was hoaching with corpses – if you had to dispose of a body, where better than here? Clearly the city’s criminal element didn’t approve of littering. ‘Maybe we should set up a recycling box at the front gate, so people can dump their dead bodies responsibly?’

  She puffed out her cheeks. ‘We should never have started digging here. Just asking for trouble.’

  ‘So, come on then: which one’s ours?’

  ‘Body number three: the God-knows-what. That way.’ She pointed her Thermos at the middle distance, off to the right, where a handful of blue-suited figures was wrestling with a white plastic tent. ‘And Callum?’

  He turned back to her. ‘What?’

  ‘I know it wasn’t you.’

  What wasn’t …?

  She rolled her eyes. ‘There’s no point standing there looking glaikit. You didn’t cock-up that crime scene, Elaine did.’

  Oh.

  Heat bloomed in his cheeks. ‘No she didn’t.’

  ‘Yes she did. Elaine worked for me, so I know it wasn’t you. One more strike and they’d have fired her.’

  He tucked one of the Tyvek suits under his arm. ‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’

  Cecelia shook her head, sending a little trickle of sweat running into the elasticated neck of her suit. ‘You’re a daft sod, Callum MacGregor.’

  True.

  ‘Bye, Cecelia.’ He t
urned and marched back to the Shogun.

  McAdams was still in the car, mobile clamped to his ear, so Callum struggled into one of the SOC Smurf suits – zipping it up to the chin, hood up. Stood there in the manky mud, rain pattering off his Smurfy shoulders and head.

  Come on, you lanky git. Get off the phone.

  A rattley green Fiat Panda lumbered its way up the track towards them, bringing a cloud of blue-grey smoke with it. Dents in the bonnet, dents in the passenger side, a long scrape along the driver’s door and front wing. Duct tape holding the wing mirror on.

  Great, because having to deal with DS Sodding McAdams wasn’t bad enough.

  The Panda spluttered to a halt behind McAdams’ immaculate Castleview Tractor, and its driver peered out through a fogged-up windscreen as the wipers made angry-donkey noises across the glass.

  Mother.

  She looked right at him and the smile died on her face.

  Oh joy.

  He gave her a nod. As if that was going to make any difference.

  Mother struggled her way out into the rain.

  The sleeves of her black fleece were rolled up to the elbows, exposing two large pale forearms – tattoos standing out like faded newsprint against the doughy flesh. A dolphin. Two swallows holding up a little banner with ‘LOVE NEVER DIES’ on it. A thistle and a rose wrapped around a dagger. What looked like a tribute to the Bay City Rollers – all mullets and tartan scarfs. She glanced about, sending her mass of tight ginger curls bobbing. Sniffed. ‘Where’s Andy?’ Apparently completely unfazed by the rain.

  ‘DS McAdams is in the car, making some calls.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Have you been upsetting him?’

  ‘Upsetting him? He wasn’t the one Dugdale tried to neuter! Come on, Mother, how come every—’

  ‘Ah yes, Andy said you’d had a run-in with The Claw.’ A tiny smile. ‘And how many times do I have to tell you: you haven’t earned the right to call me “Mother”. As far as you’re concerned it’s Boss, Guv, or Detective Inspector. Are we crystal?’

  ‘It wasn’t a “run-in”, Dugdale resisted arrest. Violently. And for the record,’ Callum pointed at the back seat of the Shogun, where Dugdale was now sitting up, ‘I said we should take him to the hospital, but DS McAdams refused.’

  The tiny smile grew. ‘Nobody likes a clype, Constable.’

  A clunk and McAdams emerged from the car. ‘Mother …’ A frown. ‘MacGregor, why are you wearing that SOC suit?’

  Callum looked down at his blue Tyvek body. ‘You told me to get two Smurf—’

  ‘One for me and one for Mother, you idiot. Why the hell would we want you messing up our crime scene?’

  He clenched his fists. Stepped forwards. ‘You think I won’t—’

  ‘All right, that’s enough.’ Mother held a hand up. ‘Andy, we’re going to cut the wee boy some slack on account of The Claw. He can come with us.’ The hand came down again, till it pointed at Callum. ‘Don’t make me regret this.’

  ‘Yes, Boss.’

  ‘Now go find someone to keep an eye on Ainsley here,’ she nodded at Dugdale in the back seat, ‘and fetch me a Smurf suit. We’ve got a dead body to gawp at.’

  4

  Wet bin-bags shifted beneath his feet, popping and crackling, crunching and slithering in the rain. Hard not to imagine the surface opening up and swallowing them whole. Pulling them further and further down to drown in its reeking depths.

  God that was cheery.

  Mother and McAdams struggled on beside him, clinging on to each other to stay upright on the bin-bag sea. They must have made quite a sight: all three of them, dressed in matching blue outfits that were about as flattering as a dose of dysentery, shuffling their way through the rubbish towards the SOC tent.

  It stood, a grimy shade of white, poking out of the bin-bag ocean like an iceberg. Or some vast grubby tooth.

  Mother sniffed behind her mask. ‘What do we know about our victim?’

  ‘Nothing.’ McAdams picked his way past a slimy mass of something. ‘DCI Powel was even more inscrutable than usual. Probably got his nose out of joint because he had to hand it over to us.’

  ‘Poor darling. Still, as long as it’s a murder and we’re investigating it, I’m happy.’

  McAdams let go with one hand and placed it against his chest, launching into a wobbly but not unpleasant baritone:

  ‘People dismembered with axes and chainsaws,

  Someone’s been strangled with wire or some string,

  A stabbing, a beating, a fresh torture victim,

  These are a few of my favourite things …’

  ‘Oh, very good. I like that.’ She struggled on a couple of steps. ‘Thought you were on haikus today.’

  ‘Decided to branch out a bit.’

  A cordon of yellow-and-black tape encircled the SOC tent, the words ‘CRIME SCENE – DO NOT ENTER’ rippling and spinning in the wind. Every gust making the plastic tape growl. Water ran down the tent’s walls, dripping off the sagging roof.

  Mother motioned to Callum and he held up the cordon so she could duck under and slip inside. McAdams stopped right next to him, voice low, just audible through the facemask. ‘In the three weeks you’ve been here, you’ve done nothing but moan, whinge, and disappoint. But if you compromise my crime scene, I’ll make you wish Dugdale still had your balls in his fist. Understand?’

  Callum just stared back.

  ‘Good.’ He turned and pushed through into the tent.

  Count to ten.

  Don’t let him get to you.

  Deep breath.

  Callum pulled his shoulders back and followed McAdams inside.

  Rain thudded against the tent’s roof. The wind moaned through the gaps in the plastic, making the walls shudder. Technically, you could have parked a couple of patrol cars in here and still had room for a police motorbike, but instead it was home to a small diesel generator and four workplace lights on six-foot stands.

  The stench was something special – so thick it was almost chewy, trapped by the tent’s walls and roof, amplified by the warmth of decomposition, and soured with diesel exhaust fumes.

  Four figures in the full Smurf kit were kneeling around a hole dug into the rubbish, right in the middle of the tent.

  Mother joined them and clapped her hands, raising her voice over the rain and the generator. ‘Come on then, what have you got for me?’

  One of the figures straightened up with a groan, both hands pressed into the small of his back. ‘Mummy.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘I don’t mind a little informality, young man, but that’s going a bit too far.’

  ‘Not you.’ He pulled down his facemask, showing off a round sweaty face with tiny pursed lips. Like someone had pumped a cherub up on steroids and pies. ‘In the hole: it’s a mummy. Your actual, curse-of-the-Pharaohs, from-the-leathery-mists-of-time, mummy.’

  ‘Really?’ Mother inched her way to the very edge and peered down.

  ‘Or it might be a daddy. Difficult to tell without unfolding the limbs, and I get the feeling they’ll snap off if we do that. Teabag tends to frown on our dismembering corpses before he’s had a chance to post mortem them.’ He dug out a scrap of cloth and dabbed at his shiny face. ‘Gah. Like a sauna in here.’

  McAdams stepped up beside Mother. ‘Ah …’

  Callum crept around to the opposite side of the hole, bin-bags shifting beneath his blue-booteed feet, and leaned out over the edge.

  The SOC team had shored up the sides of their excavation with sheets of corrugated iron, which held back the mass of garbage, but did nothing to stop the grey-brown liquid seeping out underneath it.

  Their body lay on its side at the bottom of the hole, about eight feet down, where the liquid was deepest. Elbows tight in against its ribs, hands drawn up to its chest, knees hard up against them, feet tucked in to the body. Its neck was bent hard forward, so the face was completely hidden by the hands and knees.
So far, so murdery, but it was the skin that gave it away. Instead of being all blotched with mould and falling apart it was creased and leathery. Darkened to a dirty mahogany. The only ear visible had shrivelled up till it resembled a dried apricot, clinging to the side of its bald head.

  Callum raised his eyebrows. ‘Now there’s a sight you don’t see every day.’

  Mother’s fists clenched at her sides. ‘That rotten, two-faced, lying bastard!’

  The oversized sweaty cherub in the SOC suit wiped his glistening forehead. ‘At a guess, it’s got to be about, what … a thousand years old?’

  ‘I should have known! Thought they’d finally given me a proper murder, but no. That was asking too much, wasn’t it?’ She turned and stomped out of the tent.

  McAdams didn’t follow her, just shouted over his shoulder instead. ‘Where are you going?’

  Her voice faded away into the distance. ‘To tell DCI Powel exactly where he can stick his thousand-year-old mummy!’

  The only sound in the tent was the hammering rain and the growling generator.

  ‘Hmmm …’ McAdams squatted down, one hand on the bin-bag next to him. ‘The body’s naked. Wonder what happened to all the bandages.’ He glanced up at the Cherub. ‘It’s a mummy, it should be all wrapped up.’

  ‘Don’t look at me.’

  Callum eased himself down to his haunches, holding onto the top of a corrugated sheet. No way he was risking an eight-foot plummet into a paddling pool of rancid bin water. ‘They’ve got a mummy just like it in Elgin Museum. On display, naked in a big bell jar. Some Victorian bloke brought it back from Peru: suppose he unwrapped it so the viewing public could get a good look at a real-life dead body.’ A small smile shifted against his facemask. ‘We used to go there when I was a wee boy. Me and Alastair would …’ Yes. Well. The less said about that the better.

  McAdams grunted, then stood. Turned to face the sweaty cherub. ‘Don’t suppose we’ve got any clue who dumped it here, do we?’

  One of the other Smurfs looked up from the contents of a ruptured refuse sack. ‘Nah. Back in the good old days, there’d be envelopes and letters and newspapers all through this stuff – dates and addresses in every bag. Now?’ He shook his head. ‘Recycling: bane of our lives.’