‘Nobody cares unless that was why they were targeted, my dear Mrs Lynch. I’m going to need you to scrape out those sleeping bags after all – see if you can find evidence of sexual activity involving more than one person.’
Her back bowed. ‘Oh … lovely.’
Over in the corner, Franklin stiffened as her phone launched into a strangled rendition of ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’. She snapped off one of her gloves and dug into her SOC suit, pulled her mobile out and turned to face the wall. ‘Mark, this is not a good time.’
‘Now, to the bathroom! Our friend Imhotep had to fill the bath somehow and I fancy we’ll find some DNA on the underside of the taps. Easy to contaminate with biological residue, not so easy to clean.’
Dr McDonald carried Professor Huntly out through the door and into the hall. ‘We’re not calling him Imhotep, we’re calling him Paddington, because of—’
‘The Peruvian-style mummies, yes, I know. But it’s hardly a name with dramatic connotations, is it? “Paddington” isn’t someone who abducts people, drugs them, drowns them in a bath of brine, then smokes them to a fine wrinkly jerky. Not unless those marmalade sandwiches of his were laced with psilocybe semilanceata. And he wears a duffle coat! What self-respecting monster does that?’
‘But the team agreed—’
‘Paddington’s a stupid name for a serial killer, Alice. At least “Imhotep” has a bit of gravitas about it.’
‘Bernard, you can’t just waltz in and rename our killer!’
Cecelia hooked a thumb at the doctor and her phone. ‘Are they always like this?’
‘I have no idea.’
She slouched into the hall, after them. ‘Your boy on the phone’s a dick, but he’s right. Paddington is a stupid name. Jack the Ripper wouldn’t have got where he is today with a name like Paddington.’
There was no room for them in the bathroom, so they stayed in the hall.
‘So why are you really here?’ Callum leaned back against the wall, where the sheet of plasterboard used to live. ‘Mother said SEB had finished with the crime scene ages ago. Nothing left for us to contaminate.’
‘Ah …’ Cecelia rubbed the tips of her gloved fingers together, making them squeak. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but—’
‘Oh you have got to be kidding. You’re here because of me?’
‘The Powers That Be said you couldn’t access the scene unless someone from my team made sure you didn’t get up to anything. And I can see you making faces at me behind your mask, so don’t.’ She shifted her feet. Fiddled with her gloves some more. ‘I know you didn’t cock that last scene up, but everyone else thinks you’re a liability.’
Of course they did.
He let his head fall back until it thunked against the wall. Winced as a thousand bees sank their stingers into his ear. ‘Ow …’
‘So tell them the truth, Callum.’
‘I can’t.’ He lowered his voice, even though Franklin was still muttering angrily into her phone in the living room and there was no one else to hear. ‘You said it yourself: one more strike and they’d fire Elaine. We need the money. If we didn’t have her maternity pay coming in, with the mortgage, and the credit card debt, and all the stuff we’ve got to buy for the birth and babyproofing the flat, and everything else … It’s two weeks away and we’re nowhere near ready.’
Cecelia put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t panic. Breathe.’
‘We’re not taking any chances. And you’re not telling anyone.’
She gave his arm a squeeze. ‘Still think you’re an idiot.’
‘Join the queue.’
Dr McDonald emerged from the bathroom, phone still in her hand. ‘Mrs Lynch, can you do a complete swab of all the taps in the house? Especially the underside of the handles and knobs.’
‘And the flush on the toilet too.’
‘Sorry.’
Cecelia shook her head. ‘Fine.’ Then stomped off back to the living room.
Dr McDonald frowned behind her safety goggles. ‘The three men here were targeted for a reason, we don’t know what it was, but the flat’s self-contained, a safe zone for Paddington to work, I mean no one’s going to see in when you’re on the top floor, are they, of course not, so he can do whatever he wants in here and no one’s going to notice as long as he’s reasonably quiet about it.’
Professor Huntly’s voice boomed out in the narrow corridor. ‘I’ve been thinking about your two other victims: the mummies. If you don’t get anything from the DNA, you can try the fingerprints. It’ll be cheaper than going for facial reconstruction.’
‘The question is: did someone gain access to the flat and decide Glen, Brett, and Ben would make good victims, or did he target them somewhere else and follow them back here?’ She pulled back her hood and wrapped a coil of hair around two fingers on her free hand. Holding the phone out in her other like a Dalek’s eye stalk.
Callum peered at the face on the screen. ‘And we get their prints how? The mummies’ fingers are like prunes.’
‘Ah, my dear Constable …?’
‘MacGregor.’
‘I knew it was something like that. Their fingerprints are like prunes because they’ve been dehydrated. So how would one get them nice and plump again?’
Of course: ‘Soak them in water.’
‘Dear Lord, no, that would be a disaster. We soak them in glycerol. Should make them lovely and soft too.’
Dr McDonald twiddled with her hair. ‘Of course, the fact that there’s three of them makes it all a bit more difficult, I mean one person’s easy enough to subdue, but three at the same time, when they’re all young and fit, that would take a lot more doing, wouldn’t it, you could restrain them individually, but then how do you do that without the other two stepping in?’
‘Glycerol.’
‘I’m surprised no one thought of it sooner. It’s the obvious solution and a lot less expensive than extracting DNA from the tooth pulp cavity and sending it off for analysis.’
Well, it was worth a try.
‘No …’ Twiddle, twiddle, twiddle. ‘I think they knew their attacker, they invited him into their flat and he brought the magic mushrooms with him, they sit around drinking lager and self-medicating till they pass out and after that Paddington can restrain them easily.’
‘’Scuse me.’ Cecelia squeezed past and into the bathroom, carrying a large square metal case.
‘OK, so we get the hands steeping in glycerol, what then?’
‘Then you run the prints. And you get a toxicologist to look at the tissue samples. A decent one, not some wet-behind-the-ears undergrad on work placement. I can probably give you some names if you like.’ On the little screen, Professor Huntly fluttered his eyelashes. ‘Failing that, I’m available at very reasonable rates. ID the drugs and the herbs and you’ve got somewhere to start looking – he had to get them from somewhere.’
‘So the question becomes where did Paddington meet them, did they have a favourite pub or club, we need to get someone visiting the local bars and ask if Glen, Ben, and Brett were seen there with someone else, because he’s going to have his own favourite haunts, areas where he likes to hunt, and if we can get an ID from the other two victims we might find a common denominator, don’t you think?’ She pulled down her facemask. ‘Do you think we could leave here, because the smell is beginning to make me feel a bit sick.’
‘Wimp.’
‘Goodbye, Bernard.’ She hung up and put her phone away. ‘My arm was getting sore anyway.’
Callum lowered his facemask. ‘You know we can just wait for Brett Millar to come down from his trip and ask him what happened.’
‘We can, but what if he doesn’t know what happened because he can’t remember, or maybe the drugs he’s been on have caused permanent brain damage, can you imagine what being force-fed magic mushrooms for days would be like, what it would do to your sense of perception?’ Dr McDonald struggled her way out of her gloves
. ‘We have to work on the assumption that he’s not going to be any help, that way if he does remember anything about the man who attacked them it’s a bonus.’
Yeah, she had a point.
‘OK. Well, what if they didn’t meet the guy in a pub? He could work for the bank, if they’re financing the refurbishment. Or a local estate agent, if they’re looking for a valuation?’
‘That’s certainly worth exploring.’
And the list of people needing interviewed just ballooned to about three times its previous size. Mother would love that.
He took out his notepad. ‘So, come on then, you’ve seen around the flat: who are we looking for? How do we spot him when we see him, assuming Brett Millar doesn’t just wake up all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow and give us a name and address?’
More hair twiddling. ‘He was able to blend in to Glen Carmichael’s social circle, that means he could be a bit hipstery. Think beard, lumberjack shirts, skinny jeans, no socks, ironic tattoos, 1930s haircut, but not necessarily in that order. He’s big enough to manipulate the unconscious bodies of three large young men and we’re on the top floor, that’s a lot of stairs to carry someone down to get them in your van. So he’s strong. Capable. Not easily flustered.’
Through in the living room, Franklin was getting louder – the words impossible to make out, but the tone of voice was clear as a scream: not sodding happy.
‘Assume he waits till the middle of the night to transport Glen and Brett, he still risks being seen by one of the other residents, or someone on the street. So he’s confident too. He’s got a story for every eventuality.’ Alice tilted her head up and to the side, frowning at the plasterboard ceiling. ‘He’s had a lot of practice. And I’m not just talking about the mummy in the tip and the one in the car – these aren’t his first victims. He’s been doing this for a long, long time.’
23
Once Upon A Time
The tattoo ripples like a flag across Father’s back as he digs. Faded blue-grey lines and shapes. A little bird. A skull. A big pointy knife.
His spade bites into the black earth, spits out lumps onto a growing pile.
It’s getting deep, the hole.
Deep enough that only Father’s top half sticks out of it. Sweat all sparkly on his dirty skin. Not a big man, but powerful, like a bulldog. Not the one on the TV ads selling insurance, though, more like the ones Father’s friends make fight in wooden pits in barns in the middle of nowhere.
All bulging muscles and dark blood.
Warm sunlight makes the garden shine, green and yellow and red.
And on the fence hang a dozen jackdaws, their bodies all stiff and dead.
But no one’s digging them a hole.
‘Come on, champ, out you go.’ Father holds the car door open. He’s wearing his dog collar again, all white and crisp against his freshly shaved neck.
Justin jumps down onto the sticky black tarmac.
The whole street smells like coal and treacle as the sun batters down like a fist. It sparks off the parked cars, so bright it’s painful.
He makes sure not to get any tar on his new shoes. Father has been very clear on what’ll happen if he does.
‘Now, slugger, you know what to do.’
A nod. Then he bites his bottom lip and looks both ways – up and down the street – before skipping across the road. Like he’s a little baby, instead of a grown-up six-year-old.
Normally it would earn him a beating, but not this time. This time it’s what Father wants and if today goes well, Father will be happy and if Father’s happy Justin’s happy. So he skips.
The shops are boring, full of stuff no one could ever want: like pots and pans and carpets and things for cleaning dishwashers. But right at the end, by the bus stop, there’s a sweetie shop.
It does other stuff, like boring newspapers and magazines, but the wall behind the counter is the best thing ever – rows and rows of old-fashioned plastic jars full of brightly coloured sweets with funny names like ‘DIRTY TATTIES’, ‘POKEY FINGERS’, and ‘SOOR PLOOMS’.
The air tastes of excitement.
And perfume. Which is sort of like soap, only stronger and a bit chokey, and Father doesn’t like it.
The smell’s coming from a lady with yellow hair, standing with her elbows resting on the counter. She smiles down at him with shiny white teeth. ‘Hello, little man, how can we help you today then?’
She’s pretty. Yellow hair, heart-shaped face, little nose, sticky-out boobies. The kind Father always picks.
Justin blinks up at her. ‘Ooh, are you a angel?’ As if he doesn’t know that angels aren’t real. They’re all madey up by liars, like Father says.
‘Well, aren’t you the wee charmer?’
‘My mummy was pretty like you, but she had to go live with Jesus in the Heaven.’ He sticks his bottom lip out and makes it wobble, like he’s about to burst into tears.
‘Oh, sweetheart!’ The lady’s face goes all wrinkly between the eyebrows and she hurries around the counter to hug him.
It’s lovely and warm and she doesn’t really smell soapy and chokey. She smells like sunshine.
‘Where’s your daddy?’
‘I …’ Sniff. ‘I don’t know. He went into a shop, but there was a doggy and I went to look at the doggy, and I can’t remember which shop …’ Justin works the sniffles into a tiny sob. Nothing too wet and snottery. Father didn’t raise him to be a whiny little bitch.
She gives him another hug, soft and warm, then holds him at arm’s-length and nods. ‘How about we get you a nice sweetie, then we go looking for your daddy? I can shut up the shop for ten minutes. Would you like that?’
He pulls on his ‘Brave Wee Boy’ face. ‘You are a angel.’
‘How about … sherbet lemons?’ She stands and clatters a handful of yellow pebbly things out into a tiny paper bag, then passes it to him. ‘I know you’re not supposed to take sweeties from strangers, but trust me: they’re good.’
He takes one and puts it in his mouth – all nippy and sour and sweet at the same time. ‘Thank you.’
She holds his hand and walks him out of the shop. ‘Now, let’s see if we can’t find your daddy.’
Of course they will. Otherwise the plan won’t work.
The pretty lady has a nice voice, like the people on the radio, smiling and swinging his hand in hers as they walk down the narrow street. ‘And all the tiny mouses sing, “What use have we of golden rings? / All we want is bits of cheese, and socks to warm our feet and knees, / And pies and biscuits by the tonne, and lemon drops for everyone.”’
There aren’t any shops down here, but she doesn’t seem to mind the smell of the bins.
‘But Santa frowned and asked again, “Mice, have you seen the silly hen?” / “Oh, no, Santa we have no want of shoes to fit an elephant, / Or zebra shorts, or lion hats, or spats to fit a pussy cat.”’
She does a little skippy step every time something rhymes.
There’s one parked car on the road, the boot standing open, a man pacing back and forth beside it, wringing his hands. He’s the only other person here.
Justin points and breaks free of the nice lady. Runs across to him. ‘Daddy!’
Father spins around, eyes wide, then beams and kneels on the cobblestones, sweeps him into a hug. ‘Justin! Oh where have you been? I was worried sick!’
‘The nice lady helped me, Daddy.’
He lets Justin go and stands. Holds his hand out to the lady. ‘Bless you!’
She goes pink in the cheeks. ‘Nah, it was nothing. He’s a lovely wee lad.’
‘Ever since his mother left us …’ A sigh. ‘Bless you.’
She shakes his hand. ‘My pleasure. It’s not every day you—’
The fist is fast and only makes a noise when it slams into the side of her head. Then the nice lady’s legs buckle and she slumps. But before she’s even halfway down, Father sweeps her up in his arms an
d bundles her into the boot. Wraps her wrists and ankles in silvery sticky tape. Puts another strip of it over her mouth. Slams his fist into her face twice more. Then closes the boot.
Justin stands perfectly still, hands behind his back. No trembling. No crying. No anything.
Father grins at him. ‘Who wants chips for tea?’
24
Brookmyre Crescent hissed in the rain. Drops bounced off the glistening tarmac, gathered in the gutters, spreading out in a tiny lake that lapped around the tyres of a new-ish Toyota. Their pool car sent a mini tidal wave sploshing against its hubcaps.
Callum unfastened his seatbelt as they drifted to a halt outside number 16, with its collection of naff garden ornaments. ‘You still want to be the one that tells them their son’s dead?’
‘Why, you think I’m not up to it?’ Franklin hauled on the handbrake. ‘Think I’m going to—’
‘Fine. Whatever.’ He shook his head. Winced as a thousand tiny ants dug their pincers into what was left of his ear. ‘You know, sometimes, just occasionally, maybe you could try not treating everything I say as some sort of insult to your gender, ethnicity, professionalism, or dress sense.’
She stared down at herself. ‘What’s wrong with my dress sense?’
‘Try a mirror.’ A cheap shot, but hey-ho. He grabbed a high-viz jacket from the back seat and clambered out into the rain, hauling it on as he hurried up the lock-block driveway to the door. Turned up his collar and rang the bell.
Rain drummed on his shoulders, hammered at the pampas grass growing around that hideous wishing well and even more hideous gnomes.
Franklin locked the car and jogged her way through the downpour. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my suit!’
‘Keep telling yourself that.’
A light came on inside the hall, filtering out through the fanlight above the door.
‘Why don’t you stick your—’
The door swung open and Lurch from the Adams Family blinked down at them. He’d swapped the butler’s outfit for a brown cardigan and mustard-coloured corduroys, but the huge hands and pale slab of a face were a dead giveaway. But his voice wasn’t a deep ringing bass, it was a sharp-edged tenor, clipped and precise. ‘Can I help you?’
A Dark So Deadly Page 19
