A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

  Callum produced his warrant card. ‘Mr Harrington? Can we come in please?’

  The only sound was the sibilant hiss of the rain on the drowning world.

  Franklin pulled her card out as well. ‘It’s about Ben.’

  Lurch rolled his eyes, then turned and lumbered back down the hall. ‘You’d better come in then. Make sure you wipe your feet.’ He led the way into a living room lined with bookshelves. No TV, just a fancy stereo surrounded by stacks of vinyl. Leather armchairs that looked worn and soft.

  He took up position in the middle of the room, straightened up to his full height, put his hands behind his back. ‘If this is about drugs, I can promise you I don’t want to know. I told him he was on his own if he ever did anything so stupid again.’

  Franklin put a hand on the nearest armchair. ‘Maybe you should sit down, Mr Harrington? I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news …’

  ‘How’s he holding up?’ Callum fished the teabags out of the mugs and dumped them in the sink.

  ‘Not well.’ Franklin puffed out a breath and settled back against the worktop. Ran a hand across her face. ‘Doesn’t help they had a massive falling out last time they spoke. And now his son’s dead and there’s nothing he can do to fix it.’

  The kitchen was nearly as big as Callum’s whole flat, all marble and oak with a huge fridge freezer and a glass-fronted fridge just for white wine. A set of French doors led out onto a patio with wicker furniture dripping in the rain, and a set of steps leading down into a tidy garden with thick borders besmirched by more sodding gnomes. And beyond the fence: that view. Even in the pouring rain it was spectacular. Oldcastle, laid out beneath the heavy lid of grey, slivers of copper and gold caressing the Victorian cobbled streets of Castle Hill as the last gasp of daylight forced its way through the gloom. A slash of Kings River shining like a sharpened knife.

  Much better than looking out on a railway line, a manky cluster of allotments, and some tenements.

  How the other half lived.

  Callum put the milk back in the oversized fridge. ‘I called Mother, she’s sorting out a Family Liaison Officer. And, according to McAdams, Brett Millar tried to bite off a nurse’s fingers, so they’ve chucked him into a secure psychiatric ward. Straitjacket, padded walls, and twenty-four-hour surveillance.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with druggies, once they get the taste for human flesh …’ The smile faded. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Should think so too.’ He put the mugs on a tray along with a packet of gingersnaps dug out of the cupboard above the kettle. Nodded at the door. ‘Go on then.’

  He followed her through into the book-lined lounge.

  Mr Harrington was crumpled in one of the armchairs, his huge frame shrunken into itself, massive hands wrapped around his knees. Nose and cheeks red, as if he’d been standing out in the rain.

  Callum put the tray on the floor and handed him a mug. ‘Milk, two sugars.’

  A sniff and a nod.

  ‘Is it OK if we ask you a few questions about Ben?’

  The lips curled on that slab of a face. ‘My son’s name is Benjamin.’

  ‘OK. Yes, Benjamin.’ He took his own tea and settled on the front edge of the other armchair. ‘Benjamin bought a flat with his friends, Brett Millar and Glen Carmichael.’

  ‘Gah.’ Ben’s dad stared down at the mug. ‘The Millar boy was always trouble. I should’ve expelled him, but his parents were just as bad. It didn’t matter that their horrible son was a bad influence on our boy, they made it very clear what would happen if I took the appropriate action. Drugs, on school premises!’

  He made himself smaller in his chair, knees coming up against his chest. ‘Of course they were the Millar boy’s drugs. Benjamin didn’t do drugs, we brought him up better than that, and now these jumped-up little nobodies are standing in my office telling me they’ll go to the papers and say it was all Benjamin’s fault.’ Ben’s dad grimaced into his tea. ‘I should have expelled them: Bret and Benjamin. I should have expelled them both. A headmaster has to have principles. He has to be uncompromising. He has to be the rule of law.’

  Callum nodded. ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘How could I? Christine would have died from the scandal. So I made the whole thing go away, and the Millar boy continued to be a bad influence. It’s amazing Benjamin got into university. A BA in aquaculture: it should’ve been law, or medicine. And does he use his degree? No, he buys a worthless flat in a horrible part of town with his two useless friends and thinks he’s going to be the next big property magnate.’

  ‘And did Benjamin mention anyone else? Maybe someone he’d met recently? Someone new to their circle?’

  ‘What, a woman?’ Ben’s dad shook his head. ‘We should be so lucky. Oh, don’t get me wrong, he isn’t gay or anything like that. He’s just too busy being a conceited selfish little child to have a proper relationship.’

  Franklin cleared her throat. ‘Can we look at Benjamin’s room, Mr Harrington?’

  He wrapped his arms around his knees. ‘It’s upstairs, down the hall, at the end.’ Then he laid his forehead on them and cried.

  ‘Getting dark out there.’ Franklin stood at the window, one hand on the Star Wars curtains, looking out at the rain.

  The bedroom was immaculate: no oil slick of socks and pants on the floor; all the books in neat little rows on the bookshelf; a fancy workstation with a big monitor, printer, and ergonomic keyboard, all lined up perfectly square; bed made, with the Pokémon duvet cover tucked in tight like they did in hotels.

  ‘You think he tidies up himself, or does his mum do it for him?’ Callum snapped on a pair of blue nitriles and tried the bedside cabinet. Socks. Pants. Hankies. Mickey Mouse watch.

  ‘His father’s lovely.’ Franklin put on a slightly deeper voice, mimicking the clipped accent. ‘“He’s not gay or anything like that.” Homophobic dick.’

  ‘Check the wardrobe.’

  She opened the doors and squatted down in front of it, rummaging through the neat rows of shoeboxes arranged in the bottom. ‘Do you buy that whole “everything was Brett Millar’s fault” act?’

  ‘Yeah, well Brett Sodding Millar isn’t exactly on my Christmas card list this year.’ Callum pulled the drawers all the way out and checked the undersides. Nothing Sellotaped there. But there was a pair of socks in the gap beneath the bottom drawer. Probably fell out and popped down the back. ‘Wasting our time here.’

  ‘Probably.’

  He pulled the socks out, frowned. There was something hard in the middle, something stuffed inside them. They got turned inside out on the bedspread, covering Pikachu’s smiley face. ‘Or maybe not.’

  ‘You got something?’

  ‘Flash drive shaped like a Lego man, and a wee ziplock baggie of pills.’ He held the bag up. The contents looked like small green jelly beans. ‘I’m guessing Benjamin was into Temazepam. Don’t know about the flash drive, though.’

  She pointed at the tower unit sitting under the workstation. ‘Could find out easily enough.’

  ‘And compromise the chain of evidence? No thanks. Whatever’s on there, I want it admissible in court.’ He pulled an evidence bag from his pocket and slipped the flash drive inside. Scribbled down the time, date, location, case number, and both of their names. Did the same with the pills. ‘Probably won’t go anywhere, but you never know.’

  Callum stuck the bags in his pocket. Frowned at the room: the Pokémon duvet cover, the Star Wars curtains, the shelf covered with little SpongeBob SquarePants figurines mounted above a row of kids’ books. The framed Finding Nemo print on the wall. ‘It’s all a bit … childish, isn’t it? Like Ben’s mum and dad are infantilising him. Keeping him young so they can control him.’

  Franklin rolled her eyes, then stuffed the shoeboxes back in the wardrobe. ‘You’ve never met a hipster before, have you? All this crap is “ironic”. Watching My Little Pony and getting cartoon characters tattooed all over your body. Listenin
g to bands no one’s ever heard of and wearing glasses you don’t need just because the frames are “retro”. Beards. Haircuts. Tight trousers.’

  Callum slid the drawers back again. ‘When I was a kid, people dressed up as goths. Or grunge was still a thing. Just.’ He stood. ‘Not me, obviously.’

  ‘Too cool, were you?’ She rifled through a stack of vinyl records.

  ‘The home wouldn’t let us wear make-up, or grow our hair. Not even the girls.’ His blue nitrile gloves snapped off, got bundled in with the evidence bags. ‘Billy Jackson came home from school one day with a pierced ear. Someone did it for him at break-time with a needle and a strawberry Mivvi. Mr Crimon beat the living hell out of him and made him sleep in the bath for a week. Couldn’t stand up straight for ages.’

  ‘I mean, look at these bands: Sui-psychedel-icide, the Burning Yesterday Collective, Gerbils from Saturn, Stalin’s Wardrobe … Who listens to stuff like this?’

  ‘He runs a garage in Kingsmeath now. Still got a bit of a hunch on him.’

  ‘Ooh, spoke too soon.’ Franklin held up an album with a woodcut illustration of a rabbit and a cat dancing in a graveyard on it: Open the Coffins. ‘Mind you, Harrington’s probably only listening to it ironically.’

  ‘Meh, the book was better. And speaking of which,’ Callum pointed at the bookshelf, with its collection of textbooks and YA novels, ‘how about we give this lot a quick rummage, then head?’

  ‘Might as well.’ She plucked a thick book from the middle shelf. ‘Urgh. Listen to this: Adaptive Governance, colon, The Dynamics of Atlantic Fisheries Management, brackets, Global Environmental Accord, colon, Strategies for Sustainability and Institutional Innovation, close brackets. Sounds fun.’ She turned it spine-side up and riffled through the pages. Nothing fell out. ‘This home you grew up in: did you have to spend nights in the bath?’

  ‘If you were really bad, they half-filled it with cold water first.’ He flicked through something about a teenaged spy. ‘I guess some people just love working with kids.’

  She dumped the textbook and tried another one. ‘You report them?’

  ‘You think no one listens to women?’ The next book was about the same teenaged spy. How was an eleven-year-old boy supposed to disarm a nuclear weapon? ‘Try being the kind of kid that gets labelled “challenging”.’

  ‘Hmmm …’ Another textbook.

  ‘R.M. Travis came to our school once. Signed my copy of Ichabod Smith and the Circus of Doom and drew a little picture of a rabbit too … I was so nervous I nearly wet myself.’ In the next one, Junior Superspy was foiling a global plot to wipe everyone out with Ebola. ‘Course, I was too stupid to keep my mouth shut when I got back to the home. All puffed up and proud and showing the book off to all the other kids. So Mr Crimon confiscated it. Never saw it again.’

  ‘Think we should seize the computer?’

  ‘Can if you want, but the IT lab won’t do a thing with it till someone bigger than you or me sets a flamethrower to their backsides.’ He’d run out of boy-super-spy novels, so Callum moved onto a series about a boy vampire caught up in the Napoleonic wars. ‘Maybe we should start with the flash drive and see how we get on?’

  They flicked through every book on the shelf and only managed to turn up a voucher for guitar lessons that had expired three years ago. So much for that.

  Franklin stuck the last YA novel back on its shelf. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Callum made for the door, then stopped as his mobile launched into song. When he pulled it out, the word ‘HOME’ sat in the middle of the screen. He gave Franklin a wee grimace and pointed towards the stairs. ‘I’ll catch you up.’ Hit the button. ‘Elaine?’

  ‘Hi … Peanut was wondering what time you’d be getting home.’

  ‘No idea. Late. Probably. You know what it’s like with a murder investigation.’

  ‘Well don’t binge on kebabs and pizza, I made tuna casserole for tea. Just make sure you call me when you’re heading home so I can pop it in the oven.’

  ‘Yes, Boss.’

  ‘And while you’re obeying my every whim, can you pick up some pickles and Nutella on your way home? Doesn’t have to be the fancy ones with the white-and-green label, any dill cucumbers will do.’

  ‘Anything else, Your Imperial Majesty?’

  ‘Love you.’

  ‘Me too.’ He hung up and headed downstairs.

  Through in the living room, Ben’s dad was still in his seat – all curled up with his forehead against his knees. A living mummy.

  Callum cleared his throat. ‘Mr Harrington? Is there someone who can stay with you? Maybe a neighbour, or a friend? It’s probably—’

  The front door rattled and a voice boomed out in the hall. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Anthony, what have I told you about leaving your muddy shoes on the carpet? Honestly, it’s bad enough I have to clean up after idiots all day without coming home to it too.’

  A small woman appeared in the doorway, peeling off a leather jacket. ‘You can come help me with the shopping, it’s …’ She stopped. Stared at Franklin, then did the same to Callum. ‘Anthony? Anthony, what’s going on? Who are these people?’

  Franklin held out her warrant card. ‘I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news, Mrs Harrington.’

  25

  ‘No, Marline, I don’t. And I’ll tell you why I don’t, because I never did nothing with him, OK?’ Honestly, Marline was such a bitch. ‘If he says I did, he’s completely a liar.’

  No noise from the other end of the phone – Stupid Central.

  Ashlee slumped back on her bed and scowled up at the posters on the ceiling. All four members of Mister Bones, shirtless and smiling perfect smiles on some sunny beach somewhere way nicer than crappy old Oldcastle. The three guys from Four Mechanical Mice in a swimming pool, all glistening and muscles and that. $ick Dawg, posing on a motorbike in leather jacket and jeans, all those tattoos on his naked hairless chest. Sexy and mysterious with a superhero mask and utterly cool-shaped moustache/goatee thing. Even if he did have a load of completely thin bitches in the background, posing in their bikinis and showing off. Skanky cows.

  ‘He said you did.’

  ‘What did I tell you? Completely a liar.’

  He was too. As if Ashlee would ever touch Marline’s sloppy seconds. Wasn’t even that good looking. And he was a crap kisser. All fat slimy tongue and weird little grunting noises. Freak.

  ‘He said you snogged him outside the chipper, Sunday.’

  ‘Ungh. Who you going to believe, Marline: Peter – who utterly dumped you on your birthday – or your best friend in the world, AKA: me?’

  More silence.

  Taylor from Mister Bones was definitely the hottest guy on her ceiling. He had these lovely teeth and a way of singing into the camera that made you know he was doing it just for you. Of course, she wouldn’t say no to Zeb from Four Mechanical Mice either. Not with that lovely long hair.

  It was nicer than hers.

  Mind you, that wasn’t difficult these days – hers was like straw. God she was so disgusting.

  Why would Zeb or Taylor want to go out with a fat pig like her?

  Didn’t matter how little she ate, or how many times she did sit-ups and squats and went jogging and everything. Here she was, practically living on rice crackers, sneaking off to throw up after every one of Mum’s disgusting fatty meals of slop, and she still wasn’t thin. Not properly thin.

  She risked a look down at the lines where her ribs poked out beneath the tank top, the hip bones making twin rails through the boxer shorts, the gap between her thighs. There was completely a roll of fat around her middle. Like a beer belly, or something. And she never even drank beer. How was that fair?

  ‘I’m sorry, Ashlee. I know you’d never do that to me.’

  A long low ‘Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring …’ rang out from downstairs.

  ‘Ungh.’ She sat up. Yup, that was massively a roll of fat. ‘Some
one’s at the door.’

  ‘He’s such a liar, isn’t he?’

  ‘Always was. You were utterly too good for him, Marline.’ Not true, but that was what you were supposed to say, wasn’t it? Not, ‘You were a matching pair of bookend freaks.’

  She yanked open her door and stuck her head out into the dark hall. Put her phone against her fat-cow chest and shouted down the stairs. ‘Door!’

  ‘Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring …’

  For God’s sake, did she completely have to do everything round here?

  ‘DOOR!’

  Her mum’s voice came up from the kitchen. ‘Well answer it then, I’m busy.’ Probably making more lardy yuck for tea.

  ‘I’M ON THE PHONE!’

  ‘So call them back!’

  ‘Aaaargh!’ God, it was like … North Korea, or something. ‘Fine. Whatever. Don’t bother yourself. I’ll just stop what I’m doing, shall I?’ Back to the phone as she stomped down the stairs. ‘Marline?’

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yeah, if you think my MOTHER BEING AN ENTIRE BITCH is OK.’ Nice and loud to make sure she could hear it.

  ‘You want to get wasted for my birthday next week? I can utterly rob a bottle of voddy from my gran.’

  ‘Yeah, why not. You only turn fourteen once, right?’

  The hall, of course, was completely Arctic Circle, because being an entire bitch means you’re too tight-fisted to put a radiator in the hall. Not like it’s chucking it down winter outside or anything, is it? Noooo.

  Ashlee shuffled her feet into a pair of Mum’s furry slippers, then grabbed a raincoat from the rack of hooks by the door and pulled it on. Hiding her disgusting fat body.

  ‘My step-dad wants to have a party down the bowling alley. Laser Quest, dodgems, and burgers, like I’m, I dunno, six years old or something. He’s such a complete spazmoidal—’

  ‘Yeah, hang on, Marline.’

  ‘Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring …’

  ‘OK, OK. Jesus.’

  Mum appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Typical: turns up when all the hard work’s done to take the credit. The lazy cow flicked hair out of her eyes – maybe a decent haircut would help with that? And a proper dye-job too. Honestly: going out in public with an inch of brown roots showing. Never mind the chunky thighs and revolting saggy boobs, because apparently it’s OK to massively turn into a slob when you hit thirty. She draped the tea towel over her shoulder, like she worked in Starbucks or something. ‘Who is it, Ashlee?’