“I’m sorry we ate your cabbages,” Russell said. “We were hungry and lost and we didn’t know they belonged to anyone!”
“That’s very honest of you. You’re a good little rabbit.” She patted him on the head. “But I’m going to have to eat you all the same.”
R.M. Travis
Russell the Magic Rabbit (1992)
And ma dad beat the f*ck outta me as a kid,
Got his bones in a box with a button-down lid,
And I’ll never forgive all them things that he did,
But he ain’t doin’ them no more, cos the b*stard is dead.
Donny ‘$ick Dawg’ McRoberts
‘F*ck U (Daddy Dearest)’
© Bob’s Speed Trap Records (2014)
54
A Whole Lifetime Ago
Paul smiles and nods. Wise and trustworthy as the fat bitch in the cardigan drones on about ‘Jesus’ and ‘love’ and ‘forgiveness’ and all the rest of the crap people like this always drone on about.
The vestry is hot and sticky, even with the windows open.
That’s the problem with Catholics, though, isn’t it? The lingering heat of Hell is never far from their guilty little consciences.
She’s still talking – that glistening mouth with its red liver lips. All pious. Like she’s never sucked a dick in her life.
Blah, blah, blah.
On and on and on.
A thick floral stench rolls off her, mingling with the sweaty taint of corpulence.
You know what would be nice?
No, what?
Strangle her. Right here, right now. Wrap your hands around that greasy throat and squeeze till her eyes bulge and all the blood vessels burst and flood with red and keep squeezing and squeezing …
‘… don’t you think, Father?’
Paul blinks. It’s not the fat bitch, it’s the priest in his long black robes. Dressed like a jackdaw. Desperate to be strung up on the back fence to act as a warning to others.
He clears his throat. ‘I do indeed.’ He gives them the smile and the nod he’s practised so many times in front of the mirror. The one he uses to pretend he’s human like the rest of them.
But the stench in here is getting too much to bear.
So he makes a big show of looking at his watch. Rolls his eyes and tuts. ‘Sorry, I’m afraid I’m going to have to dash. But perhaps we could pick up where we left off next week?’
The man in the dress nods. ‘Oh, we’d like that, wouldn’t we, Margery?’
‘Oh yes. Yes indeed.’ She puts one of her flabby hands on his arm, warm and sticky even through his jacket and black shirt, globbing into his skin. ‘Do come again. I’m so glad we could help.’ Then she hands him the cheque with his name on it.
He slips it into his jacket. ‘And please, pass on my thanks – and the thanks of all those poor neglected children – to your kind and generous congregation.’
The fat bitch stops at the threshold, but Father Crossdresser follows him out into the church.
There’s a wee boy singing somewhere: ‘Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth …’ the sound echoes off the walls like an air-raid siren for the damned.
‘Well, Father Jeffries, I must say, I’m deeply impressed by the work you do with these poor deprived youngsters. It’s an inspiration, it truly is.’
‘Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua. Hosanna in excelsis …’
Paul gives him a little modest shrug. ‘We all must do what we can.’
‘Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini. Hosanna in excelsis—’
‘NO! NO, DAMN IT, OLIVER!’ The exasperated voice of some poor sod trying to make a kid do what it’s told. ‘How many times? It’s pronounced, “ex-chel-cees”. We’re going to stay here and do it again and again until – you – get – it – right!’
Paul turns, and there’s his own little burden, sucking his thumb like a baby. Five years old and he’s still sucking his thumb. How is he ever going to be a man, acting like that? So Paul raised his voice over the wailing chorister. ‘Justin, thumb out of the mouth, eh, champ?’ He forces a smile. ‘You’re a big boy now.’
Going to have to beat that out of him.
He’ll never learn otherwise.
Beat it out of him till he learns his bloody lesson.
After all, it never did Paul any harm, did it?
The back garden sways and lurches as he … he … why is he out here again?
Oh, yeah, right.
A swig of beer from one hand, while the other fumbles … fumbles his cock from his trousers.
Used beer splashes into the compost bin, adding its steam to the heap’s.
Dark out here. Just the light of the moon filtering through clouds.
Watching everything.
Never mind God an Jesus an … an all the rest of that crap. Moon. Moon was … what they should be worshipping. Like the old days with … you know … with virgins an sacrifices an … yeah.
Bitch in the basement … crying. Always crying. Specially afterwards.
Pff …
He’s not a bad man. No, he’s a priest!
A proper one.
Not a shep … shepherd.
No.
He keeps his flock … his flock in line the old way. Proper way. Unner the Moon’s eternal … eternal eye.
A wolf.
Paul takes another hit of beer, an … an throws back his head an howls out his devotions.
‘That’s very generous. Thank you so much.’ Paul takes the cheque and smiles, even though it’s barely half what he got here a year ago. Doesn’t do to burn the goose, even if it is only laying silver eggs right now. ‘The Romanian orphanages will make good use of this.’
The skinny bitch in the twinset shows off her dentures – stained with dark red lipstick. ‘I’m so glad we could help.’ Protestants, just as bad as the Catholics, only without the sense of theatre. Holier-than-thou on the outside, deviant scumbags on the inside. ‘Now, we must get a photograph for the church newsletter.’
He sighs and shakes his head. Puts a hand on her revolting shoulder, among those nasty little flakes of dandruff. ‘I’m just His humble servant, I don’t deserve all that limelight and praise.’
‘Oh, but—’
‘No. You should take the credit, Mrs Ingram. After all, you’re the one who raised all this money. I’m just the one who’s lucky enough to spend it on a very good cause.’
‘Lies and liars. All of them.’ Paul takes the last swig from his tin of Special, crumples it in his fist and hurls it into the corner. ‘And morons!’
The living room sways slightly, the wallpaper twisting like the tattoos on a topless dancer.
‘Boy! Justin, or whatever. Gimme another beer!’
After all, can’t celebrate without beer, can you?
No.
And whisky.
He takes a swig of Glenmorangie, straight from the bottle. It tingles on the way down like a thousand little watch fires, flickering in the darkness.
‘BOY!’
And there he is, the horrible little snivelling boy. Standing there in his stupid shorts and cartoon T-shirt. Eyes all big and shiny, like he’s going to burst into tears any moment. Pathetic. He’s six, for Christ’s sake. Far too old to be acting like that.
He holds up a tin of Special, dew beading on the outside, and Paul snatches it off him. ‘About time.’
‘Sorry, Father.’ That annoying, wobbly little voice.
‘You should be happy.’ Paul grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him close. ‘I saved you, boy. You know that don’t you?’
‘Thank you, Father.’
‘Damn right.’ He pushes the little shite away. ‘I saved you from the grey. From the beige. From all the crap they shovel down kids’ throats.’ He rips the tab from the beer and swigs down a mouthful. ‘Your mum didn’t love you, Justin. She would’ve killed you and eaten you. I know. I’ve
seen it before.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
Better. Bit of respect for his elders and betters.
Paul swills beer between his teeth.
After all, he’s a rich man. He deserves respect.
And soon as he’s spent it all, there’s always another congregation of pious pricks desperate to throw money at him for all his ‘good works’.
He toasts the crucifix on the wall. His generous benefactor.
Oh yes, today is a day to celebrate.
‘Boy?’
‘Yes, Father?’
‘Tell your new mummy to wash herself. She’s going to be blessed tonight. And if you’re a very good boy, I might even let you watch.’
55
Callum turned his back on the garden, the thumb of his broken hand poked into his right ear, phone clamped to the other. ‘Sorry, Cecelia, can you say that again?’
The roar of small petrol motors battered back and forth, screaming, then falling, then screaming, then falling as three Smurfs with brush cutters fought against the thicket of brambles. Chopping it down to the ground. Making good progress too – half of it was already gone, the curled jagged stems carted away, leaving the ground grey and bare.
‘I said, we’ve finished our second sweep of the Gossard house.’
‘Cool.’ He marched away from the noise, following a wheelbarrow-pushing Smurf around the side of the burned-out house. ‘Anything?’
‘Won’t know for sure till we analyse it, but there was a tiny smear of blood under the knobs on the kitchen taps. Nothing in the sink, or on the knobs – so he’s tried to clean up after himself – but there’s always traces.’
Professor Whatshisface might have been a bit of a dick, but he obviously knew what he was doing.
‘Let me know, OK?’
Wheelbarrow Smurf tipped his load of bramble clippings into a skip parked outside the house.
‘I heard about Elaine.’
Great.
Callum ran his fingertips across his forehead. ‘Can we not do this just now?’
‘I just think it’s a good time to tell everyone the truth about who really cocked up that crime scene.’
‘Who’s going to take me seriously? They’ll all think I’m lying to get back at her for shagging Powel behind my back.’
‘Don’t make me stage an intervention, Callum.’
‘Bye, Cecelia.’
Mother appeared from the house’s blackened doorway, SOC suit rolled down and tied off around her waist. Talking into her phone as she wandered down the path. ‘Is he? That’s great, thanks, Duncan … No, we’ll be there soon as we can … OK … I owe you one.’ She hung up, turned and waved at him. ‘Callum, how’s it going?’
He pointed back towards the garden. ‘Another couple of hours to finish clearing the scrub then they can get the Ground Penetrating Radar in. They’ll find the rest of him.’
‘Good. Now do me a favour and give Dotty a call: see if she can find us a connection between Jeffries and Monaghan. She’s good at digging things up and I get the feeling our boys knew each other.’ Mother held out an arm and he took it, helping her balance as she shimmied her way out of the Smurf costume. ‘I miss the white Tyvek suits, don’t you?’
‘Nah.’ He pulled a face. ‘I always thought we looked like a bunch of sperm in those. Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Crime Scene Investigation But Were Afraid to Ask.’ He pulled out his notebook. Flipped through to the details he’d copied down. ‘Assuming the ecclesiastical trust people started proceedings on the day Jeffries died, that’s twenty-seven years ago. Monaghan would have been eight.’
‘Probably not best friends, then.’ She puffed out her cheeks and turned to face back towards the house. ‘What does your gut tell you, Callum: are these Paul Jeffries’ bones?’
‘Bit of a coincidence if they’re not. Jeffries goes missing twenty-seven years ago, but he never even leaves the property, just turns to bone in a shallow grave.’ Callum sniffed. ‘Well, it’s that or he killed someone, buried them in his back garden, and did a very thorough disappearing act.’
‘True.’ She stood there, frowning at the burned bones of a long-dead house. Then turned, ‘Anyway, there’s no point hanging around here, is there? They’ll call us when they need us. In the meantime, I think you and I should go on a little field trip, don’t you? Spend some quality time together.’
Why did that sound ominous …?
The Fiat Panda roared and spluttered, coughing like an old man on sixty-a-day as they lurched around the City Stadium Roundabout and into the long queue of traffic heading west on the dual carriageway. Orange cones and brake lights stretched ahead of them, fading into the gloom as the first drops of rain splashed against the windscreen.
Fifteen minutes and they’d barely gone a mile and a half.
Callum sat in the passenger seat, with his hands in his lap. Because otherwise there was a risk of touching something in here. The dashboard had developed a new feature: someone had written ‘MUCK!’ in the dust. With every lurching gear change, bottles clinked in the back.
Something sticky glistened in the passenger footwell and Callum shifted his leg away from it. ‘I’m worried about DS McAdams.’
‘Welcome to my world.’ She cracked the window an inch, letting the drone of traffic in and a fat black fly out. ‘Rosalind seems to be integrating well, doesn’t she? Dotty speaks very highly of her. Very efficient.’
‘I’m serious. He’s holding his stomach and wheezing, sweating. I’ve seen bottles of milk with more colour in them.’
‘He’s dying, Callum. This round of chemo …’ Mother sighed. ‘I remember the good old days, before the old ticker started acting up.’ She tapped herself on the chest. ‘It was Andy and me that arrested Ian Zouroudi. We caught Dani McGiven. We nailed Joanne Frankland, even though everyone thought her brother Stephen did it.’
‘Maybe … I don’t know. He shouldn’t be at work, he should be home resting.’
‘Then there was that counterfeiting syndicate, operating out of a charity shop on Dresden Street.’
‘Tod Monaghan’s dead: McAdams got his last serial killer. We’ll find Ashlee Gossard and that’ll be that. Everything else is just tidying up. Send him home.’
A smile tugged at Mother’s cheeks. ‘I remember one time, we’d spent all day chasing down an armed-robbery witness, and Andy—’
Callum’s phone burst into song, buried deep in his pocket. ‘Sorry.’ He pulled it out. ‘Hello?’
Elaine’s ‘angry schoolteacher’ voice scraiched in his ear: ‘Did you pick up your stuff? Because I don’t want you turning up at the flat pretending you forgot something.’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’
‘If I get home from Mum’s and you’ve—’
‘Bye, Elaine.’ Callum hung up. Checked his call history and barred the number she’d dialled from.
The hairs prickled on the back of Callum’s neck, and when he turned his head Mother was staring at him. ‘What?’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
He folded his arms. ‘No.’
‘You’re going to have to deal with this sooner or later, Callum. That’s how relationships work.’
The industrial estate ground past on the right.
Callum kept his arms folded. Scowling out at the traffic in its depressing slow-motion waltz. Brake, two-three. Inch forward, two-three. Brake, two-three. And repeat. On and on till the end of the world …
Up ahead, a big metal sign announced that all this traffic chaos was going to continue for at least the next six weeks. Because everyone wasn’t miserable enough already.
‘I’m serious, Callum.’ Mother indicated, then drifted right into a turning lane marked out with another stretch of orange cones. Sat there with her turn signal clicking. ‘Are you going to spend the rest of your life avoiding her?’
He kept his scowl pointed out of the passenger window. At the cars
full of miserable people, stuck in their miserable lives, stuck in miserable traffic, in the miserable rain.
A sigh. ‘What’s going to happen at work, then? When Elaine comes back after the baby?’
Someone coming the other way flashed their lights, leaving a gap in the traffic and Mother put her foot down, sending the car kangarooing across the opposite lane and down a road lined with dark-green gorse.
‘And what about Reece? He’s still going to be a Detective Chief Inspector, no matter how much you hate him. He’ll still be able to give you orders. And if you’re fighting with Elaine, he’ll win that argument every time.’
‘I get it, OK? I’m screwed. You happy? I – am – screwed.’
‘That’s not what I meant, Callum. You’re going to have to make your peace sooner or later. And the longer it takes, the more it’ll hurt.’
‘Can you just leave it, please?’
A sigh. ‘Well, no one can say I didn’t try.’
She indicated and turned left, down another gorse-lined road, bordered by fields. A patch of woods. And just beyond them, the hulking grey lump of Her Majesty’s Prison, Oldcastle. The kind of building not even an architect could love: brutally minimalist, with featureless walls and a three-storey glass block built out front that had a wide concrete portico like a Seventies hotel.
Mother pulled into the car park, and the Panda did its roar-and-backfire trick again, before dying into silence.
He unclipped his seatbelt. ‘Going to tell me what we’re doing here?’
She just grinned at him.
Oh joy …
They’d made a bit of effort with the interview room: framed prints of landscapes screwed to the wall; a fake rubber plant in the corner; flattering mood lighting; one of those automatic wall-mounted air-freshener things they sometimes had in toilets, puffing out the occasional fruity whiff. But even that couldn’t disguise the fact that this was an eight-by-ten windowless box in the west wing of a prison.
It didn’t do much to shift the underlying sour whiffs of grease and BO either.
Mother sat at the interview table – chipped and scarred, with initials and swearwords scratched into the Formica. She poked away at her phone, playing Candy Crush by the look of things.
A Dark So Deadly Page 43
