Callum stood by the radiator, drying off his damp, bramble-ruined trousers. ‘Still don’t know what we’re doing here.’
‘Good things come to those who wait. You just have to have faith and patience, and—’
The interview room door opened and a small balding man in thick-rimmed glasses and an ugly jumper sidled into the room. ‘Flora. It’s lovely to see you again. I was so shocked to hear about your … incident. I trust you’re fully recovered now, yes? Good. Excellent. Yes.’ A nod for Callum. ‘You must be the young man, Flora’s told me so much about. Nice to meet you.’ He stuck out his hand – surprisingly warm, strong, and dry when Callum shook it.
Mother put her phone away. ‘Is he ready, Duncan?’
‘Oh yes, yes. Yes indeed.’ Duncan clasped his hands together. ‘Now, I know you’ve been here before, but there are a few formalities to take care of. You’re not to give the inmate anything, and you’re not to take anything from him. That includes messages to, and from, the outside world. You’re not to let him use your mobile phones. We disapprove of physical contact. And a staff member will be present at all times. OK?’
She spread her hands wide. ‘How can I refuse?’
‘Good. Yes. Well, let’s get started, shall we?’ Duncan stuck his wee baldy head out into the corridor. ‘You can bring him in now, Rachael, thanks.’
Gareth Pike had to duck to get into the room, his rounded shoulders brushing the door frame. His pale scalp gleamed like a freshly polished cue ball. He paused and pulled on a slow sticky smile. ‘Constable MacGregor, how delicious to see you again. Are you here about my south-facing cell?’
Pike.
A prison officer appeared behind him, closing the door and standing with her back to it, at parade rest, face blank and jaw set.
‘Hello, Mr Pike.’ Mother pointed at the chair on the other side of the table. ‘Or can I call you, Gareth?’
‘This one’s new.’ Pike slithered his way into the other seat, and sat hunched forward with his elbows on the table. Like a bear stuffed into a highchair. ‘I’m not sure I like her yet.’
‘I can quite understand that, Mr Pike. My name’s DI Malcolmson and I’m here to formally apologise on behalf of Police Scotland for Detective Constable MacGregor’s behaviour.’
What?
Pike’s eyebrow climbed an inch. ‘Are you now? Well that is interesting, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve reviewed the footage of your interview and I have to say that I’m more than a little disappointed. After all, you’re not a well man, are you, Mr Pike?’
‘No, I’m not. And please,’ he reached across the table and took Mother’s hand, ‘Call me Gareth.’
‘You’ve got type-two diabetes, angina, high blood pressure, gallstones, impotency …’ ‘These are my burdens to bear.’
Mother turned in her seat and stared at Callum. ‘Officer MacGregor, is there something you’d like to say to Gareth?’
‘What? No. I’m not—’
‘Apologise, Constable.’
Was she insane? There was no way he was—
‘Now, Constable.’
Silence.
The prison officer didn’t move.
Duncan tugged at the hem of his ugly jumper.
And Pike smiled his big slug smile.
Mother sighed. ‘Or perhaps you’d like another spell in front of Professional Standards?’
All that caring-sharing crap in the car had been just that: crap. She hated him as much as everyone else, and now she was rubbing his face in it.
That’s what he got for trusting her. That’s what he got for trusting anyone.
So what choice did he have? Apologise to this vast slimy sack of sick, or get a formal kicking by the rubber heelers for something he didn’t even do. Again.
Callum cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Pike, if I caused you any offence.’ Every word burned like battery acid on his tongue.
Pike’s smile got bigger. ‘Oh, pish and tush, what’s a little banter between friends?’ He raised his other hand. ‘You are forgiven, Constable.’
Mother nodded. ‘You’re very kind, Gareth. And to show that we in Police Scotland are big enough to admit our mistakes: I’ve had a word with the Sheriff.’ She pulled a bit of paper from her pocket and held it up. ‘Given your medical condition, he’s agreed to give you a Community Service Order instead of a custodial sentence. You’ll be able to stay in your own flat, and only have to spend a few hours a week helping out at the Kingsmeath Animal Shelter. Cleaning out the cages and things like that. Health permitting, of course.’ She tucked her paperwork away again. ‘Isn’t that nice?’
Pike’s smile slipped. Then his mouth hung open, eyes widening. ‘Oh. Well … it’s a very generous offer, but I sincerely fear that my chances of recidivism are—’
‘No, let’s not hear another word about it. It’s the least we can do.’ She prised her hand free and stood. ‘I’m sure they’ll make your stay here as pleasant as possible until the Sheriff makes it official on Monday.’
‘But, no … You can’t … I mean, I’ve forgiven Officer MacGregor. I don’t expect any special treatment.’
‘I wouldn’t hear of it.’ She turned and clicked her fingers at Callum. ‘Come on, Constable, Gareth’s had a long day, he’ll be needing his rest.’
‘But I’m a pederast! You saw the tape, it’s got kids on it and—’
‘As you say, Gareth, you’re impotent. The Sheriff feels that puts you at a much smaller risk of causing actual harm.’
The prison officer put her hand on Pike’s big round shoulder. ‘Come on, time to go back to our cell.’
‘But I’m dangerous! I …’ He stared at Callum. ‘Tell them. Tell them how dangerous I am! I tried to abduct you!’
And now it all made sense.
‘You were dangerous, but like Mother says, you need a little blue pill to get it up these days. And with your blood pressure?’ He sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘You’re more of a risk to yourself than other people.’
Pike’s mouth flapped up and down for a bit, but nothing came out.
Mother patted him on the arm. ‘There, there. I know it’s all a bit overwhelming, but the knowledge that you’re on your way home is thanks enough.’
‘I DON’T WANT TO GO HOME!’
The prison officer tightened her grip. ‘Easy now.’
‘You don’t?’ Mother frowned.
‘I live in a shit hole: don’t send me back there!’
‘Oh dear and here’s me already made that deal with the Sheriff. If only there was something I could do …’ She tapped a finger against her forehead, frowning down at the tabletop. ‘Come on, Flora: think.’ A pained expression. ‘I’ve no idea … Callum? Can you think of anything?’
And for the first time since arriving at the prison, Callum smiled. ‘Oh, I’m sure I can come up with something. Won’t that be fun, Gareth?’
There was a pause, then Pike bared his teeth. ‘Never.’
‘Ah well. We tried, didn’t we, DI Malcolmson?’
‘We did indeed, DC MacGregor.’
‘That’s not fair: YOU SET ME UP!’
‘Tell you what,’ Mother nodded at Rachael the prison officer, ‘this nice lady will take you back to your lovely clean comfy cell, with … what was it: three meals a day and the convivial company of like-minded fellows? And you can have a nice long think about living in that manky little flat on the thirteenth floor, surrounded by people who hate you. Who knows, maybe you’ll change your mind?’
They waved as he was pulled from the room.
‘YOU SET ME UP!’
56
Watt folded over his desk, curling in around the phone in his hand. ‘Yes, I know it’s seven o’clock on a Saturday evening, but as I told your colleague, this is very, very important.’
The rest of Mother’s Misfit Mob sagged in their chairs, McAdams perched on one of the spare desks, Mother leaning against t
he wall by the whiteboard – twiddling a marker pen.
Dotty sighed. ‘Told you I should’ve phoned. He’s useless.’
‘No, I understand that … Yes … Yes … Here’s the thing,’ Watt thumped a hand down on the desk, ‘there’s a thirteen-year-old girl who’s going to die if you don’t get us that list. How does that sound? Does that get your ecclesiastical juices flowing?’
‘See: he’s blown it.’
He stuck the phone against his chest and birled around in his seat. ‘Will you please shut your fat cakehole?’ Back to the phone. ‘Sorry, what was that? … Yes. Right. OK, soon as you can. Here’s my email address John— No, J for Jumper, O for Osprey, H for Hawk, N for November …’
Dotty dropped her voice to a barely audible growl: ‘I’ll give you a “fat cakehole”, you gingery wee twat.’
Mother chucked the pen so it bounced off Dotty’s desk partition. ‘If you kids can’t behave, there’ll be no jelly and custard.’
Callum stretched in his seat and stifled a yawn. ‘Pfff …’
‘… dot police dot UK … Uniform Kilo … Yes, UK. Soon as you can, thank you.’ Watt hung up and slumped back. ‘God save us from religious bawbags.’
‘Anytime you’re ready, John.’
He grimaced at Mother. ‘They thought it’d be OK to stop work at five, as it’s a Saturday. Apparently, in their sparkly little world, you only have to comply with a warrant if you’ve got nothing better to do. They’re going back to it now, but it’s going to take hours – nothing’s on computer, it’s all filing cabinets. Be lucky if we hear back by Monday.’
McAdams buried his face in his hands. ‘For God’s sake.’
‘Rosalind?’ Mother wandered over and collected her hurled pen.
‘Every traffic car, community warden, uniform, and special constable is keeping an eye out for Monaghan’s grey Peugeot Bipper. He must’ve parked it somewhere, but so far no one’s spotted it.’
‘Dorothy?’
‘He shouldn’t have called me fat! It’s not my fault I’m in a wheelchair, is it? You try exercising when you’re stuck in one of these things.’
‘Please, Dorothy, we’re all tired. How did you get on?’
‘The council’s sent through a list of all properties currently registered as empty for council tax purposes. It doesn’t include buildings considered uninhabitable.’
‘What about some sort of Monaghan–Jeffries connection?’
‘Still looking.’
‘Callum?’
He pointed at his screen. ‘I’ve been through the planning department’s records and there’s no sign of anyone applying to build a new smokehouse for over forty years. And the last one was converted into, and I quote, “a stylish four-bedroom family home, with off-road parking, outdoor hot tub, and a well-appointed garden” two years ago.’ Callum frowned up at the map of Oldcastle pinned to the wall above the kettle. ‘Look, according to Voodoo’s CCTV search, Monaghan’s grey Peugeot Bipper came from somewhere east of Caven Street, Logansferry, and disappeared some-where north of the Royal Williams Hospital in the Wynd. We could try narrowing our search by getting rid of anything in between?’
Franklin pulled a face. ‘Risky – he might’ve dropped them off en route.’
‘True.’
Mother thumped down into the only vacant chair. ‘Urgh … Ashlee’s going to be dead by the time we get there, isn’t she? Assuming we ever find her.’
The only sounds were the humming computers and someone squeaking past in the corridor outside.
In the end, it was McAdams that broke the silence. ‘We’ll find her. We just have to hope she can hold on till Watt’s religious time-wasters get back to us.’ He hopped down from the desk. ‘In the meantime, we go home. Get some rest. There’s sod-all we can do here till we get that list.’
57
‘Mmsrrry …’ Ashlee’s head rolls back against the metal tank. The chains clank and click. The walls thrummmmmm in the darkness.
Every muscle aches. Not just from being sick all the time, but from … don’t know. Just aches.
‘Mmmy. Mmmmy mmsrrry …’
Her mouth barely moves now, all crusted and covered in scabs. She can taste them on the tip of her dry tongue. Split and bleeding, then scabbing over, then splitting again.
Probably all the salt in the water.
It’s gritty between her fingers, makes a tidemark of pale-grey crystals around the tank, makes the water undrinkable, no matter how thirsty she is.
‘Mmsrrry …’
And she is sorry. Totally, totally sorry.
Sorry she let him in. Sorry she was such a crappy friend. Sorry she was such a crappy daughter. Sorry she was ever born.
But it’ll be over soon.
There was this TV show a couple months ago, all about how stupid people died in the woods and deserts and up mountains and at sea and crap like that. Places no one with even one quarter of a brain would go. The woman with the utterly ugly anorak and frizzy hair was banging on about being adrift in a lifeboat, or something. And how there was all this water, but you couldn’t drink it, or you’d die.
Cos of the salt.
It does something to your insides and you die of thirst even though you’re drinking water. Even if you throw it up again, it screws with your kidneys and you die.
But you’re going to die anyway, aren’t you?
Cos not drinking anything screws your kidneys and you die.
Her throat is like the road outside the house on a hot summer’s day, all dark and sticky, and every horrible breath is like ripping off a sticking plaster.
Maybe dying’s not so bad?
Got to be better than this.
Her head lolls to the side, and there’s Mum. Still slumped with the chain around her neck. Still not moving. Cos zombies aren’t real, are they.
It’s better being dead, isn’t it, Mum?
Yes it is. It’s a relief, to be honest with you. After all the years of struggling and fighting, trying to make ends meet. Trying to make friends. It’s nice just to have a bit of a rest.
That’s good.
You should try it too, Ashlee. You’ll like being dead. Nothing hurts any more.
I will, Mum.
No more lying in that dirty bathwater.
No more.
Maybe you should have a wee drink? That’ll make you die of dehydration quicker, won’t it? Like they said on the programme? After all, what’s the point of hanging on? No one’s going to come and save you.
I know, Mum.
It’s just you and me, alone in this stinky room that reeks of smoke and puke. And I’m probably going to start smelling a bit soon too. Sorry about that.
It’s OK, Mum, you’re dead, you can’t help it.
Thanks, Ashlee. You’re a good girl. And I love you, I always have. Now, why not have a little drink.
So thirsty …
It’s OK, no one’s looking.
Ashlee lets her head fall further and further, until the salty water stings her broken lips. It’s bitter and horrible and wet and sour and fiery and soothing and—
Her stomach clenches and the water sprays out again, frothing from her mouth, burning out of her nose. A hacking cough rattles her back and forth against the metal tub. The chains clink and jitter. The water slops around her in waves.
And finally the coughing fades and she sags, panting in those sticking-plaster breaths in her hot-tarmac throat.
Then, like someone turning on a kettle, whatever’s in the water pops and fizzes through her. Getting louder as it boils. Pushing up into her skull and making the insides float. Up and up. Until all the colours sound the same.
He said she was going to be a god, but then he left and never came back.
She’s not going to be a god, she’s going to be trapped here for all eternity. In the dark. In this filthy metal tub. With this chain around her neck.
I’m sorry, Ashlee. I’m sor
ry, sweetheart.
Why can’t she just die?
— open the coffins —
“Isn’t my kingdom wonderful?” asked the Bonemonger. “All these graves and mausoleums and charnel pits, just waiting for someone to wake up their slumbering guests.”
Justin backed away, until his furry shoulders pressed against the cage. “I won’t do it!” he shouted, defiantly. “I won’t and you can’t make me!”
“But, my dear little Rabbit Boy, if you don’t, your Sister Cat will sleep forever beneath my darkening ground.”
R.M. Travis
Open the Coffins (and Let Them Go Free) (1976)
All them bones in the dark, and he’s proud as can be,
Cos he’ll open the coffins and let them go free,
And you better believe he’s as sharp as a church key,
He’ll cut you to shreds and swallow you whole, see?
Donny ‘$ick Dawg’ McRoberts
‘Little Rabbit Boy (The Bonemonger’s Waltz)’
© Bob’s Speed Trap Records (2015)
58
‘OK, thanks, John.’ Callum hung up and slipped his phone back in his pocket.
Thin morning light seeped through the battleship clouds, making the back garden mud glitter and shine. Would have thought, after all this rain, the smell of smoke would’ve dissipated, but if anything it was stronger than ever, oozing from the burned-out house like fog.
The brambles were gone, but a little village of blue SOC tents had taken their place, arranged almost at random across the garden, each one with ‘PROPERTY OF SPSA SCENES EXAMINATION BRANCH – OLDCASTLE’ stencilled in white on the side. The nearest had, ‘TENT F’ added to the end.
Callum pulled up the flap and ducked inside, his blue Tyvek suit rustling and crinkling.
Inside, a small diesel generator growled away in the corner, hooked up to a handful of high-powered work lights on stands. They glared down on a pit in the middle of the tent, five-foot deep and roughly rectangular. All the soil was piled up to one side, a couple of Smurfs on their knees in the hole, trowelling more into a black bucket.
McAdams stood at the head of it, staring into the depths, the hood of his SOC suit thrown back, arms folded. Face pale and shiny.
‘That was Watt.’ Callum stopped at the opposite end of the trench. ‘The ecclesiastical trust must’ve pulled an all-nighter, because a list of every property they own just arrived in his inbox. All six-hundred-odd of them. They’ve got some marked as unoccupied, but given they were clueless about here …’ A shrug.
A Dark So Deadly Page 44
