A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Why do I even bother?’

  ‘You know what she’s like: incompetent and chippy.’

  ‘I’m dying of bloody cancer, here. I should be lying on a white sandy beach, drinking margaritas, not standing in a manky wrecked house in the middle of nowhere SHOUTING AT YOU!’

  John retreats a couple of steps, pulling on his best righteous-indignation face. ‘I was only trying to find Ashlee Gossard before something happened to her.’

  McAdams’ shoulders droop and he runs a hand across his wrinkled eyes. ‘You want to know how I found you? You left the USB stick with your spreadsheet on it in the incident-room computer. I went digging.’

  ‘Dotty threw me out the car! It’s not my fault she’s hormonal and mental.’

  ‘I always knew you were a devious wee shite, Watt. And you’re not the only one who understands Bayesian statistics: I saw what you did to the spreadsheet.’ He pulls out a sheet of paper. ‘Fiddling the ordering so all the highest-probability properties were last to be printed out. So you could take them for yourself.’

  John sticks his chest out. ‘I’m trying to save a little girl’s life here.’

  ‘YOU COULDN’T GIVE A TOSS ABOUT ASHLEE GOSSARD!’ A deep breath and McAdams presses a hand against his stomach. ‘God damn it, Watt. If you wanted to save her you would have prioritised those addresses and we’d have sent a team to each one first. You don’t care if she lives or dies, you just care if you can grab all the credit and glory for yourself.’

  The only sound is the rain pattering in the long grass, like a thousand little feet. Running away.

  McAdams sighs. ‘I’m not surprised. I wish I was, but I’m not. Disappointed, but not surprised.’

  Heat rushes up John’s face. He looks down at the faded lino at his feet. The worst thing isn’t being caught, the worst thing is that McAdams is right. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

  ‘Watt, this isn’t Hollywood, or some cheesy detective novel, you can’t just go running around on your own expecting to solve the case. You’ve got to be a team player. You’ve got to work with your team, not piss them off so much they ditch you and drive off on their own.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘Dorothy’s been worried sick about you.’

  ‘Has she, Sarge?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Another huge sigh. ‘John, do you actually want to be a police officer? I mean honestly, genuinely want to do the job? Cos, believe me, you get one lousy brief stint on this earth and if you’re not totally committed to being a cop then you need to find something else. Something you’re passionate about. Something you care enough about to do well. Understand?’

  It’s like someone’s tied a great big heavy weight around his bowels, dragging him down on the inside. John nods. Can barely squeeze the words out: ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

  ‘So: do you want to be a cop?’

  ‘Ever since I was a little boy.’

  A tut and a groan. Then a long slow exhale. ‘OK. I’m not going to tell Mother about this. Or anyone else. But you have to promise me you’ll try harder.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘We’ll divvy up the most likely addresses and get them out to the other teams. Maybe we can find Ashlee before she … Well, we can only do our best.’ He spreads his printout on the wobbly kitchen table. ‘Which ones are most statistically significant?’

  John points them out, ranking them in order – most to least – and McAdams nods, marking them up.

  ‘Good. If anyone asks, you called me and told me these were our best chance. Everything else never happened.’ He pulls his phone out and turns for the door. Then stops. ‘Have you finished in here?’

  ‘Only just started.’

  ‘OK. Well give it a proper search before you leave. She’s got to be out there somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  The smile looks pained, but at least it’s there. ‘Watt, you’re a bright kid. You were honest enough to turn your old team in for being corrupt – that takes guts. You’ve got the makings of a good copper in you. Don’t let the petty stuff get in the way.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘Good boy.’ McAdams sticks his hands in his pockets. ‘And please, in the name of all that’s holy, sign out at the end of your shift.’ Then he limps away down the corridor and out the front door, disappearing into the rain.

  John sinks back against the work surface and groans.

  It’s like every report card he’s ever had: Must try harder.

  Outside, the dark rumbling roar of a four-by-four sounds, then fades away.

  Come on: search next door. Then the detached cottage on the end. Then the bothy and barn. Then onto the next address on the list.

  After all, he can always claim credit for putting the list together in the first place.

  That’s got to be worth something. Right?

  And with any luck, even if he isn’t the one who actually finds her, someone will get to Ashlee Gossard before it’s too late.

  60

  ‘Hold on a minute …’ Callum nipped down the corridor and into the stairwell. The flats weren’t bad, a clean six-storey block in a development of three. Landscaped gardens and a row of private garages. There was even a sculpture out front, though God knew what it was meant to be a sculpture of. Looked like a jellyfish having sex with an Oxo Cube. ‘Hello?’

  McAdams sounded even more tired than usual, the noise of an engine droning away in the background. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Thompson Court. It’s all flats, so no chance anyone’s smoking bodies in—’

  ‘That’s great. Listen, I’ve had a call from Watt. He’s refined the spreadsheet and come up with eight high-probability targets for us to hit.’

  Yeah, right. ‘And he’s just done this now, has he?’

  Franklin appeared from the door of number 5, turned and said something to the householder.

  ‘Don’t be so cynical. The important thing is we’ve got a real chance of saving Ashlee Gossard.’

  ‘Oh, no: I get it. He fiddled the list, didn’t he? Kept all the likely properties to himself.’

  Silence from the other end.

  The flat door clunked shut and Franklin headed down the corridor towards him.

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘It’s not as if you’ve never done anything wrong, is it, Constable?’

  Franklin stopped in front of him, both eyebrows up.

  Callum pointed at the phone. ‘It’s McAdams. I’ll be down in a sec.’ Then soon as she was out of sight he turned his back on the stairs. ‘How many times? I – never – took – a – bribe! Is that clear enough for you?’

  A sigh. ‘I know.’

  ‘Do I have to tattoo it in six-inch letters on my forehead for you to … Wait, what?’

  ‘Cecelia told me weeks ago. Your girlfriend messed up the crime scene, and you took the blame so she’d still get maternity pay.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘Can we get back to the topic at hand? I’m on my way to a disused warehouse in Cowskillin now, I need every team en route to the other seven properties A.S.A.B.F.P. Emphasis on the B.F.’

  ‘Then why the hell have you been treating me like something you trod in?’

  ‘Because I like screwing with you, Constable MacGregor. You’re the gift that never quits.’

  Down below, the flat’s communal front door clunked shut and Franklin appeared through the window, hurrying along the path towards their cholera-coloured Mondeo.

  ‘You’re an arsehole, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m a dying man, Callum, I take my fun where I can find it. Now you and Rosalind get your pert little backsides over to number six Creel Lane. It’s Kettle Docks, so you can’t be more than two minutes away. And try to keep the sexual tension to a bare minimum for the next few pages, it distracts the readers.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’ Callum thumped down the stairs, scowling out the stairwell window at t
he rain hammering down on the drab grey houses. ‘Did you not maybe just think that things were hard enough with everyone else treating me like crap? Didn’t need you piling in.’

  ‘If it makes you feel any better: I’m sorry.’ This time the sigh was long and rattling. ‘I shall add that to my pile of regrets.’

  He pushed the door open and stood beneath the portico, just out of the rain’s reach. Grudging every word: ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘There’s so many things I’ll never get to do, Callum. I’ll never sing in a rock band. I’ll never climb Mount Kilimanjaro. I’ll never win the Booker Prize. Hell, I’ll probably never even be published in my own lifetime …’

  Franklin was staring out of the driver’s window at him, pointing at her watch.

  ‘I spent so much time in the procurement of material things, that I forgot to live. Grab every opportunity you get, Callum. You put them off, thinking they’ll always come round again, but they don’t. One brief spin and we’re gone.’

  Now that was cheery.

  ‘Is this us bonding now?’

  ‘Maybe.’ A small laugh. ‘Yes, well, now that we’re besties, you can tell me what the hell I’m going to do with Watt. He means well. Sometimes. When he’s not being a gargantuan bell-end.’

  ‘You give him a good bollocking?’

  ‘Thought he was going to cry at one point: “I’m not surprised, just disappointed.”’

  ‘Got to love the classics.’

  Franklin leaned on the horn and a loud Breeeeeeeeeeep blared out through the rain.

  ‘Do me a favour: keep an eye on him, Callum. He’s his own worst enemy, but it’s not for want of trying. There’s a good cop in there somewhere. Help him dig it out.’

  Callum licked his lips. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got the other teams to phone. You and Rosalind hightail it over to Creel Lane. Do me and Mother proud.’ And he was gone.

  Yeah … no way that didn’t sound like a last will and testament.

  Collar up, Callum jogged for the car and slid into the passenger seat. Ran his good hand through his hair and flicked the water off into the footwell. ‘That was McAdams. He says Watt has, and I quote, “refined the list”.’

  Franklin groaned and rolled her eyes. ‘He rigged it, didn’t he? So he’d be the one who found Ashlee.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. He’s done the right thing now.’ Callum hauled on his seatbelt. ‘And you and I have got a new address to search. Kettle Docks, and this time let’s have a little mood music to help us on our way.’ He reached out and poked the 999 button on the dashboard, setting the Mondeo’s siren wailing and its lights flickering.

  She grinned at him. ‘About sodding time.’

  Creel Lane: narrow and cobbled, lined on both sides with ancient, thick-walled buildings. Three and four storeys tall. The windows were small, the walls coated in harling and painted various shades of crumbling beige. The road curled away to the right, following the line of the river. One set of buildings facing the water, the other crammed in between the road and a steep hillside, with another set of houses above that.

  All very quaint and picturesque in the sunshine. But in the rain? Claustrophobic and grim.

  A couple were cloaked in scaffolding, probably on their way to becoming extremely expensive flats.

  Number 6 wasn’t. It was on the inland side of the road, a flat-fronted building with an archway in the middle – big enough for a Transit van – sealed with a heavy wooden gate that went all the way up. All the windows boarded up. An official-looking notice scowled out from the wall, ‘WARNING! PROPERTY IS UNSTABLE AND DANGEROUS!’ in big unfriendly letters.

  Franklin killed the siren and parked right outside. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Callum hopped out and pulled on his high-viz jacket – the one with ‘POLICE’ on the back. Hurried around to the gate as Franklin joined him. He pointed at a big brass-coloured lump of metal securing both sides of the gate together. ‘That looks like a brand-new padlock to me.’

  She snapped on a pair of gloves and ran a finger along the hasp. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a crowbar?’

  He snapped on his own gloves. ‘Kick it in?’

  ‘Kick it in.’ She braced herself. ‘In three, two, one, go!’

  A booming thump rattled out into the rain. But the door didn’t budge.

  ‘Right, wait here.’ Franklin turned and marched across the road to the nearest scaffolding-clad building. She was back a couple of minutes later clutching a claw hammer. ‘Might want to stand back.’

  BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. The metal head battered down on the padlock, achieving exactly sod-all. Then she flipped the hammer round and dug the claws in behind the hasp and yanked it down. Wood splintered. Metal groaned.

  ‘Come on, you wee bugger!’ Putting her weight into it.

  And they were in.

  The detached cottage is empty. Well, except for the dust. And the mouse droppings. And the massive wasp byke in the kitchen. Which only leaves the bothy and the barn.

  John picks up the brolly and does his elbows-out march through the long grass and nettles in the back garden, clambers over the drystane dyke at the bottom, and brushes himself down on the track.

  A bent piece of thin metal pipe is hooked through a hasp on the bothy door, keeping it shut. The wood’s pale-blue paint is crackled and flaky. The guttering’s missing. And this is a sodding waste of time.

  He pulls out the pipe and pushes into the bothy.

  Dark in here. And the floorboards look about as trustworthy as an angry toddler.

  John creeps inside, testing the way before committing each foot.

  It’ll be just his luck if the floor completely—

  ‘AAAAARGH!’

  Sodding hell!

  He drags his phone out and the music gets louder. Flips it open and presses the button. Takes a deep breath. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Watt? It’s DS Hodgkin.’

  Maybe it’d be better if the floor did collapse and swallow him. ‘Sarge.’

  ‘I got a call from DS McAdams. He says you came up with a new priority order for the houses.’

  ‘Yeah, this isn’t …’ He rubs a hand across his forehead. McAdams was right: Don’t let the petty stuff get in the way. ‘Yes. I’m sorry about earlier.’

  See, that didn’t hurt, did it?

  ‘Do you, you know, want to meet up and be a team again?’

  John puffs out a breath. You’ve got to work with your team, not piss them off so much they ditch you and drive off on their own. No matter how much of a pain in the ring they are. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Course I am. Not as if I can do a lot of searching on my own, is it? Not in a wheelchair.’

  ‘Cool. Where are you?’

  ‘Shortstaine Business Park. The chandler’s yard.’

  ‘Give me …’ Five minutes to finish searching, maybe ten minutes to get there if the traffic isn’t too bad. ‘Call it twenty minutes tops.’

  ‘We’ll find Ashlee. You and me: heroes.’

  ‘I know. Be there soon as I can.’ He hangs up. Lets his chin fall against his chest. ‘Pfff …’

  The first step is always the worst, though, isn’t it? That horrible feeling the ground’s not going to be there when your foot goes down and you’re just going to fall and fall and fall …

  ‘Here.’ Callum handed Franklin a torch, and clicked on his own.

  Daylight barely made it over the threshold, swallowed by gloom and shadows.

  She swept the cold white beam of her torch across the floor. More cobbles, uneven and buckled, giving way to cracked paving slabs.

  Callum did the same for the walls and roof: bare stones and crumbling mortar. A dangling wire with a broken lightbulb hanging from the end.

  A single door off to one side.

  She pointed at it, then clenched her fist – pumping it once, then flattening her hand out. Nodded at him for confirmation. />
  ‘You look like an idiot, you know that, don’t you?’ Callum marched over and tried the handle. The door was stiff, but a bit of shoulder made it groan open.

  Her voice was a hissing whisper, ‘We have no idea what’s in there.’

  ‘We know Tod Monaghan’s dead. And we know the gate was padlocked from the outside, with no way to open it from in here.’ Callum stepped through the door. ‘So unless you’re worried about ghosties and ghoulies, maybe we could get on with it?’

  The torch beam picked out an empty room with decaying plaster walls, the lathe exposed like ribs on a carcass. Two doors and a staircase.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with taking precautions.’

  ‘Don’t drag me into your SWAT team fantasies.’ He put a foot on the stair. The wood creaked. ‘What do you think, safe?’

  ‘We should sweep the ground floor first. Work up level by level.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Door number one: a kitchen, complete with rusty range cooker and units buried beneath a duvet of grey dust. Door number two: another empty room with skeletal walls. Another door in the far corner.

  Franklin held up a fist again. ‘Padlock.’

  It glinted in the torchlight.

  She squared her shoulders, took a step back, then rammed her boot into the wood beneath the hasp. BOOM – but this time the door sprang open in a flurry of crackling splinters. Dust turned their torch beams into solid things.

  A stairway led down into the darkness.

  Franklin flattened herself against the wall. ‘You ready?’

  ‘Seriously, stop it.’ Callum squeezed past and hurried down the stairs and onto a bare earth floor. A basement. Bare stone walls. Little archways set into them, lined with brick, the colour of blood in the torchlight.

  Franklin crept down after him. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nope. Just an empty …’ Something glittered in one of the alcoves.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shhh …’ He edged across the dirt floor, playing the torch across the brick.

  It was a chain, hanging from a metal ring screwed into the alcove wall at chest height. There was another one in the next alcove, and one in the alcove after that. Four in total, all hanging empty, all fixed to the wall.

  Callum cleared his throat. ‘Maybe we should check upstairs. Now.’