Shout and the creep will appear. Keen slithered onto the decking, holding his clipboard like a life vest. ‘Mr McVey. That’s great. I’ve got the car waiting; we’re all set to wheech you over to the main stage.’ He checked his watch. ‘Don’t want to keep your fans waiting …’
McVey turned and patted Callum on the shoulder. ‘It’s been fun. But if you want to do it again, better get a warrant.’ He sauntered off, pausing only to wink at Franklin on the way past. ‘Later, beautiful.’
‘Mr McVey.’ Was she blushing? She was. Unbelievable.
‘Call me Leo.’ He circled back, took her hand and kissed it. Then turned a wink on Callum too. ‘And I never owned a Range Rover. A lot of my circle did, but I was always a Jag man. You got me confused with someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘Please, Mr McVey, we need to get you over to the main stage, so if we could just …?’ Keen pointed at the door.
McVey put one hand against his chest, as if he was about to pledge allegiance to something, or stifling a burp. ‘“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.”’ He performed a little bow, then followed Keen out the door and away.
Franklin took a deep breath. Flexed her kissed hand like the fingers were brand new. ‘I’m not sure how I feel about that.’
‘Just because he’s got an alibi for dumping my mother’s head in Holburn Forest, doesn’t mean he didn’t abduct them twenty-six years ago.’
‘I mean, eighteen-year-old me wants to never wash this hand again. Feminist grown-up police-officer me wants to rinse it in boiling bleach.’
‘And what was that bit at the end supposed to mean?’
‘Maybe Pike was lying all this time? He knew he was going to prison anyway, so he’s just causing as much trouble as possible. Maybe he didn’t see anything at all?’
‘He said “the Bonemonger”, so it’s from Open the Coffins. But …’ Callum chewed on the inside of his cheek. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Still don’t know what to do about my hand.’
‘Wash it. Definitely wash it.’ Callum pushed through the door and back into the yurt.
McVey was gone, but most of his acolytes were still there – probably waiting their turn in the car to the main stage.
And right there, in the middle, was Donald Newman, AKA: Donny McRoberts, holding court. ‘Oh yeah, me and Leo: we go back years, innit? See when I was growing up in a home? He visited me, like every week.’ Preening himself. ‘That’s how come I got him to duet on my very first album. Man’s a star, right? Been like a dad to me.’
Leo McVey might have waltzed right out of here smiling, but this sack of vomit wouldn’t.
Callum pulled out his warrant card again. ‘Donald Newman.’
Newman’s face pulled itself to one side, like he was about to spit bile. ‘I don’t know you, pig, but you better not call me that again. The name’s Sick Dawg, yeah? Show some reeeeeee-spect.’
His sidekick folded his thick fat arms. ‘Word.’
‘You visited a Miss Irene Brown two nights ago, didn’t you, Donald? In the black Mercedes your record company pays for.’
‘Free country, innit?’
‘You’re a big man, surrounded by your mates. Think they’d still be your mates if they knew you beat up your ex on Friday night?’
Newman sneered. ‘You can blow your lies out your arsehole, Piggy. Ain’t nobody here buyin’ what you sellin’.’
‘You broke your daughter’s arm three years ago, didn’t you? She was four years old. What was that, a flying visit to abuse her between gigs?’
The sneer became a snarl and Newman lunged forwards, chest out, shoulders back. ‘You wanna piece of this action? / Man I’m-a put you in traction! / Get my satisfaction from a violent reaction! / My fist and yo face gonna have interaction, / I’m-a beat you down dead, you don’t swear a retraction!’
His sidekick stepped up beside him. ‘Word.’
Franklin looked the guy up and down: the tracksuit, the heavy gold jewellery, the backwards baseball cap, the sunglasses. ‘Nice. Play up to the thick black gang-banger stereotype, why don’t you?’
That got her a laugh that set most of him wobbling. ‘Hey, bitch, don’t you be judging me, / Big Bobby B’s got a master’s degree, / I came top of ma class at M.I.T., / And they taught me for free, on a scholarship, see?’
Newman gave him a fist bump. ‘Word.’ He jerked his head towards the door. ‘Better scram, pig, before I snap you in two.’ Then pumped his chest at Franklin. ‘Bitch, you can stay. I’m-a make an exception for your fine ass. Show you what a real man can do to it.’ He took a handful of her backside, just to make sure she understood.
Ooh … Not a good idea.
Callum cleared his throat. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t—’
One second, Newman was standing there, posing, the next he was facedown on the Persian rugs, with his groping hand twisted up behind his back. ‘AAAAAAARGH!’
Franklin leaned in and bared her teeth. ‘Donald Newman, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Justice Scotland Act because I believe you’ve committed a crime punishable by imprisonment: namely making death threats to one police officer and the sexual assault of another officer.’
‘GETOFFMEGETOFFMEGETOFFME!’
‘You do not have to say anything, but if you do not mention something you later rely on in court it may harm your defence.’
His sidekick took a step forwards, but Callum got in the way. ‘I don’t think we got your full name, sir.’
Big Bobby B licked his lips. ‘I’m cool.’
‘BOBBY, HELP ME! GET THIS BITCH OFF ME!’
‘You were there on Friday night, weren’t you? When Mr Newman allegedly assaulted Miss Irene Brown. Witnesses saw you enter the premises.’
‘Ah … Yeah. About that. I didn’t have nothin’ to do with beatin’ on no woman.’
‘BOBBY!’
‘Are you sure?’
He nodded, setting off a Mexican wave of fat. ‘Totally! That was all Donny. I was like—’
‘YOU DIRTY TWO-FACED FAT BASTARD! YOU SUPPOSED TO BE MY NIGGA!’
‘Hey, suck my balls, Holmes.’ He turned and spread his hands. ‘I was like, “Man you gotta stop hittin’ that poor girl!” and he was like, “No way, this bitch gotta learn her some respect.”’
The circle of acolytes backed off a couple of paces. Staring down at Newman as if he was a stain someone had trodden into the carpet.
‘BOBBY!’
‘Did he now? And what happened to the teddy bear he took from Miss Brown?’
‘BOBBY, DON’T YOU DARE!’
‘He got his stash hidden inside that poor girl’s bear right now. Inna dressing room.’
‘I’M-A KILL YOU, BOBBY! YOU HEAR ME? YOU DEAD, BITCH!’
Franklin twisted his arm a little further till the screaming faded to a tiny high-pitched whimper. She produced her handcuffs. ‘Threats to kill, sexual assault, actual bodily harm, theft, and possession of a controlled substance. Not your day, is it, Donald?’
The yurt door swung open and Keen oiled his way in. ‘Everyone, can I have act-one bands together, please? The car’s …’ His mouth fell open as he stared at Franklin and Newman. ‘What … No … This …’
Callum patted him on the back. ‘Looks like you’ll have to get someone to fill in for Sick Dawg. He has to go take his medicine.’
65
Open the Coffins belted out of the festival’s PA system – Leo McVey growling out the opening song about how boring life was in the village, and how sweet the apples growing over the well looked.
‘I can’t believe you said that.’ Franklin thumped the car door closed and curled her lip across the roof at Callum. ‘“Sick Dawg has to go take his medicine.” Genuinely?’
‘Arya, it’s just not fair; We’re starving and nobod
y cares …’
‘Oh come on, that was a classic action-film one-liner.’
‘It was cheesy rubbish.’
‘The bones protrude beneath our skin, / Oh, Arya, it’s sickening …’
‘Exactly.’ He slipped into the passenger seat, turned and smiled. ‘So, Donald. Any other offences you’d like us to take into consideration?’ He held up the evidence bag with Mr Lumpylump in it. The threadbare bear looked a lot fatter than it had back at Irene Brown’s house. Clearly the amphetamines-and-cocaine diet wasn’t working. ‘Or do you expect us to believe that this is it?’
‘Above the well, so plump and sweet, the apples grow, / And it’s not fair that we’re both starving, here below …’
A scowl from the backseat. Newman was hunched forward against his seatbelt, both hands cuffed behind him.
‘Nothing to say for yourself?’
‘You recognise me, Piggy? You know who I am?’
‘Ooh, and there it is: “Don’t you know who I am.”’ Callum grinned. ‘Trust me, Donald, if you have to ask that question, you’re not going to like the answer.’
‘Kiss my ass, Piggy.’ He sat back. ‘And I ain’t sayin’ another goddamn word till I get me my lawyer.’
‘Probably just as well. You’d only say something stupid and make it worse for yourself.’
‘The witch awakes inside the well, she’s getting thinner, / She hears the children up above and dreams of dinner …’
Franklin started the car, easing them out of the ‘FESTIVAL STAFF AND PERFORMERS ONLY!’ car park.
‘You don’t know me, Piggy. You don’t get to judge me.’
‘No, but we do get to arrest you, and that’s almost as much fun.’ He tapped Franklin on the shoulder. ‘Take a left here: cut through Blackwall Hill, miss out most of the roadworks.’
‘Hey, you think it’s easy? All them people worshippin’ you, and kissin’ yo ass, and you gotta get up there and, like, perform, man. Don’t matter how crap you feel, you gotta make that goddamn stage come alive.’
‘You broke a little girl’s arm.’
‘I grew up in a care home, Piggy. I got pain you ain’t even heard of.’
The junction took them out on a road lined with shops.
‘She was four years old.’
‘I got beat every day I was growin’ up, that leaves scars on yo soul, yeah? You wanna see some emotional scars?’ He shoogled in his seat, struggling against the seatbelt. Then used his cuffed hands to raise the hem of his leather jacket. A patch of buckled skin, veined through with pale shiny bits, sat in the small of his back, about the size of a dinner plate. ‘Bitch ran the place didn’t like the way I washed the dishes, so she throws a pot of boiling tatties at me. I was seven.’
‘Oh you grew up in care. Boo-hoo. We all grew up in care.’
Franklin shook her head. ‘I didn’t. My mum was a doctor and my dad worked for BBC Scotland.’
‘All right for some.’
‘Yo: bitch.’ Newman was round the right way again. ‘You dislocated my shoulder. Like it rough, do you? Like a bit of angry between your legs? That make you nice and moist?’
She glanced at him in the rear-view mirror, voice like a razorblade. ‘Do you want me to stop the car? Because I will.’
Donald Newman licked his lips. Then shrank back in his seat. ‘Nah, I’m good.’
‘Yeah, I thought not.’
‘Officer Franklin!’ A grin spread across Callum’s face. ‘Stop flirting with the prisoner. You’re—’ His phone burst into song in his pocket and he pulled it out. ‘Hello?’
‘Callum.’ Mother. Silence.
OK …
At the end of the street, Franklin took the main road West. Montgomery Park shrank and disappeared behind them, until only the huge inflatable spider crawled above the rooftops.
‘Boss? Are you still there?’
‘I need to ask where you were Friday night between nine p.m. and three a.m.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Callum, please. Just answer the question.’
‘Hold on.’ He dug out his notebook and flicked through it to the right day. ‘Nine-ish we were doing door-to-doors on Bellfield Road – we’d just searched Tod Monaghan’s flat and found the mummified body? Then we went back to the station and did paperwork. Then we went to the Bart for a celebratory drink. Then I got a call from an informant and arrested Gareth Pike in Kingsmeath.’
‘What time?’
‘Stopped interviewing him about half eleven? Then I went round to the flat and collected my stuff. Then quarter past midnight I got a call and went to a domestic on Manson Avenue. Franklin and I have just made an arrest on that one, it—’
‘And was DCI Reece Powel at your flat when you collected your belongings?’
Callum frowned out of the window. Blackwall Hill sloped down towards the river in a patchwork of houses and small parks. All of it grey and miserable in the rain. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘Was Reece there?’
‘Well, yes, of course he was. Don’t think they’d trust me there on my own, do you? I might have taken a crap on the carpet and spray-painted a few home truths on the walls. Now, what the hell is going on?’
‘Callum, DCI Powel was found in Camburn Woods an hour ago. Someone tried to kill him; he’s in surgery now.’
Oh.
The breath curdled in Callum’s lungs. ‘And you think, what, that I did it?’
‘I need you to come back to headquarters, Constable MacGregor. I need you to come back right now.’
Chief Inspector Gilmore sat back in his seat and peered over the top of his evil-scientist glasses. ‘I see. Yes.’
Sitting in the other chair, Mother just shook her head.
Some idiot had turned the interview room radiators up full, making sweat prickle between Callum’s shoulder blades. He glanced up at the camera’s dead black eye. Then down again. ‘Of course it wasn’t me! Why would I do something like …’ he pointed at the photograph sitting on the scarred Formica tabletop, ‘that.’
DCI Powel lay sprawled on his back, in some undergrowth. Bushes behind him, the roots of a large tree to his left. His face was a mess of scarlet and purple: lumpen, swollen, and misshapen. More bruises on his arms, hands, and wrists where they poked out of his T-shirt. The same Rolling Stones one he’d been wearing that night in the flat, only now the graphic was smeared with blood. His never-been-worn-white trainers, filthy and scuffed.
Gilmore took off his glasses, huffed on them, then polished them with a hanky. ‘Do you need me to list the reasons, Callum?’
Mother put another photo on the table, next to the first. A head-and-shoulders portrait of Powel, lying on a hospital trolley. Up close, the damage was even worse. It looked as if someone had driven over his head. Repeatedly.
‘It wasn’t me!’
‘Your girlfriend was cheating on you with Reece Powel, he got her pregnant, you were paying for everything because you thought the child was yours. He told you about the affair the same day you learned that your mother had been murdered. You assaulted him that night and broke your hand …’ Gilmore’s eyes drifted down to the filthy fibreglass cast on Callum’s right hand. ‘Your DNA was found on his T-shirt.’
‘Of course it was! He was staying in my flat. Sleeping in my bed. Sitting on my couch. Of course he’s covered in my DNA!’
Gilmore popped his glasses back on again. ‘Then there’s the question of your … crime-scene indiscretion. I hear rumours that you now claim it wasn’t you who messed up the evidence, it was Elaine. You took the blame so she wouldn’t be blamed and fired. You destroyed your career to protect her maternity pay, so you could afford a baby that wasn’t even yours.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps you can see why you come top of our list?’
Callum gritted his teeth. ‘It wasn’t me.’
‘He was found an hour ago, by two young girls out playing in the woods. Can you imagine how horrible that must hav
e been for them? And even worse for DCI Powel – the SEB think he’d been lying there for at least a day and a half. Outside. In the rain.’
‘I didn’t do it. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I wanted to do it. I fantasised about doing it, but I – didn’t – do – it.’
Mother folded her arms. ‘I was just getting to like you as well.’
‘How many times do I have to say this?’
Gilmore leaned forwards. ‘You were there, at the flat, the night DCI Powel was attacked. You had very good reason to attack him. You’d already attacked him the night before.’
‘IT WASN’T ME!’ Callum wiped a hand across his sticky forehead. ‘I’m not the only one who …’ A frown. ‘Dugdale! Ainsley Dugdale – it must’ve been him.’
‘Ainsley Dugdale?’
Mother leaned in. ‘Big, bald, bad-tempered. Runs loan-sharking and protection rackets for Big Johnny Simpson.’
‘He’d threatened Powel. I know, because Powel came round to warn us about it on …’ Warmth flushed Callum’s face. ‘Powel was already in the flat when I got home from work, Wednesday evening, wasn’t he? He’d been with her. Pretended he’d only dropped by with a warning: Dugdale was shooting his mouth off about getting revenge on the pair of us.’
Gilmore made a note. ‘On you and Elaine.’
‘No. On me and Powel.’ Idiot. ‘Ask Elaine. Ask her, she’ll tell you. Dugdale threatened Powel. That’s who attacked him, not me.’
Mother stared at him. ‘Elaine returned from Dundee at six o’clock today. She’d been staying with her parents for a couple of days, hadn’t she? Keeping out of the way so you could collect your things. Wanting to avoid another fight.’
‘I wasn’t the one having an affair, OK?’
‘She let herself into the flat and called nine-nine-nine to report that something horrible must have happened. Furniture overturned. Ornaments smashed. Blood on the floor. And DCI Powel was missing.’
‘Then it must’ve been Dugdale!’
‘She says you’ve been acting strange for weeks. You’re prone to violent outbursts. She’s frightened for her safety.’
A Dark So Deadly Page 51
