A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘DAD!’

  Nothing.

  ‘I swear to God, one of these days I’m going to get the shotgun out and blow your bloody head off. And then I’ll shoot myself. Who’ll look after your literary legacy then?’

  He digs and rummages.

  ‘I’m not your skivvy, Dad, I’m your daughter.’

  Then he straightens up. Closes the chest freezer. Places something on the lid.

  ‘LISTEN TO ME!’

  He blinks at her. ‘Sophie?’ Then frowns.

  ‘No: Emma. EMMA! MY NAME IS EMMA!’

  ‘She was never as beautiful as you, Sophie.’ A grin. ‘But oh, how she screamed.’

  Emma takes a step back. ‘OK …’

  ‘I can’t find my hat.’ He turns and walks back into the house, leaving her to clean up after him. Yet again.

  ‘God’s sake.’ She gathers up the nearest frozen chunks. Marches over to the freezer and stops. Stares at what he’s dumped on top of it as her mouth goes dry as a library shelf. ‘Dad?’

  Oh Jesus … It isn’t, is it? It can’t be.

  But it is.

  The Range Rover growls into the forest car park, headlights raking the surrounding trees, turning their bark monochrome. Emma parks as far away from the entrance as possible. Sits there, trembling.

  Her breath hammers in her lungs, sharp and shallow, blood thundering in her ears.

  She licks her lips and glances into the footwell.

  The carrier bag is rippled with a layer of white frost, just visible in the dashboard lights.

  Get rid of it. Get rid of it. Get rid of it!

  She stumbles out into the cold night air and scrambles around to the passenger side. Grabs the carrier bag like an unexploded grenade.

  The plastic burns her skin, right the way down to the bone.

  Get rid of it!

  So she hurls it, as far and as hard as she can.

  It disappears into the gloom … then cracks and thumps mark its progress down through a tree or a bush, finishing with a rattle and a thud.

  Oh God.

  She shuffles backwards, till the car’s warm bonnet stops her going any further.

  A head. A human head.

  There was a human head in the freezer, with the leftovers and never-weres.

  Oh God.

  Emma runs a hand over her face.

  Calm down. Calm down and breathe.

  It’s gone now. That’s the important thing.

  She scrambles back into the car, turns around and drives the hell out of there.

  The forest ripples past the Range Rover’s windows, caught for a moment in the headlights before vanishing forever.

  It’s gone. And there’s nothing more to …

  Her eyes widen and she slams on the brakes. Swears. And swears. And swears.

  What if it’s not the only thing in the freezers? What if there’s other bits? What if the rest of the woman is in there?

  Oh God.

  Don’t panic. It’ll be OK.

  Oh dear God.

  Just … Just go back to the house and look.

  And if there’s more bits?

  Then they go in … bin-bags! Take them to the tip. NOT ALL AT ONCE! Do it gradually. A couple of bags at a time. To different dumps.

  No one ever has to know about this.

  Emma stares at herself in the rear-view mirror.

  Because if they find out …

  ‘Emma? I asked if you recognised her.’

  ‘I … don’t remember.’

  Mr Slick reached out and turned the photograph face down, then pushed it back across the table. A public-school voice with a superior drawl. ‘I believe my client has made her feelings quite clear on this, Detective Inspector Malcolmson. Let’s move on, while we’re all young, there’s a good girl.’

  No one moved.

  Franklin bared her teeth. ‘Sexist tosser!’

  ‘He did it on purpose to rattle her.’

  It didn’t seem to work, because Mother just let out a big long sigh. ‘Emma, Emma, Emma. I don’t believe you killed all those people. Oh, you killed Bob Shannon and your father, and you tried to kill DC MacGregor, but the rest of them? No.’

  ‘I killed them all.’

  ‘You see, I think your father killed them. I think he’s been killing people for a long, long time, and when you found out about it, you did everything you could to protect his legacy. You think, if you take the blame, no one has to find out he wasn’t the man they idolised.’

  ‘I’m not protecting anyone.’

  ‘How many people did he kill, Emma?’

  ‘He didn’t kill anyone! Why won’t you listen to me?’

  ‘Was it three? Four? Seven? A dozen?’

  ‘NO ONE EVER LISTENS!’ She battered her fists down on the tabletop. ‘I did it. Not him: me.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Malcolmson: my client has cooperated with your enquiry and given you a full confession. Now – move – on.’

  Mother tilted her head to one side. ‘You loved your father, didn’t you, Emma?’

  ‘Of course I do. My father is … My father was a saint. He had nothing to do with any of those … remains.’ She sat up straight. ‘I’m the only murderer in our family. Me. Myself. I. Singular and accountable. I did it, because I’m sick and I need help.’

  Silence.

  Then Callum leaned forwards and clicked the button beneath the nearest microphone. ‘Ask her about Leo McVey. Him and her dad used to get off their faces on drugs and wreck things: hotel rooms, marriages, anything they could get their hands on.’

  Mother flinched a little, then put a finger to her ear. Maybe she’d forgotten she’d put the earpiece in? ‘Tell me about Leo McVey.’

  Emma’s mouth snapped shut.

  ‘He and your father were very close, weren’t they?’

  ‘I don’t …’ She glanced at her solicitor. Then back at Mother. ‘No comment.’

  ‘The drinks, the drugs, the bad behaviour?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Callum hit the button again. ‘Gareth Pike saw him attacking my parents. He never said McVey was alone in the car. McVey’s always had Jaguars, but I’ll bet you a hundred quid, R.M. Travis is a Range Rover man.’

  Mother spread her hands on the tabletop. ‘Your father’s got a green Range Rover in the garage, doesn’t he? You shot a dirty big hole in it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He always drove Range Rovers, didn’t he?’

  ‘He liked to buy British. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Oh nothing, nothing.’ She leaned in, lowering her voice to a pantomime whisper, ‘Only we’ve got a witness who saw Leo McVey attack and abduct a family, twenty-six years ago: mother, father, and little boy. He bundled them into a white Range Rover. Only he’s never owned one in his life.’

  Emma fidgeted with the sleeve of her oversuit.

  ‘Now, wouldn’t it be funny if I got on to the DVLA and asked them to search for all the vehicles registered to your father, and up popped a white Range Rover from exactly that time?’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Remember the severed head in that photo? It belonged to the woman McVey abducted with your father’s car. It’s been frozen all this time. That’s funny too, isn’t it?’

  ‘No comment.’ But she didn’t sound quite so sure this time.

  ‘And, of course, our witness said Leo McVey wasn’t the only one in the car. He had someone else with him. That would be your father, wouldn’t it?’

  Emma blinked. ‘It was—’

  ‘Actually,’ Mr Slick put up a hand, ‘I think this is a perfect place for a pause. My client and I need to confer.’

  Mother shrugged. ‘Call it, Andy.’

  ‘Interview suspended at twenty-one minutes past midnight.’ He stood. ‘We’ll be outside when you’re ready to talk.’

  And the screen went blank.

  Franklin groaned. ‘Just a
s they were getting somewhere.’

  ‘I’m genuinely sorry, you know.’ Callum swivelled his seat round to face her. ‘If I could take it back, I would.’

  ‘Whatever idiot thought it was a good idea to let slimebags have a lawyer present during questioning, needs a good hard kick in the balls.’

  ‘I should never have tried to kiss you.’

  ‘“No comment” this and “I don’t remember” that.’

  ‘I’m serious. Can we just go back to how it was before?’

  Franklin rolled her eyes. Took a deep breath. ‘All right, all right. Just … stop apologising. It’s like watching a puppy grovel for scraps.’

  ‘You’re probably a crap kisser anyway.’

  She scowled. ‘I happen to be a great kisser, thank you very much.’

  ‘I promise I’ll never try to find out if that’s true.’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe a pizza or something? There’s a takeaway on Harvest Lane that’s open till three. They’ll deliver.’

  Franklin dug back into her packet of Wotsits. ‘Suppose it’s better than nothing.’

  ‘Or, if you like curry, there’s …’

  The screen flickered back into life. ‘Interview resumed at six minutes to one. Present: Detective Inspector Flora Malcolmson, DS Andrew McAdams, Miss Emma Travis-Wilkes, and Mr Reginald Flynn.’ McAdams sat back in his chair.

  Mother nodded. ‘Well, Emma?’

  She licked her lips. Stared down at the tabletop. ‘My father wasn’t in the white Range Rover with Leo McVey, it was me. I borrowed the car to go get more vodka and Uncle Leo came with me. He was already pretty wasted – we’d been drinking and snorting cocaine all day – so when I saw the family in that lay-by and decided to abduct them, he had no idea what was going on. I drove them off to the middle of the countryside and I killed them. I don’t remember where, so there’s no point asking. I dismembered the bodies and kept some parts in the freezer.’

  ‘I see.’ Mother tapped her fingers against the tabletop. ‘And how old were you at this point?’

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  ‘Twenty-one? My, my, my. And did you and Leo McVey kill anyone else?’

  ‘Uncle Leo didn’t kill anyone. He’d passed out from the drink. I did it. All on my own. When he woke up that evening, I told him I’d let the family go. He doesn’t know what I did.’

  ‘Right. You see, the trouble is: I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s the truth. And I have nothing further to say.’

  Mr Slick nodded. ‘You’ve had a full confession from my client. She won’t be answering any further questions.’

  The custody area was nearly deserted, but the sounds of singing and swearing echoed through from the cell blocks. An after-midnight serenade, fuelled by cheap lager and low IQ.

  Callum shuffled in and up to the desk – an oversized pulpit decorated with computer monitors and public safety posters. A stick insect in an ill-fitting wig sat behind it, leaning over a copy of the Castle News and Post, propping up his long thin face on one fist.

  He didn’t look up.

  So Callum banged a hand down on the countertop. ‘Shop.’

  A flinch. Then he raised his head and pulled on a pair of oversized glasses. ‘Ah, Constable MacGregor. We’ve been expecting you.’

  Silence.

  ‘Can we make this quick, Sarge, only it’s been a really long day.’

  ‘Of course we can. It would be my most delightful pleasure.’ He rescued a mouse from beneath a stack of paperwork and wriggled it. Clicking away. ‘Ah, here we are. Two things. One: when you’re processing suspects, try not to cock up the DNA portion of the proceedings. It makes the rest of our lives a lot easier. And Two: your custody from this afternoon wants a word and he wants it with you.’

  ‘Tell him to go screw himself, because I’m going home.’

  A jagged smile. ‘That’s hardly the caring and compassionate face of Police Scotland we’re tasked with presenting, is it, Constable?’

  ‘Someone tried to bash my brains in today. A friend was shot and killed. I’ve been battered and bruised and humiliated. And I don’t give a toss what some spoiled rap-star wank-badger wants. I’m – going – home.’

  ‘He’s up before the Sheriff at ten tomorrow morning. Make sure you see him before then.’

  ‘I’d love to! Only I’ve been suspended without pay, so Mr Newman can go crap in his hat.’

  Sergeant Stick Insect’s eyes widened, magnified out of all proportion by his big glasses. ‘Constable MacGregor, language!’

  ‘Bye, Sarge.’ Then he turned and marched out into the corridor, through the double doors, and away into the rain.

  — the Bonemonger’s waltz —

  The old lady puffed on her long willow pipe. “Once upon a time there was a little boy whose soul was dark as the blackest cat. Whose eyes were green as jealousy. And whose skin was pale as the dead.”

  “What was his name?” asked Justin, eagerly.

  “Why child, he didn’t have a name back then, just an unpronounceable howl of pain and hatred. And he’d come down from the hills at night and steal skeletons from the villagers’ graves. Then he’d take them out to the deepest darkest depths of the woods and dance with their bones till dawn.”

  R.M. Travis

  Open the Coffins (and Let Them Go Free) (1976)

  Ain’t nothing so sad as a man in his prime,

  Got dirt on his knees cos it’s grovellin’ time,

  Shoot that poor f*ck in the back of the head,

  Cos trust me, that b*stard is better off dead.

  Donny ‘$ick Dawg’ McRoberts

  ‘Walter Peck, the Bugf*cker’

  © Bob’s Speed Trap Records (2016)

  71

  Mother glanced up at the clock on the office wall. ‘Well, we’ll just have to start without him.’

  Which meant it was just Callum, Dotty, Franklin, and Mother for Monday morning prayers. No McAdams.

  She clapped her hands together. ‘First order of business: the doctors say John’s going to be in the high-dependency ward for at least a couple of days, but it looks like he’ll be fine. Ish. There might be some brain damage, but they won’t know till he wakes up.’

  Dotty stuck up her hand. ‘I’ve got a card for everyone to sign.’ She held that up as well – something with a teddy bear on crutches surrounded by love hearts. ‘GET WELL SOON!!!’ in big letters. ‘And I’ve started a whip-round too. Maybe get him something nice so he knows we’re all thinking of him.’

  ‘Second: Bob Shannon and Raymond Montgomery Travis are down for post mortem today, starting at ten, if anyone wants to volunteer? Anyone? No?’ A shrug. ‘Fine, Rosalind, you can do those.’

  Franklin sagged. ‘Not again.’

  ‘Emma Travis-Wilkes has confessed to the murder of Robert Michael Shannon, the murder of her father, and the attempted murder of DC Callum MacGregor. She’s also confessed to the abduction and murder of Callum’s parents and brother, and an unspecified number of other victims. Which I’m a hundred percent sure is a lie, but can’t get her to admit it. She’s up before the Sheriff at twelve – expect “remanded without bail” and “sentencing to follow psychiatric reports”. But I’ll eat my own fleece if she gets less than thirty years.’

  Callum folded his arms. ‘What about the freezers?’

  ‘SEB are calling in the forensic anthropologists from Dundee Uni. Could take weeks to work out what’s human and what’s not. How long it takes to identify who the bits came from in the first place is anyone’s guess. Maybe years.’ Mother perched her backside on Watt’s empty desk. ‘Which brings us onto a sticky subject.’ She pointed. ‘Callum is officially suspended without pay, pending an investigation into the aggravated assault on Detective Chief Inspector Reece Powel. If anyone asks, and I mean anyone – don’t care if it’s your best mate, your mum, or the blessed Chief Superintendent himself – you tell them Callum
’s here as a witness on the Travis-Wilkes case, and that’s all. He is not working on any other cases. Understood?’

  Franklin and Dotty nodded.

  Callum frowned out at them. ‘Just so you know, I didn’t touch Poncy Powel. If anyone battered him, it was Ainsley Dugdale. Not me.’

  ‘Just here as a witness, remember?’

  He stared up at the manky ceiling tiles. ‘Yes, Boss.’

  ‘We’re going back to the beginning. Tod Monaghan worked at Strummuir Smokehouse, so did one of his victims, and another victim did a course there. I know we’ve already interviewed every employee, but we need to do it again. Who did Monaghan hang out with? Did he mention any friends from outside work? Who was he killing with? Ask, ask, and ask again.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Right now, Ashlee Gossard has the tiniest, slimmest, most infinitesimal chance of still being alive. Get out there and find her.’

  Cecelia was hunched over her desk, poking away at her computer. Most of her long brown hair was tucked back, out of the way, but a strand of it – about as thick as a finger – disappeared into the corner of her mouth. Making little sooking noises as she chewed.

  Callum knocked on the doorframe. ‘Did your mother never tell you about that?’

  ‘Gah!’ Bolt upright, soggy hair swinging loose again. ‘Don’t sneak up on people, it’s rude.’

  ‘I got hauled in by the rubber heelers yesterday. Chief Inspector Gilmore told me he’d heard rumours I was covering for Elaine at that crime scene. Care to explain why?’

  She pulled a face. ‘Ah. Yes. No. No idea.’

  ‘You’re a terrible person, you know that don’t you?’

  ‘Oh definitely.’ She sat back, swivelling her chair from side to side. ‘You here about the freezers, or the lab results from the Gossard house? Because if it’s the lab results, that’s very much not my fault. I took the samples, I labelled them properly, so whoever arsed it up did it at the laboratory.’

  ‘Officially, I’m just here as a witness, but unofficially: freezers.’

  She picked a sheet of paper from the top of her printer. ‘We won’t know for certain until the anatomy gurus get here from Dundee, but I’d say you’re looking at between six and twelve individuals spread among the eight freezers. That’s assuming everything else is what the labels say it is. And that’s not …’ She pointed at his jacket as singing erupted from somewhere deep in his pocket. ‘Are you going to answer that?’