A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Sorry.’ He pulled out his phone. ‘Hello?’

  A woman’s voice that sounded as if it could crush walnuts just by shouting at them. ‘Constable MacGregor? Sergeant Price: custody suite. I have a note here that you’re to see a Mr Donald Newman this morning before he goes before the Sheriff?’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve been suspended. I’m not on active duty.’ He glanced at Cecelia. ‘I’m not even in the building.’

  ‘Nice try. I’ll expect you here before ten.’

  Oh for God’s sake. ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t make me come looking for you.’ Then she hung up.

  Wonderful.

  Cecelia passed over the sheet from her printer. ‘Take a look: going by the freezer-bag labels our human remains date from thirty-one years ago through to about twenty ten. The handwriting gets a bit shaky at the end. A lot of the stuff’s been frozen, thawed, and frozen again, going by the state of it. Do you know they had bolognese sauce in there going back to the seventies?’ She shuddered. ‘And I thought my mum was bad for hoarding leftovers. The seventies!’

  ‘Lovely.’ He scanned the list of items recovered. Maybe one of the hands belonged to his father, or his mother? Or maybe the eyes? Or one of the hearts? ‘Any sign of … children’s remains. Like a five-year-old boy?’

  Alastair.

  The bumhead.

  In his cartoon-fox T-shirt.

  Cecelia shook her head. ‘But then I’m only going by the bits that are instantly recognisable. Who knows with the other stuff?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Now go away, I’m working.’

  He backed out of the room.

  ‘And stop sneaking up on people!’

  Callum wandered back along the corridor and through into the stairwell, frowning down at the list. A dozen victims over a space of thirty-one years. Not the most prolific killer Oldcastle had ever seen – not even in the same league as someone like Jeff Ashdale – but still …

  And the experts from Dundee might ID even more. So—

  He jerked to a halt.

  Sod.

  Detective Superintendent Ness was standing right in front of him, jaw set, shoulders back. ‘DC MacGregor.’

  ‘Super.’

  Her face barely moved as she spoke. ‘I thought I suspended you yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, Super. It … I’m here as a witness? The Travis-Wilkes’ case is—’

  ‘Tell me, Constable, why is there a very expensive lawyer sitting in my custody suite threatening to sue Police Scotland if you don’t speak to his client?’

  Oh sodding hell. So Donny ‘$ick Dawg’ Newman had called in reinforcements.

  ‘I can’t speak to him, Super: you suspended me. It’s not my—’

  ‘Hello?’ Franklin’s voice echoed through the stairwell. ‘Callum?’ She came thundering down the stairs, two at a time. Nodded at Ness. ‘Super.’ Then back to him. ‘Sorry, thanks for waiting.’

  ‘I …?’

  She turned her perfect white smile on the superintendent. ‘We’ve been going over his statement from last night. I had to nip off to the toilet. Emergency situation. Anyway,’ she took hold of Callum’s arm, ‘let’s get you that lift home.’ Another nod. ‘Super.’

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ Ness held up a hand. ‘Constable MacGregor isn’t going anywhere until he’s seen this Mr Newman and his solicitor. And I want you there for corroboration.’

  Franklin’s smile slipped. ‘Super?’

  ‘You will make sure nothing happens, are we clear, Constable? If I’ve got to spend the next six months tied up in court, you’re going to find yourself doing every crummy crappy horrible job I can find.’ A big bright smile. ‘Off you go then.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Franklin led him away downstairs. Out through the doors at the bottom. Slumped back against the bare breezeblock wall. ‘Oh God … Why did you have to drag me into this?’

  ‘How is this my fault?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? Maybe you antagonised Newman with your “everyone grew up in care” speech? Or maybe you just rub everyone up the wrong way.’ She straightened up and poked him in the chest. ‘I stood up for you with Ness, and you better not mess this up for me, Callum. You go in there and you be nice to this dick and you say “three bags full” if you have to. Understand?’

  Lovely.

  ‘Thanks. Thanks a heap.’ He pushed through the double doors and into the custody area.

  Peace reigned inside, just the ping and click of the central heating to spoil the silence. Last night’s stick insect had been replaced by someone who would’ve looked more at home on the rugby pitch, or a boxing ring. That would be Sergeant Price. She had her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, a pair of half-moon glasses perched on the end of her nose as she passed a form across the custody desk to Mr Slick – Emma Travis-Wilkes’ lawyer.

  So Mr Slick had got himself another celebrity client. That was quite the portfolio he was building: a murdering liar, and a misogynist scumbag druggie. All he needed was a kiddy-fiddling TV presenter from the 1970s to complete the set.

  Slick took a fountain pen from his inside pocket and signed. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

  She pointed off to a row of easy-to-hose-down plastic seats. ‘Make yourself at home and I’ll give you a shout, soon as Ms Travis-Wilkes is ready.’

  The room’s only other occupant was a chunky middle-aged man in a rumpled suit. Head a combination of Yorkshire Terrier meets pickled egg. Bags under his eyes, stubble on his chins, fingers stained turmeric-yellow from too many cigarettes. He was slouched across a couple of seats, as if he’d forgotten to bring his bones with him.

  Mr Slick walked over to the plastic seating, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and dusted a chair as far away from Captain Scruffy as possible, before lowering his tailored backside into it. Sat there with his briefcase on his lap. Still as a garden gnome.

  Callum slumped up to the counter. ‘I came, OK?’

  Sergeant Price flashed him a smile. ‘Constable MacGregor, is it? Good. Right. Mr Newman’s solicitor has laid out some ground rules for your meeting: no recording, no harassing his client, and everything said is to be considered off the record.’

  ‘He can make all the rules he wants: I don’t want to meet his client. His client can go—’

  ‘Poop in his hat. Yes, I do read the night logs.’ She pointed at a plain veneer door. ‘You can use the solicitors’ briefing room. Fifteen minutes.’ Sergeant Price stared at him with all the warmth of an iceberg. ‘Do we have a problem, Constable?’ And there was that walnut-crushing tone again.

  ‘No, Sarge.’

  A deep breath. A sigh. Then Callum wandered over to the room and pulled open the door. Not even bothering to look at Mr Slick. ‘Come on then, let’s get this over with.’

  The consultation room had three chairs, a frosted window high up by the ceiling, and a Formica table covered in other people’s initials and swearwords. Callum collapsed into the chair beneath the window. Franklin was next, leaning back against the wall, arms folded.

  And two minutes later, Donald ‘$ick Dawg’ Newman swaggered in. They’d let him keep his own jeans and trainers, but confiscated his belt, shoelaces, and leather jacket. Someone had lent him a scruffy Oldcastle Police polo shirt to cover his naked chest. He slouched into the chair opposite Callum, one hand tucked into the waistband of his trousers, stubble blueing the gaps around his high-maintenance facial hair. ‘Sup, Bruv?’

  But it wasn’t Mr Slick who shambled in after him and closed the door, it was Captain Scruffy. He grunted his way down into the last free chair. Rummaged through his pockets and came out with a packet of nicotine gum. Popped a couple. Chewing through a broad Glaswegian accent. ‘Right, gentlemen, youse is all aware of the ground rules, and that? No sneaky recording the conversation. Everything said in here is, like, mega off the record, man.’

  This was the very expensive lawyer Superintendent Ness was so worried about
?

  Took all sorts.

  Callum stared across the table. Not saying anything.

  Newman grinned at him. ‘You look like crap, Bruv.’

  He clenched his good hand into a fist. ‘I’m not your “Bruv”.’

  ‘Chill, man, we just talkin’, is all.’ He spread his hands on the tabletop. ‘You been to see Irene, yeah? And the kids?’

  ‘You assaulted her. You broke Willow’s arm. She was four.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I been through some tough times in my life. Grew up in care. Got into trouble. And it was the drugs, yeah? They made me do things I’m not proud of, Bruv.’ A wee shrug. ‘And you caught me, like, bang to rights, innit? Gonna plead guilty and throw myself onna mercy of the courts. Do my time. Get my life in order.’

  Captain Scruffy gave a little snort. ‘Trust us, Donny, no way you’re goin’ down. When I get through with the Sheriff, they’re gonnae give you a medal for being an upstanding citizen.’

  ‘I’m gonna make amends, Bruv. Gonna make it up to Irene: give that bitch a huge cheque, like an apology for what I did and all that child support I never paid. Bitch can get herself a nice house in Blackwall Hill or something.’

  Callum picked at a set of carved initials in the Formica. ‘You actually think that’ll make it all better?’

  ‘Yeah, I was a dick. Like I said: drugs.’

  ‘And don’t call her a bitch.’

  There was a pause and Newman tilted his head to the side, one eyebrow raised. ‘You still ain’t got it, has you, Bruv?’

  Outside, in the custody suite, someone coughed like they were trying to expel a lung.

  Franklin shifted against the wall.

  Captain Scruffy chewed.

  Newman sat forward. ‘Got into a fight when I was twenty – bit of a barney over who owed who for a load of skunk went missing – sons of bitches broke my nose and cheek and jaw. Had to get plastic surgery to fix it, Bruv. And I thinks to myself, while I is here, might as well get me some more handsome, yeah?’

  ‘There a point to this?’

  ‘You really don’t recognise me, do you? Bruv.’

  ‘I told you to stop calling me that, I’m not your …’

  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 … Man’s a star, right? Been like a dad to me.

  It couldn’t be, could it?

  No.

  There would be a family resemblance, or something, wouldn’t there?

  Looks like he’s barely into his twenties: turned thirty last year. Suppose healthy living and Botox will do that for a man. Well, that and a face-lift, a nose job, and three hours a day with a personal trainer.

  Newman lifted the waistband of his borrowed polo shirt, showing off his shaved washboard stomach with its tattoo of a cartoon fox. Not identical to the one on his T-shirt all those years ago, but close enough.

  Sodding hell …

  Callum licked his lips. ‘Alastair?’

  ‘There we go.’

  ‘I thought you were dead …’

  ‘Nah, Bruv, I’s a superstar and that. Right, Mr McQueen?’

  ‘Oh aye. That you are indeed, Donny.’

  Callum stared. ‘But … what happened?’

  ‘Tried to get in touch a few years back. You know? Googled you, like, a million times. Thought maybe you were a midfielder for Celtic, but he looks nothing like us, yeah?’ The fake London patois was slipping. ‘So I hired myself a private detective. And now here we are.’

  ‘No: what happened to you? After that day. When you all got abducted.’

  Newman … Alastair folded his arms. Looked away. ‘Too soon, Bruv. Too soon.’

  ‘Look, you were there. You’re a witness. You saw what Leo McVey did – we can put the bastard behind bars!’

  Alastair sucked a breath through his teeth. ‘Man’s been like a dad to me.’

  ‘Only because he helped R.M. Bloody Travis murder our real dad. And our mum!’

  ‘Nah, he’s—’

  ‘He helped, Alastair. They’d be alive today and I wouldn’t have grown up in sodding care homes. Neither would you. We would’ve been a family!’

  Alastair slumped back in the chair again. Frowned at him. ‘You want to do Leo for killing Mum and Dad?’

  ‘Of course I sodding do.’

  The only sound in the small room was Captain Scruffy’s wheezy breath.

  And then Alastair shrugged. ‘I’m-a think about it, yeah?’ The patois was back. ‘You asking me to snitch on the man brought me up. That’s cold, Holmes. I’m-a speak to my legal representative now.’

  Captain Scruffy took the nicotine gum from his mouth and stuck it to the underside of the table. ‘And that concludes our business here this morning.’ He nodded at Callum. ‘We’ll be in touch, pal.’

  72

  Callum marched past the custody desk and pushed through the door into the custody suite.

  Franklin was right behind him. ‘Your brother’s alive; why have you got a face like a badger’s backside? Isn’t this a good thing?’

  ‘I’ll just be a minute.’ Grinding it out between his teeth. ‘Five tops.’

  She groaned as he shoved through to the female cells: a twin line of blue-painted metal doors. ‘Please tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing!’

  ‘Of course I sodding am.’ He pointed at the hatch mounted on the door of each cell. ‘Help me look. She’s in here somewhere.’

  ‘Callum, you’re a witness. Worse: you’re a victim. She tried to kill you. You can’t just rock up and have a cosy wee chat with Emma Travis-Wilkes, the Procurator Fiscal will do her nut. Wilkes’s lawyer will have a field day!’

  ‘Five minutes tops.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake …’

  He slid down the hatches and peered into each cell, working his way along one side until there she was. Emma Travis-Wilkes.

  She was sitting on the blue plastic mattress with her back against the wall, legs folded into the lotus position, forearms resting on her knees. A calm smile on her face, even with all the bruises.

  Nice to see someone was enjoying themselves.

  Callum thumped on the door. ‘Hello, Emma. Remember me?’

  ‘How’s your head?’ She turned the smile up a bit. ‘I’m sorry I had to hit you.’

  ‘This lawyer of yours, Flynn. He’s not from around here, is he? His suit’s worth more than I make in a year.’

  ‘My publishers organised everything. I phoned my publicist, said, “I’ve just killed my father,” and the next thing you know: ta-daaaa.’ She unhooked her legs and stood. ‘I wanted to thank you for arresting me. For … stopping me.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, that was a real pleasure.’

  Emma padded across the concrete floor on her bare feet. Placed a hand against the door. ‘Do you know what it’s like to live in the shadow of a famous parent? … No. Of course you don’t. Sorry.’ She shrugged. ‘Believe me, you were lucky. Living with someone like my father, looking after him and his bloody legacy. Did you know, just last week they were talking about putting him on a stamp? On a stamp. How is anyone supposed to compete with that?’

  She closed her eyes and took a big breath. ‘God, I’m finally free. I can write again. My own words. Ooooooh … No more adult nappies, no more spoon-feeding him on bad days, no more watching him crumble like a sandcastle as the tides of time rush in.’

  ‘But you didn’t kill my mum and dad, did you? It was him.’

  ‘What does it matter? He’s dead, isn’t he? He can’t do …’ A frown. ‘His legacy is more important than a few dead bodies. Oh, not to you – I get that – but to the world. If he was some sort of monster, parents wouldn’t buy his books, would they? Generations of children would miss out on Russell the Magic Rabbit. No one would ever read Open the Coffins again.’

  ‘So you’re taking the blame to protect his literary estate?’

 
; ‘I’ll be free.’

  ‘How much did they offer you?’

  ‘I can write again!’

  ‘Because I’m going to burn your phoney confession to ash. Then I’m going to do the same with your dad’s reputation. And then I’m going after Leo McVey.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘You can’t do that.’

  Callum inched closer to the hatch and dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. ‘I’ve got an eyewitness. The boy your dad and Leo McVey abducted? My brother. He’s still alive. And we’re lighting the fires.’

  ‘Hmm …’ Emma blinked at him a couple of times, then smiled. ‘My lawyer’s very, very good. He says if I plead guilty they’ll sentence me to treatment at a secure psychiatric facility, where I can get the help I so desperately need. And after two, maybe three years, when they finally declare me cured and fit to return to society, I’ll find a very supportive friend in my publisher.’ The smile was as sharp as it was cold. ‘Because that’s the kind of caring socially responsible international corporation they are.’

  ‘Let me guess – it’s the same company that publish your father’s books.’

  ‘They’ve been extremely kind to me.’

  ‘Oh grow up. They didn’t parachute a fancy-pants solicitor in to look after your best interests, they sent him here to look after theirs. How much is your dad’s literary estate worth every year: a million? Two? Probably more, now he’s dead.’

  Franklin grabbed Callum’s arm. ‘Come on, that’s enough.’

  ‘And your publishers don’t want anyone to find out he was a serial-killing tosspot because it’ll spoil their sales figures.’

  A sharp woman’s voice boomed out behind them. ‘Can I help you?’

  Callum turned and there was Sergeant Price, all puffed up, shoulders back. Looking every inch the prop forward.

  Franklin stepped in front of her. ‘We’re looking for Emma Travis-Wilkes.’

  ‘In this station we check with the custody sergeant before we talk to suspects.’