A Dark So Deadly

by Stuart MacBride

‘No.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Kingsmeath, visiting an old friend.’

  Another cough rattled out of the earpiece. Followed by some panting. ‘Urgh … My house. And bring some milk – full fat. No point wasting life on that semi-skimmed rubbish.’

  ‘McAdams, I’m not traipsing all the way across—’

  ‘We – need – to – talk. In person. Now.’

  Wonderful.

  He didn’t bother hiding the sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Callum hung up and went back to the office, where the smell of rehydrating soya product filled the gaps between the oily diesel fug. ‘Have you got a car I can borrow? Something’s come up. Sorry.’

  Billy pulled two forks from his desk drawer and stuck one in each pot. ‘I need the truck to go get your Mondeo bits, but I’ve got something that might help. It’s not fancy but it’ll get you there.’

  ‘Anything’s good.’

  That got him a very disturbing grin.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The grin got bigger.

  Yeah … why wasn’t that reassuring?

  76

  BILLY JACKSON MOTOR SERVICES ~ MOTS WHILE YOU WAIT didn’t stretch to a courtesy car. Instead, Callum wobbled along the side streets, both knees clamped together, buttocks clenched, holding on to the scooter’s handlebars as if they were the only thing keeping him from a humiliating and messy death. The crash helmet rattled about on his head, about a size and a half too big, but it was the only one that would go over the gauze padding covering his ear and the back of his head.

  This was clearly Billy’s way of getting his own back on Callum for abandoning him to dismantle the scrapyard Mondeo on his own. Not to mention the matter of paying for the parts and repairs with an IOU. But still …

  Spray made twin arcs either side of the front wheel, there was nothing to keep the rain off, it was freezing cold, and the engine sounded like an angry wasp attacking a PA system.

  Sodding DS Sodding McAdams.

  Why couldn’t he just discuss whatever it was on the phone like a normal person?

  Because that would be too easy, that’s why. Because then Callum wouldn’t have to drive a horrible little scooter through the pouring sodding rain.

  A four-by-four passed by, going in the opposite direction, sending up a wall of water that crashed across Callum’s arms and chest.

  ‘Aaaaargh!’

  That did it – cancer or not, McAdams had to die.

  ‘What took you so long?’

  Callum stood on the doorstep, arms outstretched, legs apart, dripping. Plastic bag dangling from his good hand. ‘I’m going to kill you.’

  ‘You look like you swam here.’

  ‘I swear to God, if you don’t get out of the way and let me into the dry, I’m seriously going to murder you right here.’

  A slow smile spread across McAdams’ skeletal features. Then he stepped back and gave Callum a low bow, sweeping one hand out to indicate the corridor.

  ‘Gagh …’ Callum stepped over the threshold and squelched his way along the parquet flooring and into the tiled dining-kitchen. All slate and black granite, beech units, a big fridge and another one right next to it just for wine.

  Must be nice to marry someone with a trust fund.

  ‘Perhaps, dear Constable MacSoggy, / You should change out of your clothes so damp? / You look just like a half-drowned moggy, / You sopping squishy squelchy scamp.’ Then there was a wobble. A grimace. And McAdams lowered himself into one of the dining chairs. ‘Help yourself to tea, coffee, or a nice glass of wine.’ He waved a bony hand at the fridges. ‘The Sancerre is particularly good. Far too expensive, but it’s not like I can take it with me.’

  Callum dumped the plastic bag on the draining board, wriggled out of his sodden jacket and wrung it out in the sink. Hung it over the back of a chair. Kicked off his shoes and poured their contents down the drain. ‘This better be important.’

  ‘I’ll take a glass, if you don’t mind? I’d get it, but my legs don’t seem to be cooperating right now.’

  His socks splatched and squished against the slate tiles all the way to the kettle. He clicked it on. ‘Mother wants you to start your chemotherapy.’

  ‘The glasses are in the cupboard on your right.’

  ‘I’m serious. She’s worried about you.’ He pulled a white wine glass from the cupboard and stuck it on the countertop. Had a rummage till he found the mugs and stuck one next to it. Opened the tin marked ‘TEA’.

  Curled his lip.

  The tin was full of bits. ‘Gah … Don’t you have any proper tea?’

  McAdams smiled. ‘That is proper tea. Beth gets it from a little shop in Aberdeen. One spoon for you, one for the pot.’ He pointed at the wine fridge. ‘Now: there should be an open bottle of Sancerre at the front.’

  Callum pulled the bottle out. Unscrewed the cap. ‘Stop being a dick and go to your bloody chemo.’ He filled the glass and squelched over to the table. Stuck it in front of McAdams.

  ‘Oh, Callum.’ The smile softened at the edges. ‘It’s too late for that. All the coughing? My lovely cancer has metastasised. I’m riddled with it. Like an old building with rats. Eating the wiring, making holes in the skirting boards, and covering everything in crap.’

  The kettle bubbled and growled.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A week. A fortnight. A month. Does it matter?’ McAdams took a sip of wine, eyes closed, then sighed. ‘You sure you don’t want a glass? It’s lovely.’

  ‘You should be in hospital.’

  ‘I’m lucky. The drugs keep most of the pain at bay, for now. And I’ve still got all my marbles.’ A wink. ‘For now.’

  ‘Matter of opinion.’ A click and the bubbling subsided. Callum dumped two spoons of grey-black bits into the pot. Drowned them with boiling water. ‘And for your information: proper tea comes in a teabag. It doesn’t look like something you scraped out of the vacuum cleaner.’

  ‘Philistine.’ He produced a little notepad and flipped it open to a page covered in cramped handwriting. ‘I’m making my bequests while I still can. Dotty’s getting a case of Bowmore, because she loves her whisky. Mother’s getting a cruise: the Norwegian fjords, because she likes pickled herring and deserves a decent holiday. Watt …’ A frown. ‘I wasn’t sure what to get him. We don’t even know if he’s going to live now. Maybe his own electric wheelchair, if he pulls through? Or I could send him on holiday too, so he can recuperate?’ McAdams took another sip of wine. ‘Rosalind gets a diamond necklace. Nothing too flashy, but something dangly that will nestle between those magnificent breasts of hers. Because, let’s face it, who wouldn’t want to do that?’

  Callum stirred the tea. ‘What about your wife?’

  ‘Oh, Beth’s off to Edinburgh for the week. Apparently I’ve been a bit more colourful than usual and it’s getting on her nerves. Or did you mean, “what does she inherit”?’ He took another sip of Sancerre. ‘She gets the house and the car and the bank account and the timeshare in Tenerife. Which is peanuts compared to what her dad left her, but there you go.’ McAdams put his glass down. ‘Which brings us to you, Callum.’

  ‘I’d settle for a towel and a go in your tumble dryer.’ He filled his mug from the pot, then pulled a four-pint carton of milk from the plastic bag on the draining board. Sploshed in enough to turn his tea beige.

  ‘It was surprisingly difficult to find something appropriate to leave you. You’re a simple soul, yes, but you’ve got dark depths, don’t you? A compelling backstory for crime fiction: family abducted, growing up in care, unlucky in love, rumours of corruption. A mediocre officer in a troubling world, who spends his life trying to get justice for his mother, father, and brother.’

  ‘Hmph.’ The fridge was packed with jars and bottles and Tupperware containers. A whole shelf dedicated to kippers. He stuck the milk into the door pocket. Frowned at the shelves. ‘You’ve got enough kip
pers here to feed an army.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re so hard to buy for.’

  ‘I didn’t, by the way: spend my life trying to get justice.’ He unclipped his tie and draped it over the taps. ‘Everyone said my family abandoned me: dumped me in the lay-by and sodded off. All my life I thought I’d done something wrong.’

  ‘But I think I finally got you the perfect gift.’

  ‘I became a police officer, because I grew up in the care of people who shouldn’t have been allowed within two hundred yards of children. I joined the job, because I wanted to put scumbags that prey on the weak behind bars.’

  McAdams nodded. ‘Indulge a dying old man and look in the drawer by the toaster.’

  Callum did. It was a brown paper parcel, about the size of a ream of paper, only twice as thick. It flopped like a ream of paper when he picked it up too. He held it out. ‘This?’

  ‘That.’

  Someone had printed the words ‘A DARK SO DEADLY’ across the front, in black Sharpie. ‘I’m guessing it’s not a holiday.’

  ‘It’s my book.’

  Oh joy.

  Dotty got a case of whisky, Franklin got a diamond necklace, Mother and Watt both got fancy trips, and what did he get?

  ‘Oh, don’t look like that. Everyone else got material stuff, but you: you’re a reader. There’s so few of you about these days, Callum. So I give you my book. My life’s work, distilled into one hundred and ninety-four thousand, five hundred and twenty-eight words. Single-sided double-spaced on A-four.’

  Callum put it down. ‘You got me to drive all the way across town, on a scooter, in the pouring rain, because you wanted to give me a copy of your book? You said it was urgent!’

  ‘I also needed milk. And how was I to know you’d be on a scooter? What happened to the car Mother lent you?’

  Ah …

  ‘Nothing. Thanks for the book.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Now, any chance of that towel?’

  Rain.

  It pounded the garden on the other side of the window, battering the bushes into submission, hurtling down from a charcoal sky, turning everything grey. The floral scent of fabric softener filled the utility room, mixing with the tickly smell of warm dust.

  Callum tightened his borrowed towelling dressing gown and leaned back against the whomp-whomp-whomp of the tumble dryer. Warmth stroked the back of his legs. ‘He what?’

  Franklin sounded as if she was sucking on a wasp. ‘You heard me: Finn Noble’s dead.’

  ‘How the hell did that happen?’ Callum pinned the phone between his ear and his shoulder, freeing up his good hand for a sip of tea. ‘Was it an—’

  ‘We sent a patrol car round his house: No answer. So the uniform peers in through the windows, and there’s Finn Noble: hanging from a noose in the hall. He’d tied one end to the balustrade and jumped.’

  ‘He killed himself?’

  ‘There’s more. He left a suicide note.’

  The tumble dryer bleeped then fell silent.

  Callum opened the door and hauled out his suit – all hot and crackling with static electricity. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? Imhotep. He knew we were closing in and he chickened out before we could nab him.’ The towelling robe went on the worktop and Callum pulled on his pants – all warm and clingy. Grabbed the edge of the washing machine as the world did a quick swirl when he stood up again. ‘Whoa …’ Blink. Sniff. ‘You still there?’

  ‘We’ve sent a copy of the note to Dr McDonald, but it’s basically claiming credit for the killings, justifying his actions, and complaining that we spoiled everything by capturing his gods before they could save the world.’

  ‘AKA: nutjob.’ Callum hauled on his trousers, fingers flinching at the hot zip and buttons. Struggled his fibreglass cast down the sleeve of his shirt. ‘I can be there in …’ Callum checked his watch. Then froze. How exactly was he going to turn up on a scooter and not have everyone asking questions about the missing Mondeo? Borrow McAdams’ car? ‘Maybe fifteen minutes?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, you’re suspended.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘No buts.’

  ‘Fronting up Finn Noble was my idea! How can you not … Hello?’ Silence. ‘Franklin? Hello?’

  She’d hung up on him.

  Perfect.

  Thanks. Thanks very sodding much.

  He buttoned his shirt. Pulled on hot socks. Checked his shoes – perched on top of the boiler. Twenty minutes up there, stuffed with crumpled-up bits of the Daily Record, and they were still sodden through. Callum changed the damp newsprint for dry bits. Grabbed his jacket then headed back through the door to the kitchen.

  The contents of his pockets were where he’d left them, sitting on the kitchen table. He loaded up again. Paused. Sniffed the air. ‘Why can I smell smoke?’

  McAdams stood in front of the hob, stretching a sheet of clingfilm over a frying pan. ‘That’s the trouble with most people: no idea how to treat a kipper. It’s already cooked, you don’t need to grill or fry it – that just dries the flesh out – you stick it in a deep-sided frying pan, or roasting tin, and you pour hot water over it. Seal it for a couple of minutes and you’re good to go. Jugged kippers.’

  ‘Finn Noble’s hung himself.’

  ‘Has he?’ McAdams clattered two plates onto the worktop. ‘Let me guess—’

  ‘Left a suicide note, admitting everything.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ He sagged a little, one hand propping himself up. ‘Get a couple knives and forks. You like kippers, don’t you?’

  ‘Franklin said everyone at Strummuir had a criminal record. What did Finn Noble do?’

  ‘Of course you like kippers. Who doesn’t like a proper kipper?’ He tapped at the clingfilmed surface, making the condensation form into little round droplets. ‘It’s the drugs, they mess with your palate. Kippers are one of the few things that still taste right to me. That and the wine. And whisky, of course.’

  ‘McAdams: what did Finn Noble do?’

  ‘Hmmm? Oh, him. Yes. He was arrested for indecent exposure twice – decided it was a good idea to get his willy out on Stone Terrace, outside the youth hostel. Possession of a Class A drug on three occasions. And a handful of burglaries. Nothing major, except for the willy waving.’

  ‘What was the Class A?’

  ‘You know, I think these are just about done.’ McAdams peeled back the clingfilm and used tongs and a spatula to manoeuvre one out of the water and onto a plate. Held it out to Callum. ‘Why don’t you guess what controlled substance Finn Noble was caught with.’

  ‘Magic mushrooms.’

  ‘Give that detective constable a kipper.’ He went back to the pan for the other one. ‘Try a knob of butter on it, melts right into the smoky flesh.’

  ‘Woops.’ Callum sat at the dining table a bit harder than he’d meant to, making the seat creak. ‘Mother sent you home, didn’t she?’

  A shrug. McAdams lowered himself into a chair. Groaned. Then peeled the skin off the top of his kipper. ‘She seems to think I’m taking too much on. Well, what am I supposed to do? Hang around here like Banquo’s ghost? Eat your kipper.’

  The skin was thin and papery, the flesh beneath it plump and moist. Smokey and full of horrible little bones. He worked them to the front of his mouth and picked them out. Wiped them off on the edge of his plate. Looked up to find McAdams smiling at him. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s like a metaphor for life, isn’t it? The flavour is magnificent, but every mouthful comes with a cost. And in the end, all you’re left with is a pile of skin and bones.’ McAdams reached for the butter dish, dug a chunk off with his knife and dolloped it onto his fish. ‘You remember our discussion in the car? You me and Rosalind talking about how no one ever remembers the police officer or the victims, they only remember the serial killer?’

  ‘People remember Gandhi, he wasn’t a serial killer.’ Callum picked out another mouthful of bones and laid them with their
comrades. Like little pale thin soldiers. Took a swig of tea to wash down the saltiness.

  ‘Gandhi doesn’t count. He’s remembered because he made a difference. What difference are you and I going to make?’

  More little soldiers. All lined up on parade.

  McAdams put his knife and fork down. Topped up Callum’s mug from the teapot. ‘Normal people don’t change history. Normal people die and get forgotten.’

  How many bones were there in a kipper. A thousand? Two? A million?

  They caught the light and … sort of glowed. Little bone soldiers.

  ‘Callum?’ A sip of wine. ‘Do you believe in God? Or gods? Or anything at all?’

  Yeah, McAdams needed to cut back on the wine. His voice was getting a bit wobbly and boomy. Like the grown-ups in a Snoopy cartoon. Whah, whah, whah …

  Somewhere, off in the distance, a phone rang. And rang. And rang.

  ‘Don’t worry, the answering machine will get it.’

  All those glowing bone soldiers.

  Bleeeeeeeeep.

  ‘Andy? It’s Cecelia. I’m sorry, I don’t know what the hell they’re playing at, but the labs have buggered it up again. I’m putting in a formal complaint.’

  Callum blinked. The soldiers left bright orange streaks on the inside of his eyelids.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He shook his head and the world lurched round by thirty degrees, then slowly drifted back again. Urgh … ‘Think I’m coming down with something.’ Not helped by driving a scooter all the way across town in the sodding rain.

  Or had he said that already?

  ‘The idiots have taken a liking to you: those samples from the Gossard house and the Carmichael flat have come back as a match again. And now they’ve got you driving the abandoned Kia Picanto. You know, the one we found Richard Duffy’s body in the boot of?’

  So thirsty.

  Must be the kipper.

  Have another gulp of tea.

  ‘I’ve told them: I’m going to make you do these ruddy tests over and over till you get them right. Honestly, it’s like trying to teach a lawnmower about particle physics.’

  ‘Callum? You don’t look too well.’

  His hands made whooshing sounds when he moved them.