‘You know we can’t do that, Andrew. You assaulted them both. It’s a conflict of interest.’
‘It’s a shame he’s dying of cancer, isn’t it?’ Dr McDonald got even closer, till her nose was only inches from the screen. ‘I mean it’d take years to unravel what’s going on inside his head, and that would be very interesting wouldn’t it and I’d love to have a go, but I don’t think they’d let me, do you think they’d let me, or does that sound a bit creepy because of the serial killing and dying thing?’
Mother stared at her. ‘Yes.’
‘My client is prepared to make a full confession, but only to DI Malcolmson.’
‘And have the whole thing ruled inadmissible in court? We’ll pass, thanks.’
McAdams stuck a hand against his chest, as if he was about to pledge allegiance ‘Then, “no comment” is the only thing, / That I will mumble, say, or sing, / “No comment” now, “no comment” then, / “No comment” time and time again.’ Then the smile slipped, as a coughing fit sent him rocking back and forward in his seat, bent over, head nearly touching the tabletop. Leaving him panting and wheezing.
The solicitor patted him on the back. ‘I insist you get my client medical attention, right now!’
Mother groaned. ‘I know this is going to sound harsh, but I don’t think I like him very much any more.’
— dearly departed, —
we are gathered here today
And when the Bonemonger raised his arms, the earth gave a great rumble as one by one the graves collapsed. Then, from the dark depths below, each and every coffin rose to the above, steaming in the cold morning air.
“Please, don’t do it! I’ve changed my mind!” screamed Justin. “Stop!”
“It’s too late,” laughed the Bonemonger, “see what we have done!”
He clapped his bony hands and the lids flew off, revealing the dead in all their mouldy finery. They yawned and stretched and sat up in their satin-lined boxes. Then climbed out into the last morning there would ever be. For he’d opened the coffins and let them go free.
R.M. Travis
Open the Coffins (and Let Them Go Free) (1976)
You better believe I’m-a keepin’ it real,
Cos there ain’t no reprieve when The Man makes you kneel,
And I know you all grieve, but I’m gonna appeal,
Got some tricks up ma sleeve an’ my will’s made of steel.
Donny ‘$ick Dawg’ McRoberts
‘The Day Them F*ckers Done Fitted Me Up’
© Bob’s Speed Trap Records (2017)
80
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Callum shook McAdams’ wife’s hand.
Beth had put on a little weight in the last week and a bit, but it’d probably be a long time until she lost that chained-up-in-the-basement hollow-eyed look. She stared back at him. ‘He was a bastard, and I’m glad he’s dead.’
‘Yeah.’ Callum nodded. ‘Me too.’ Then moved on to join what was left of the Misfit Mob. Everyone dressed in various shades of black.
Dotty looked up at the bright blue sky. ‘Well, at least he got a nice day for it.’
Franklin shuddered. ‘I hate crematoriums. Always give me the creeps.’
‘Mother? You OK?’
‘Hmmm?’ She turned, blinking. ‘Sorry, miles away. It was a lovely service wasn’t it?’
‘I thought your eulogy was very good.’
She patted Callum on the arm. ‘I know it sounds odd, but I miss him.’
‘He tried to kill me. He very nearly killed Watt. He murdered at least six people. And he was going to keep you chained up in his dungeon with his drugged wife. Probably thought he could take turns.’
‘When you put it like that …’ Mother puffed out her cheeks. Clapped her hands together. ‘Right, we’d better get back to work, I suppose.’
Rain drummed against the office window, a counterpoint to the buzzing rattle coming from the radiator.
Callum sat back in his seat, both feet propped up on his desk. Finished the page he was reading and moved on to the next one.
McAdams’ book was … different. Not bad, exactly, but a bit long-winded and self-indulgent. Not to mention self-important.
Franklin backed into the room, laden down with box files. ‘Working hard are we?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded towards the pile of paper, sitting on its opened-out brown paper wrapping. ‘McAdams believed in the old adage: “write what you know”. It’s all about Imhotep’s quest to save the world, told from the perspective of a little boy called “Justin”. Abduction, physical abuse, trauma, desperate need for affection he tries to fulfil with the women his “Father” keeps chained up in the basement.’
She dumped the files on her desk. ‘You coming tonight?’
‘We don’t need to worry about catching Paul Jeffries’ killer – it was McAdams. Stabbed him for killing the last in a long line of New Mummies. Then Justin goes into care. More trauma and abuse. But he finally gets himself a nice foster family, changes his name, and everything starts to go right for him. Good exam results. University. Career in the police force. Sense of belonging and self-worth.’
‘I mean, it was weird enough going to his funeral, but a wake too?’
‘Then he’s diagnosed with cancer and it all comes flooding back. That’s when the killing starts.’ A smile. ‘And he would have hated that much summary narrative.’
‘I’ve never been to a celebration wake before. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for celebrating someone’s life when they’ve died, but actually celebrating the fact they’ve died?’
Callum pointed at the remaining stack of paper. ‘Haven’t got to the end yet, but five quid says there’s nothing in there about getting his balls crushed by The Claw, then being arrested, charged, remanded without bail, or an epilogue where he gets stabbed twenty-three times in the throat by the very disturbed young man from the cell next door.’
‘Thought it was nine times?’
‘Artistic licence.’ Callum marked his spot on the page. ‘And, apparently, Tod Monaghan was nothing to do with it.’
Her eyes went wide. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘Nope. According to chapter forty-two, McAdams just took advantage of the fact Monaghan was dodgy, dead, and in no position to complain about mummified human remains being planted in his living room. Turns out “Justin” sacrificed a god to make it look like Imhotep had drowned himself in Kings River, so we’d stop looking.’
‘What about Finn Noble?’
‘Haven’t got to that bit yet.’
‘Wouldn’t it be lovely if every murdering wee scumbag wrote their confession out as a novel?’ She picked up a sheet of paper and read aloud: ‘“There’s a jackdaw hanging on the fence behind the house. Like a little black kite, caught on its own strings.” That’s cheery.’ The page went back on its pile. ‘So, are you coming tonight, or not?’
Callum shrugged. ‘Don’t see why not. I might even have a bash at karaoke.’
‘Just seems … weird, doesn’t it? Mind you, I suppose the signs were there – no sane person spouts haikus and bits of doggerel all the time.’
‘Hmm.’
‘And that thing he did, where he pretended he was doing a literary critique of his own life? Not right in the head.’
‘Looks as if McAdams was right, though: he didn’t make it to the end of the book after all.’
‘Still, I suppose …’ She frowned, then pointed at Callum’s warbling phone. ‘Are you going to get that?’
Might as well. He picked it up. ‘Hello?’
A small pause. ‘Piggy?’
Not again. ‘Willow, we’ve talked about this. It’s “Uncle Callum”, not “Piggy”.’
Silence.
Franklin raised her eyebrows, then made a letter T out of her two index fingers and pointed at the kettle.
He gave her a thumbs up – not easy with his right hand still in the cast, but she s
eemed to get the idea. ‘Willow, are you there?’
‘Piggy, I need … Mum needs you to come over.’
‘I could probably pop past later on, after work? We could maybe get a pizza or something?’
‘No, Piggy: got to be now, yeah? It’s urgent, like.’
He sat up. ‘What happened: is it your dad? Is he hitting her? I can get a police car there in five minutes.’
‘No! Nah, no. It’s not Dad. That prick comes here, me and Benny gonna kick his little bitch arse for him. Gonna kick it good.’ But the bravado didn’t sound as brash as it usually did. It sounded brittle. Shaky.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Just do it, yeah?’ A muffled voice in the background was too low to make out. ‘Gotta go.’ And she hung up.
Callum tapped his pen against the desk.
Franklin waved at him. ‘We’re out of teabags. You want coffee instead?’
He stood. ‘Thanks, but I’ve got to go out for a bit.’ Then struggled into his jacket. ‘Don’t fancy a hurl, do you?’
‘Can you see the pile of work I’ve got on my desk? Every single sodding case McAdams ever worked on, and I have to review the lot.’
‘Come on, it’ll only take twenty minutes. Thirty tops.’
‘Another one of your “wee errands”, is it?’
‘The woman my brother beat up wants to see me. Apparently it’s urgent.’
Franklin smiled. ‘Maybe she wants her teddy bear back?’
That was a point. And it wasn’t as if they needed it now.
‘Why not?’
‘So I was thinking, maybe curry?’
Callum shrugged, taking the Mondeo around the Calderwell Roundabout and into Kingsmeath. ‘Bit unusual for a wake, but yeah. Sounds good. Get a bit of ballast in us before we hit the Bart.’
Sunlight glittered back from the satellite dishes and double glazing that graced the houses lining the road. Not a cloud in the sky. Even the river was settling back to its normal sedate sludgy grey.
Franklin nodded. ‘I know Dotty’s getting in some sausage rolls and wee scotch eggs, but I always end up feeling cheated if I don’t get a proper dinner.’
‘Can’t go wrong with fish and chips.’
‘True.’
And it’d be quicker than going out for a curry, so there’d be plenty of time to finish reading McAdams’ book before heading out to celebrate his death. Would be good to get it finished. Move on to something else. Something a bit less … deranged and murdery.
Wonder if anyone would publish it?
Might be an idea to see where they stood, legally, with that one. Suppose the rights would belong to McAdams’ wife.
Left, up Munro Place. Over the top of the hill and down the other side.
Maybe they could publish it and all the proceeds could go to the victims’ families? Or would that just be fulfilling McAdams’ little fantasies of immortality and success?
Callum slowed for the turning onto Manson Avenue. What if they—
Franklin hit him on the arm.
‘Ow! What was that for?’
‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you?’
‘Curry then karaoke.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘That was five minutes ago. I was talking about Mark wanting to get back together again. Maybe take a trip to Thailand, or New Zealand.’
‘Thought he was “an entitled dick who didn’t respect you as a human being”? And I’m quoting there.’
‘I don’t know why I bother telling you anything.’
‘You were the one who said it.’ Callum pulled up outside number 45. The block looked pretty much as horrible as it had the last two times, only now the weeds crowding the front garden were bigger. About time Irene cashed her dirty big cheque from Alastair and traded up for somewhere better.
‘I’ve always wanted to go to New Zealand.’
‘Mark’s a dick. You know it. I know it.’ Callum climbed out of the car, then reached into the back for the teddy bear lying on the passenger shelf. ‘Everyone knows it.’
She caught up to him halfway along the path. ‘The most exotic holiday we ever had was a three-day trip to Belgium. And that was only because he had to go to a conference.’
‘So, what: you’re going to take him back, shag him, laugh at his horrible jokes, all because he’s going to take you to New Zealand? You do know what they call women who only sleep with men to get things, don’t you?’ Callum stuck his thumb on the doorbell, setting it ringing deep inside the house. ‘Because it isn’t nice.’
‘Oh go bite your own backside.’
‘At best, you’d be a gold digger, and at worst—’
The door opened, and there was Benny, in his blue tracksuit and backwards baseball cap. His eyes were small and pink, ringed with red. Cheeks shiny. A glittering trickle of snot on his top lip catching the sunlight. He held up his arm. ‘Uncle Callum!’
‘Benny, are you OK?’
He looked up at them, bottom lip wobbling, then turned and ran back inside.
Franklin raised an eyebrow.
‘He’s a bit … odd.’ Callum stepped over the threshold. Raised his voice. ‘Miss Brown? Irene? Hello?’
‘All kids are odd. They don’t stop being odd till they hit their twenties, and even then it’s—’ Franklin’s phone launched into ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’. She sighed. Dug it out. ‘Mark? Is it important, because I’m in the middle of something … I’m not being “like” anything … No, I’m …’ She rolled her eyes at Callum. ‘Yes. But you remember what I do for a living, don’t you?’
Callum pointed into the house and pulled a face.
She nodded and turned back to the path. ‘There’s no need to get all defensive about it, Mark. If we’re going to give this another chance, you need to respect my boundaries … Yes … I didn’t say that.’
He left her to it.
Down the hall. ‘Irene? You there?’ He held up the bear. ‘I’ve got Mr Lumpylump.’ Into the living room.
And there she was. Irene Brown. On her knees in front of the room’s saggy armchair, one hand covering her mouth, blood dripping between her fingers. The other hand scrabbled at the carpet for what looked like teeth.
What the hell was—
The door battered into him, hard enough to send Callum thumping sideways against the wall, then tumbling to the floor. Sending a plastic tidal wave of kid’s toys clattering across the carpet.
Then a boot connected with his ribs, hurling him into the wall again. Slamming all the air from his lungs and setting fire to his whole side. Another boot caught him on the forehead, snapping his head back. Drowning out all sound with a deafening booming ringing noise.
Then a hand grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him up. ‘Think you’re clever, don’t you? Think you got away.’ Ainsley Dugdale grinned at him, the bruises on his butcher’s-slab face fading away to a dirty smear. He folded his other hand into a fist. ‘See when I take money for a job? I do the job. And you don’t get away.’
The world snapped around ninety degrees and everything tasted of hot copper wire.
Callum raised an arm, but the fist battered his face again making something inside his cheek go snap. The carpet rushed up and crashed into his chest. ‘Ungggghh …’
‘Think you’re the only one can do detecting?’ The boot cracked into his ribs again. ‘I open my newspaper and what do I see? This bitch whining on about how her man don’t treat her right, even though she’s a total whore.’ Another kick flipped Callum over onto his back.
Every breath was like running a cheese grater over his lungs.
He coughed and warm red spattered back down onto his cheeks.
‘So I thinks to myself, “Oho, this bitch is friends with Detective Constable Callum MacGregor, is she? Let’s see if we can’t arrange a wee surprise party for him.’ This time the boot stamped down on his chest. Once. Twice. Then one cracked his head off the skirtin
g board. ‘You enjoying your party? Want to blow out your candles?’
The room lurched, then settled down into a slow, dark throb.
Strange, the carpet looked all cheap and threadbare from a distance, but lying here it was soft and warm and comfortable. Like the floor of R.M. Travis’s garage. Or McAdams’ basement.
Didn’t even hurt all that much any more.
All his arms and legs. Like rubbery lead. Heavy and warm.
Could just go to sleep, right here on the floor.
Dugdale’s face was all teeth, shiny and brown, shown off in a grin as he pulled out a lighter and scritched his thumb across the wheel. Sparks. More sparks. Then a big yellow flame. ‘What do you think: start with your eyes or your ears? Yeah, let’s burn a—’
‘Get away from Uncle Callum!’ Benny jumped on Dugdale. Eyes wide, tears on his cheeks, snot glistening from his nose. Teeth bared. ‘GRRRRRRRRR!’
‘What the … Get off me you little freak! You’re in for—’
He sank his teeth into Dugdale’s arm, shaking his head like a terrier. Blood trickling down his chin.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
‘Benny!’ Willow ran for him, grabbed her brother’s arm and pulled. But Benny just bit deeper. So she let go and ran away.
Not so big and tough after all.
‘AAAAAAAAAARGH!’ A chunk of flesh came free, big as a chicken nugget, the hole it left behind: red and purple, fringed with yellow. Dugdale stared at it for a moment, mouth hanging open. Then he backhanded Benny, sending the little boy flying into the back of the armchair. ‘YOU LITTLE SHIT!’
Benny bounced, eyes wide, blood all over his mouth and chin. Grinning. Snapping his teeth together. Then lunging again. Sinking his teeth into Dugdale’s leg, right at the bulge of his calf.
‘AAAAAARGH! KILL YOU!’ Dugdale grabbed him by the throat, ripped Benny off his leg and held him up, like a mascot. Then slammed him into the wall hard enough to crack the plasterboard. ‘YOU’RE DEAD, YOU LITTLE FREAK!’
‘LEAVE MY BROTHER ALONE!’ Willow was back, clutching a dirty big kitchen knife, the blade gleaming as she swung it at him.
It never made contact. Dugdale punched her, hard in the face, sending her spinning away to smash into the playpen. Tiny drops of blood glittered in the air, marking her path. The knife thunked blade-down into the carpet.
A Dark So Deadly Page 64
