Читать книгу A Dark So Deadly - Stuart MacBride - Страница 11

‘POLICE! COME BACK HERE, YOU WEE SOD!’

Only that wasn’t really right, was it? Ainsley Dugdale wasn’t a wee sod – he was a dirty great big lumping hulk of a sod, hammering his way along Manson Avenue. Ape-long arms and short legs pumping, scarf flittering out behind him, baldy head glinting in the morning sunshine.

Callum gritted his teeth and hammered after him.

Why did no one ever come back when they were told to? Anyone would think people didn’t want to get arrested.

Squat grey council houses scrolled past on either side of the street, lichen-flecked pantiles and harled walls. Front gardens awash with weeds. More abandoned sofas and washing machines than gnomes and bird tables.

A couple of kids were out on their bikes, making lazy figure eights on the tarmac. The wee boy had sticky-out ears and a flat monkey nose, a roll-up sticking out the corner of his mouth – leaving coiled trails of smoke behind him. The wee girl was all blonde ringlets and pierced ears, swigging from a tin of extra-strong cider as she freewheeled. Both of them dressed in baggy jeans, trainers, and tracksuit tops. Baseball caps on the right way around, for a change.

Rap music blared out of a mobile phone. ‘Cops can’t take me, cos I’m strong like an oak tree, / Fast like the grand prix, / I’m-a still fly free … ’

The wee girl shifted her tinny to the other hand and raised a middle finger in salute as Callum ran past. ‘HOY, PIGGY, I SHAGGED YER MUM, YEAH?’

Her wee friend made baboon hoots. ‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH! PIGGY, PIGGY, PIGGY!’

Neither of them looked a day over seven years old.

The delights of darkest Kingsmeath.

Dugdale skittered around the corner at the end of the road. Almost didn’t make it – banged against the side of a rusty Renault, righted himself and kept on going, up the hill.

‘RUN, PIGGY, RUN!’ Little Miss Cider appeared, standing on the pedals to keep up, grinning as she flanked him. ‘COME ON, PIGGY, PUT SOME WELLY IN IT!’

Her baboon friend pedalled up on the other side. ‘FAT PIGGY, LAZY PIGGY!’

‘Bugger off, you little sods …’ Callum wheeched through the turn, into another row of grubby houses. Low garden walls guarded small squares of thistle and dandelions, ancient rusty hatchbacks up on bricks, the twisted metal brackets where satellite dishes used to be.

‘COME ON, PIGGY!’

The gap was narrowing. Dugdale might have got off to an impressive sprint start, but his long game wasn’t anywhere near as good – puffing and panting as he lumbered up Munro Place. Getting slower with every step.

‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH!’

He crested the hill with Callum barely ten feet behind him.

The street fell away towards a grubby line of trees and a grubbier line of houses, but Dugdale didn’t stop to admire the view: he kept his head down, picking up a bit of velocity on the descent.

The wee kids freewheeled alongside him, Little Miss Cider swigging from her can. ‘RUN, BALDY – PIGGY’S GONNA GET YOU!’

One last burst. Callum accelerated. ‘I’M NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN!’

Dugdale snatched a glance over his shoulder – little eyes surrounded by dark circles, a nose that looked as if it’d been broken at least a dozen times, scar bisecting his bottom lip. He swore. Then put on another burst of speed.

‘NO YOU DON’T!’

‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH!’

Closer. Eight foot. Seven. Six.

Here we go …

Callum leapt. Arms out – rugby-tackle style.

His shoulder caught Dugdale just above the waist, arms wrapping around the top of the big sod’s legs. Holding on tight as they both crashed onto the pavement, rolling over and over. Grunts. More swearing. A tangle of arms and legs. Then something the size of a minibus battered into Callum’s face.

Now the world tasted of hot batteries.

Another punch. ‘GET OFF ME!’

Callum jabbed out an elbow and connected with something solid.

‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH!’

‘FIGHT, PIGGY, FIGHT!’

Then the pavement battered off the back of his head and a fist slammed into his stomach. Fire roared through his torso, accompanied by the sound of a thousand alarm clocks all ringing at once.

He swung a punch and Dugdale’s nose went from broken to smashed.

‘Gahhhh!’ Dugdale reared back, blood spilling down over his top lip. He lashed out blind, eyes closed, and that massive fist came close enough to ruffle the hair above Callum’s ear.

Distance. Get some distance.

A big black Mercedes slid past, the sweaty-sweet scent of marijuana coiling out from the back windows, a deep BMMTSHHH, BMMTSHHH, BMMTSHHH of hip-hop bass rattling the air. It stopped in the middle of the road, where they could get a good view of the fight. But did anyone get out to help? Of course they sodding didn’t.

‘KILL HIM, PIGGY, FINISH HIM!’

‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH!’

Callum scrabbled back against a rusty Volkswagen. Yanked out his handcuffs. ‘Ainsley Dugdale, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure – Scotland – Act 1995—’

‘FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!’ The kids pulled up their bikes, blocking the pavement, making an impromptu brawl-pit in the space between the Volkswagen and a garden wall. ‘COME ON: KILL HIM!’

‘Shut up!’ Back to Dugdale. ‘Because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment, namely the—’

‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH!’

‘GAAAAH!’ Dugdale lunged, but not at Callum. He grabbed the wee girl by the throat and yanked her off her bike.

Her tin of cider hit the deck and bounced, sending out a spurt of frothy urine-coloured liquid. ‘Ulk …’ Eyes wide, both hands clutching onto Dugdale’s forearm, legs pinwheeling and kicking at the air.

Oh sodding hell. And things had been going so well right up till that point.

‘No, no, no!’ Callum scrambled to his feet. ‘That’s enough. Let the girl go.’

Her wee mate hurled his roll-up. It burst against Dugdale’s chest in a little hiss of sparks. ‘LET HER GO, YOU DIRTY PAEDO!’

‘Come on, Dugdale … Ainsley. You don’t want to hurt a kid, right?’ Hands out, open, nice and safe. ‘You’re not that kind of guy, are you?’

‘PAEDO! PAEDO! PAEDO!’

Callum hissed the words out the side of his mouth. ‘You are not helping.’

Dugdale stuck out his other hand. ‘Money!’

‘Come on, Ainsley, let the girl go and—’

‘GIVE US YOUR MONEY!’ He gave the girl a shake, sending her legs swinging wildly as her face turned a darker shade of puce. ‘NOW!’

‘OK, OK. Just let her breathe.’ Callum dug out his battered old wallet. The one with the threadbare lining sticking out. He took the last tenner and crumpled fiver from inside. ‘Here.’ He placed the cash on the floor.

‘Is that it?’ Dugdale glowered at the two sorry notes. ‘ALL OF IT, OR I SNAP HER NECK IN HALF!’

Baboon Boy’s chant died. ‘Paedo …?’

The kicks were getting weaker: those Nike trainers barely moving.

Her wee friend snivelled. Wiped his top lip on the back of his sleeve. ‘Please, mister. Don’t hurt my sister …’

‘That’s all the money I’ve got, OK? Now let the girl go.’

Dugdale growled, then chucked the little girl at Callum.

He ducked for the fifteen quid as Callum dropped the tatty wallet and caught her wee body before it hit the pavement. And that’s when everything slowed down.

The tatty wallet bounced off the paving slabs, spinning away, its torn lining waving like a flag.

‘Aaaggggh …’ She hauled in a huge whoop of air, both hands wrapped around her throat – as if Dugdale hadn’t done a good enough job throttling her and she was having a go herself.

But Dugdale didn’t snatch up the money, he kept on going, smashing into Callum and the wee girl, sending them slamming back into the Volkswagen. Rocking it on its springs.

A fist connected with Callum’s ribs. Arms and legs tangled. Flashes of sky, then concrete, then rusty metal, then sky again.

Then bang – everything was at full speed again.

Callum yanked the pepper spray from his jacket pocket. The little girl wriggled her way out from between them, trainers digging into his thigh as she went. Callum flipped the cap off the spray and thumbed the button, sending a squirt of burning pepper stink out at Dugdale’s face.

Missed.

Dugdale didn’t. He rammed his hand into Callum’s crotch, grabbed hold, and squeezed.

Oh God …

But when Callum opened his mouth to scream, all that came out was a strangled wheeze – eyes wide as every single ache and pain in his body disappeared, replaced by the thermonuclear explosion going off in his scrotum. It raced out through his stomach, down his legs, up into his chest – a shockwave ripping out from ground zero as Dugdale twisted his handful like a rusty doorknob.

Oh sodding Jesus …

Dugdale let go, but the nuclear war still raged.

No …

Water filled Callum’s eyes, making the word go all soft focus, but the pain remained pin-sharp. He lashed out with the pepper spray, swinging it in an arc with the button held down.

Someone bellowed in pain.

Then scuffing feet.

Argh …

The clatter of a very large man tripping over a fallen bicycle.

A dull thunk, like a watermelon bouncing off a coffee table.

Oh that hurt …

‘BLOODY PAEDO!’ Some more thunks.

‘Come on, leave him!’

Thunk, thunk, thunk. ‘BLOODY BALDY PAEDO WANKER!’

Ow …

‘Willow, come on! Before he gets up!’

The sound of someone spitting.

‘Grab the cash, Benny. No, you spaz, get the wallet too!’

Then trainers on concrete, the rattle of bicycles being dragged upright, and the growl of tyres fading away into the distance.

One last cry of, ‘PIGGY, PIGGY, PIGGY!’

The sound of that big black Mercedes pulling away now the floor-show was over.

And silence.

Callum cursed and panted and wobbled his way up to his knees, one hand clutching his tattered groin.

Sodding … for … ooogh …

Deep breaths.

Nope. Not helping.

He scrubbed a hand across his watery eyes.

Dugdale lay on his front, one hand behind his back the other limp in the gutter. His face looked as if someone had driven over it with a ride-on lawnmower.

Callum dragged himself over and slapped on the cuffs. ‘You’re nicked.’

Ow …

‘Little monsters …’ Never mind saying thank you – no, that was too much to hope for these days, he’d only saved her life, not as if it was that big a deal – but did they have to take his sodding wallet?

Dugdale twitched and groaned, eyes still closed, the blood crusting on his battered nose. A swathe of red crossed his face, following the pepper spray’s less than delicate path, swollen and angry looking. Like the lump on his head. It was going to be impressive when it finished growing – about the size and colour of a small aubergine. Probably have himself a gargantuan headache when he finally woke up. Maybe concussion too.

Good. Served him right.

Callum pulled out his mobile, staying where he was – standing, hunched over almost double, one hand on his knee, holding him upright as he dialled.

Three rings and then a woman’s voice came on the line, sounding small and concerned. ‘Hello?’

‘Elaine, it’s me.’

‘Callum? Are you OK? You don’t sound OK. Is everything OK?’

He gritted his teeth as an aftershock rippled its way through his groin. ‘No. Can you phone the bank? I need you to cancel my debit and credit card. Someone’s snatched them.’

A sigh. ‘Oh, Callum, not your dad’s wallet …’

‘Don’t start, please. It’ll be bad enough when McAdams gets here, don’t need you kicking the party off early.’

Silence.

Yeah, way to go, Callum. Smooth. Nice and understanding.

He took a deep breath. ‘Sorry, it’s … I’m not having the greatest of days.’

‘I’m not your enemy, Callum. I know it’s been difficult for you.’

Understatement of the year. ‘All I get is snide comments, nasty little digs, and crap. It’s been three solid weeks of—’

‘It’s for the best though, remember? For Peanut’s sake?’

Peanut.

He closed his eyes. Tried to make it sound as if he meant it: ‘Yeah.’

‘We need the money, Callum. We need the maternity pay to—’

‘Yeah. Right. I know. It’s just …’ He wiped a hand over his face. ‘Never mind. It’ll be fine.’

‘And we really appreciate it, me and Peanut.’ A pause. ‘Speaking of Peanut, you know what he’d totally love? Nutella. And some pickled dill cucumbers. Not gherkins: the cucumbers, from the Polish deli on Castle Hill? Oh, and some onion rolls too.’

‘They stole my wallet, Elaine. I—’

‘I didn’t ask to get pregnant, Callum.’ A strangled noise came down the phone, like a cross between a grunt and a sigh. ‘Sorry. I don’t … There are times when I need a bit of support coping with all this.’

Support? Seriously?

‘How am I not supporting you? I put my hand up, didn’t I? I took the blame, even though it was nothing to do with—’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s …’ Another sigh. ‘Don’t worry about the Nutella and stuff, it’s only cravings. I’ll make do with whatever’s knocking about here.’

He limped over to the garden wall and lowered himself onto it with a wince. Took yet another deep breath. Scrunched a hand over his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Elaine. It’s not you, it’s … Like I said, I’m having a terrible day.’

‘It’ll get better, I promise. I love you, OK?’

‘Yeah, I know it will.’ It had to, because it couldn’t possibly get any worse.

‘Do you love me and Peanut too?’

‘Course I do.’

A shiny red Mitsubishi Shogun pulled into the kerb, the huge four-by-four’s window buzzing down as Callum levered himself up to his feet. His crumpled suit and crumpled body reflected back at him in the glittering showroom paintwork.

‘Got to go.’ He hung up and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

‘Constable Useless.’ A thin, lined face frowned through the open car window, its greying Vandyke framed by disappointed jowls. The chin-warmer was little more than stubble, matching the patchy salt-and-pepper hair on that jellybean of a head. ‘Do these old eyes deceive me? Did you catch Dugdale?’

Callum wobbled up to his feet, one hand on his ruptured testicles, the other holding onto the Shogun for support. ‘Oh: ha, ha.’ Another wave of burning glass washed through him, leaving him grimacing. ‘He’s been unconscious for a couple of minutes. You want to take him straight to the hospital, or risk the Duty Doctor?’

Please say hospital, please say hospital. At least there a nice nurse might have an icepack and a few kind words for his mangled groin.

DS McAdams raised an eyebrow. ‘I am shocked, Callum. Didn’t he have enough cash? No nice bribe for you?’

‘Sod off, Sarge.’ He let go of his crotch for a moment, pointing off down the hill. Winced. Then cupped his aching balls again. ‘Pair of kids got my wallet. We need to get after them.’

‘If I had to guess. The reason you’re hunched in pain. You have met The Claw!’ He held up one hand, the fingers curled into a cruel hook, then squashed an invisible scrotum. ‘Dugdale’s claw attacks. Crush and squish, the pain is great. Bringing hard men low.’

Callum stared at him. ‘They – got – my – wallet!’

The frown became a grin. ‘A well-turned haiku. It is a beautiful thing. You ignorant spud.’ He actually counted the syllables out on his fingers as he spoke.

‘For your information, Sarge, I’ve never taken a bribe in my life. OK? Not a single sodding penny. No perks, no wee gifts, nothing. So you can all go screw yourselves.’ He limped over to the back door and swung it open. ‘Now are you going to help me get Dugdale in the car or not?’

‘That’s the trouble with your generation: no poetry in your souls. No education, no class, and no moral fibre.’

‘Thanks for nothing.’ He bent down. Winced. Clenched his jaw. Then hauled Dugdale’s huge and heavy backside across the pavement and up onto the back seat.

‘He better not bleed. On my new upholstery. I just had it cleaned.’

‘Tough.’ Some wrestling, a bit of forcing, a shove, and Dugdale was more or less in the recovery position. Well, except for his hands being cuffed behind his back. But at least now he probably wouldn’t choke on his own tongue. Or vomit.

Mind you, if he spewed his breakfast all over Detective Sergeant McAdams’ shiny new four-by-four, at least that would be something. Assuming McAdams didn’t make Callum clean it up. Which he would.

Git.

Callum clunked the door shut, hobbled around to the passenger side and lowered himself into the seat. Crumpled forward until his forehead rested against the dashboard. ‘Ow …’

‘Seatbelt.’ The car slid away from the kerb.

Callum closed his eyes. ‘Think they turned right onto Grant Street. If you hurry we can still catch them: wee boy in jeans and a blue tracksuit top, wee girl in jeans and a red one. About six or seven years old. Both on bikes.’

‘You got mugged by toddlers?’ A gravelly laugh rattled out in the car. ‘That’s pathetic even for you.’

‘They’re getting away!’

‘We’re not going chasing after little kiddies, Constable. I have much more important things to do than clean up your disasters.’

‘That’s it. Stop the car.’ Callum straightened up and bared his teeth. ‘Come on: let’s go. You and me. I battered the crap out of Dugdale, I can do the same for you.’

‘Oh don’t be such a baby.’

‘I’m not kidding: stop – the – car.’

‘Really, DC MacGregor? You don’t think you’re in enough trouble as it is? How’s it going to look if you assault a senior officer who’s dying of cancer? Think it through.’ The car jolted and bumped, then swung around to the left, heading down towards Montrose Road. ‘And any time our workplace badinage gets too much for you, feel free to pop into Mother’s office with your resignation. Do us all a favour.’ He slowed for the junction. ‘Until then, try to behave like an actual police officer.’

Callum’s hands curled into fists, so tight the knuckles ached. ‘I swear to God—’

‘Now put your seatbelt on and try not to say anything stupid for the next fifteen minutes. I’ll not have you spoiling my remarkably good mood.’ He poked the radio and insipid pop music dribbled out of the speakers. ‘You see, Constable Useless, sometimes life gives you lemons, and sometimes it gives you vodka. Today is a vodka day.’

The jingly blandness piffled to a halt and a smoke-gravelled woman’s voice came through. ‘Hmmm, not sure about that one myself. You’re listening to Midmorning Madness on Castlewave FM with me, Annette Peterson, and today my extra-special guest is author and broadcaster, Emma Travis-Wilkes.’

McAdams put a hand over his heart, as if he was about to pledge allegiance. ‘Today is a caviar day.’

‘Glad to be here, Annette.’

‘A champagne and strawberries day.’

‘Now, a little bird tells me you’re writing a book about your dad, Emma. Of course he created Russell the Magic Rabbit, Ichabod Smith, and Imelda’s Miraculous Dustbin, but he’s probably best known for the children’s classic, Open the Coffins.’

‘A chocolate and nipple clamps—’

‘All right! I get it: everything’s just sodding great.’ Callum shifted in his seat, setting his testicles aching again. ‘One of us got thwacked in the balls, here.’

‘That’s right. He’s given joy to so many people, and now that he’s … well, Alzheimer’s is a cruel mistress. But it’s been a real privilege to swim in the pool of his life again.’

‘Pfff …’ McAdams curled his top lip. ‘Listen to this pretentious twaddle. Just because she’s got a famous dad, she gets to plug her book on the radio. What about my book? Where’s my interview?’

‘And it’s lovely to see these memories light up his face, it’s like he’s right back there again.’

‘Cliché. And, by the way, unless his face is actually glowing like a lightbulb, that’s physical hyperbole, you hack.’

Callum glowered across the car. ‘We should never have chipped in for that creative writing class.’

McAdams grinned back at him. ‘My heart: creative. My soul, it soars with the words. Divinity: mine.’

‘Wonderful stuff. Now, let’s have a bit of decent music, shall we? Here’s one of the acts appearing at Tartantula this weekend: Catnip Jane, and “Once Upon a Time in Dundee”.’

A banjo and cello launched into a sinister waltz, over a weird thumping rhythm as McAdams pulled out of the junction, heading left instead of right.

Silly old sod.

Callum sighed. ‘You’re going the wrong way.’ He pointed across the swollen grey river, past the docks and the industrial units, towards the thick granite blade of Castle Hill. ‘Division Headquarters is that direction. We need to get Dugdale booked in and seen to.’

‘Meh, he’ll keep.’ That skeletal grin had widened. ‘It’s a vodka day, remember? We, my useless little friend, have finally got our hands on a murder!’