Читать книгу A Dark So Deadly - Stuart MacBride - Страница 18

Callum stuck his notebook back in his pocket, stepping out of the stairwell and into the drizzle. The view hadn’t improved, if anything it was worse. Low cloud and mist hid everything on the other side of the river, reduced the MacKinnon Quay to little more than a collection of random shapes.

The whole world rendered in shades of grey.

Getting dark too.

Oh no … He checked his watch: just gone half six. The Polish deli would be closed. No pickled cucumbers, onion rolls, or anything else.

So much for Elaine’s cravings.

Yeah, he was going to be popular when he finally got home.

He scuffed along the path then down the stairs to road level, made his way past patrol cars and manky Transit vans. Someone had finger-painted a big willy in the dirt across the back doors of one, complete with hairs.

McAdams’ shiny red Shogun took pride of place in front of the Willymobile, engine running, inside lights on. Callum limped over to the thing and slid onto the back seat. Closed the door on the cold dreich evening. ‘God, it’s perishing out there.’

Sitting in the passenger seat, Mother took a sip of something in a large wax-paper cup. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Detective Constable MacGregor.’

He sighed. ‘What am I supposed to have done now?’

Her sidekick turned the blowers down and turned in his seat. ‘You kicked in the door. Didn’t call for permission. You should know better.’

‘You’re very welcome, Sarge.’ Callum cupped his hands over the heater mounted between the seats, trying to get some feeling back in his fingertips. ‘If it wasn’t for me you’d still be investigating odds and sods – I brought in a murder, OK?’

Mother still hadn’t turned around. ‘What makes you think it’s a murder, Callum? Man falls over in the bath, drowns, happens all the time.’

‘And did he accidentally drown in the bath, before or after dragging a big sheet of plasterboard and two tubs of paint in front of the bathroom door?’ Callum poked at the heater. ‘Can you turn this thing up?’

McAdams fiddled with the dashboard and warmth flowed. ‘What about the door-to-doors?’

He produced his notebook. ‘Sixty-three flats in the immediate vicinity. Twenty-four of them did nothing but complain about their neighbours, thirty-one wouldn’t answer the door or weren’t in, and nine want their hats re-tinfoiled. Not one of them had a single thing to say about Glen Carmichael or his mates.’ Shrug. ‘Well, other than the downstairs neighbour complaining about Led Zeppelin playing on a loop, full blast, for the last two days.’

‘Interesting …’ Mother tapped her fingers along the wax-paper cup. ‘Officially, I should reprimand you for breaking into a crime scene without authorisation, Callum, but our new girl put her hand up to it. Said you were dragged along against your better judgement.’

McAdams snorted. ‘I didn’t even know you had one.’

‘So you, my little man, may have a sweetie.’ Mother dug into her pocket and produced a bag of jelly babies. Held them out.

Callum helped himself to a green one. ‘Thanks.’

She put the bag away. ‘I always love this bit. Forensics are going through the scene, we don’t know who the victim is, there’s a killer on the loose. Excitement. Adventure. And …’ She frowned. ‘Can’t remember the end of the quote, but you know what I mean.’

McAdams nodded. ‘The main plot is unfolding. What we need now is a flashback from the killer’s perspective then some sort of investigative montage to show how much research the writer’s done.’ He clicked his fingers again. ‘Constable MacGregor, get yourself and your new best friend DC Franklin back to the lair. I want a murder board ready to go by … I’m in the mood for pizza, so call it an hour and a half. And get a lookout request on the go for Glen Carmichael and his two mates while you’re at it. Most people stick to rubber duckies in their bathtub, a dead body requires a bit more explaining.’

Ah. ‘Sarge, I was kinda hoping to go home and—’

‘Oooh.’ Mother made a sooking noise. ‘And you were doing so well, Callum. I even gave you a jelly baby.’

‘Time to be a team player, Detective Constable.’

His shoulders slumped. ‘Yes, Boss.’

Yeah, Elaine was going to kill him.

The wet road hissed beneath the pool car’s tyres.

Franklin frowned out of the window. ‘I thought Division Headquarters was that way?’

‘Technically, yes.’ Callum took a right at the roundabout, heading back along the boundary between Castleview and The Wynd. ‘Just got a quick errand to run first.’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Is this what it’s going to be like, Constable? All moaning and “wee errands”?’

‘Five, ten minutes tops. I swear.’ After all, the traffic wasn’t too bad for a Tuesday. ‘Someone stole my wallet this morning. A guy might have it at a shop in Kingsmeath.’

A sigh. A shake of the head. ‘Thought you were supposed to be a police officer.’

‘I was trying to save a little girl’s life: that OK with you?’ Up and over the Blackwall Bridge, and back into Blackwall Hill again, with its modern sprawl of cul-de-sacs and middle-class housing estates.

‘By losing your wallet?’

Past the lights, the road opened up into dual carriageway, everyone sticking to the outside lane to avoid Oldcastle City Council’s award-winning collection of potholes. ‘I didn’t lose it, it was stolen.’

‘This isn’t helping us put a murder board together.’

‘We’ll be fine.’

‘They’re only going for pizza, we—’

‘I’ve done loads of murder boards: it’ll be fine. Trust me.’

She pursed her lips. ‘And why on earth would I do that?’

Fair point.

Montgomery Park drifted by on the right-hand side, a bunch of big white marquees with tartan stripes already sprouting on the grass around the boating lake.

‘OK. Full one hundred percent honesty time: the reason everyone hates me, is they think Big Johnny Simpson bribed me to sod-up a crime scene so he’d get off. But I didn’t. Not a penny. Ever.’

She frowned at him. ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? That you’re incompetent instead of corrupt?’

‘I’m not incompetent!’

‘Could have fooled me.’

‘Fine. I was trying to share, but why don’t you just sit there in sulky silence. See if I care.’ He clicked on the radio. Let it drown out her pouting.

‘… headline the main stage on Saturday, of course, it’s Oldcastle’s very own Donny “Sick Dawg” McRoberts! Donny, my man, good to have you in.’

A fake London patois burst out of the speaker, not quite good enough to conceal the Kingsmeath burr underneath. ‘Yah, it’s Sick Dawg, right? Donny’s what me foster mum called us, and you ain’t my mum, bro.’

‘Ha, ha. Right. Yeah, I got you, man. Respect. “Sick Dawg” it is …’

The massive Blackburgh Roundabout loomed before them. Burgh Library sat on a hill in the middle, all lit up like a 1960s idea of a spaceship – glass and concrete, curving walls and wonky rooflines. The Kingsmeath side of the roundabout was ringed by seven massive tower blocks, eighteen-storey headstones soaring above a scrubby patch of woodland. More 1984 than Star Trek.

‘So, “Sick Dawg”, welcome to Deathbed Discs on Castlewave FM, where we find out what tracks you’d take with you to the grave. And you’re kicking us off with “Stan” from Eminem’s fourth album, The Marshall—’

‘Yah, I been thinking about it, right? And I’m-a not about that no more.’

Callum swung the pool car around the outside lane, then took the first turning into Kingsmeath.

It was as if someone had turned down the lights, leaving the buildings in gloom. Rows and rows of council houses. Tenements. Grey faces and grey buildings.

‘You’re not?’

‘Nah, man. I go to my grave I’m not gonna be surrounded by stuff from the oldtimers, you know what I’m sayin’? Nah: I’m-a play my own stuff, bro. You know, from the heart.’

‘OK …’

An old couple stood on the pavement, screaming at each other, a wee dog cowering on its lead as they yelled.

‘Well, why don’t we just play the song anyway. It’ll give us time to completely abandon all the music your publicist told us you wanted to talk about and reprogramme the whole show …’

Fake rain clattered out of the speakers, followed by Dido singing over a heavy bassline.

Franklin made a little growling noise then jabbed her hand out and turned the radio off. ‘Bloody rap music.’

After that she kept her mouth firmly shut all the way through the bleak housing estates, past a dilapidated playing park – the swings and roundabouts reduced to slumped blobs of fire-blackened plastic – past Douglas on the Mound with its scaffolding-shrouded spire and vandalised graveyard …

It wasn’t until Callum pulled into a potholed car park that she opened it again. ‘Is this it?’

The car park was bordered on three sides by what were probably billed as ‘single-storey retail units with excellent potential!’ but looked more like something off the news when a riot’s just passed through. Three of the eight were boarded up; all were covered in a tattoo of graffiti; all had the kind of metal grilles over the window that were meant to roll up out of the way, but probably spent all their time firmly locked in the down position. A newsagents, a chip shop, a convenience store that looked about as welcoming as a shallow grave, a charity shop, and right at the far end: Little Mike’s Pawnshop. The sign above the frontage boasted, ‘WE BUY AND SELL ALL MANNER OF THINGS!’ ‘CASH FOR GOLD!’ ‘PAYDAY LOANS AT EXCELLENT RATES!!!’ ‘EST. 1995!’

Callum parked in front of it. ‘Won’t be long.’

‘Oh for … You’re here to redeem some manky family heirloom?’

‘Five minutes. Promise.’ He climbed out into the rain. Ducked his head and hurried inside.

The door made an electronic bleep-blonk noise as it swung closed behind him. Shelves lined the walls, packed with other people’s things. Free-standing display units turned the shop into a labyrinth. Old video game consoles, a collection of musical instruments, microwaves, hairdryers, boxed cutlery, vases, what looked like a brass urn with ‘IN MEMORY OF AGNES MAY ~ BELOVED MOTHER’ engraved on it. All of it marinating in the gritty stench of dust and mildew.

Callum picked his way through the maze to the counter, where a wee fat man was bent over a copy of the Castle News and Post. His white shirt was just a bit too big for him, the collar and cuffs stained and frayed. A maroon waistcoat with buttons missing and brown stains down the front. Bald head glinting in the shop’s dim lighting.

‘You Little Mike?’

The man behind the counter looked up, squinted, then pulled on a pair of small round glasses. ‘I am indeed, young sir, welcome to my emporium of delight.’ He swept a chubby hand from left to right, indicating his second-hand wares. ‘How may we assist you this drizzly September evening?’

The door made its bleep-blonk noise again and Franklin appeared, as if by magic. ‘Are you not finished yet?’

‘Ah, I see.’ Little Mike smiled like an indulgent parent. Then he folded his paper and moved it off to one side, revealing the glass countertop. A collection of rings and watches sparkled against dusty purple velvet. ‘An engagement ring for the lady, perhaps?’

Franklin stiffened. ‘What?’

‘Definitely not!’ Warmth bloomed in Callum’s ears. ‘Someone tried to use my credit and debit cards in here today. You destroyed them.’

He sighed. ‘A shame. You make such a lovely couple.’ A finger poked the glass. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’

‘Did they leave my wallet behind?’

‘Or, how about this?’ He grabbed something from beneath the counter and stuck it on his head then went back and fiddled a clip-on bow tie into place. ‘See? It’s a fez and bow tie. You can dress up like Doctor Who, for parties. Isn’t that fun?’

‘Have – you – got – my – wallet?’

‘No? Ah well.’ He covered the glass top with his newspaper again. ‘The young lady and gentleman concerned did have a wallet with them. A rather tatty affair, with the lining hanging out.’

Oh thank God. ‘That’s it! That’s the one.’

‘I see … Well, perhaps I can help.’ He disappeared through a door in the back.

Franklin picked the urn from its shelf. ‘Who pawns their mother’s ashes?’

‘Here we are.’ Little Mike was back, holding a shoebox. He set it down on the countertop and pulled out a couple of wallets. ‘Real leather, look at that stitching, have you ever seen anything so magnificent?’

‘What? No. I don’t want another wallet, I want the one those little sods stole from me!’

A pained smile. ‘I’m sorry, the young lady and gentleman only handed over the cards, not the wallet. But I can do you a very good deal on a new one if—’ His eyes went wide behind the little round glasses and he bustled out into the shop. ‘If I may?’ He held his hands out in front of Franklin.

She gave him the urn.

‘Thank you. Mr May would be most distressed if I allowed his mother to leave the shop without him.’ Little Mike polished a speck of dust from the urn with a hanky, then returned it to its shelf. ‘Now, is there anything else I can interest you in, while you’re here? An electric guitar, perhaps? Or how about the sensual delight that comes with an electric foot spa?’

Callum held out his hand. ‘Where are the bits of credit card?’

‘Ah, of course. You wish to make sure I haven’t indulged in anything illicit. Quite proper.’ He pulled out a carrier bag and tipped the contents of his wastepaper basket into it. ‘Don’t worry: as it’s loose items, I don’t have to charge you for the bag. Now, if I can’t tempt you with my esoteric pre-loved wares, I think I might close up for the night. So, if you don’t mind …?’ He swept a hand towards the door.

They shuffled through the maze to the exit.

Callum stopped with one hand on the handle. Frowned back into the shop. ‘The building society said they were trying to redeem something when you cut up the cards.’

‘That is correct, yes.’

‘What?’

One of Little Mike’s eyebrows made a break for freedom. ‘Ah … I’m afraid I can’t—’

‘If you’re about to invoke pawnbroker-client confidentiality, don’t bother. What did they try to redeem?’

‘Very well.’ He shook his head, then turned and led them back through the stacks and display cases to a collection of brightly coloured plastic. ‘Items F-twenty-three to F-forty-six.’

There was a sandpit, a collection of squeaky toys that looked as if they belonged in a bath, a Wendy house, a kid’s tricycle far too small for either of the little monsters to ride. An off-grey teddy bear with only one ear, scuffed button eyes, and stuffing poking out of his side. There were other bits and pieces, but nothing suitable for anyone over the age of three.

Franklin gave Little Mike one of her finest scowls. ‘You pawn wee kids’ toys?’

He sighed. ‘Some people, this is all they have. If they can’t pay their bills, their rent, if they can’t buy food for their children, what do they do? You want them to go to loan sharks?’

‘They’re kids’ toys.’

‘I know. But what can I do, turn them away hungry? Let them get thrown out on the street? So I pawn their children’s toys, and I know they’ll never come back and redeem them, and I know they’re worthless, but I do what I can.’ He took off his glasses and polished them on the frayed edge of his shirt. ‘This is what real life looks like from down here at the bottom, officers. Foodbanks and pawnshops. Who else is going to help these people?’

Callum frowned down at the collection of plastic tat.

A hand on his arm. ‘Come on, we need to get that murder board done.’

He puffed out his cheeks. ‘How much to redeem the toys? And I’ll need their address.’