Читать книгу A Dark So Deadly - Stuart MacBride - Страница 14

‘Yes, I understand that, but I’m asking anyway: do you now, or have you at any time, had a human mummy in your museum?’

The smell of chicken curry Pot Noodle coiled its way across the office, warring against a taint of cheesy feet and yesterday’s garlic.

From up here, on the third floor of Division Headquarters, the view should have been a lot better than it was: the back of a billboard streaked with pigeon droppings. Rusting supports featured a dozen small grey feathered bodies, strutting about and adding to the stains.

‘A mummy? What, like an Egyptian one?’ The young man on the other end of the phone sounded about as bright as a broken lightbulb. ‘Nah. No. Don’t think so.’ Think, think, think. ‘Maybe?’

Callum turned his back on the window, one hand massaging his temples, the other gripping the phone tight enough to make the plastic creak. Fighting hard to keep his voice reasonable and level. ‘Can you check for me? It’s important.’

The room was divided up into six bits, each one sectioned off with a chest-high cubicle wall – their grubby blue fabric stained with dribbled coffee and peppered with memos from the senior brass and cartoons cut from the Castle News and Post. Six cubicles for six desks, two of which were laden with dusty cardboard boxes and teetering piles of manila folders.

Almost every horizontal surface was covered in a thin grey fuzz of dust.

The top of Dot’s head was just visible above the edge of her cubicle, pale-brown hair swept up in a weird semi-beehive do. Schlurping noises marked the death of yet another freeze-dried soy and noodle product.

A tiny kitchen area sat in the corner behind her, complete with kettle, microwave, and a half-sized fridge that gurgled and buzzed. Throw in a sagging assortment of ceiling tiles, scuffed magnolia walls littered with scribbled-on whiteboards, the kind of carpet that looked as if it’d been fished out of a skip, and you had the perfect place to dump police officers while they waited for their careers to die.

Or were too stubborn to realise that their careers already had.

‘Pffff … Suppose. I’ll see what I can do. Hang on, gotta put you on hold.’ Click, and an elevator muzak version of ‘American Idiot’ dribbled out of the earpiece.

Callum printed the word ‘dick’ in little biro letters next to the museum’s name. It joined a long, long list.

Dot wheeled her chair back till she could peer around her cubicle. ‘Callum, you on the phone?’ Her scarlet lipstick was smudged and a shiny dot of gravy glittered on one rounded cheek. For some reason she’d decided it was a good idea to dress up in what looked like a black chef’s jacket, only with shiny silver buttons and silvery edging.

He held up the receiver. ‘On hold.’

‘Don’t fancy making a chocolate run, do you? Only the machine on the fifth floor’s got Curly Wurlies.’

‘Can’t: I’m on hold.’ He waggled the phone again to emphasise the point.

‘I’d go myself, but I’m avoiding Detective Superintendent Ness. She found out I scratched her new Nissan Micra with Keith. Please?’

His shoulder slumped. ‘Dot—’

‘Pretty please? Got the doctor at three, need to keep my morale up.’

A voice growled out from the opposite corner: ‘For Christ’s sake!’ Watt stood, glowering over his cubicle wall at them. He’d swept his dark floppy hair back from his high forehead, securing it there with enough product to stick a hippo to the wall. Sunken eyes. Squint teeth. A sad excuse for a beard that looked as if he’d made it himself out of ginger pubic hair. ‘Will the two of you shut up? Some of us are trying to work.’

Dot narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Oh, I’m sorry Detective Constable Watt, are we disturbing your sulk?’

He stuck out his chin and its wispy covering. ‘I am not sulking, Sergeant. I’m preparing for a deposition, OK? Now will the pair of you shut up and let me get on with it?’

‘All I wanted was a Curly Wurly.’

‘Fine! Fine. You know what? Here …’ He dug into his pocket and hurled a fiver in Callum’s direction. It fluttered and tumbled in mid-air, falling to the manky carpet six feet short. ‘Go. Get her some sodding chocolate. Just do it quietly.’

Callum held up the phone again. ‘Is this thing invisible? I’m – on – hold!’

‘Aye, hello?’ The Scottish idiot on the other end cut ‘American Idiot’ dead. ‘Hello? … You still there?’

Finally. ‘Hello. Yes.’

‘Right, I’ve had a word with Davey: he can’t remember a mummy, but he’s only been here a year longer than me. Marge’s been here for donkeys’, but she’s on holiday till the twelfth. Gone to Norwich for a BDSM festival. You want me to give her your contact details so she can drop you an email when she gets back?’

Callum folded forward until his forehead rested against his keyboard. Don’t swear. Don’t swear. ‘That would be great. Thanks.’

‘Yeah, OK.’ And the line went dead.

He hung up.

Dot’s chair squeaked across the room. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Until it was right next to him. When he looked up, she smiled. ‘So … chocolate?’ She fiddled with the wheelchair’s push rims, twisting the whole thing left and right. All coy and fluttering eyelashes. The left leg of her jeans was stitched closed and trimmed off, just below where her knee should have been.

Suppose a little help getting some chocolate wasn’t too much to ask for.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Then nodded. ‘Yeah. Could do with a break anyway.’ He pushed back from his desk. ‘Curly Wurly, coming right up.’

She nodded at the list sitting next to his phone. ‘No luck?’

‘You got any idea how many museums there are in Scotland?’ He stood, bent over and scooped Watt’s hurled fiver from the floor. ‘Then there’s all the universities and private schools with natural history stuff in display cases. Never mind private collections.’

‘You want a hand?’

He blinked. Turned back to her.

At least one person on the team didn’t treat him like something they’d stepped in. ‘Thanks, Dot.’

‘Don’t get all emotional about it. I’m only helping so you’ll be my chocolate monkey.’ She wiggled her fingers above her head, cackling it out: ‘Fly free, my pretty!’

Over in the corner, Watt gave a frustrated wee scream.

Callum slumped his way up the stairs. Two years since they stopped doing proper meals in the canteen. Two years and the stairwell still smelled of boiled cabbage.

His phone went off as he reached the fourth-floor landing. Sodding hell.

He dragged it out. ‘What?’

There was a pause. Then a high-pitched man’s voice squeaked in his ear. ‘Mr MacGregor? I’m calling from the Royal Caledonian Building Society’s Fraud Prevention Department. I need to ask you a few security questions. OK?’

Callum glowered at the wall. ‘No, it’s not OK.’

‘I’m sorry, have I called at a bad time?’

‘Someone’s just nicked my wallet, and I’ve got no idea who you are. I’m not giving you my security details. You want to help? You prove who you are by answering my security questions.’

‘I … I don’t think we’re allowed to do that.’

‘Tough. What’s the third, fifth, and first letters of my mother’s maiden name?’

‘Errr … Look: why don’t you call us, then? That way you’ll know it’s not a scam. You’ll find the number on the back of your cards.’

‘On the back of my stolen cards? The cards I don’t have?’

‘Ah … Right.’ What sounded like an argument echoed up from the floors below, followed by a door clunking shut. ‘Well, maybe you could pop into a branch and they can help you?’ Was that a note of hope and desperation there at the end? Please go away and become someone else’s problem.

‘Yeah. Why not.’ He hung up and clunked his head against the wall. Breathed in the cabbagey smell. Then opened his eyes and swore. No wallet meant no cards. And the little sods had wheeched off with his last fifteen quid, leaving him with … He rummaged in his pocket and came out with two pounds fifty-six in change, a button, and a Mint Imperial that had gone all hairy with pocket fluff. So Elaine could have a jar of Polish pickles or a jar of Nutella, but not both. And forget the onion rolls.

Because it wasn’t as if he could steal the change from Watt’s fiver.

Could he?

He puffed out a breath. Of course he sodding couldn’t.

Callum lumbered up the stairs to the fifth floor. Pushed open the door. And froze.

DCI Powel was standing right in front of him, mug in one hand, manila folder tucked under his arm, phone in his other hand. A big man with ears to match, silver-grey hair swept forward from his temples to cover the bald bits. Smart suit with matching tie. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Hang on a minute, Margaret, there’s someone I need to talk to.’ He lowered the phone.

Callum backed away, into the stairwell again, but Powel followed him.

‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t our very own answer to Mr Bean: Detective Constable Callum MacGregor.’

‘Guv.’

‘I hear you managed to catch Ainsley Dugdale this morning, Constable. He’s one of Big Johnny Simpson’s goons, isn’t he? That’s a first for you, isn’t it? Big Johnny won’t like that.’

Don’t rise to it.

‘And we all know how much you love Big Johnny Simpson, don’t we?’ A massive finger rose and poked Callum in the chest. ‘Don’t think I won’t screw you to the wall for that, Constable. I don’t put up with dirty cops in my division.’

Callum curled his hands into fists. ‘Permission to speak freely, Guv?’

‘Not a chance.’ He leaned in closer, bringing with him the stench of aftershave and dead cigarettes. ‘I don’t like you, Constable.’

‘You hide it well, Guv.’

Was that a twitch of a smile?

Then Powel backed off, turned and marched away down the stairs. ‘Enjoy your meeting with Professional Standards, tomorrow. I’ll bring in a cardboard box so you can empty your desk afterwards.’

Clunk. The door closed, and Callum was alone again.

‘And screw you too, Guv.’

Powel’s voice echoed up from the landing below: ‘I’m still here, Constable.’

Of course he was.