Читать книгу A Dark So Deadly - Stuart MacBride - Страница 19

Callum stuffed the multicoloured rocking-horse-shaped-like-a-fish thing in the boot with all the other toys. Closed the lid. Turned and leaned back against the car.

Little Mike rattled down the grille over his pawnshop’s front door. Wrestled a thick padlock into position. Then turned and lumbered away into the evening.

A shaft of sunlight broke through the heavy cloud, the low beam of golden light pulling a rainbow from the drizzle. Making the graffiti-wreathed shopping centre shine.

The car’s horn blared.

Right.

Callum peered in through the rear window and there was Franklin peering back at him, reaching over from the passenger seat to lean on the horn again.

Mouthing the words, ‘Hurry up!’

Funny how some people could start off looking extremely pretty, only to get less and less attractive the more time you had to spend with them. At this rate, by the end of the week, Detective Constable Franklin was going to resemble the underside of Quasimodo’s armpit.

He sighed and climbed in behind the wheel. Cranked the engine. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’

She checked her watch. ‘DS McAdams said an hour and a half, thirty minutes ago. We’re, what, twenty minutes from DHQ. That leaves—’

‘Plenty of time.’ He navigated his way through the potholes and back onto the road. ‘Just got a little stop to make on the way.’

‘God’s sake!’

‘It’s on the way. Won’t take five, ten minutes tops.’

‘Gah!’ She swivelled in her seat to give him the full-on glower. ‘I’ve just started with this team and I am not going to let you screw it up for me.’

‘Seriously?’ Left at the junction, onto McGilvray Place with its boarded-up terrace and abandoned building site – just foundations and pipes sticking out of the ground to mark the death throes of the local construction industry. ‘What happened to, “I’m not wasting my career with you losers”? Thought you wanted nothing to do with us.’

‘Let’s get something straight, Constable, I’m out of here first chance I get. But until then, I’m going to do the job. Properly. Not whatever half-arsed version of it you think you can get away with.’

‘It’ll take five minutes.’ A right, onto Munro Place, taking the car up the hill. ‘Then we’ll hit Division HQ and I’ll do the murder board, OK? And you can feel free to clype on me anytime you like.’ After all, it wasn’t as if Mother or McAdams could hate him more than they already did.

He slowed for a moment next to the rusty Volkswagen, where Dugdale had deployed The Claw, then over the crest of the hill and down the other side.

Left at the bottom.

Callum checked the slip of paper with ‘LITTLE MIKE’S PAWNSHOP ~ PRE-LOVED GOODS & PERSONAL FINANCE SOLUTIONS’ in flowery script along the top and, ‘BROWN : 45B MANSON AVE.’ scrawled beneath it in biro.

Number 45 was on the outside edge of a set of five identical squashed grey council-issue boxes. Each one semidetached, split down the middle – A on the left, B on the right – ten homes per block. Someone probably thought arranging them into wee groups like that would foster a sense of community pride and spirit. It hadn’t. A ruptured sofa sat outside the house next door. The one beyond that had a washing machine as a garden ornament, the porthole door open to show a collection of crumpled lager tins. Knee-high weeds from the front door to the garden wall.

Callum parked out front. Hauled on the handbrake. ‘Five minutes. You can use the time to compose your formal complaint about me.’

She just scowled at him.

He slipped out of the car, turned and stuck his head in again. ‘One of these days, the wind’s going to change.’ Then clunked the door shut and marched off before she could say anything back.

The garden gate was rusted solid, so he hopped over it onto a path of cracked paving slabs with grass growing in off-green Mohicans between them.

No doorbell.

He gave the chipped wood three loud hard knocks.

The light was on in the living room, shining through a pair of lace curtains. Shadows moved about inside.

Another three knocks.

And a voice came from the other side of the door. Young, female. ‘Go away.’

‘Mrs Brown?’

‘If you’re from the bailiffs, you can sod off. I don’t have to open the door!’

‘It’s not the bailiffs, it’s the police.’ He held his warrant card up to the spyhole. ‘See?’

A groan. Then something thunked against the door at head height. ‘He doesn’t live here, OK? I kicked him out six weeks ago.’

Callum put his warrant card away. ‘Who doesn’t live here?’

Franklin was checking her watch, making a big pantomime of pointing at the thing and then pointing at him.

‘Go away.’

‘I’ve got some stuff for you, OK?’

‘I’m not in.’

Why bother?

Callum marched back to the car, popped open the boot and hauled out an armful of kid’s plastic toys. Dumped them just over the garden wall and went back for another load. Adding to the pile until the boot was empty.

The last thing was the raggedy teddy bear, with its missing ear and herniated stuffing. Plastic tat was one thing, a well-loved teddy bear was another. No way it was getting dumped in the weed-ridden grass.

He returned to the front door. Knocked. Held Teddy up to the spyhole.

Some muttered conversation inside, then the door opened a crack, the chain glinting in the hall light. A thin face peered out at him, blonde hair pulled back tight. She didn’t look old enough to leave school, let alone have two small kids. There was a huge bruise on her cheek, dark and angry against the pale skin. She blinked at the bear. ‘Mr Lumpylump?’

She shifted, and there was child number three – a baby cradled in her arms, wrapped in a tatty Power Rangers blanket. Face a rounded pink blob, making snuffling noises.

A small child wailed somewhere behind her, sounding as if someone was removing its fingers with a blowtorch. Child number four.

The woman didn’t even flinch. ‘Shut up, Pinky.’

‘I redeemed the rest of the kid’s toys. They’re in the garden.’

Her hand reached through the gap between the door and the frame, fingers trembling. ‘Can I have him. Please?’ She licked her lips.

‘Look, all I want is my wallet back, OK? There’s no money in it anyway, it’s just a tatty old wallet that’s falling apart. Like the bear.’ He gave Mr Lumpylump a wee shoogle, making him dance. ‘It’s important to me.’

She blinked up at him. ‘I don’t have it. I don’t have any wallet.’

‘You could check, though? Ask your children?’

Behind her, the toddler wailed some more, as whoever it was turned the blowtorch on their toes.

‘They’re not here.’ She reached out until the frame and door dug into her arm. Straining for the manky teddy bear. ‘Please …?’

What was he going to do, hold a kid’s teddy to ransom?

Callum passed her the bear and she snatched it from him, yanking it back inside the house and slamming the door.

He knocked again. ‘Hello?’ Rested his forehead against the door. ‘Hello?’

Silence. Not even the wailing.

Great.

What was the point of trying to help people? Why did everyone have to be so … so selfish. And nasty. And horrible?

One last try.

He pulled an official Police Scotland business card from his pocket wrote, ‘IF YOU FIND MY WALLET, PLEASE LET ME KNOW’ on the back, and slipped it through the letterbox.

Probably be sod-all use, but what other option did he have?

Callum trudged back along the path. Clambered over the rusted gate.

‘Hoy, mister?’ A young girl’s voice, hard with defiance and a broad Oldcastle accent.

He turned.

The little monster from this morning. The one who’d swigged cider from a can. The one Dugdale had used as a human shield. The rotten wee sod who’d stolen his wallet.

She’d ditched the baseball cap and tracksuit top for a T-shirt with a vampire Womble on it, but not the attitude. ‘What you doing here, Piggy?’

He nodded at the pile of plastic things.

Her eyes widened. ‘Whoa! You got Pinky’s toys back?’ Then her internal coolometer must have kicked in, her grin turned into a bored expression and a shrug. ‘Yeah, so?’

‘Swap you for my wallet.’

‘Ain’t got no wallet, do I? Chucked it.’

His whole face crumpled. ‘Oh for …’ What was the point? Of course she chucked it, with the credit cards cut up, why would she hold onto it? Wasn’t as if there was any cash in there. His shoulders drooped. ‘Sodding hell.’

‘Don’t know what you’re greetin’ about. Just a crappy old wallet, innit?’

‘It was my father’s. Only thing I’ve got of his.’

‘Yeah?’ She spat into the weeds. ‘Well, my dad broke my arm then ran off with one of mum’s friends.’

‘Mine disappeared when I was five.’

‘I was four.’ Always had to have the last word, didn’t she? A competition for who had the crappiest childhood.

‘Well I grew up in a care home. Beat that.’

Aha, she couldn’t, could she. At least she had a mother. Though going by the bruised face, her mum’s taste in men hadn’t improved any.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘It’s Willow, isn’t it?’ At least, that was what her wee brother had called her when she was kicking three shades out of Dugdale’s head. ‘Any idea who’s been hitting your mum?’

Willow’s back stiffened. ‘I ain’t no snitch, Piggy.’

‘Course not.’ He produced another business card, stuck his mobile number on the back, and laid it on top of the wall. ‘But if you’re worried about her or anything …’ A shrug. ‘You know.’

The lace curtains twitched open, and there was Willow’s mum, standing with a toddler on one hip. She had the tatty old teddy bear clutched to her chest like a bible.

Not the kid’s bear, hers. Pawned to pay for food, or rent.

How depressing was that?

Callum climbed in behind the wheel. Frowned. Shook his head. Then started the car.

Franklin stared at him. ‘Well?’

‘No idea.’ He pulled away from the kerb, keeping one eye on the rear-view mirror.

The little girl stood and watched them all the way to the corner, then disappeared from view.

‘This was all for your stupid wallet, wasn’t it?’

He pulled out his Airwave, poking at the buttons with one hand as they navigated their way back towards the real world. ‘Control? Can you do a PNC on a Ms Brown, forty-five B Manson Avenue, Kingsmeath? See if anyone’s been bothering her.’

‘Aye, will do. Hang on.’

‘Thanks.’ He stuck the handset on the dashboard, took them out past a dilapidated community centre – doors and windows boarded up with damp-swollen chipboard – and onto Montrose Road. Pottering along behind a Fiat Punto barely doing twenty miles an hour.

‘For God’s sake, at least put the blues-and-twos on.’ Franklin reached for the button mounted on the dashboard, marked, ‘999’.

Callum slapped her hand away. ‘Are you off your head?’

‘We’re going to be late!’

‘You press that button and the dashboard camera comes on.’ He pointed at the little rectangle of plastic mounted against the windscreen, hidden by the rear-view mirror. ‘And the GPS starts recording. And it all gets stored for the courts, or in case there’s an accident while you’re wheeching through traffic. Lights and sirens are for emergencies only, not because you’re in a hurry.’

She curled her hand against her chest, as if he’d stabbed it with a fork and scowled at him. ‘Where is it then? This magical wallet?’

A stone settled in his stomach, cold and heavy. ‘They threw it away.’

‘Waste of sodding time.’ She checked her watch again. ‘Thirty-six minutes to get back to Division Headquarters and make up a murder board.’

‘Will you stop moaning on about—’

‘DC MacGregor from Control, safe to talk?’

He picked up the handset and pressed the button. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Aye, right: your woman’s a Miss Irene Brown, twenty-three years old. Done for possession four years ago, got off with a caution … Hmm … Looks like that’s the last known address for one Jeremy Barron, Jezza to his mates, AKA: Jerome Barton, James Broughton, and Jimmy Bishop. Bit of a scummer from the look of it. Assault, robbery, assault, aggravated assault, possession with intent, serious assault, two counts of sodding about in public with a knife.’ A clicking keyboard rattled out of the speaker. ‘Looks like she’s got a bit of a history with violent scumbags. Poor woman couldn’t pick a nice bloke out of an empty room if you Sellotaped a balloon to his forehead.’

Twenty-three years old, with four kids.

And a dirty big bruise on her face.

No wonder she clung onto her teddy bear like that.

Her daughter, the horrible Willow, had to be at least seven years old, so that meant Miss Irene Brown must have been about sixteen when she’d had her.

What a life: trapped beneath a landslide of pregnancy and violence.

Callum tapped his fingers on the handset’s plastic case. ‘Do me a favour: put a grade one flag on the house, OK? Just in case this Jerome Barton comes back again.’

‘Pfff, can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks.’ Callum slipped his Airwave back in his jacket. Took a left at the roundabout and onto the Calderwell Bridge.

Halfway across the river, Franklin sighed. ‘OK, now can we go do this sodding murder board?’

‘And that, is that.’ Callum pinned the last photo to the corkboard and stepped back, hands on his hips.

Not a bad job, even if he said so himself.

The murder board took up a whole wall of the Divisional Investigative Support Team office. One whiteboard cut up into sections with that thin magnetic tape stuff, all headings spelled correctly, details on the corkboards to either side of Glen Carmichael and his fellow graduate property developers. Ben Harrington with his massive moustache, Brett Millar and his Clangers tattoo. Photos, potted bios, previous brushes with the law, list of known friends and associates. Schedule for the flat from the auctioneer’s website along with PNC details for the previous owner.

He checked his watch. ‘Done with five minutes to spare.’

Franklin stayed where she was, perched on the edge of her brand-new desk. ‘Is that it?’ A sniff. ‘I always thought a murder board would be more … I don’t know. Like on the TV.’

‘TV people wouldn’t know a murder board from a Christmas list.’

The door banged open and in stormed Watt, floppy fringe plastered to his forehead, mouth scrunched up into a twisted pouting sneer, wee pubey beard bristling as he hurled his soggy jacket into the corner. He graced Callum with a glare, then shifted it over to Franklin. ‘Who’s this?’

She stiffened her back. Drew herself up to full height.

But the door thumped open again before she could lay into him and Dotty wheeled herself into the office. ‘Oh don’t be such a princess, John. I said I was sorry.’

Might as well do the introductions.

Callum hooked a thumb at Franklin. ‘Watt, Dotty, this is our new recruit: Detective Constable Franklin, from E Division. Punched a superintendent, right in the car park.’

Watt wiped his hands down his face and flicked the drips at Dotty. ‘I’m bloody drenched!’

‘It was an accident.’

‘No it sodding wasn’t! You aimed for that puddle on purpose.’

‘Franklin: the soggy tit with the beard is Detective Constable Watt. He clyped on his last team at G Division, so the high heedjins had him transferred to Oldcastle. And we are graced with his presence, because none of the other teams will work with the grumpy little git.’

‘I didn’t know you were standing there.’

‘This is because I wouldn’t get you chocolate, isn’t it?’ Watt grabbed his mug from his desk. ‘Get your own damn chocolate!’

‘The young lady in the wheelchair is Detective Sergeant Dorothy Hodgkin. She’s here because some wee radge fancied a high-speed pursuit in a stolen Beamer. Dotty lost her leg above the knee in the crash. Her wheelchair’s called “Keith”: don’t ask.’

‘I will.’ Dotty bared her teeth at Watt. ‘And you know what? I was sorry, but I’m not now. You’re a sour-faced, childish, chippy, miserable scumbag, John. No wonder nobody likes you.’

Callum shrugged. ‘As you can see, we’re all one big happy family.’

‘Oh, ha-ha.’ Watt turned his scowl back on Callum. ‘I bet he’s not told you why he’s here, Franklin, has he? He—’

‘Everyone thinks he took a bribe to cock-up a crime scene. I know.’ Franklin folded her arms. ‘So is everyone on this team a reject? What about McAdams and Malcolmson?’

Dotty wriggled her way out of her jacket. ‘DS McAdams has terminal bowel cancer. They so want to send him off on the sick, but he won’t go. And DI Malcolmson is just recovering from a massive heart attack.’ Dotty held her arms up, flashing victory signs like Richard Nixon. ‘Welcome to the Misfit Mob! Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.’ She wheeled herself across the manky carpet tiles to Franklin and stuck out a hand with a fingerless leather glove on it. ‘Dorothy. Dot or Dotty to my friends.’

After a wee pause, Franklin shook it. ‘Rosalind.’

‘Rose for short?’

‘No.’

‘Oh …’ Dotty wheeled herself back to her desk. ‘Ah well.’

Callum swept his hand around the room. ‘And that’s us. All the other departments think we’re useless, the bosses give us boring or horrible cases, and this is the first exciting enquiry we’ve had since, well, ever. But if you—’

‘Knockity, knock.’ The door swung open and in waltzed McAdams, a stack of four pizza boxes balanced in one hand. ‘Behold, little ones, Mother and I have returned. Lo, I bring succour.’ A grin. ‘Well, one ham-and-pineapple, one meat feast, a four seasons, and a pepperoni, but it’s the thought that counts.’ He dumped the boxes on the nearest desk. ‘I trust you’ve all been beavering away, advancing the plot and revealing character through action rather than exposition …’ A frown. ‘Constable MacGregor, why are you still here? Go home.’

Callum pointed at the whiteboard with all its lines and data. ‘But you said—’

‘Detective Constable Franklin!’ McAdams patted her on the back. ‘Excellent job on the murder board. Very thorough.’

Her cheeks darkened slightly. ‘But I didn’t—’

‘Nonsense. Credit where it’s due.’ He picked a sheet of paper from the nearest desk, crumpled it up and hurled it at Watt.

It bounced off his floppy fringe. ‘Hoy!’

‘What did I tell you about signing off at the end of a shift? I just checked the logs and apparently you’re still on duty from yesterday.’

Watt cleared his throat. ‘I was busy.’

‘I don’t care if you’re King Busy, ruler of all the Busy Bee people in Busy Buzzy Bee Land: sign out! I’m not authorising any overtime till you get that through your pointy wee head.’

‘But. Sarge—’

‘No.’ McAdams glanced at Callum. ‘Thought I told you to go home, Constable. You’ve got a full day tomorrow: all those museums to phone.’

‘Oh you are kidding me! I was the one who—’

‘To each man his task, according to his merits. Some more than others.’ A wink. ‘You, for example, can leave the murder investigation to the professionals.’

Callum bit his bottom lip. Arms trembling. Hands curled into fists.

‘Good night, Constable.’

He took a step forward.

McAdams grinned.

And there it was: he wanted a punch on the nose. With Franklin, Watt, and Dotty as witnesses, McAdams could go to Professional Standards and get him suspended at the very least. It wouldn’t look very good at his review tomorrow either.

Deep breath. Callum forced his hands to open. ‘Fine.’ Grabbed his coat. ‘But I’m taking one of these with me.’ He helped himself to a pizza box, warm against his fingertips, and marched out of the door.

‘Elaine? Hello?’ Callum balanced the pizza in one hand, clunked the front door shut and locked it. Slipped out of his soggy jacket and kicked off his wet shoes. Left soggy-sock footprints on the laminate flooring through into the kitchen. ‘God what a day. Utterly soaked.’

The sounds of some sort of cookery programme oozed out through the closed living room door.

At least the backpack was waterproof. Callum unloaded it onto the kitchen table, raised his voice so she’d hear him in the lounge. ‘DID YOU HEAR? THEY SAY IT’S GOING TO BE THE WETTEST SEPTEMBER ON RECORD.’

No reply.

‘ELAINE?’

Nothing.

He stuck the Tupperware box for his sandwiches in the sink. Took today’s note and put it up on the fridge with all the others she’d sneaked in with his lunches over the last month – little inspirational quotes, terrible puns, and the occasional dirty joke. Most came with a drawing. Today’s was a rotund badger with teeny legs, taking a bite out of a pig, above the legend, ‘I LOVE YOU MORE THAN DESMOND THE BADGER LOVES BACON’. Which was nice to know.

Callum flicked through The Monsters Who Came for Dinner, smiling at the old familiar illustrations.

Come on: there’d be plenty of time to read it after dinner.

He emptied his pockets, stripped to his pants, and threw his fighting suit in the washing machine. Set it to tumble dry.

Stuck his head back into the hall. ‘YOU WANT TEA?’

Nope. Whatever she was watching, it had her.

Callum stuck the kettle on and the oven too. Wandered through to the lounge.

Some posh English bloke with curly hair and big nostrils filled the TV screen – wandering through a forest somewhere, banging on about how tasty squirrels were if you cooked them in a nice ragout.

Elaine was curled up on the sofa with her back to the door, wearing her comfies, a tartan fleecy blanket pulled over her enormous pregnant bulge. A bowl rested in her lap, containing a mixture of marshmallows and crisps.

It wasn’t a big living room: barely enough space to take a three-seater sofa and an armchair; a fake coal fire that groaned and flickered; a coffee table with a collection of wooden ornaments on it; a TV, complete with squirrel-mongering celebrity chef; and four floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stuffed to overflowing with novels.

Their blinds were open, the darkness on the other side turning the window into a mirror – reflecting back one thin pasty body in blue underpants. The lights in the houses opposite twinkled through Callum, making him sparkle like the world’s least scary vampire. Then the eight o’clock train to Edinburgh rumbled past, its glowing windows making rectangular spotlights sweep across the back garden. Searching.

He crossed the room and closed the blinds, before anyone on board became overwhelmed with desire at the sight of his ancient Marks and Spencer’s lingerie going a bit baggy in the elastic. ‘I got pizza for tea. Well, technically I stole pizza, and I know it’s not Nutella and pickles, but—’

A grunt rattled its way free and Elaine sat up. ‘What? M’wake!’ She blinked at the room. Then the TV. Then Callum. Brushed the long brown hair from her eyes. ‘What time is it?’ Cracked a huge yawn, showing off a proper Scottish set of fillings. ‘Why are you in your pants?’ The corners of her eyes wrinkled. ‘What happened to your face?’

‘It’s just gone eight.’

‘You look like someone ran over it with a washing machine.’

‘I’ve got pizza.’

‘Gah …’ Another yawn. Then she held out her arms. ‘I had a horrible dream. You abandoned me and Peanut because we got ugly and you didn’t love us any more.’

‘You’re not ugly.’ He hugged her and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. ‘You’re beautiful. You smell of cheese-and-onion, but other than that, you’re safe.’

Callum picked one of Elaine’s discarded mushrooms and put it on his own slice, adding to the pepperoni. Sat back on the couch and stuffed in another mouthful, trying not to get any on his tartan T-shirt and joggy bottoms.

‘Urgh …’ She grimaced at him. ‘You eat like a wheelie bin.’

‘Yronlygelous.’ The words all mushed up as he chewed.

Sitting on the bookshelf, the flat’s phone launched into a tinny rendition of the South Bank Show theme tune.

Elaine curled her top lip. ‘Sod off.’ She pointed at the plate resting on top of her bulge like a makeshift tabletop. ‘We’re eating!’

‘If it’s your mum, I’m telling her we’re not in.’

‘Let it go to voicemail. They—’

‘Can’t. What if it’s important?’ He stuck his plate back on the coffee table and hauled himself out of the couch, walked round the back to the bookcases. Sooked his fingers clean and picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’

Silence.

‘Hello?’

Still nothing.

He checked the caller display: ‘NUMBER WITHHELD’.

‘OK, I’m—’

Click.

Elaine turned and looked over the back of the couch. ‘Who is it?’

‘No idea, they hung up.’ He put the phone back in the cradle. ‘Probably some auto-dialling PPI tossers.’

Probably.

‘Callum, while you’re up?’

‘Mmm?’ He turned away from the phone.

‘Any chance you can grab the raspberry jam from the kitchen? I think it’ll go great with these anchovies.’

He tried not to shudder, he really did …