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!’
3
The first drop of rain sparkled against the windscreen, caught in a golden shaft of sunlight as McAdams’ huge four-by-four slid past the last few houses on the edge of Kingsmeath. A second drop joined it. Then a third. Then a whole heap of them.
McAdams stuck the wipers on, setting them moaning and groaning their way across the glass, smearing the rain into grubby arcs. He pinned his mobile phone between his shoulder and ear, freeing his hand to change gears. Accelerating up the hill. ‘Yeah … Yeah, Dugdale was there … No … Not a word of a lie, Mother: the new boy actually caught him. That’s right: his anonymous tip-off paid off.’ He cast a glance across the car at Callum. ‘I know, I know … Ha! That’s what I said.’
Callum folded his arms and pushed back into his seat. Stared out of the window at the dull green fields and their dull-grey sheep. The ache in his groin wasn’t a full-on testicular migraine any more, it’d settled to more of a dull throbbing – each pulse marking time with the groaning windscreen wipers. ‘Oh you’re both so hilarious.’
‘What did we say about you keeping your mouth shut?’ Back to the phone. ‘No, not you, Mother: Constable Useless here … Yeah, yeah. Exactly: an actual murder. How long has it been?’
Probably never see his wallet again.
McAdams put his foot down, overtaking a sputtering Mini. ‘You on your way? … Uh-huh … Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either. Since when does the great Detective Chief Inspector Poncy Powel hand over a murder investigation to the likes of us? … Exactly.’
More fields. More sheep.
OK, so it was just a scruffy, tatty lump of leather and the lining was falling apart, but it had sentimental value.
Bloody kids.
‘Did he? … No! … No!’ Laughter. ‘And did you? … Sodding hell … Yeah, he’ll love that.’
Bloody Dugdale too.
He was just visible in the rear-view mirror, lying there with his mouth hanging open, face crusted with blood and bogies. Well, if Dugdale died in custody there was no way Callum was taking the rap for it. If anything happened it was McAdams’ fault.
Accepting blame for Elaine’s cock-up was one thing, but McAdams? He could sod right off.
‘Uh-huh. We’re about … five minutes away? Maybe less? … Still can’t believe it: a real murder! How long’s it been? … Right. Yup. OK. See you there.’ He poked a button on his phone’s screen then slid the thing back in his pocket, big smile plastered across his skeletal face.
‘Am I allowed to ask where we’re going?’
‘No.’
Git.
McAdams took one hand off the wheel and pointed through the windscreen. ‘We go where life rots. Where man’s discarded dreams die. We go … to The Tip.’ Fingers twitching with each syllable.
A large white sign loomed at the side of the road: ‘OLDCASTLE MUNICIPAL RECYCLING AND WASTE PROCESSING FACILITY’. Someone had scrawled ‘TWINNED WITH CUMBERNAULD!’ across the bottom in green graffiti.
The Shogun slowed for the turning, leaving the well-ordered tarmac for a wide gravel road acned with potholes and lined with whin bushes. Their jagged dark-green spears rattled in the rain.
It was getting heavier, bouncing off the rutted track as McAdams navigated his shiny new car between the water-filled craters and up to a cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape.
He buzzed down the window and smiled at the lanky drip guarding the line. ‘Two cheeseburgers, a Coke, and a chocolate milkshake please.’
A sigh and a sniff. Then Officer Drip wiped her nose on the sleeve of her high-viz jacket, sending water dribbling from the brim of her peaked cap. ‘Do you honestly think it’s the first time I’ve heard that today?’
‘Cheer up, Constable. A little rain won’t kill you.’ He nodded at the cordon. ‘You got our body?’
‘Depends. You on the list?’ She dug a clipboard from the depths of her jacket and passed it through the window.
McAdams flipped through the top three sheets, making a low whistling noise. ‘There’s a lot of people here. All for one dead little body?’
‘Oh you’d be surprised.’
He printed two more names on the last sheet in blue biro, then handed the clipboard back. ‘There we are, right at the end. Now be a good girl and get out of the way. It’s the opening chapters: I need to draw the readers in, establish myself as the protagonist, and get on with solving the murder.’
Constable Drip frowned at their names, then into the car. Her mouth tightened as she stared at the bloodied and unconscious Dugdale lying across the back seat. ‘Looks like you’ve already got a body.’
‘Oh, this one’s not dead, it’s just resting. DC MacGregor decided to try his hand at a little police brutality.’
‘MacGregor …?’ She peered at the list again, then across the car, top lip curling. ‘So it is you.’
Callum stared right back. ‘Don’t: I’m not in the mood.’
She shook her head, stowed her clipboard away, then unhooked a length of the tape barricade and waved them through.
McAdams grinned across the car at Callum. ‘My, my, Constable. You just can’t stop making friends, can you?’
No.
‘That offer of an arse-kicking is still valid, Sarge.’
‘Yes, because people don’t hate you enough already.’
The Shogun pitched and yawed through the potholes like a boat. God knew how big the rubbish tip was, but from the wide, lumpy road, it stretched all the way to the horizon. A vast sea of black plastic, gulls wheeling and screaming in the air above – flecks of evil white, caught against the heavy grey sky.
And the smell …
Even with the car windows wound up it was something special. The rancid stench of rotting meat and vegetables mingled with the sticky-brown reek of used nappies, all underpinned by the dark peppery odour of black plastic left to broil in the sun.
McAdams slipped the four-by-four in behind a line of police vehicles and grubby Transit vans. Had to be, what, eight cars? Twelve if you counted the unmarked ones. About three-quarters of the dayshift, all out here playing on the tip.
The sarcastic half-arsed-poetry-spouting git was right: this was an awful lot of people for one dead body.
McAdams hauled on the handbrake. ‘Right, Constable, make yourself useful for a change and go fetch us a couple of Smurf suits, extra-large. Ainsley and I need to have a little chat.’
A chat?
‘He’s unconscious, Sarge. He needs a doctor. I told you he—’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ McAdams turned in his seat, staring through into the back. ‘Give it up, Ainsley, you’re not fooling anyone.’
Dugdale didn’t move.
‘Don’t make me come back there, because if I have to …’
One of Dugdale’s eyes cracked open. ‘I’m dying. Got a brain haemorrhage, or something.’
‘You have to have a brain to have a brain haemorrhage, Ainsley. What you’ve got is a lump of solid yuck wrapped in ugly. Now, Constable Naïve here is going to sod off like a good little boy and you’re going to tell me all about what Big Johnny Simpson’s up to now he’s walked free.’ McAdams made a dismissive little waving gesture in Callum’s direction. ‘Go on, Constable. Two Smurf suits, at the double. I won’t ask again.’
One punch in the face. Just one. Right in the middle of his smug, wrinkly face …
What was the point?
It wouldn’t change anything.
So Callum gritted his teeth and stepped out into the stinking mud. Closed the car door. Counted out his own muttered haiku. ‘Away boil your head. You patronising arse-bag. I hope you get piles.’
Out here the smell was eye-watering. Like jamming your head in a dead badger.
He turned up his collar and hurried through the slimy mud to the nearest Transit van, sheltering in the lee of its open back doors. From here, Oldcastle lay spread out beneath the heavy grey lid of cloud like a cancer beneath the skin. The vast prow of Castle Rock loomed out from the other side of the valley, wound round with the ancient cobbled streets of Castle Hill; the dark sprawl of Camburn Woods peered out from its shadow; the warehouses, shopping centres, and big glass Victorian train station punctuated Logansferry to the left of that. Spires and minarets stabbed up between the slate roofs on the other side of the river, like some vast beast was trapped under the surface, trying to claw its way out. And on this side: the grubby maze of council houses, high-rise blocks of flats, and derelict terraces of Kingsmeath; the rest of the city, hidden by a line of trees at the edge of the tip.
Quite a view for a rancid mass of black plastic bags and mouldering filth.
He reached into the Transit and helped himself to two large blue Tyvek oversuits, two sets of plastic bootees, a pair of facemasks and matching safety goggles. What every well-dressed Scene of Crime officer was wearing this, and every other, season.
One of them appeared from the other side of the van, the hood of her SOC suit thrown back to reveal a sweaty tangle of dark brown hair. Her thin, pale oval face shone with sweat. She took a swig from a leopard-print Thermos, the words coming out on a waft of coffee breath with a faint side-order of Aberdonian. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Don’t start, Cecelia, OK? I get enough of that from McAdams, don’t need the Scene Examination Branch chipping in.’ He tucked the suits under his arm. ‘We’re here for the body.’
She curled her top lip. ‘Which one? Started digging at nine this morning and we’ve already turned up four of the things. Seven if you count those.’ She nodded in the vague direction of a red plastic cool box and helped herself to a wad of paper towels. ‘Three left feet, severed just above the ankle.’
‘Well … maybe their owners aren’t dead? Maybe they’re limping about somewhere, wondering where their other shoe’s gone?’
‘Urgh. I’m melting in here.’ Cecelia scrubbed the paper towels across her damp face, turning it matt again. ‘Bet they don’t have this problem in G Division. Bet if you go digging in a Glasgow tip all you turn up is rubbish. Can’t open a bin-bag in Oldcastle without finding a sodding corpse.’ A sigh. ‘Have you got any idea how much work it is to process crime scenes for seven different murder enquiries, all at the same time?’ She ticked them off on her fingers. ‘One stabbing, one shotgun blast to the face, one God-knows-what, and I’m pretty sure the body we found over by the recycling centre is Karen Turner. You know: ran that brothel on Shepard Lane? Beaten to death.’
At least that explained why most of Oldcastle Division was in attendance, picking their way through the landfill landscape.
‘Wow.’ Callum frowned out at the acres and acres of black-plastic bags. Suppose it wasn’t that surprising the tip was hoaching with corpses – if you had to dispose of a body, where better than here? Clearly the city’s criminal element didn’t approve of littering. ‘Maybe we should set up a recycling box at the front gate, so people can dump their dead bodies responsibly?’
She puffed out her cheeks. ‘We should never have started digging here. Just asking for trouble.’
‘So, come on then: which one’s ours?’
‘Body number three: the God-knows-what. That way.’ She pointed her Thermos at the middle distance, off to the right, where a handful of blue-suited figures was wrestling with a white plastic tent. ‘And Callum?’
He turned back to her. ‘What?’
‘I know it wasn’t you.’
What wasn’t …?
She rolled her eyes. ‘There’s no point standing there looking glaikit. You didn’t cock-up that crime scene, Elaine did.’
Oh.
Heat bloomed in his cheeks. ‘No she didn’t.’
‘Yes she did. Elaine worked for me, so I know it wasn’t you. One more strike and they’d have fired her.’
He tucked one of the Tyvek suits under his arm. ‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’
Cecelia shook her head, sending a little trickle of sweat running into the elasticated neck of her suit. ‘You’re a daft sod, Callum MacGregor.’
True.
‘Bye, Cecelia.’ He turned and marched back to the Shogun.
McAdams was still in the car, mobile clamped to his ear, so Callum struggled into one of the SOC Smurf suits – zipping it up to the chin, hood up. Stood there in the manky mud, rain pattering off his Smurfy shoulders and head.
Come on, you lanky git. Get off the phone.
A rattley green Fiat Panda lumbered its way up the track towards them, bringing a cloud of blue-grey smoke with it. Dents in the bonnet, dents in the passenger side, a long scrape along the driver’s door and front wing. Duct tape holding the wing mirror on.
Great, because having to deal with DS Sodding McAdams wasn’t bad enough.
The Panda spluttered to a halt behind McAdams’ immaculate Castleview Tractor, and its driver peered out through a fogged-up windscreen as the wipers made angry-donkey noises across the glass.
Mother.
She looked right at him and the smile died on her face.
Oh joy.
He gave her a nod. As if that was going to make any difference.
Mother struggled her way out into the rain.
The sleeves of her black fleece were rolled up to the elbows, exposing two large pale forearms – tattoos standing out like faded newsprint against the doughy flesh. A dolphin. Two swallows holding up a little banner with ‘LOVE NEVER DIES’ on it. A thistle and a rose wrapped around a dagger. What looked like a tribute to the Bay City Rollers – all mullets and tartan scarfs. She glanced about, sending her mass of tight ginger curls bobbing. Sniffed. ‘Where’s Andy?’ Apparently completely unfazed by the rain.
‘DS McAdams is in the car, making some calls.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Have you been upsetting him?’
‘Upsetting him? He wasn’t the one Dugdale tried to neuter! Come on, Mother, how come every—’
‘Ah yes, Andy said you’d had a run-in with The Claw.’ A tiny smile. ‘And how many times do I have to tell you: you haven’t earned the right to call me “Mother”. As far as you’re concerned it’s Boss, Guv, or Detective Inspector. Are we crystal?’
‘It wasn’t a “run-in”, Dugdale resisted arrest. Violently. And for the record,’ Callum pointed at the back seat of the Shogun, where Dugdale was now sitting up, ‘I said we should take him to the hospital, but DS McAdams refused.’
The tiny smile grew. ‘Nobody likes a clype, Constable.’
