‘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 …
— every day we live — is a day closer to the day we die
Sometimes, the worst thing you can imagine – and I mean the worst thing you can possibly think of – that’s just the start. Because things can always get worse, dear reader. And in my experience they usually do …
R.M. Travis
The Monsters Who Came for Dinner (1999)
Damn right you better fear me, cos I’m about to break free,
You better f*ckin’ hear me, there won’t be no all-clear: see?
I’m-a sharp like a shark, ma bite’s worse than my bark,
I attack from the dark, cos violence is ma trademark,
Think that you’re tough? You ain’t even in the ballpark …
Donny ‘$ick Dawg’ McRoberts
‘Unrequited Love Song Number 3’
© Bob’s Speed Trap Records (2015)
11
‘… another six arrests in the Holyrood sex-ring investigation. Weather now, and there’s more rain on the way, sorry, but it should clear up by the weekend for our very own Tartantula Music Festival in Montgomery Park! Fingers crossed. And if you haven’t got your tickets yet, stick around – I’ve got just the competition for you.’
Callum marched back into the bedroom, scrubbing his hair dry on a pink towel.
‘This is The Very Early in the Morning Show and you’re listening to me, Jane Forbes, on Castlewave FM, because you’re sexy, intelligent, and looking fabulous today!’
He grimaced at the naked creature in the mirror, then hauled on a pair of pants and yesterday’s suit trousers. Maybe not so fabulous. Especially now the bruises Dugdale gifted him had darkened to a deep lustrous purple, ringed with blues and greens. Lucky he hadn’t cracked a rib.
‘Right, we’ve got Sensational Steve’s Breakfast Drive-Time Bonanza coming up in thirty minutes, but that gives us loads of time for yet more stonking tunes!’
Elaine peered out from under the duvet. ‘Tmmsit?’
‘Half six. Go back to sleep.’ A clean white shirt and red clip-on tie.
‘No, m’up. M’up.’ She let loose a massive yawn. Sat up and had a scratch, long brown hair all flattened on one side.
‘Let’s kick off with a Tartantula festival favourite: Nearly Blind Vera, and their new single “Swarm”.’ What sounded like a full orchestra belted out of the speakers, swelling to a—
Elaine thumped her palm down on the clock radio and swivelled her legs out of bed. Shuffled out of the room in pink bunny slippers, rubbing at the small of her back. ‘Pfff …’
He pulled on clean socks and dry shoes, dragged a comb through his hair. Scowled at the purple stains on his forehead and chin. Wasn’t exactly the best impression to make at a Professional Standards review, but what choice did he have?
Callum knelt by the side of the bed and dragged out a big file box. Rummaged inside for the maroon half-size ring-binders buried under the flat’s insurance schedule, the mortgage documents, and the HP agreement for the telly.
Elaine’s voice belted out from the kitchen. ‘Did you stay up half the night reading again?’
‘Maybe.’ He tucked the binders into a small backpack, plucked the copy of The Monsters Who Came for Dinner from the bedside cabinet, and wandered through. ‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘Yes I do.’ She lumped a couple of slices of white from the bread bin onto the chopping board and slathered them with spread. ‘You want cheese-and-pickle, or egg?’
‘Go back to bed, it’s fine.’
‘Just because I’m stuck here with Peanut, doesn’t mean I’m useless.’
Callum stepped behind her and kissed the back of her neck. ‘No one thinks you’re useless.’
‘You’ll have to have cheese-and-pickle, we’re out of eggs.’
The flat’s phone launched into its semi-classical theme tune again.
She froze.
‘It’s OK, I’ll get it.’ He marched through to the lounge. Grabbed up the phone. ‘Hello?’
Nothing.
Checked the caller display. Same as last night. ‘NUMBER WITHHELD’.
‘Who is this?’
Silence.
Click.
Yeah, that was getting old very quickly.
He turned, and there was Elaine, holding out a little Tupperware box in one hand and a banana in the other. ‘Who was it?’
‘Automated-dialling PPI nonsense again.’
‘There’s a mini Mars Bar in there too. You know.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘To keep your strength up.’
He tucked the box and banana into his backpack. ‘It’s just a boring wee meeting with Professional Standards, it’ll be fine. Promise.’ That sounded confident, didn’t it? Completely unlike the lie it was. He replaced The Monsters Who Came for Dinner in its bookshelf slot, grabbed a tatty paperback at random: The Beginner’s Guide to Shoplifting, and added it to the pack.
‘Callum …’ She put a hand against his chest.
‘What can they do? They’ve got no evidence – they can’t, because I didn’t do anything, did I?’
She gave him a little pained smile. ‘We love you.’
‘I know.’ A kiss on the cheek. ‘Got to go, don’t want to be late for the rubber heelers.’
Callum shifted in his seat.
The waiting room was … disturbingly neutral. Blue carpet, magnolia walls, a row of four soft-ish chairs along one wall, a sideboard-sized filing unit thing on the other – complete with the obligatory pile of well-thumbed, ancient magazines. A water dispenser in the corner. A framed painting of Oldcastle’s skyline rendered in all manner of bright and unnatural colours.
He checked his phone – 07:13.
Oldest interview technique in the business – leave your victim to stew for a while. Let them work themselves into a state of nervous exhaustion worrying about what you knew.
Well, tough: they knew sod-all. Because there was sod-all to know.
The only thing up-to-date on the sideboard was a copy of that morning’s Castle News and Post, the banner headline: ‘BODY FOUND IN CASTLEVIEW FLAT’ above a photo of the craphole Glen Carmichael and his mates were doing up. There was an inset pic of three figures standing outside the main entrance while SOC Smurfs shuffled past in the background. McAdams, Franklin, and right in the middle – staring straight at the camera – his own face. Looking tired and fed up. So they were right: the camera didn’t lie. All three of them got a namecheck, though they’d managed to spell McAdams’ name wrong. Which was nice.
Right underneath the main story, was ‘DRUG DEN UPSTAIRS MADE LIFE A LIVING HELL’, a ‘shocking exclusive with Murder Flat’s downstairs neighbour!’ continued on page six. There was always someone.
Callum dumped the paper and dipped into his rucksack instead, pulling out The Beginner’s Guide to Shoplifting. Settled back to read the first short story. A bit heavy on the adverbs, but other than that, it was OK.
He was just starting the second one when the door through to the office opened and a middle-aged man in uniform poked his head out. His hair had abandoned its post, retreating to a defensive position around both ears, a set of jowls lightly blued with stubble. A pair of evil-scientist glasses, all narrow with silver frames. He smiled. ‘Ah, Callum. Good, good: in you come. Sorry about the wait.’ He held the door open and gestured inside.
‘No, it’s fine.’ Callum stood. Stuffed the book in his backpack. ‘Gave me a chance to catch up with my reading.’
‘Good, good.’ He moved aside, then closed the door behind Callum. ‘I know we should have done this weeks ago, but you know what it’s like. Busy, busy.’
It was a small-ish office, with a desk on one side and a round table in the middle. Some filing cabinets. A coffee machine. A small digital video camera on a tripod.
‘Please, please, take a seat. Coffee? I’m having one anyway …?’
‘Thanks. Just milk.’
‘Perfect.’ He wandered over and started pushing buttons and inserting cartridges. ‘So, Callum, I understand you’re going to be a father in two weeks’ time. How exciting. Most fulfilling thing you can do as a man.’
‘Well—’
‘There you go. One white coffee.’ He sank into the chair next to Callum’s. ‘I can’t abide all this “flat white” nonsense, can you? Oh,’ he stuck his hand out, ‘Chief Inspector Gilmore, we spoke on the phone yesterday, but you can call me Alex.’
OK …
‘Chief Inspector.’
‘Ah, almost forgot.’ He raised himself half out of his seat and pointed a remote control at the camera. A little red light blinked on. ‘There we go. Can’t do these things without a proper record, can we? The Boss would have my guts for garters. And I understand your good lady is in the job too?’
Callum closed his mouth, then opened it again. ‘Well, yes. I mean, she’s on maternity leave, but—’
‘Let me see now …’ He checked a notepad. ‘Ah, here we are: Constable Pirie. Elaine. You know, I had an Aunty Elaine when I was wee. Lovely lady, used to give us Advocaat every Christmas because she thought it wasn’t alcoholic. And I see she’s been seconded to the Scenes Examination Branch?’
What?
Chief Inspector Gilmore held up a hand. ‘Sorry, your Elaine, not my aunt. How’s she getting on? Weird cravings, I’ll bet. My Pauline used to chew the rubber hose from the spin dryer. That dates me, doesn’t it? Amazing our sons didn’t come out with two heads. How’s the coffee?’
Was the man some sort of idiot? How …
Callum sat back in his seat.
No, of course he wasn’t. Didn’t matter what crime novels and TV dramas said, you didn’t get to be a chief inspector without having a considerable amount of grey matter packed between your earholes. The rambling avuncular act was all about putting people at ease and off their game at the same time.
Well that only worked if you didn’t know he was doing it.
Callum took a sip. ‘It’s great. Thanks.’
‘Better than the stuff from the canteen anyway. So, Callum: tell me all about Big Johnny Simpson.’
‘Well …’ He cleared his throat. ‘I want to start by saying I’ve never taken a bribe in my life. Ever.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Gilmore raised an eyebrow. ‘But …?’
‘No, no buts.’ He picked his rucksack off the floor and upended the contents onto the table. Three burgundy ring-binders, a Tupperware box, and a banana. He retrieved his lunch and pushed the binders towards Gilmore. ‘Bank statements. Well, building society statements, but it’s the same thing. Feel free – go through them with a nit comb. And if you want to contact the Royal Caledonian, I’ll tell them you’ve got free rein to look at any account I’ve got.’
