A Dark So Deadly. Stuart MacBride

      ‘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