A Dark So Deadly. Stuart MacBride

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