A Dark So Deadly. Stuart MacBride

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