A Dark So Deadly. Stuart MacBride

That didn’t sound good. Whatever horror she and McAdams had come up with, it was about to spatter down on Callum’s head.

      ‘Please, it’s Harrison. And by all means. The young man’s a bit of a fidget anyway.’

      Everyone’s a critic.

      She pulled on a smile. ‘Thank you.’ Then headed for the exit. ‘Come on, Constable.’

      Here we go.

      Callum leaned closer to Franklin. ‘Try not to punch anyone else, OK?’ And followed Mother out, through the changing room, past the rows and rows of refrigeration units, across the reception area, and out into the rain.

      She shrugged her shoulders up around her ears and hurried across the puddled tarmac to her battered Fiat Panda. Hurled herself in behind the wheel and beckoned at him from the safety of the car.

      What would it be: door-to-doors in the freezing downpour? Digging into the archives for some obscure file that hadn’t been seen for three generations? Talking to small children about road safety? Or maybe she was just going to fire him?

      He high-stepped between the water-filled potholes, collar pulled up against the rain, and clambered in the passenger side.

      A furry penguin hung from the rear-view mirror, along with a yellow air-freshener that smelled of chemical lemons. Inside, the car was a mess. Mud, grit, gravel, and old magazines in the footwells; plastic bags, a collection of cardboard wine-carriers full of empties, and for some bizarre reason a quarter-size inflatable sheep with sunglasses, littering the back seat. Dust coating the dashboard like a furry blanket. The bottles clinked and rattled as he thumped the door shut.

      Ooh, sodding hell: it was like climbing into a very filthy fridge. Cold air nipped at his ears.

      Mother stuck her hands in her pockets, her breath fogging in front of her face. ‘Callum, Callum, Callum … What am I going to do with you?’

      Oh great. She’d dragged him all the way out here for a bollocking. Could they not have done it inside in the warm?

      ‘Thought I told you not to lead our new girl astray? And what do I find? She’s running around assaulting detective sergeants on DCI Powel’s Major Investigation Team. Care to explain yourself?’

      What? ‘How is this my—’

      ‘I had Powel on the phone this afternoon, and he wasn’t a happy hedgehog. Says after the assault you waded in and interfered with the victim – to wit one DS Jimmy Blake. Got him to change his story and say he slipped and battered his own nose to a wee bloody lump.’

      ‘All I did was point out that the whole thing would be caught on the mortuary’s CCTV system.’ A shrug. ‘For some reason, Blakey wasn’t keen on anyone seeing it.’

      ‘Right.’ Mother nodded. Then sighed. ‘Callum, I’m all in favour of sticking up for the team, I really am …’

      ‘But?’

      ‘But probably better get a copy of the footage. Just in case Powel or Blakey decide to make it disappear. Blackmail only works as long as you’ve got the negatives.’ She grinned, then dug a paper bag out of her fleece pocket. ‘Have a jelly baby. Hell, take two.’

      He did. An orange and a yellow.

      Mother shoogled down a bit in her seat and helped herself to a red one. ‘And when you get the footage, pop past my office with it. About time someone tried to introduce Blakey the Octopus’s nose to his rectum by first-class fist-express; I’m going to get some popcorn in.’

      ‘Yes, Boss.’ He popped the yellow baby into his mouth, chewed on its lemony sweetness.

      ‘I don’t know what to make of you, Callum, I honestly don’t. One minute you’re this vast pain in my backside, and the next you’re saving Franklin from herself.’

      He ripped the head off the orange baby. ‘I didn’t take a bribe from Big Johnny Simpson. Talk to Professional Standards – they’re looking through every penny I’ve got. Yes: I cocked-up the crime scene, but I didn’t do it on purpose.’

      ‘Hmmm …’ She chewed in silence for bit.

      A squall of wind rocked the car, rain buckshotting the roof, setting it ringing.

      Mother devoured another baby. ‘They’re going to grab this case off us if they can.’

      Of course they were.

      ‘Two victims mummified and a third brining, ready for smoking? That spells “serial killer” in eight-foot-tall flashing neon letters. There’ll be a media outcry, public panic, press briefings, idiots hanging about outside Divisional Headquarters doing serious pieces to camera …’ A yellow jelly baby lost its life. ‘They’ll want a superintendent running it.’

      Callum wrote his name in the dashboard dust. ‘Yes, but a superintendent won’t want to get their hands dirty, will they? No, they’ll want someone else to do the actual police work, in case it all goes horribly wrong. Plausible deniability.’

      ‘Oh goody, a poisoned chalice. My favourite.’ She held the paper bag out again. ‘We’re fighting for this one, Callum. It’ll probably be the last chance Andy gets to put a killer away. I won’t let them take that away from him.’

      ‘We should run a dental records match on Glen Carmichael and his two mates. Just in case.’ He popped a green jelly baby in, feet first. ‘And Powel’s got a forensic psychologist down to consult on his severed feet, Dr McDonald. She was the one they brought in to work the Birthday Boy case? We could tap her for some Behavioural Evidence Analysis.’

      ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

      ‘They’re not allowed to call it “profiling” because of the TV. Might help?’

      ‘Not if it’s Glen and his mates who’re the killers …’ A shrug. ‘But what the hell. We’ll get DNA and a facial reconstruction on the go too. I’ll fight with our esteemed masters about the budget later.’ She put the sweeties away. ‘Anything else?’

      Callum wiped the dust from his fingertip onto his trousers. ‘When you dragged me out here, I thought you were going to fire me.’

      ‘Did you?’ A shrug. ‘I just fancied a jelly baby – they always taste funny in the mortuary. Like death.’

      Sharp salty cheese, soft claggy bread, smooth silky butter, and the tangy vinegar crunch of Branston Pickle. Callum sat in the APT lounge and chewed.

      Elaine had stuck another little note in with his sandwich. Today it was a lumpy drawing of a flat fish, with a speech balloon above its head: ‘YOU’RE MY SOLE MATE!’, with the subtitle, ‘BARRY THE FISH IS TERRIBLE AT PUNS’, and a lipstick kiss.

      He smiled at Barry, then tucked him into his jacket pocket – ready to join the others when he got home.

      A copy of Hey You! magazine lay on the coffee table, all shiny and shallow. Apparently some plastic-faced, talentless, Z-list nonentities were celebrating the first anniversary of the renewal of their wedding vows! Picture exclusive! Oh my God! How exciting!

      No wonder people turned into serial killers.

      Still, it was his own fault for finishing The Beginner’s Guide to Shoplifting that morning, instead of saving it for lunchtime. Could’ve had something decent to read instead of this.

      He flipped the magazine open to a big photo spread of Mrs Plastic Face and her equally gormless-looking husband of eighteen months. Eighteen months married and they’d already reached the heady milestone of a vow-renewal anniversary.

      Someone grunted their way down into the couch on the other side of the coffee table.

      Callum took another bite. ‘According to this, she’s just signed a publishing deal: two million quid for four books.’

      ‘How is that