A Dark So Deadly. Stuart MacBride
slapped her hand away. ‘Are you off your head?’
‘We’re going to be late!’
‘You press that button and the dashboard camera comes on.’ He pointed at the little rectangle of plastic mounted against the windscreen, hidden by the rear-view mirror. ‘And the GPS starts recording. And it all gets stored for the courts, or in case there’s an accident while you’re wheeching through traffic. Lights and sirens are for emergencies only, not because you’re in a hurry.’
She curled her hand against her chest, as if he’d stabbed it with a fork and scowled at him. ‘Where is it then? This magical wallet?’
A stone settled in his stomach, cold and heavy. ‘They threw it away.’
‘Waste of sodding time.’ She checked her watch again. ‘Thirty-six minutes to get back to Division Headquarters and make up a murder board.’
‘Will you stop moaning on about—’
‘DC MacGregor from Control, safe to talk?’
He picked up the handset and pressed the button. ‘Go ahead.’
‘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