A Dark So Deadly. Stuart MacBride
into dual carriageway, everyone sticking to the outside lane to avoid Oldcastle City Council’s award-winning collection of potholes. ‘I didn’t lose it, it was stolen.’
‘This isn’t helping us put a murder board together.’
‘We’ll be fine.’
‘They’re only going for pizza, we—’
‘I’ve done loads of murder boards: it’ll be fine. Trust me.’
She pursed her lips. ‘And why on earth would I do that?’
Fair point.
Montgomery Park drifted by on the right-hand side, a bunch of big white marquees with tartan stripes already sprouting on the grass around the boating lake.
‘OK. Full one hundred percent honesty time: the reason everyone hates me, is they think Big Johnny Simpson bribed me to sod-up a crime scene so he’d get off. But I didn’t. Not a penny. Ever.’
She frowned at him. ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? That you’re incompetent instead of corrupt?’
‘I’m not incompetent!’
‘Could have fooled me.’
‘Fine. I was trying to share, but why don’t you just sit there in sulky silence. See if I care.’ He clicked on the radio. Let it drown out her pouting.
‘… headline the main stage on Saturday, of course, it’s Oldcastle’s very own Donny “Sick Dawg” McRoberts! Donny, my man, good to have you in.’
A fake London patois burst out of the speaker, not quite good enough to conceal the Kingsmeath burr underneath. ‘Yah, it’s Sick Dawg, right? Donny’s what me foster mum called us, and you ain’t my mum, bro.’
‘Ha, ha. Right. Yeah, I got you, man. Respect. “Sick Dawg” it is …’
The massive Blackburgh Roundabout loomed before them. Burgh Library sat on a hill in the middle, all lit up like a 1960s idea of a spaceship – glass and concrete, curving walls and wonky rooflines. The Kingsmeath side of the roundabout was ringed by seven massive tower blocks, eighteen-storey headstones soaring above a scrubby patch of woodland. More 1984 than Star Trek.
‘So, “Sick Dawg”, welcome to Deathbed Discs on Castlewave FM, where we find out what tracks you’d take with you to the grave. And you’re kicking us off with “Stan” from Eminem’s fourth album, The Marshall—’
‘Yah, I been thinking about it, right? And I’m-a not about that no more.’
Callum swung the pool car around the outside lane, then took the first turning into Kingsmeath.
It was as if someone had turned down the lights, leaving the buildings in gloom. Rows and rows of council houses. Tenements. Grey faces and grey buildings.
‘You’re not?’
‘Nah, man. I go to my grave I’m not gonna be surrounded by stuff from the oldtimers, you know what I’m sayin’? Nah: I’m-a play my own stuff, bro. You know, from the heart.’
‘OK …’
An old couple stood on the pavement, screaming at each other, a wee dog cowering on its lead as they yelled.
‘Well, why don’t we just play the song anyway. It’ll give us time to completely abandon all the music your publicist told us you wanted to talk about and reprogramme the whole show …’
Fake rain clattered out of the speakers, followed by Dido singing over a heavy bassline.
Franklin made a little growling noise then jabbed her hand out and turned the radio off. ‘Bloody rap music.’
After that she kept her mouth firmly shut all the way through the bleak housing estates, past a dilapidated playing park – the swings and roundabouts reduced to slumped blobs of fire-blackened plastic – past Douglas on the Mound with its scaffolding-shrouded spire and vandalised graveyard …
It wasn’t until Callum pulled into a potholed car park that she opened it again. ‘Is this it?’
The car park was bordered on three sides by what were probably billed as ‘single-storey retail units with excellent potential!’ but looked more like something off the news when a riot’s just passed through. Three of the eight were boarded up; all were covered in a tattoo of graffiti; all had the kind of metal grilles over the window that were meant to roll up out of the way, but probably spent all their time firmly locked in the down position. A newsagents, a chip shop, a convenience store that looked about as welcoming as a shallow grave, a charity shop, and right at the far end: Little Mike’s Pawnshop. The sign above the frontage boasted, ‘WE BUY AND SELL ALL MANNER OF THINGS!’ ‘CASH FOR GOLD!’ ‘PAYDAY LOANS AT EXCELLENT RATES!!!’ ‘EST. 1995!’
Callum parked in front of it. ‘Won’t be long.’
‘Oh for … You’re here to redeem some manky family heirloom?’
‘Five minutes. Promise.’ He climbed out into the rain. Ducked his head and hurried inside.
The door made an electronic bleep-blonk noise as it swung closed behind him. Shelves lined the walls, packed with other people’s things. Free-standing display units turned the shop into a labyrinth. Old video game consoles, a collection of musical instruments, microwaves, hairdryers, boxed cutlery, vases, what looked like a brass urn with ‘IN MEMORY OF AGNES MAY ~ BELOVED MOTHER’ engraved on it. All of it marinating in the gritty stench of dust and mildew.
Callum picked his way through the maze to the counter, where a wee fat man was bent over a copy of the Castle News and Post. His white shirt was just a bit too big for him, the collar and cuffs stained and frayed. A maroon waistcoat with buttons missing and brown stains down the front. Bald head glinting in the shop’s dim lighting.
‘You Little Mike?’
The man behind the counter looked up, squinted, then pulled on a pair of small round glasses. ‘I am indeed, young sir, welcome to my emporium of delight.’ He swept a chubby hand from left to right, indicating his second-hand wares. ‘How may we assist you this drizzly September evening?’
The door made its bleep-blonk noise again and Franklin appeared, as if by magic. ‘Are you not finished yet?’
‘Ah, I see.’ Little Mike smiled like an indulgent parent. Then he folded his paper and moved it off to one side, revealing the glass countertop. A collection of rings and watches sparkled against dusty purple velvet. ‘An engagement ring for the lady, perhaps?’
Franklin stiffened. ‘What?’
‘Definitely not!’ Warmth bloomed in Callum’s ears. ‘Someone tried to use my credit and debit cards in here today. You destroyed them.’
He sighed. ‘A shame. You make such a lovely couple.’ A finger poked the glass. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’
‘Did they leave my wallet behind?’
‘Or, how about this?’ He grabbed something from beneath the counter and stuck it on his head then went back and fiddled a clip-on bow tie into place. ‘See? It’s a fez and bow tie. You can dress up like Doctor Who, for parties. Isn’t that fun?’
‘Have – you – got – my – wallet?’
‘No? Ah well.’ He covered the glass top with his newspaper again. ‘The young lady and gentleman concerned did have a wallet with them. A rather tatty affair, with the lining hanging out.’
Oh thank God. ‘That’s it! That’s the one.’
‘I see … Well, perhaps I can help.’ He disappeared through a door in the back.
Franklin picked