Gah... Callum covered his face with both hands. I hate you all.
And theyre post-morteming your first mummy at half ten this morning. Dont be late.
No, dont put me on hold, I just need to know if... Hello? Hello? A pan-pipes version of Green Sleeves rattled out of the phones earpiece. Wonderful.
Callum printed the letters D.I.C.K. next to the museums name. Third one in fifteen minutes.
There had to be, what, a dozen active murder investigations in the division right now? And what was he doing? Sodding stolen mummies.
The office door clunked shut.
Probably bloody Andrew McAdams, back for another gloat. Maybe hed come up with another hilarious poem. Oh ha, ha, ha.
Dick.
Franklins face appeared over the top of Callums cubicle wall. Wheres everyone else?
He held the handset away from his head and frowned at it. Is it just me? Am I hallucinating and this isnt really an actual phone? Is that why Im the only one who can see it?
Somebodys touchy.
Yes, hello? A little voice replaced the pan pipes. Weve checked and weve never had a human mummy here. Weve got a mummified dog and a stuffed polar bear in storage, if that helps?
No. Thanks. Youve been a lot of help. He hung up and stuck two lines through the museums name. Sat back and massaged his temples.
Franklin sniffed. So?
So what?
So where is everyone?
He pointed at the murder board. Off interviewing Glen Carmichaels mates.
Ooh, theres stuff on the board. She disappeared from view. Wait a minute, how come Im down to do the post mortem?
Callum stood.
She was in front of the murder board, hands on her hips, frown on her face. What, Im stuck in the mortuary with a decomposing corpse while youre all off interviewing people? Thank you very sodding much!
He pointed at the list of tasks. If you didnt want to do it, why put your name down?
I didnt. None of this was on the board last night.
Hmm... You didnt mark up the actions with Watt and Dotty?
No. We ate the pizzas, then Mother told me to head off and not come back in till quarter past ten, as Id been here till late.
Lovely. So even though hed been here three weeks longer than she had, Franklin got to call DI Malcolmson Mother while he had to call her Boss. And she got a lie-in.
Franklin sniffed again. Whats wrong with your face?
Nothing. He picked his coat off the back of his chair. Get your stuff, were off to the mortuary.
The pool car slid along Camburn Road, following the edge of the woods. They made a thick blanket of green: leaves and bushes trembling in the rain. There were people in there, on the paths and tracks that wound their way between the trees walking dogs, wheeling pushchairs, jogging. A wee girl on a bicycle...
Callum slammed on the brakes.
Aaargh! Franklin lurched forward against her seatbelt, both hands slapping onto the dashboard bracing herself. What the bloody hell do you think youre
Just be a minute. He stuck on the hazard lights and scrambled out into the downpour. Flicked his collar up as he jogged between the puddles and in under the canopy of branches. Wiped the rain from his face. Willow.
Her dirty-blue anorak was frayed at the cuffs and shoulders, hood thrown back, gold ringlets stuck to her shiny face. Pink cheeks and Rudolf nose. Sup?
Raindrops pattered on the leaves above them, like a million tiny drummers. The occasional drip made it through the canopy, splashing into a puddle big enough to drown a toddler.
He cleared his throat. Is your mum all right?
Been waiting on you for ages, Piggy.
Did Jerome come back and hit her again?
Willow tilted her head on one side. You perving on my mum?
No.
Why? Whats wrong with my mum?
Its OK, Ill keep your name out of it. No one will know you told me who hit your mother.
Get bent, Piggy. I aint no snitch. She balanced on the pedals, shoogling the bike from side to side to stay upright. You got them toys for Pinky from the wee creepy guy with the pawnshop. Why?
Because. Callum shrugged. No one should have to pawn their kids toys just to stay afloat. No matter how much of a pain in the arse those kids are.
She almost smiled.
Willow, your dad the guy who broke your arm when you were four what was his name?
How come you always asking questions, Piggy? She pedalled around him in a slow circle. Nosey, nosey, nosey: oink, oink, oink.
Just interested.
Always sticking your nose into other peoples stuff and that.
Hey, its OK if you dont know.
Course I know. She did another lap. You saying I dont know?
Lots of people have no idea who their dad is. No shame in that.
Yeah, well I know: and I aint no snitch. But see if he ever comes back? Ill break his arm.
Sure you will. Callum turned in place, facing her as she circled.
Break his little bitch legs too.
A seven-year-old girl, with blonde ringlets. And the worst thing was: she probably meant it.
You dont have to be like him, Willow. You can be so much better than that. Hell: put your mind to it and you can be anything you want.
Youre a nutjob, Piggy. She pedalled away a couple of feet, then dug into her pocket and came out with a small blue bag the kind dog-walkers used to collect moist, soft, stinking presents and chucked it to him.
Please dont let it be warm, please dont let it be warm...
It wasnt. And what was inside wasnt cold and squidgy either, it was a thin, flat rectangle.
Callum opened the bag, and there it was: one tatty leather wallet, the lining dangling loose from one side like a Labradors tongue. A smile pulled at his face, but when he looked up Willow was already fading into the distance, pedalling for all she was worth.
Callum opened the bag, and there it was: one tatty leather wallet, the lining dangling loose from one side like a Labradors tongue. A smile pulled at his face, but when he looked up Willow was already fading into the distance, pedalling for all she was worth.
He took a deep breath and bellowed it out anyway: THANK YOU!
Then the car horn blared from the roadside behind him. Franklin, being her usual patient charming self.
Right.
He puffed out a breath and slipped the poo-bag in his pocket.
Time to visit the dead.
12
Thanks. Thanks a lot. And now Im late. Franklin sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, scowling.
Its only just gone half ten. Callum swung the pool car around the roundabout and into a shabby industrial estate. Past boarded-up business units with empty car parks and rusty chain-link fencing speckled with ancient carrier bags their colours bleached and brittle. Through puddles the size of lochans, sending arcs of spray up onto the pavements. Windscreen wipers thumping back-and-forth across the glass. Its like going to the pictures: first fifteen minutes is all adverts and trailers.
I happen to like the trailers.
Yeah, she would.
Left, past a garage selling shiny four-by-four flatbed trucks, and down to the end of the road.
A thick line of green bushes at least twelve foot tall stretched out from either side of a big automatic gate topped with razor wire. An intercom unit sat in front of the gate, mounted on top of a big concrete bollard. Callum pulled up beside it and wound down his window. Pressed the button.
Its speaker crackled and popped, then hissed something unintelligible at him. So he stuck his thumb on the button again and held it there till the gates squealed and rumbled their way open.
The pool car rocked its way over a speed bump and into the compound.
If the architect was going for warm and welcoming when he designed Oldcastles overflow mortuary hed done a sodding rotten job of it. The building looked like something out of a Cold War thriller a concrete bunker with tiny windows along its length. A Transit van sat outside the loading bay, down the far end, two men in grey overalls manhandling a plain gunmetal coffin onto a gurney.
It wasnt the only vehicle there a handful of manky pool cars had been abandoned as close to the mortuarys front doors as possible. Because clearly police officers werent waterproof.
Callum parked on the periphery of the clump. There you go: five minutes. Theyll still be going on about switching off your mobile phone and getting a drink and a snack from the lobby.
Youre an idiot. She climbed out into the rain and slammed the door behind her.
So people keep telling me. He locked the car and followed her inside.
Theyd decorated since last time, the smell of fresh paint fighting against several plug-in air fresheners and the dirty-bowel-like stench of decay. All the posters were new too motivational landscapes and quotes about peace and forgiveness. As if that was going to do any good to the poor sods who had to come all the way out here to identify their dead childs body. The wee stainless-steel reception desk hadnt changed, and nor had the big dusty rubber plant in the corner. Its thick waxy leaves like slabs of green liver, aerial roots searching the walls for sustenance.
A little old man lounged behind the desk, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth as he wrestled with the Castle News and Post crossword. The effort must have been quite something, because his wrinkles were even more tortured than normal, his hair a mixture of silver and cigarette-tar yellow.
Callum went over and had a look. Poked the newspaper. Three across, Decapitated.
The old man glanced up, showing off a pair of dark, glittering eyes. It doesnt fit.
It does if you spell Robespierre properly, Dougal. Three Es, two Rs and an I.
Oh. He made the correction, then put the paper to one side. Grinned at Franklin with a big grey wall of perfectly straight false teeth. Well, well, well, when DS McAdams called to say you were coming over he didnt tell me you were such a beauty.
She bared her teeth back at him, but it wasnt a smile. Wheres the post mortem?
Ah, straight to business. Dougal winked. I like that in a woman.
Do you also like a punch in the throat?
I wouldnt say no to a little light spanking. But maybe I should just show you through to the cutting room?
Maybe you should.
Dougal stepped out from behind the reception desk and led the way through a pair of double doors and into a long corridor with doors opening off either side. Weve got a full house this morning. Yesterday mustve been buy-one-get-one-free on dead bodies. The door at the end opened on an aisle between two sets of refrigeration units big rectangles of stainless steel, each one covered in a grid of metal hatches. Four high, eight wide. Each hatch was about the same size as an oven door, only they didnt contain Christmas dinner.