What would it be: door-to-doors in the freezing downpour? Digging into the archives for some obscure file that hadnt 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. Shed 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? Shes running around assaulting detective sergeants on DCI Powels Major Investigation Team. Care to explain yourself?
What? How is this my
I had Powel on the phone this afternoon, and he wasnt 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 mortuarys CCTV system. A shrug. For some reason, Blakey wasnt keen on anyone seeing it.
Right. Mother nodded. Then sighed. Callum, Im 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 youve 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 Octopuss nose to his rectum by first-class fist-express; Im going to get some popcorn in.
Yes, Boss. He popped the yellow baby into his mouth, chewed on its lemony sweetness.
I dont know what to make of you, Callum, I honestly dont. One minute youre this vast pain in my backside, and the next youre saving Franklin from herself.
He ripped the head off the orange baby. I didnt take a bribe from Big Johnny Simpson. Talk to Professional Standards theyre looking through every penny Ive got. Yes: I cocked-up the crime scene, but I didnt 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. Theyre 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. Therell 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. Theyll want a superintendent running it.
Callum wrote his name in the dashboard dust. Yes, but a superintendent wont want to get their hands dirty, will they? No, theyll 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. Were fighting for this one, Callum. Itll probably be the last chance Andy gets to put a killer away. I wont let them take that away from him.
Oh goody, a poisoned chalice. My favourite. She held the paper bag out again. Were fighting for this one, Callum. Itll probably be the last chance Andy gets to put a killer away. I wont 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 Powels 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.
Whats that when its at home?
Theyre not allowed to call it profiling because of the TV. Might help?
Not if its Glen and his mates whore the killers... A shrug. But what the hell. Well get DNA and a facial reconstruction on the go too. Ill 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: YOURE 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 Beginners Guide to Shoplifting that morning, instead of saving it for lunchtime. Couldve 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 theyd 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, shes just signed a publishing deal: two million quid for four books.
How is that fair? McAdams sighed. A book deal for an idiot who cant write her own name, / The public should know better, but theyll buy it just the same, / The publishers will lap it up, to boost their bottom line, / And if theyll publish crap like that, why wont they publish mine?
Callum flipped the page again. Move over Pam Ayres, we have a new Poet Laureate.
Shouldnt you be doing something?
I am. Im eating the sandwich my pregnant girlfriend made me for lunch. He held up a finger. And before you start: Ive already got the DNA sent off from all three bodies, got Lucy to X-ray their heads for dental chart comparisons, contacted Dundee Universitys facial reconstruction bods, asked the media department to send out have you seen these men posters for Glen Carmichael and his mates, and Dr Alice McDonald has agreed to pay us a visit as soon as shes finished drafting her preliminary report on Powels severed feet. Another bite of cheesy pickly goodness. So yes, right now Im eating my lunch and reading about vacuous nonentities who spent more cash on a vow-renewal anniversary celebration than you or I will make in a year.
Just because Mothers softening on you, doesnt mean I am, Constable. And for the record: summary narrative is the hallmark of a lazy writer.
He turned the page. Ooh, look here: it says shes bringing out a line of perfumes, thatll be nice, wont it? Silicone Implants la Botox, a fragrance for women.
Fine. McAdams stood. When youve finished your meagre repast, I want those dental records checked. And find out who they bought the flat from. Maybe hes the one in the bath. God knows Id happily kill the idiot who sold us our house.
Sarge? Franklin poked her head around the door. Sorry, but theres a Dr McDonald in the observation room asking to see the team. Says shes consulting?
Thats me. Callum popped the last chunk of sandwich in his mouth and sooked his fingers clean. Flipped the magazine shut and stood. Feel free to tag along, if you like.
He sauntered out, past a frowning Franklin, and down the corridor into the observation suite. It was subdivided into booths by a series of half-height partitions, each area looking out over one of the dissecting rooms twelve cutting tables. The booths all had their own whiteboard, DVD recorder, collection of uncomfortable plastic chairs, and TV screen.
Dr McDonald was sitting cross-legged on the floor right in front of the TV, still wearing her pink scrubs and stripy top, elbows on her knees, hands on her cheeks holding her head up. Like a little kid watching cartoons. In front of her, the screen had a top-down plan view of the cutting table, a wrinkled leathery body lying dead centre curled up on its side. Figures flickered and swam around it, moving impossibly quickly, lurching in and out of frame.
Shed swapped her mortuary-issue wellies for a pair of red high-tops, and added a pair of glasses to her ensemble. The fast-forward post mortem reflected in their lenses.
She looked up as Callum walked in. Ive watched it five times now.
He waited, but nothing else was forthcoming. No babbling. No non sequiturs.
OK...
She unfolded her legs and stood. Ill need to see the crime scene.
I can probably swing that.
McAdams marched into the room, followed by Franklin. Still no sign of Mother.
A big smile and McAdams stuck his hand out for shaking. Detective Sergeant McAdams, you must be Dr McDonald.
She looked at the offered hand as if hed grown a vast pale hairless spider at the end of his arm.
The awkward silence stretched.
He lowered his hand. Stuck it in his pocket instead. This is DC Franklin.
Before we start, heres how this works, McDonald walked to the whiteboard and wrote VICTIMOLOGY on it in red marker, I give you a series of educated guesses, based on the information you give me. If I dont know something Ill mark it as an assumption and you have to take anything based on that with a whole carton of salt. Agreed?