Seatbelt. The car slid away from the kerb.
Callum closed his eyes. Think they turned right onto Grant Street. If you hurry we can still catch them: wee boy in jeans and a blue tracksuit top, wee girl in jeans and a red one. About six or seven years old. Both on bikes.
You got mugged by toddlers? A gravelly laugh rattled out in the car. Thats pathetic even for you.
Theyre getting away!
Were not going chasing after little kiddies, Constable. I have much more important things to do than clean up your disasters.
Thats it. Stop the car. Callum straightened up and bared his teeth. Come on: lets go. You and me. I battered the crap out of Dugdale, I can do the same for you.
Oh dont be such a baby.
Im not kidding: stop the car.
Really, DC MacGregor? You dont think youre in enough trouble as it is? Hows it going to look if you assault a senior officer whos dying of cancer? Think it through. The car jolted and bumped, then swung around to the left, heading down towards Montrose Road. And any time our workplace badinage gets too much for you, feel free to pop into Mothers office with your resignation. Do us all a favour. He slowed for the junction. Until then, try to behave like an actual police officer.
Callums hands curled into fists, so tight the knuckles ached. I swear to God
Now put your seatbelt on and try not to say anything stupid for the next fifteen minutes. Ill not have you spoiling my remarkably good mood. He poked the radio and insipid pop music dribbled out of the speakers. You see, Constable Useless, sometimes life gives you lemons, and sometimes it gives you vodka. Today is a vodka day.
The jingly blandness piffled to a halt and a smoke-gravelled womans voice came through. Hmmm, not sure about that one myself. Youre listening to Midmorning Madness on Castlewave FM with me, Annette Peterson, and today my extra-special guest is author and broadcaster, Emma Travis-Wilkes.
McAdams put a hand over his heart, as if he was about to pledge allegiance. Today is a caviar day.
Glad to be here, Annette.
A champagne and strawberries day.
Now, a little bird tells me youre writing a book about your dad, Emma. Of course he created Russell the Magic Rabbit, Ichabod Smith, and Imeldas Miraculous Dustbin, but hes probably best known for the childrens classic, Open the Coffins.
A chocolate and nipple clamps
All right! I get it: everythings just sodding great. Callum shifted in his seat, setting his testicles aching again. One of us got thwacked in the balls, here.
Thats right. Hes given joy to so many people, and now that hes... well, Alzheimers is a cruel mistress. But its been a real privilege to swim in the pool of his life again.
Pfff... McAdams curled his top lip. Listen to this pretentious twaddle. Just because shes got a famous dad, she gets to plug her book on the radio. What about my book? Wheres my interview?
And its lovely to see these memories light up his face, its like hes right back there again.
Cliché. And, by the way, unless his face is actually glowing like a lightbulb, thats physical hyperbole, you hack.
Callum glowered across the car. We should never have chipped in for that creative writing class.
McAdams grinned back at him. My heart: creative. My soul, it soars with the words. Divinity: mine.
Wonderful stuff. Now, lets have a bit of decent music, shall we? Heres one of the acts appearing at Tartantula this weekend: Catnip Jane, and Once Upon a Time in Dundee.
A banjo and cello launched into a sinister waltz, over a weird thumping rhythm as McAdams pulled out of the junction, heading left instead of right.
Silly old sod.
Callum sighed. Youre going the wrong way. He pointed across the swollen grey river, past the docks and the industrial units, towards the thick granite blade of Castle Hill. Division Headquarters is that direction. We need to get Dugdale booked in and seen to.
Meh, hell keep. That skeletal grin had widened. Its a vodka day, remember? We, my useless little friend, have finally got our hands on a murder!
3
The first drop of rain sparkled against the windscreen, caught in a golden shaft of sunlight as McAdams huge four-by-four slid past the last few houses on the edge of Kingsmeath. A second drop joined it. Then a third. Then a whole heap of them.
McAdams stuck the wipers on, setting them moaning and groaning their way across the glass, smearing the rain into grubby arcs. He pinned his mobile phone between his shoulder and ear, freeing his hand to change gears. Accelerating up the hill. Yeah... Yeah, Dugdale was there... No... Not a word of a lie, Mother: the new boy actually caught him. Thats right: his anonymous tip-off paid off. He cast a glance across the car at Callum. I know, I know... Ha! Thats what I said.
Callum folded his arms and pushed back into his seat. Stared out of the window at the dull green fields and their dull-grey sheep. The ache in his groin wasnt a full-on testicular migraine any more, itd settled to more of a dull throbbing each pulse marking time with the groaning windscreen wipers. Oh youre both so hilarious.
What did we say about you keeping your mouth shut? Back to the phone. No, not you, Mother: Constable Useless here... Yeah, yeah. Exactly: an actual murder. How long has it been?
Probably never see his wallet again.
McAdams put his foot down, overtaking a sputtering Mini. You on your way?... Uh-huh... Yeah, I couldnt believe it either. Since when does the great Detective Chief Inspector Poncy Powel hand over a murder investigation to the likes of us?... Exactly.
More fields. More sheep.
OK, so it was just a scruffy, tatty lump of leather and the lining was falling apart, but it had sentimental value.
Bloody kids.
Did he?... No!... No! Laughter. And did you?... Sodding hell... Yeah, hell love that.
Bloody Dugdale too.
He was just visible in the rear-view mirror, lying there with his mouth hanging open, face crusted with blood and bogies. Well, if Dugdale died in custody there was no way Callum was taking the rap for it. If anything happened it was McAdams fault.
Accepting blame for Elaines cock-up was one thing, but McAdams? He could sod right off.
Uh-huh. Were about... five minutes away? Maybe less?... Still cant believe it: a real murder! How longs it been?... Right. Yup. OK. See you there. He poked a button on his phones screen then slid the thing back in his pocket, big smile plastered across his skeletal face.
Am I allowed to ask where were going?
No.
Git.
McAdams took one hand off the wheel and pointed through the windscreen. We go where life rots. Where mans discarded dreams die. We go... to The Tip. Fingers twitching with each syllable.
A large white sign loomed at the side of the road: OLDCASTLE MUNICIPAL RECYCLING AND WASTE PROCESSING FACILITY. Someone had scrawled TWINNED WITH CUMBERNAULD! across the bottom in green graffiti.
The Shogun slowed for the turning, leaving the well-ordered tarmac for a wide gravel road acned with potholes and lined with whin bushes. Their jagged dark-green spears rattled in the rain.
It was getting heavier, bouncing off the rutted track as McAdams navigated his shiny new car between the water-filled craters and up to a cordon of blue-and-white POLICE tape.
He buzzed down the window and smiled at the lanky drip guarding the line. Two cheeseburgers, a Coke, and a chocolate milkshake please.
A sigh and a sniff. Then Officer Drip wiped her nose on the sleeve of her high-viz jacket, sending water dribbling from the brim of her peaked cap. Do you honestly think its the first time Ive heard that today?
Cheer up, Constable. A little rain wont kill you. He nodded at the cordon. You got our body?
Depends. You on the list? She dug a clipboard from the depths of her jacket and passed it through the window.
McAdams flipped through the top three sheets, making a low whistling noise. Theres a lot of people here. All for one dead little body?
Oh youd be surprised.
He printed two more names on the last sheet in blue biro, then handed the clipboard back. There we are, right at the end. Now be a good girl and get out of the way. Its the opening chapters: I need to draw the readers in, establish myself as the protagonist, and get on with solving the murder.
Constable Drip frowned at their names, then into the car. Her mouth tightened as she stared at the bloodied and unconscious Dugdale lying across the back seat. Looks like youve already got a body.
Oh, this ones not dead, its just resting. DC MacGregor decided to try his hand at a little police brutality.
MacGregor...? She peered at the list again, then across the car, top lip curling. So it is you.
Callum stared right back. Dont: Im not in the mood.
She shook her head, stowed her clipboard away, then unhooked a length of the tape barricade and waved them through.
McAdams grinned across the car at Callum. My, my, Constable. You just cant stop making friends, can you?
No.
That offer of an arse-kicking is still valid, Sarge.
Yes, because people dont hate you enough already.
The Shogun pitched and yawed through the potholes like a boat. God knew how big the rubbish tip was, but from the wide, lumpy road, it stretched all the way to the horizon. A vast sea of black plastic, gulls wheeling and screaming in the air above flecks of evil white, caught against the heavy grey sky.
And the smell...
Even with the car windows wound up it was something special. The rancid stench of rotting meat and vegetables mingled with the sticky-brown reek of used nappies, all underpinned by the dark peppery odour of black plastic left to broil in the sun.
McAdams slipped the four-by-four in behind a line of police vehicles and grubby Transit vans. Had to be, what, eight cars? Twelve if you counted the unmarked ones. About three-quarters of the dayshift, all out here playing on the tip.
The sarcastic half-arsed-poetry-spouting git was right: this was an awful lot of people for one dead body.
McAdams hauled on the handbrake. Right, Constable, make yourself useful for a change and go fetch us a couple of Smurf suits, extra-large. Ainsley and I need to have a little chat.
A chat?
Hes unconscious, Sarge. He needs a doctor. I told you he