Mother motioned to Callum and he held up the cordon so she could duck under and slip inside. McAdams stopped right next to him, voice low, just audible through the facemask. In the three weeks youve been here, youve done nothing but moan, whinge, and disappoint. But if you compromise my crime scene, Ill make you wish Dugdale still had your balls in his fist. Understand?
Callum just stared back.
Good. He turned and pushed through into the tent.
Count to ten.
Dont let him get to you.
Deep breath.
Callum pulled his shoulders back and followed McAdams inside.
Rain thudded against the tents roof. The wind moaned through the gaps in the plastic, making the walls shudder. Technically, you could have parked a couple of patrol cars in here and still had room for a police motorbike, but instead it was home to a small diesel generator and four workplace lights on six-foot stands.
The stench was something special so thick it was almost chewy, trapped by the tents walls and roof, amplified by the warmth of decomposition, and soured with diesel exhaust fumes.
Four figures in the full Smurf kit were kneeling around a hole dug into the rubbish, right in the middle of the tent.
Mother joined them and clapped her hands, raising her voice over the rain and the generator. Come on then, what have you got for me?
One of the figures straightened up with a groan, both hands pressed into the small of his back. Mummy.
She pursed her lips. I dont mind a little informality, young man, but thats going a bit too far.
Not you. He pulled down his facemask, showing off a round sweaty face with tiny pursed lips. Like someone had pumped a cherub up on steroids and pies. In the hole: its a mummy. Your actual, curse-of-the-Pharaohs, from-the-leathery-mists-of-time, mummy.
Really? Mother inched her way to the very edge and peered down.
Or it might be a daddy. Difficult to tell without unfolding the limbs, and I get the feeling theyll snap off if we do that. Teabag tends to frown on our dismembering corpses before hes had a chance to post mortem them. He dug out a scrap of cloth and dabbed at his shiny face. Gah. Like a sauna in here.
McAdams stepped up beside Mother. Ah...
Callum crept around to the opposite side of the hole, bin-bags shifting beneath his blue-booteed feet, and leaned out over the edge.
The SOC team had shored up the sides of their excavation with sheets of corrugated iron, which held back the mass of garbage, but did nothing to stop the grey-brown liquid seeping out underneath it.
Their body lay on its side at the bottom of the hole, about eight feet down, where the liquid was deepest. Elbows tight in against its ribs, hands drawn up to its chest, knees hard up against them, feet tucked in to the body. Its neck was bent hard forward, so the face was completely hidden by the hands and knees. So far, so murdery, but it was the skin that gave it away. Instead of being all blotched with mould and falling apart it was creased and leathery. Darkened to a dirty mahogany. The only ear visible had shrivelled up till it resembled a dried apricot, clinging to the side of its bald head.
Callum raised his eyebrows. Now theres a sight you dont see every day.
Mothers fists clenched at her sides. That rotten, two-faced, lying bastard!
The oversized sweaty cherub in the SOC suit wiped his glistening forehead. At a guess, its got to be about, what... a thousand years old?
I should have known! Thought theyd finally given me a proper murder, but no. That was asking too much, wasnt it? She turned and stomped out of the tent.
McAdams didnt follow her, just shouted over his shoulder instead. Where are you going?
Her voice faded away into the distance. To tell DCI Powel exactly where he can stick his thousand-year-old mummy!
The only sound in the tent was the hammering rain and the growling generator.
Hmmm... McAdams squatted down, one hand on the bin-bag next to him. The bodys naked. Wonder what happened to all the bandages. He glanced up at the Cherub. Its a mummy, it should be all wrapped up.
Dont look at me.
Callum eased himself down to his haunches, holding onto the top of a corrugated sheet. No way he was risking an eight-foot plummet into a paddling pool of rancid bin water. Theyve got a mummy just like it in Elgin Museum. On display, naked in a big bell jar. Some Victorian bloke brought it back from Peru: suppose he unwrapped it so the viewing public could get a good look at a real-life dead body. A small smile shifted against his facemask. We used to go there when I was a wee boy. Me and Alastair would... Yes. Well. The less said about that the better.
McAdams grunted, then stood. Turned to face the sweaty cherub. Dont suppose weve got any clue who dumped it here, do we?
One of the other Smurfs looked up from the contents of a ruptured refuse sack. Nah. Back in the good old days, thered be envelopes and letters and newspapers all through this stuff dates and addresses in every bag. Now? He shook his head. Recycling: bane of our lives.
McAdams wiped his hands together. Soon as Dr Twinings seen the remains, get them bagged, tagged, and down the mortuary. And if he gives you any grief about it being a waste of his valuable time, tell him tough. Dont see why we should be the only ones. A click of the fingers, held high overhead, as if McAdams was summoning a waiter in a sitcom. Constable MacGregor: were leaving. Turns out this is more of a short story than a fully-fledged novel.
Callum stayed where he was, sniffing the air. Can you smell that?
I said, Were leaving.
No, underneath all the rotting rubbishy smell, theres something else. Wood smoke? Like theres been a fire?
I said, Were leaving.
No, underneath all the rotting rubbishy smell, theres something else. Wood smoke? Like theres been a fire?
Dont look at me. The Cherub shook his head. Fifteen minutes in here and you go nose-blind. Cant smell a thing.
McAdams voice boomed from outside the tent: CONSTABLE MACGREGOR! HEEL!
The Cherub shrugged. His masters voice.
Dont suppose it mattered anyway. What was one extra smell on top of all the others?
Callum stood, wiped his gloves on his legs, and slipped back out into the rain.
Halfway back across the slippery bin-bags, his phone launched into its default ringtone. Sodding hell. He peeled off his right glove and fought the bare hand into his SOC suit. Pulled out his phone. Kept on walking. Hello?
Ah, hello. Am I speaking to Detective Constable Callum MacGregor?
He checked the number. Nope, no idea who it was. Can I help you?
Good, good. This is Alex from Professional Standards, wed like you to pop in for a wee chat.
Oh God.
How does tomorrow morning sound? I know its taken us a while to get round to it, but better late than never, yes?
No.
Tomorrow morning?
Excellent. Lets say... Oh, thats lucky: I can fit you in at seven. First thing in the morning, then you can get on with your day without having to worry about it.
Might as well get it over with like ripping off a sticking plaster, wrenching all the hair out with it. Right. Yes. Seven tomorrow morning.
After all, what was the worst that could happen?
They could fire him. Prosecute him. And send him to prison.
Good, good. See you then. Alex from Professional Standards hung up.
It would be fine. It would.
Callum put his phone away. Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that.
He crunched his way through the bin-bags to McAdams shiny new Mitsubishi Shogun. The lanky git was leaning on the roof of Mothers scabby Fiat Panda, one hand making lazy circles in the air as she peeled herself out of her Smurf outfit. Probably working on new ways to make Callums life even worse. As if it wasnt bad enough already.
Professional Standards.
Gah...
He yanked open the passenger door and pinged his blue nitrile gloves into the footwell. Tore off his SOC suit and bundled it up.
They didnt have anything on him.
They couldnt he hadnt done anything.
Yeah, but when did that ever stop anyone?
He scowled at his crumpled suit. What was the point taking it back to the station and sticking it in the bin, it was just going to end up right back here anyway. Callum hurled it away. It spun, unfurling in mid-air like a shed skin, before tumbling to the filthy ground.
And when he turned back to the car, there was Dugdale grinning at him from the back seat.
Oh... sod off.
The municipal tip shrank in the rear-view mirror. McAdams shifted behind the wheel, dug a packet of gum from his pocket and crunched down a little white rectangle. Right, you know whats coming next, dont you?
Sitting behind him, Dugdale scowled out of the window. I want a lawyer.
Not talking to you, Ainsley, Im talking to our special little friend, Constable Crime Scene here.
Callum folded his arms. If its more haikus, Im putting in for a transfer.
Dont let me stop you. First call all the museums. See whose mummys gone.
He stared across the car. Oh you have got to be kidding
One of thems lost a mummy. Ill bet if you beaver away super hard for the next two or three months, youll find out which one. He smiled. Unless youre too busy resigning, of course? Wouldnt want to get in the way of that.
Oh for... Why cant Watt do it?
Because, dear Constable Useless, McAdams turned a smile loose, I dont like you even more than I dont like him. The smile widened. Itll be good for you: character building.
Callum turned to face the passenger window. Id like to build your character with a sodding claw-hammer.
Did you say something, Constable?
I said, Yes, Sarge.
Good boy.
And a nail gun.
Dugdale was still wearing the same scowl, but hed swapped his clothes for a white SOC suit, bare toes sticking out of a pair of manky grey flip-flops. And hed washed the dried blood off his face. That would be a bonus when his duty solicitor finally appeared.
Callum stood on the concrete apron and waved him goodbye as a Police Custody and Security Officer led him away, steering Dugdale down the corridor and into the cell with M6 stencilled on the thick blue door.
The cell block rang with the sound of someone screaming what sounded like passages from the Bible. All thee and thou and that.
Raw breezeblock walls painted a tired magnolia, with a blue line all the way around it, straddling the bright-red panic strip. A dozen cells in this block, most of them occupied, going by the A4-sized whiteboards mounted next to each closed door. Three assaults, two indecent exposures, a theft from a locked-fast place, a shoplifter, one breach of bail conditions, an attempted murder, and Dugdale.
VERILY, SAYETH THE LORD, FOR YE SHALL FEAR MINE WRATH!