Callum picked his way down the hill until he stood beside her.
The hatchback was an old Kia Picanto the kind that looked like a roller-skate on steroids. Originally blue, it was now a muddy grey, with deep scratches along both sides where the barbed wire had raked it. A Police Aware sticker covered most of the drivers window.
Franklin stared at the car, then pulled out a sheet of paper and stared at that instead. Then back to the car. Is this it?
Callum walked over to the back window and peered in through the rain-flecked glass.
Inside, the car was a mess. Not just the usual burger wrappers and sweetie papers, but splashes of paint and crusts of what looked like plaster dust. A tool bag lay in the rear footwell, next to two drums of flooring adhesive and a packet of slate tiles.
A voice behind them: HOY!
Callum turned.
A young bloke in uniform was stomping his way across the field towards them, one hand holding the peaked cap on top of his head. YOU! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOURE DOING? GET AWAY FROM THERE!
Franklin waited till he was six feet away, before hauling out a standard-issue warrant-card holder. Constable. Care to explain why Im wasting my time with a road traffic collision?
PC Shouty peered at her warrant card, then pulled a face. No offence, but could you not have introduced yourself back at the roadside and saved me a trip down... The expression on Franklins face must have finally worked its magic, because he shut his mouth with an audible click. Blushed. Sorry?
Her voice got even colder. Im listening.
Yes. Right. He pointed at the car. Someone called it in this morning, no sign of the driver or any passengers.
She stepped closer, looming. And I give a toss, because?
The boot! Theres a body in the boot and we thought... well, I thought thinking isnt exactly Tonys forte but
Theres a body in the boot? Her eyes widened. YOU BLOODY IDIOT! Why havent you cordoned off the scene? Wheres the common approach path? Why arent you logging visitors? And where the buggering hell is the SEB?
He backed off a couple of paces, hands up. Whoa. Its not like that. I mean, its not fresh or anything, its just, you know, dead, and we
THERE ARE HUMAN REMAINS IN THAT CAR, YOU MORON! Call the pathologist, now!
No, its like... Look. He sidled around to the boot of the car and popped the hatchback lid. Swung it up with a gloved hand. See?
Callum leaned forward and frowned.
There, nestled in amongst the dustsheets and a bucket full of plasterboard fragments was a human body. It lay on its side, arms folded so the hands were pressed against its chest, knees hard up against the hands, feet hard up against the bottom. Head bent forward sharply, so the face was almost completely hidden by the knees. Skin shrunken and wrinkled, the colour of ancient leather.
He groaned. Not another one.
Franklin bared her teeth. Is this supposed to be a joke, Constable? She poked Callum in the shoulder with a rock-hard finger. A bit of a laugh at the new girls expense? Gearing up for a good bellow. WELL, IS IT?
And there it was again, that smell. Much stronger here than it had been back at the tip, where it had to fight with the stench of a hundred million rotting bin-bags. The rich, warm, but slightly bitter tang of wood smoke, so strong you could taste it at the back of your throat.
Constable! Constable MacGregor, Im talking to
Will you shut up a minute? He snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Reached in and prodded the body. Solid, as if itd been carved from a chunk of oak, then dipped in the peatiest whisky in the world.
When he straightened up, Franklins eyes were wide, her whole person trembling as if she was about to pop.
Before she could get started, he dragged out his Airwave handset and called Control. Aye, Brucie? I need a check on a Kia Picanto. He rattled off the registration number and colour, then clunked the boot shut in the intervening silence.
Franklin squared her puffed-up shoulders. Now you listen to me, Sunshine, I will not be spoken to like that! How dare
Okeydokey. A thick Dundonian accent crackled out of the Airwaves speaker. Yer cars registered to a Glen Carmichael, eighteen Walsh Crescent, Blackwall Hill. Twenty-four years old. Ooh, looks like he lives with his mum. You wanting the postcode?
Has he got prior?
Couple counts of housebreaking-and-robbery when he was twelve. Suspended sentence. And an ex-girlfriend got herself a restraining order when he was fourteen. Sounds like a lovely wee lad.
OK, thanks, Brucie. Callum put his Airwave away. Grinned at Franklin. We turned up a mummy at the tip this morning, just like this one. Probably nicked from a museum. The Kias owner has form for breaking into places he shouldnt and helping himself to things that arent his. Are you thinking what Im thinking?
I see. She shot her cuffs again. Well, dont just stand there lets go pick him up.
7
Shhh, youre doing great.
Is he? Then why does he feel so terrible? Why does he just want to lie down and die?
The water around him is cold, but thats not why hes shivering.
A sponge dips into the dark brown liquid, then runs gently across his chest, clearing away the thin white rime of salt. Dissolving the crystals back into the brine.
The wall whispers over the sound of trickling water. Theyll worship you: youll be a god.
Then the sponge dips into the water again, presses against his forehead sending rivulets running down his lined face.
Theyll worship you: youll be a god.
Are you thirsty? The voice is kind, worried. Do you want something to drink?
He tries to shake his head, but can only tremble. No. No more of the foul water.
I know its bitter, but its good for you. Full of herbs and minerals. Here...
Youll be a god. Youll be a god. Youll be a god.
A metal cup presses against his cracked lips, and he hasnt got the strength to keep his jaw clenched shut. Sour liquid fills his mouth, catches the back of his throat. And he coughs, splutters the water out, feels it dripping from his chin onto his chest.
Theyll worship you.
His body rocks back and forward, sending out little waves across the bath.
Why cant he cry?
Only its not really a bath, is it? Its a large metal trough, big enough for three people, let alone one living skeleton. All the joints are rusty, dark brown as if the thing is bleeding, rivets standing out like nipples on its cold metal skin.
Why cant he just die?
Youll be a god, and theyll worship you.
Shhh... A warm hand on his forehead. A gentle touch and a soft word. Itll all be over soon.
8
Walsh Crescent curled in on itself like a snail shell. Mostly bungalows, but every now and then a second storey sprouted from a converted attic. Box hedges, gravel driveways, nameplates on the garden walls. Pretensions of grandeur. One even had a pair of three-foot-high lions perched either side of the drive, their whitewashed surfaces cracked and showing the concrete below.
No view to speak of, but a nice enough street.
Sitting in the passenger seat, Franklin scowled out at the suburban enclave.
Callum pulled up outside number 18. Killed the engine. Sat there with his wrists draped over the steering wheel. Look, I know arresting idiots for stealing mummies from museums probably isnt what you signed up for, but this is all they let us do.
She didnt move.
And trust me, this is a lot more interesting than what were usually lumbered with. At least theres genuine dead bodies involved. Even if they are a thousand years old.
She didnt move.
And trust me, this is a lot more interesting than what were usually lumbered with. At least theres genuine dead bodies involved. Even if they are a thousand years old.
Franklin let out a low sigh, then unclipped her seatbelt. Im here because I punched a superintendent in the car park.
In the car park? Callum smiled. Theres a euphemism Ive never heard before. Sounds painful.
He deserved it. Next thing you know: no more Edinburgh for you, pack your bags, youve been posted to Oldcastle. Sounding about as pleased as someone whos just discovered their routine check-up has turned into emergency root-canal surgery.
Welcome to Mothers Misfit Mob. He pointed through the windscreen. Shall we?
They climbed out into the drizzle and hurried up the path to number 18. Stood beneath the little portico waiting for someone to come answer the bell.
So? Franklin stuck her hands in her pockets.
So what?
What did you do?
Oh... Well, she was going to find out sooner or later. I cocked up. Contaminated a crime scene, because I wasnt paying attention. Too busy trying to get a conviction. A shrug. You know Big Johnny Simpson?
Never heard of him.
Well, he walked on a murder charge. Because of me. And no, Im not happy about it. At least that part was true.
So the teams a dumping ground for the unwanted and the incompetent. Thats just great.
I wouldnt say
The door opened. Hello? A middle-aged woman squinted out at them, hair piled on top of her head, a red pinny smeared with grey stains covering polo-shirt and cords. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel. Sorry, I was in the studio. Can I... Her shoulders dipped as she looked them up and down. Im flattered, but I honestly dont want any copies of The Watchtower, leaflets about the Bible being a guide to modern life, or a discussion on accepting Jesus into my heart. So if you dont mind. She tried to close the door, but Callum stuck his foot in the way.
Mrs Carmichael? Police. Is Glen in?
Its Ms, and no. Her nose came up. Now, if youll excuse me, Ive got clay on the wheel.
Franklin held out her warrant card. Theres been an accident: we just found your sons car in a field south of the city. Hes not in it. Were worried for his safety.
A hand fluttered to her mouth. Glen...
Now can we come in?
The kitchen was warm enough, every surface covered with pots and bowls and mugs. Some less wonky than others.
Callum stuck the kettle on to boil, then picked up a blue mug with a white rim. These are very good. Did you make them yourself?
Ms Carmichael sat at the small kitchen table, worrying at her clay-greyed dishtowel. Is Glen all right?
Franklin pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. We dont know. Weve been in contact with the hospitals and doctors surgeries, but nothing so far. Hes