filled the hallway.
A sheet of plasterboard slouched against the wall, the bottom edge bowing under its own weight, anchored there by two big ten-litre tubs of magnolia paint.
She crept through the door at the end of the hall.
Callum followed her into a reasonably sized living room. Two windows should have given a view out across the harbour and the river, instead they were completely covered with … Yup, that was hardcore pornography. What little light filtered through it picked out the shape of a platform ladder, a collection of hand tools, and a stack of paint pots. A wallpaper table in the corner bent slightly under the weight of a tool belt, three electric drills, and a small, portable CD player – not quite turned up full volume, but close to it.
Franklin switched the thing off.
Now the only noise was the droning buzz of fat lazy bluebottles making drunken circles in the rancid air. The little dead bodies of their fallen comrades crunched beneath Callum’s feet.
‘GLEN CARMICHAEL?’ She reached into her jacket and came out with an extendable baton. Christ knew where she’d been hiding that. A flick of her wrist clacked it out to full length. ‘HELLO?’
Callum pulled out his pepper spray. ‘COME ON, GUYS, LET’S NOT PLAY SILLY BUGGERS!’
Two bedrooms led off from the living room, their windows similarly coated in bits of porn mag. One of them looked almost finished – the walls smoothly plastered and painted a neutral beige. The other was stripped back to the bare breezeblocks.
The kitchen was awash with pizza boxes and takeaway containers. A bong, half-full of dirty water, sat on the unit by a sink mounded with dirty dishes. A stack of empty lager tins that was taller than Callum.
Three university graduates and they still lived like teenaged boys.
The smell had been much stronger in the corridor than it was in the rest of the flat.
He stopped in the middle of the living room. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
She frowned at him.
‘These flats didn’t go up in Queen Victoria’s time, did they? So where’s the bathroom?’
Back into the hall, where that big sheet of plasterboard leaned up against the wall.
He hefted the paint pots out of the way, then grabbed the plasterboard and pulled, dragging it over to the other side.
A flat panel door. That would be the bathroom.
Callum turned the handle and it swung open inwards. He—
Oh dear God, the smell …
It crashed out into the hall like an avalanche, the dark-sweet taint of rotting meat riding on a wave of cloying pine.
Behind him, Franklin made little retching noises.
He reached for the light switch and clicked it on.
About a million bluebottles leapt into the air, buzzing and swarming, battering at the bare lightbulb. Setting it swinging.
The room was just big enough for a white bathroom suite, which looked brand new, with a shower above the bath. Dark water filled the tub, the surface flecked with floating mats of white and orange mould. A crust of brown made a tidemark around the rim, tiny crystals that glittered in the swaying light.
There was someone in the bath, lying facedown, skin all blackened and swollen. Crawling with little white things where the body’s shoulders protruded from the water.
Franklin stepped up beside him. ‘Christ …’
Yeah.
And then some.
Callum stuck his notebook back in his pocket, stepping out of the stairwell and into the drizzle. The view hadn’t improved, if anything it was worse. Low cloud and mist hid everything on the other side of the river, reduced the MacKinnon Quay to little more than a collection of random shapes.
The whole world rendered in shades of grey.
Getting dark too.
Oh no … He checked his watch: just gone half six. The Polish deli would be closed. No pickled cucumbers, onion rolls, or anything else.
So much for Elaine’s cravings.
Yeah, he was going to be popular when he finally got home.
He scuffed along the path then down the stairs to road level, made his way past patrol cars and manky Transit vans. Someone had finger-painted a big willy in the dirt across the back doors of one, complete with hairs.
McAdams’ shiny red Shogun took pride of place in front of the Willymobile, engine running, inside lights on. Callum limped over to the thing and slid onto the back seat. Closed the door on the cold dreich evening. ‘God, it’s perishing out there.’
Sitting in the passenger seat, Mother took a sip of something in a large wax-paper cup. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Detective Constable MacGregor.’
He sighed. ‘What am I supposed to have done now?’
Her sidekick turned the blowers down and turned in his seat. ‘You kicked in the door. Didn’t call for permission. You should know better.’
‘You’re very welcome, Sarge.’ Callum cupped his hands over the heater mounted between the seats, trying to get some feeling back in his fingertips. ‘If it wasn’t for me you’d still be investigating odds and sods – I brought in a murder, OK?’
Mother still hadn’t turned around. ‘What makes you think it’s a murder, Callum? Man falls over in the bath, drowns, happens all the time.’
‘And did he accidentally drown in the bath, before or after dragging a big sheet of plasterboard and two tubs of paint in front of the bathroom door?’ Callum poked at the heater. ‘Can you turn this thing up?’
McAdams fiddled with the dashboard and warmth flowed. ‘What about the door-to-doors?’
He produced his notebook. ‘Sixty-three flats in the immediate vicinity. Twenty-four of them did nothing but complain about their neighbours, thirty-one wouldn’t answer the door or weren’t in, and nine want their hats re-tinfoiled. Not one of them had a single thing to say about Glen Carmichael or his mates.’ Shrug. ‘Well, other than the downstairs neighbour complaining about Led Zeppelin playing on a loop, full blast, for the last two days.’
‘Interesting …’ Mother tapped her fingers along the wax-paper cup. ‘Officially, I should reprimand you for breaking into a crime scene without authorisation, Callum, but our new girl put her hand up to it. Said you were dragged along against your better judgement.’
McAdams snorted. ‘I didn’t even know you had one.’
‘So you,
