office with it. About time someone tried to introduce Blakey the Octopus’s nose to his rectum by first-class fist-express; I’m going to get some popcorn in.’
‘Yes, Boss.’ He popped the yellow baby into his mouth, chewed on its lemony sweetness.
‘I don’t know what to make of you, Callum, I honestly don’t. One minute you’re this vast pain in my backside, and the next you’re saving Franklin from herself.’
He ripped the head off the orange baby. ‘I didn’t take a bribe from Big Johnny Simpson. Talk to Professional Standards – they’re looking through every penny I’ve got. Yes: I cocked-up the crime scene, but I didn’t 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. ‘They’re 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. There’ll 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. ‘They’ll want a superintendent running it.’
Callum wrote his name in the dashboard dust. ‘Yes, but a superintendent won’t want to get their hands dirty, will they? No, they’ll 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. ‘We’re fighting for this one, Callum. It’ll probably be the last chance Andy gets to put a killer away. I won’t 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 Powel’s 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.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘They’re not allowed to call it “profiling” because of the TV. Might help?’
‘Not if it’s Glen and his mates who’re the killers …’ A shrug. ‘But what the hell. We’ll get DNA and a facial reconstruction on the go too. I’ll 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: ‘YOU’RE 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 Beginner’s Guide to Shoplifting that morning, instead of saving it for lunchtime. Could’ve 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 they’d 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, she’s just signed a publishing deal: two million quid for four books.’
‘How is that fair?’ McAdams sighed. ‘A book deal for an idiot who can’t write her own name, / The public should know better, but they’ll buy it just the same, / The publishers will lap it up, to boost their bottom line, / And if they’ll publish crap like that, why won’t they publish mine?’
Callum flipped the page again. ‘Move over Pam Ayres, we have a new Poet Laureate.’
‘Shouldn’t you be doing something?’
‘I am. I’m eating the sandwich my pregnant girlfriend made me for lunch.’ He held up a finger. ‘And before you start: I’ve already got the DNA sent off from all three bodies, got Lucy to X-ray their heads for dental chart comparisons, contacted Dundee University’s 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 she’s finished drafting her preliminary report on Powel’s severed feet.’ Another bite of cheesy pickly goodness. ‘So yes, right now I’m 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 Mother’s softening on you, doesn’t 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 she’s bringing out a line of perfumes, that’ll be nice, won’t it? Silicone Implants à la Botox, a fragrance for women.’
‘Fine.’ McAdams stood. ‘When you’ve finished your meagre repast, I want those dental records checked. And find out who they bought the flat from. Maybe he’s the one in the bath. God knows I’d happily kill the idiot who sold us our house.’
‘Sarge?’ Franklin poked her head around the door. ‘Sorry, but there’s a Dr McDonald in the observation room asking to see the team. Says she’s consulting?’
‘That’s 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 room’s 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
