He couldn’t even fuck up properly.
Kinda funny when you thought about it.
Still, there was one thing he could do right. Craig sat on the floor, pulled out his bottle of Highland Park, and took a deep, long drink. Then placed the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger.
Greg shivered in the corner, taking deep breaths, not looking at what was left of Liz’s husband, Craig. Between him and Stephen, the place was like a horror movie.
He wiped a sticky chunk of red off the front of his stripy top. It left a long scarlet smear.
Thank Christ he’d exaggerated his job title when he told her about his new Christmas gig. After alclass="underline" who wanted to shag an elf?
12: Drummers Drumming
There’s a small pause – the kind you get before something really nasty happens – then all hell lets loose. From both ends.
‘Oh Jesus. . .’ I hold the horrible thing as far away from my suit as possible, but it’s already too late: white milky vomit spatters all over my shoulder. Fresh urine sprays across my shirt and trousers. Soaking through to my skin. ‘You little bast. . .’
I catch the look on Stephanie’s face and turn it into a cough.
Forty-five-year-old men are not equipped to deal with small babies. It’s not natural. And sticky. ‘Oh Christ. . .’ He’s at it again, piddling like a broken teapot.
‘Oh, give him here, for God’s sake.’ She reaches out and I hand over our first and only child – the way he’s going there isn’t likely to be a second one. Stephanie makes little cooing noises while I scramble out of my suit and into the last set of clean clothes I own: jeans and a tartan shirt. Like a bloody lumberjack, only grumpier.
Don’t even have time to shower – going to be late as it is.
I throw the suit into the washing basket, kiss my wife on the cheek – it’s Christmas Eve, I’m making the effort – and give my three-month-old son the best smile I can manage in the circumstances. Then leg it.
It’s quarter past seven in the morning: Christmas Eve and the sky’s burnt-toast black, dumping yet more snow on the city centre. Big fat flakes that melt to slush the moment they touch the gritty, shining tarmac.
My breath mists around my head as I hurry down the front steps to the waiting car.
PC Richardson’s behind the wheel. He’s a tall, stick-like man with the sort of face old ladies love. Not looking all that shiny this morning though, not with the bags under his swollen pink eyes, and stubble on his chin and cheeks.
He’s got the radio on as I jump into the car.
‘. . .concerned for the safety of Lord Peter Forsyth-Leven following his disappearance two days ago. In other news: a service of remembrance will be held at St. Jasper’s Kirk today for drowned schoolgirl Danielle McArthur. We spoke to Danielle’s family. . .’
Richardson cranks the volume down till the news-caster’s voice disappears beneath the roar of the car’s heater.
‘Mornin’, Guv.’ His mouth droops. He sighs.
Normally I have to bash the cheerful bugger over the head with his own truncheon to make him settle down. I’m about to ask what’s up when he wrinkles his nose and stares at my lumberjack ensemble.
They call me ‘Stinky’ behind my back.
They think I don’t know, but I do. DI George ‘Stinky’ McClain. Bastards. It’s not my fault: I’ve got a glandular condition. God knows how Stephanie puts up with it. I wash three times a day, use extra-strong deodorant, but the smell always leeches through in the end. Probably why I’ve got such a crap sense of smell. Self defence.
At least this time I can blame the baby. But I don’t: just snap on my seatbelt. ‘You got that address?’
‘Yup.’ Another sigh: like he’s deflating. ‘Fourteen Denmuir Gardens, opposite the primary school.’
‘Course it is. What a surprise.’ I check the dashboard clock: eighteen minutes past seven. We’re late.
There isn’t much in the way of traffic: just a few vans making deliveries before the shops open; empty buses grumbling along dark, empty streets; one or two poor sods tramping their way to work through the falling snow.
And then we’re out of the city centre, heading over the Calderwell Bridge. The Kings River sparkles like a vast slug beneath us, oozing its way out to the North Sea.
Kingsmeath isn’t the nicest part of Oldcastle. It’s a sprawl of council semis and tenement blocks thrown up in the sixties – and that’s what they look like: concrete vomit. No wonder they’re all crooks and junkies.
PC Richardson takes a left past Douglas on the Mound. The church’s spire is covered in scaffolding, its walls covered in graffiti, its graveyard covered in snow. All the way out here and he’s barely said a word. Maybe the real Richardson’s been kidnapped by aliens and this is their half-arsed attempt at a replacement.
It takes us five minutes to find Denmuir Gardens: a dirt-streaked row of semi-detached houses with sagging roofs and satellite dishes. Halfway down, the street opens up: a mouldy playground sitting beside the single-storey concrete and rust-coloured lump that is KINGSMEATH PRIMARY SCHOOL.
Richardson parks the car and kills the engine while I pull out my handset and call control. ‘Oscar Charlie, this is Charlie Hotel Six, we’re in position.’
The speaker crackles. ‘Roger that. You have a go as soon as all other units are in position. Good luck.’
I stick it back in my pocket, then settle back in my seat, watching the house. The other unmarked CID cars and the dog handlers’ van should be here in a minute.
Another big sigh from the passenger seat.
I smack Richardson on the arm. ‘You’ve got a face like my mother-in-law’s arse. Who died?’
He looks at me, then stares out at the snowflakes drifting down from the sky like flecks of gold in the streetlights’ sulphurous glow. His eyes glisten, then a tear rolls down his cheek, his shoulders quiver, and the floodgates open. He sniffs. Wipes his eyes on the back of his sleeve. Apologizes for being so soft.
Jesus. That’s not awkward, is it? For a moment, I just sit there. Then the man-management training kicks in and I reach over and squeeze his shoulder.
He looks at me, bottom lip quivering. ‘I got a letter from my doctor.’ He sniffs and wipes at his eyes again. ‘Shite, I’m sorry. . . I . . . I gave blood last week.’
He takes a deep shuddering breath. ‘I’m HIV positive.’
And I know it’s stupid, and I know it’s wrong, but I don’t want to touch him anymore. Because I’m a shitty human being. Richardson’s been on my team for years, he deserves better.
I squeeze his shoulder again. ‘Are you OK?’ It’s a stupid question, but what am I supposed to do?
‘I’ve never cheated on Sandra, I swear. It must’ve been . . . I don’t know. . .’
In our job we come into contact with all sorts of sketchy bastards and their bodily fluids. All it takes is one drop of blood and you’re screwed. Poor bastard.
‘What’s the FMO say?’
‘I. . .’ Richardson hangs his head. ‘I only found out Wednesday . . . haven’t told anyone. Not even Sandra. Oh God.’ The tears were back. ‘What am I going to tell her? What if I’ve infected her? What if I’ve given her AIDS?’
What the hell do you say to someone in that situation? ‘Cheer up, could be worse’? I try for the shoulder squeeze again, but it doesn’t help, he just cries all the harder. . .
Kilo Mike Two and Three finally arrive from the local Kingsmeath station.
Richardson takes one last shuddering breath and wipes his eyes. Trying to make out he’s all right.
I fasten the Velcro on my bulletproof vest. ‘I want you to stay here, OK? Keep an eye on the house while we go in.’
‘No. I’m OK. You need the manpower.’
I shake my head. ‘Not that much. You’ve had a shock. You. . .’ Deep breath. ‘What if something happens and you infect someone? Look, I’m sorry: I know it’s shitty, but you’ve got to stay in the car.’