banjo and cello launched into a sinister waltz, over a weird thumping rhythm as McAdams pulled out of the junction, heading left instead of right.
Silly old sod.
Callum sighed. ‘You’re going the wrong way.’ He pointed across the swollen grey river, past the docks and the industrial units, towards the thick granite blade of Castle Hill. ‘Division Headquarters is that direction. We need to get Dugdale booked in and seen to.’
‘Meh, he’ll keep.’ That skeletal grin had widened. ‘It’s a vodka day, remember? We, my useless little friend, have finally got our hands on a murder!’
The first drop of rain sparkled against the windscreen, caught in a golden shaft of sunlight as McAdams’ huge four-by-four slid past the last few houses on the edge of Kingsmeath. A second drop joined it. Then a third. Then a whole heap of them.
McAdams stuck the wipers on, setting them moaning and groaning their way across the glass, smearing the rain into grubby arcs. He pinned his mobile phone between his shoulder and ear, freeing his hand to change gears. Accelerating up the hill. ‘Yeah … Yeah, Dugdale was there … No … Not a word of a lie, Mother: the new boy actually caught him. That’s right: his anonymous tip-off paid off.’ He cast a glance across the car at Callum. ‘I know, I know … Ha! That’s what I said.’
Callum folded his arms and pushed back into his seat. Stared out of the window at the dull green fields and their dull-grey sheep. The ache in his groin wasn’t a full-on testicular migraine any more, it’d settled to more of a dull throbbing – each pulse marking time with the groaning windscreen wipers. ‘Oh you’re both so hilarious.’
‘What did we say about you keeping your mouth shut?’ Back to the phone. ‘No, not you, Mother: Constable Useless here … Yeah, yeah. Exactly: an actual murder. How long has it been?’
Probably never see his wallet again.
McAdams put his foot down, overtaking a sputtering Mini. ‘You on your way? … Uh-huh … Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either. Since when does the great Detective Chief Inspector Poncy Powel hand over a murder investigation to the likes of us? … Exactly.’
More fields. More sheep.
OK, so it was just a scruffy, tatty lump of leather and the lining was falling apart, but it had sentimental value.
Bloody kids.
‘Did he? … No! … No!’ Laughter. ‘And did you? … Sodding hell … Yeah, he’ll love that.’
Bloody Dugdale too.
He was just visible in the rear-view mirror, lying there with his mouth hanging open, face crusted with blood and bogies. Well, if Dugdale died in custody there was no way Callum was taking the rap for it. If anything happened it was McAdams’ fault.
Accepting blame for Elaine’s cock-up was one thing, but McAdams? He could sod right off.
‘Uh-huh. We’re about … five minutes away? Maybe less? … Still can’t believe it: a real murder! How long’s it been? … Right. Yup. OK. See you there.’ He poked a button on his phone’s screen then slid the thing back in his pocket, big smile plastered across his skeletal face.
‘Am I allowed to ask where we’re going?’
‘No.’
Git.
McAdams took one hand off the wheel and pointed through the windscreen. ‘We go where life rots. Where man’s discarded dreams die. We go … to The Tip.’ Fingers twitching with each syllable.
A large white sign loomed at the side of the road: ‘OLDCASTLE MUNICIPAL RECYCLING AND WASTE PROCESSING FACILITY’. Someone had scrawled ‘TWINNED WITH CUMBERNAULD!’ across the bottom in green graffiti.
The Shogun slowed for the turning, leaving the well-ordered tarmac for a wide gravel road acned with potholes and lined with whin bushes. Their jagged dark-green spears rattled in the rain.
It was getting heavier, bouncing off the rutted track as McAdams navigated his shiny new car between the water-filled craters and up to a cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape.
He buzzed down the window and smiled at the lanky drip guarding the line. ‘Two cheeseburgers, a Coke, and a chocolate milkshake please.’
A sigh and a sniff. Then Officer Drip wiped her nose on the sleeve of her high-viz jacket, sending water dribbling from the brim of her peaked cap. ‘Do you honestly think it’s the first time I’ve heard that today?’
‘Cheer up, Constable. A little rain won’t kill you.’ He nodded at the cordon. ‘You got our body?’
‘Depends. You on the list?’ She dug a clipboard from the depths of her jacket and passed it through the window.
McAdams flipped through the top three sheets, making a low whistling noise. ‘There’s a lot of people here. All for one dead little body?’
‘Oh you’d be surprised.’
He printed two more names on the last sheet in blue biro, then handed the clipboard back. ‘There we are, right at the end. Now be a good girl and get out of the way. It’s the opening chapters: I need to draw the readers in, establish myself as the protagonist, and get on with solving the murder.’
Constable Drip frowned at their names, then into the car. Her mouth tightened as she stared at the bloodied and unconscious Dugdale lying across the back seat. ‘Looks like you’ve already got a body.’
‘Oh, this one’s not dead, it’s just resting. DC MacGregor decided to try his hand at a little police brutality.’
‘MacGregor …?’ She peered at the list again, then across the car, top lip curling. ‘So it is you.’
Callum stared right back. ‘Don’t: I’m not in the mood.’
She shook her head, stowed her clipboard away, then unhooked a length of the tape barricade and waved them through.
McAdams grinned across the car at Callum. ‘My, my, Constable. You just can’t stop making friends, can you?’
No.
‘That offer of an arse-kicking is still valid, Sarge.’
‘Yes, because people don’t hate you enough already.’
The Shogun pitched and yawed through the potholes like a boat. God knew how big the rubbish tip was, but from the wide, lumpy road, it stretched all the way to the horizon. A vast sea of black plastic, gulls wheeling and screaming in the air above – flecks of evil white, caught against the heavy grey sky.
And the smell …
Even with the car windows wound up it was something special. The rancid stench of rotting meat and vegetables mingled with the sticky-brown reek of used nappies, all underpinned by the dark peppery odour of black plastic left to broil in the sun.
McAdams slipped the four-by-four in behind a line of police vehicles and grubby Transit vans. Had to be, what, eight cars? Twelve if you counted the unmarked ones. About three-quarters of the dayshift, all out here playing on the tip.
The sarcastic half-arsed-poetry-spouting git was right: this was an awful lot of people for one dead body.
McAdams hauled on the handbrake. ‘Right, Constable, make yourself useful for a change and go fetch us a couple of Smurf suits, extra-large. Ainsley and I need to have a little chat.’
A chat?
‘He’s unconscious, Sarge. He needs a doctor. I told you he—’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ McAdams turned in his seat, staring through into the