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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organisations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental. The only exception to this is the character Jane Jopson who the author has been authorised to fictionalise and include within this volume. All behaviour, history, and character traits assigned to her fictional representation have been designed to serve the needs of the narrative and do not necessarily bear any resemblance to the real person.
The quotation ‘Sauf’, und würg’ dich zu todt!’ is from the opera Siegfried by Richard Wagner, first performed at the Bayreuth Festival Theatre, Germany, on 16 August 1876.
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street,
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021
Copyright © Stuart MacBride 2021
Stuart MacBride asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Cover design Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Cover photographs © Mark Owen/Trevillion Images (house), Andy & Michelle Kerry/Trevillion Images (figure), Magdalena Wasiczek/Trevillion Images (rosehip bush) and Shutterstock.com (bones and polaroids)
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books
Source ISBN: 9780008208318
Ebook Edition © January 2021 ISBN: 9780008208332
Version: 2020-11-17
Dedication
In memory of Marion Chesney
(AKA: M.C. Beaton)
a firebrand, force of nature, and excellent writer
whose books brought happiness to millions
including me
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Without Whom
— stormfront rising —
Chapter 1
— thoughts and prayers —
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
— happy deathday to you —
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
— things can always get worse —
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
— should auld acquaintance be forgot —
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
— sauf’, und würg’ dich zu todt! —
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
— in the darkness, bleeding … —
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
— time, gentlemen, please —
Chapter 50
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By Stuart MacBride
About the Publisher
Without Whom
As always I’ve received a lot of help from many, many people while I was writing this book, so I’d like to take this opportunity to thank: Sergeant Bruce Crawford, star of Skye and screen, who answers far more daft questions than anyone should ever have to, as do my forensic gurus Professor Dave Barclay, Professor James Grieve, and her most excellent Dameness Professor Sue Black; then there’s Julia Wisdom, Jane Johnson, Kathryn Cheshire, Jaime Frost, Ann Bissell, Linda Joyce, Anna Derkacz, Isabel Coburn, Alice Gomer, Charlie Redmayne, Roger Cazalet, Kate Elton, Hannah O’Brien, Sarah Shea, Abbie Salter, Adam Humphrey, Charlotte Cross, Ben Wright, Anne O’Brien, Marie Goldie, the DC Bishopbriggs Naughty Book Brigade, and everyone at HarperCollins, for all things publishy; Phil Patterson and the team at Marjacq Scripts, for keeping my numerous cats in cat food; Craig Robertson, Alexandra Sokoloff and everyone at Bute Noir for their hospitality; and Allan Guthrie for being an excellent pre-reader yet again.
While I’m doling out ‘thank-you’s, here’s one for all the librarians and booksellers whose enthusiasm and dedication inspire us all to try something new. And let’s not forget you: the person reading this book! The world seems to get dumber and nastier by the day, but it’s people who read that keep the world that teeny bit brighter and saner than it would otherwise be. I salute you, my friend.
I’ve saved the best for last – as is my wont – Fiona and Grendel (with a nod to Onion, Beetroot, and Gherkin who weren’t that much help, but haven’t interfered too much [except for Beetroot]).
1
‘… after the New Aryan Crusade claimed responsibility for the bombing. The American Vice President described it as a cowardly and disgusting attack …’
How come there was never any nice news on the radio?
Margaret chopped a crunchy orange carrot and tossed it into the bubbling brown cauldron of mince, as rain rattled the fogged-up kitchen window. ‘You know what I think, Alfie? I think people are poopheads.’
No response, but then there never was. Once Alfie got himself into a colouring-in book, that was it. You’d get more response from a garden gnome.
‘… ongoing operation to rescue the crew of the Ocean-Gold Harvester, run aground against the cliffs at Clachmara. We spoke to Sophie O’Brien at the Coastguard …’
‘Ooh, did you hear that, Alfie? Clachmara! We got a mention on the radio, isn’t that exciting?’
Still nothing.
Honestly, might as well be on her own, here. Oh, it’d seemed so romantic on the website: ‘An unmissable opportunity to rent a delightful, period, seaside cottage, with traditional fixtures and decor, in a much sought-after location!’ Which meant a leaky roof, wood-panelled walls that hadn’t seen a paintbrush since Fred and Rose West were doing up their patio, and single glazing that fogged up if you so much as looked at it. The wind whistled right through the frames if you didn’t stuff all the gaps with scrunched-up newspaper, too.
Still, at least it was cheap.
Another carrot snapped and crackled into random-shaped chunks, because, let’s face it, rounds of carrot were revolting.
‘… extremely challenging conditions, but we’re doing everything we can.’
The warm brown scent of mince filled the room, comforting and familiar as a favourite jumper. Hiding the more usual dusty whiff of mice-and-mildew. Keeping the darkness at bay.
‘Well, I think it’s exciting, even if you don’t.’
‘Police, today, announced the discovery of a child’s body in woodland south of the city. The remains haven’t been formally identified yet, but are suspected to be those of Lewis Talbot – the four-year-old, missing since the fourteenth of October …’
‘Poor wee tyke.’ Margaret dumped the last carrot bits into the pot. ‘That’s why you should never get into a car with strange men, Alfie. Or take sweeties from them.’
‘… third victim, after Oscar Harris and Andrew Brennan’s bodies were discovered earlier this year.’
‘Actually, you know what? Stay away from men, full-stop.’ She rubbed at her swollen belly and puffed out a heartburn breath. ‘Wouldn’t be in this condition if I had. No, I’d be graduating tomorrow with a degree in forensic anthropology, and your granny and grandad would still be talking to me.’ Sounding kinda bitter, there, Margaret. And whose fault was it you got yourself knocked up?
Sigh.
‘Never mind, Alfie, at least we’ve got each other, right?’
Still nothing.
Seriously: a garden gnome.
‘Now here’s Doug with the weather.’
‘Thanks, Colin. Better batten down the hatches, folks, because it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better as Storm Trevor moves in from Scandinavia …’
‘Oh, that’s just fffff …’ Margaret pinched her lips together and bit down on a word that Alfie was definitely not meant to have in his vocabulary. Because knowing him, he’d parrot it at the top of his voice at playschool tomorrow and she’d have to go in for another ‘chat’ with that pudding-faced harridan Mrs Gillespie. Try again: ‘So, my teeny monster, how about you help Mummy and fetch some of those tatties from under the sink?’
She turned, speed-peeler in hand, holding it like a fairy wand about to grant Alfie’s fondest wish – as long as it was for mashed potatoes.
Then stopped. Mouth open.
‘… all down to this massive area of low pressure moving in from the east …’
‘Alfie?’
The scarred wooden table was home to a scattered rainbow of felt-tip pens, a partially coloured Tyrannosaurus Rex in garish shades of purple and green roaring out of the colouring-in book. A glass of milk and a bourbon biscuit, sitting next to them. But Alfie’s chair was empty.
‘Alfie?’ Margaret dumped the peeler on the worktop, wiping her hands on her pinny as she walked over and poked her head out into the hall. More so-called period wood panelling. ‘Alfie?’
The bathroom door hung ajar, but there was no light on in there. Nothing but the darkness of a stormy November evening.
‘Alfie, did you go for a wee-wee?’
No: the bathroom was empty.
‘Alfie?’ Getting louder now as she hurried through the two tiny bedrooms, the dining room – stacked high with all the boxes she still hadn’t got around to unpacking yet – and the living room with its gaping fireplace and water-stained ceiling. ‘ALFIE!’
Into the kitchen again.
Table. Pens. Colouring book …
Where were his wellies? His wellies should’ve been sitting next to hers, by the back door, but Alfie’s red wellington boots were gone. His yellow anorak and sou’wester too.
Her eyes widened as she stared at the fogged-up window and rain rattled the single glazing. At the grey-blackness on the other side.
Oh no.
Margaret wrenched open the door and stumbled out into the darkness, losing one of her slippers on the way. Rain slashing at her face with frozen, sharp little knives. ‘ALFIE!’
She hurried around the side of the house. Only a handful of streetlights were still working – trembling in the downpour, buffeted by the wind howling in from the North Sea, casting their sickly yellow glow out onto the cracked tarmac. The lampposts stopped a dozen yards past her house, leaving everything from there on – not that there was much of it – wreathed in gloom. Hiding the end of the world.
‘ALFIE!’
Into the middle of the road, turning, hauling in a deep breath and making a loudhailer of her hands. ‘ALFIE!’
Wait … there was a noise. Something hiding in the bellowing storm. A clattering growling noise. A hard mechanical whomp-whomp-whomp that stuttered and yowled. Then a light, bright and sharp, rose in the distance, bringing with it winking eyes of red and green as a helicopter rose over the cliffs, the whining engines and thrumming blades louder now. Clearer.
And Alfie loved helicopters.
‘ALFIE!’
Margaret stumbled past blacked-out houses towards it, ducking under the line of ‘NO ENTRY’ tape that frrrrrrrred in the wind. Temporary metal fencing cut straight across the road, eight-foot high, blocking off the last ‘habitable’ house on either side from the ‘uninhabitable’ ones beyond. A faded sign, bolted to the chain-link: ‘WARNING! ~ COASTAL EROSION ZONE ~ NO ENTRY ~ DANGER OF DEATH’
They never maintained the fence, did they? Just moved it one house further inland every time some poor sod’s home disappeared into the North Sea. The thing was probably riddled with holes big enough for a five-year-old to wriggle through.
She hauled one end of the fence out of its concrete footplate, dragging it as far as the chain holding it to the next segment would allow, then squeezed between the cold metal uprights and into the darkness beyond. ‘ALFIE!’
Above her, the helicopter turned and its spotlight slid across the rain-slicked grass. A flash of yellow burst in the night, ‘ALFIE!’ then the light moved on and he was swallowed by darkness again.
Margaret stumbled forward into the wind, staggering in the helicopter’s downdraught. Moving from the tattered tarmac into someone long-gone’s garden. Feeling her way along what was probably a picket fence. Heaving herself over to the other side with a tugging rip of fabric. Losing the other slipper in the process.
‘ALFIE?’
He was standing there, at the edge of the cliff, staring down into the water.
Oh God.
The cliff. The one all the warning signs were about.
What if it collapsed underneath him?
What if he was light enough, but she was too heavy and trying to save him caused it all to fall into the sea?
Her bare feet slithered through the wet grass as she crept closer, arms held out to him. Trying to hide the tremble in her voice, bottling it down. ‘Come on, baby, come to Mummy. It’s OK, it’s OK. Come to Mummy.’
He looked over his shoulder at her and smiled a gap-toothed smile, one finger pointing up at the red-and-white machine hammering the air above them. ‘Hellingcopter!’
‘Please come to Mummy, Alfie. Come on, you can do it.’ Reaching for him. Inching closer.
Alfie’s finger pointed downwards. ‘Boaty!’
She dropped to her hands and knees, crawling towards him.
Swear to God, if she could get Alfie home alive she’d never duck her mother’s calls again. She’d give up drinking. She’d do volunteer work for a homeless charity, or a foodbank or something.
Closer.
Alfie stuck his thumb in his mouth.
She’d even stop calling Gary a child-support-dodging barmaid-shagging wanker, as long as she GOT ALFIE HOME ALIVE.
Margaret’s fingertips snatched at the wet hem of his bright-yellow anorak, and she hauled him off his feet and into her arms. Knelt there, on the clifftop, holding him tight, squeezing, breathing in the rubbery scent of his waterproof. ‘Don’t ever do that again!’
‘Look, Mummy, a boaty and a hellingcopter!’
‘Let’s get you home.’ Tucking an arm under his bottom, she scooped him up, stood, and turned.
The Coastguard helicopter shone above them, its spotlight pointing straight down at a dumpy fishing boat – about as long as a double-decker bus, but twice as wide. As if it were nearly as pregnant as she was. The Ocean-Gold Harvester’s blue-and-white livery was pristine on this side, but its other side was pushed up against the brown-grey cliffs that towered above it. One of its fishing booms lay twisted along its deck, the other poking out to sea, still fixed to a ballooning swell of net as the waves slammed the boat against the wall of earth and rock.
Five men clustered by the wheelhouse, all in fluorescent-orange survival suits and life jackets, clutching at the boat’s handrails, staring up at the helicopter, as one of their number was winched into the air.
The boat slid into a trough, the hull screeching down the cliff face, then the next wave battered it into the headland again.
‘Want to see, want to see!’
‘No, Alfie, we have to get home before …’
A dark, rumbling noise cut through the wind and the rain and the helicopter’s thrumming blades.
It was too late.
The cliffs were giving way.
Margaret swallowed. Pulled Alfie’s head against her chest. ‘Close your eyes, darling. Mummy loves you!’
Then the headland slumped, the sound of cracking rock building to a deafening bellow as a huge wall of earth and stone curled forwards and crashed down on top of the Ocean-Gold Harvester. Burying it. Sending up a massive gout of spray as it forced the crushed boat beneath the churning waves, taking everyone with it.
Five men, dead, just like that …
Above, the Coastguard helicopter wobbled, as if trying to catch its balance.
And Margaret stared. Not at the mound of rubble where a boat and five men used to be, but at the cliff face, caught in the helicopter’s spotlight. The newly exposed soil was darker than the cliff had been, and that made it easier to see what poked out of it.
Bones.
Dozens of them.
Human bones.
2
Bloody potholes.
The car lurched from one to the next, sending gouts of water splashing up from the wheel arches as the windscreen wipers squeak-thunked their way back and forth, fighting a losing battle against the pummelling rain. Streetlights made septic halos in the downpour, doing almost nothing to hold back the darkness. Half a dozen of them, then nothing but the angry coal-black sweep of the North Sea.
I grabbed the handle above the passenger door as the wee Suzuki jeep thumped through yet another pothole. ‘Are you aiming for these things?’
Alice hunched closer to the steering wheel, squinting out through the greasy arc of semi-clear glass. ‘Should be somewhere around here …’ She’d bundled herself up in a black padded jacket, a pair of rainbow-coloured fingerless gloves poking out of the too-long sleeves. Curly brown hair pulled back in a bun that jiggled and bounced in time with the jeep’s potholing adventures.
Thump. Lurch. Bump.
‘Only, it’s OK if you don’t hit every single one of them.’
‘Is that it down there?’ She freed a hand for long enough to point at yet another post-war semi in unappealing shades of beige and brown. The only thing that distinguished it from its neighbours was every single light in the place seemed to be on, and it had an a snot-green rattletrap Fiat Panda parked outside.
‘Still say this is a waste of time.’
‘But we—’
‘Supposed to be catching a child-killer, not sodding about with some half-baked Misfit Mob is-it-or-isn’t-it case.’ I stretched my right leg out, rotating the ankle, setting it clicking. Always the same when the weather turned – scar tissue throbbed right the way through my foot, like some sadist was jabbing a soldering iron into the bones. ‘What’s the point of having uniform officers if you don’t give them all the pointless jobs?’
Alice parked behind the Panda. Killed the engine. Sat there as the storm rocked our jeep on its springs. ‘It’s only temporary.’ A shrug. ‘Besides, it was this or attend the post mortem, and I really don’t want to watch another wee boy getting eviscerated.’
Fair point.
‘Ash?’ She cast a sideways glance across the car at me. ‘Have you thought about what you want to do tomorrow? You know, as it’s—’
‘Can we not talk about this right now?’
‘It’s perfectly natural to feel—’
‘I’m fine.’ Which was a lie. ‘And we’ve got a job to do.’ I clicked off my seatbelt and turned, reaching into the back of the car. Ruffled the fur between Henry’s ears. ‘You look after the jeep, OK?’ He gazed up at me with his gob hanging open, wee pink tongue lolling out, nose all shiny and black like a fruit pastille. ‘Bite anyone who tries to steal it.’
Alice groaned. ‘Stop changing the subject. Tomorrow’s a—’
‘Don’t interrupt: I’m arming the Scottie Dog Vehicle Defence System.’ Henry’s head got another pat, his grin widened. ‘Who’s a vicious little monster? You are. Yes, you are.’
‘But—’
‘For a forensic psychologist, you’re really bad at picking up on the subtle signals people give out, aren’t you?’
A bright smile. ‘Oh, I pick them up fine, I’m just choosing to ignore them. For your own good.’
‘Lucky me.’ I grabbed my walking stick from the footwell. ‘Come on: we’ll do our civic duty then go grab a pizza or something.’ The wind tried to rip the door from my hand as I opened it – stinging needles of rain jabbing into my face.
Alice clambered out the other side, head buried in the periscope hood of her coat. ‘Can we have a sitty-inny instead of takeaway for a change?’
‘Got a child-killer to catch, remember?’ Hurpling up the puddled driveway to the front door, where a small wooden overhang offered almost no shelter from the rain. The guttering was broken on one side, letting loose a waterfall to splash down the grubby harling.
Her voice took on a distinct whiny tone. ‘I’m tired of everything we eat coming out of greasy cardboard boxes. Or plastic tubs.’
‘Stop moaning and ring the bell.’
She did, leaning on the button till a harsh drrrrrrrrrrrrrrinnnnnnnnnnnnnnng sounded on the other side of the wasp-eaten door. ‘Forgotten what plates and cutlery look like.’
‘I think we should take another look at Steven Kirk. Haul him in and rattle his dentures till something falls out.’
‘And it’s not exactly healthy, is it? When did we last have a salad?’
‘I’m not buying his whole, “I was caring for my dying mother at the time” shtick. Once a nonce, always a nonce.’
‘Or broccoli!’ Alice made a thin keening squeaky sound from deep within her hood. ‘I miss broccoli.’
‘Not as if he couldn’t …’
The door swung open and a greasy-looking bloke with floppy brown hair, a cheap suit, and ginger-pube beard scowled out at me. ‘Took your time.’ One of his eyes didn’t quite point in the same direction as the other, as if he’d put it in squint.
‘DC Watt. Nice to see your winning personality hasn’t deserted you.’
A grunt, then he turned on his heel and marched down the hallway. The move showed off a palm-sized bald patch at the back of his head, complete with thick U-shaped scar, the skin dented inward around it, as if a section of his skull was recessed. ‘Mother’s in the kitchen.’
Alice followed me inside and unzipped her padded jacket, revealing yet another exhibit from her black-and-white-stripy-top collection, teeny red Converse trainers squeaking against the damp linoleum as we made our way into a steamed-up room at the back of the house, redolent with the welcoming scent of mince and tatties.