Squeaky Clean

COPYRIGHT Pushkin Press Somerset House, Strand, London WC2R 1LA Copyright © 2023 Callum McSorley 1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2 eISBN 13: 978–1–78227–837–5 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from Pushkin Press www.pushkinpress.com 5 For Lisa CONTENTS COVER PROLOGUE NOVEMBER 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 DECEMBER 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 JANUARY 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 MARCH 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 APRIL 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 JUNE 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 | 61 | 62 | 63 | 64 | 65 | 66 | 67 EPILOGUE 1 | 2 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AVAILABLE AND COMING SOON FROM PUSHKIN VERTIGO 78 PROLOGUE The ash was shot through with burnt scraps of newspaper, lumpy where the hammer had failed to smash the charred bone to dust, and slushy like dirty, roadside snowmelt where the shoebox had started to let the damp in. Faint, pish smell of a doused fire—spent charcoal and blackened meat. The logo on the side belonged to a brand of shite trainers—the kind worn by bully victims and the lonely, sexless men they grew into. Of all the fucking indignities, McCoist thought, suppressing both a manic smile and the coffee burning its way back up her gullet. She peered at the contents, eyes snapping shut with every flash of the camera, opening again dazzled and scorched but fixed on the grey powder mulching in the corners of the cardboard, the gloved hand of a SOCO sifting it as if looking for gold. “Is it?…” “Cannae say till the tests huv bin done.” “But is it?…” She couldn’t see the SOCO’s face for his surgical mask and the hood of his paper suit, after-image spots dancing where his eyes must be. Other bodies moved around outside the tent erected over the shallow hole they’d dug in the ground, shadows going about bad business. “Cannae say,” he said. 9They had a recorder and a microphone, they had glasses of water and a jug between them, they had thick folders stuffed with papers lying perfectly parallel to expensive-looking pens. They had laptops and tablets and severe silences at their disposal. On the other side of the table, McCoist had a chipped mug full to the brim with cold coffee. The words on the side—faded by a thousand quick scrubs of the ancient, hairy Brillo that lived by the sink in the office mess—declared her the World’s Best Maw. The lanyard she wore said Detective Inspector. It was three on one. A fifth—a greying man with crowns on his epaulettes and glasses hanging from his neck by a chain—perched on the window ledge. Referee? Lifeguard? Executioner? McCoist didn’t know. He hadn’t opened his mouth since the inquisition started, not even to speak his name for the DIR. Officially, he wasn’t there. Unofficially, he lurked and listened and scratched his balls now and again. The old goat in the middle seat straight across from McCoist was also a superintendent. He licked a finger and leafed through some loose pages. He was a man who could make rustling paper sound very loud indeed. “And these remains, DI McCoist, whose were they?” McCoist touched the handle of her mug, turned it slightly, but didn’t pick it up. “The remains were of an unborn child belonging to the murder victim, Dannie Gibb, sir.” “The lab results don’t confirm that.” “No, sir, but Mr Knightley stated so as part of his confession.” Which is in the paperwork right in fucking front of you. “And you trusted completely in what he said?” “Every word, sir.” “Why?” 11McCoist followed the man out into the garden, keeping her distance. He lumbered along in an old T-shirt and joggies, smelling unwashed and sour. If his head weren’t naturally inclined to slump towards his chest, his shoulders hunched, he’d have had to duck to get through the door. The sweat on his back was a dark continent which tapered into an arrow diving into the cleft of his arse crack, the valley exposing where everything was spilling out between the gap of his too-tight clothes. There was filthy plastic furniture on a paved terrace buckled by weeds. Beyond was a jungle, the dilapidated shed a half-hidden outpost in the bush. He walked to an island of fresh soil in the middle of the overgrown grass. He turned to face her and, with a shy smile, dug at the patch of earth with his heel, like a child trying to break through an iced-over puddle. “Right here,” he said. “Mr Knightley, I need you to wait inside while I make a phone call.” She didn’t worry at all that he would try to run away. While she waited for the cavalry to arrive and the return call from the sheriff about the warrant, Knightley offered to make her a cup of tea in his poky kitchen that smelled of microwave macaroni and the overstuffed bin. A greasy window looked out onto the garden and what was buried there. “No thank you, Mr Knightley,” she said, her voice hoarse and dry in the too-close kitchen, palms slick and fingers wriggling out the excess energy firing through her. “Dye mind if a huv wan? There’s biscuits in the tin an aw.” He tapped a clumsy rhythm on a shortbread tin with long, 12ragged nails. He had large,