A Song for the Dying

by Stuart MacBride

  Her hair smelled of mandarins. Just like Katie’s used to…

  Something clicked deep beneath my ribs. I closed my eyes and hugged her back. And whatever clicked, spread out across my chest, making it swell.

  The git in the shirt and tie tutted. ‘You know, if you’re going to fornicate I’d really rather you didn’t do it here. Nip upstairs and I’ll get the video camera.’

  Alice pulled her head back, grinned at me. ‘Ignore him, he’s only trying to get a reaction. Best bet is to let him get on with it till he bores himself.’ She planted a huge kiss on my cheek. ‘You look thinner. Do you want something to eat, I mean I could get something, like a takeaway, or we could go to a restaurant, oh no we can’t, Bear wants us to wait here till he gets back from the press conference, I’m so glad you’re out!’ All done in a single breath.

  She gave me one last squeeze, then let go. Pointed at the guy behind the bar. ‘Ash, this is Professor Bernard Huntly, he’s our physical evidence man.’

  Huntly stiffened. ‘Physical evidence guru, I think you’ll find.’

  Her hand was warm against my cheek. ‘Are you OK?’

  I spared Huntly a glare. ‘Getting there.’

  He leaned on the bar. ‘Mr Henderson and I were just enjoying a robust philosophical exchange about his daughters and the Birthday Boy.’

  Alice’s eyes went wide. Looked from Huntly to the spanner clenched in my fist, and back again. ‘Oh… No. That’s really not a good idea. Trust me, there’s—’

  ‘You never answered my question, Mr Henderson.’ The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened. ‘Why did you let the Inside Man get away?’

  Alice prised the spanner from my hand and placed it on the bar. ‘Professor Huntly thinks being rude to people makes them reveal their true selves, I mean it’s nonsense of course, but he refuses to accept that reactions under stress aren’t indicative of our inner cognitive—’

  ‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Huntly disappeared back down behind the pumps again. ‘What’s your opinion of psychology, Mr Henderson? Airy fairy nonsense, or load of old bunkum?’

  Bunkum?

  Alice climbed onto a creaky barstool. Then pulled up the left leg of her jeans a couple of inches. A thick band of grey disappeared into a blocky plastic rectangle, about the same size as a pack of playing cards. My sponsor. ‘You’ll be staying with me, obviously, I mean it wouldn’t really work if you had to live on the other side of the city, what with the hundred-yards thing. I’ve got us a flat and it’s not great, but it’s OK and I’m sure we’ll be able to make it cosy…’

  That complicated things a bit. No way I was going to crack her skull with a spanner. Why couldn’t it have been Huntly?

  The breath hissed out of me, and my chin dropped an inch.

  Probably for the best. Keep a low profile. Be a team player. At least until Mrs Kerrigan was sprawled in a lake of her own blood.

  Alice patted the seat next to her. ‘Did Bear bring you up to speed on the details?’

  ‘Who the hell is “Bear”?’

  A frown. ‘Detective Superintendent Jacobson. I thought you knew.’

  Bear? Seriously?

  Lunatics and idiots.

  I sat. ‘He showed me the deposition scene photos and a couple of statements. Said we weren’t bothering with the post-mortem and forensic results.’

  A clunk from behind the bar. ‘There we go, that should do it.’ Huntly stood, then placed a bucket underneath the middle pump. ‘Fingers crossed.’ He hauled on the handle and air hissed from the nozzle. ‘The press conference should be starting about now: the remote’s on the table if you want to do the honours?’

  I picked the thing up from the table, pointed it at the TV, and thumbed the power.

  The screen flickered, glowed blue for a second, then filled with a grim-faced woman in a tight blue suit. ‘… just as the school opened, leaving six dead and thirteen injured. Police marksmen fired on the gunman who is believed to be in a critical condition at Parkland Memorial Hospital …’

  Huntly gave another haul on the pump and water sprayed into the bucket. ‘Success. Now all we need to do is clean out the pipes and get a barrel hooked up.’

  ‘… candlelit vigil on Wednesday. Glasgow now, and the hunt is on for three men who abducted and raped paralympian Colin …’

  Alice swivelled her seat from side to side. ‘I still don’t understand why they didn’t take you with them?’

  He stiffened for a moment. Then untucked his tie. ‘Mr Henderson, there’s a very good reason why we’re not using the operation’s forensic and post-mortem results: investigative bias. It’s our job to remain objective, independent, and unsullied by operational preconceptions. I would’ve thought that was obvious.’

  I smiled at him. ‘Let me guess, you’re not allowed in front of the press, in case you come off as a pompous, arrogant, condescending arsebag?’

  ‘… are appealing for witnesses.’

  ‘There are three Major Investigation Teams attacking the Inside Man problem. One from Oldcastle Division, one from the Specialist Crime Division. And we,’ he swept a hand across the bar, indicating the mothballed pub, ‘are the Lateral Investigative and Review Unit.’

  ‘… in Oldcastle today. Ross Amey is there for us now. Ross?’

  A big man with long hair and a microphone appeared on the TV, the sign outside Oldcastle Force Headquarters just out of focus behind him in the dark. ‘Thank you, Jennifer. They call him “the Inside Man”…’

  ‘Seriously? Three separate investigations?’

  ‘Au contraire, Mr Henderson. Things have changed since you went inside to pleasure Her Majesty – there is no Oldcastle Police Force, there is only Police Scotland. Technically all the MITs are supposed to work together, but in real life Operation Tigerbalm is one big bun-fight between Oldcastle and the Specialist Crime Division to see who has the largest penis. Look on it as the joy of being all one big happy family now.’

  ‘… discovery of a woman’s body last night by ambulance services.’

  ‘And you lot?’

  ‘No, not “you lot”, Mr Henderson, “us”, “we”. You’re part of the team now.’

  ‘Whether I like it or not.’

  A lopsided shrug. Then Huntly pointed at the TV. ‘Behold: the lies begin.’

  The screen filled with a long desk. An array of officers – some in their dress uniforms, the others in suits – sat ramrod-stiff behind it. The only one with all their own hair was a woman, blonde curls raked back from her forehead, what looked like a permanent frown tattooed on her face. A caption flickered beneath her chin: ‘DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT ELIZABETH NESS, OLDCASTLE CID’.

  She cleared her throat. ‘First I have to say that our thoughts and prayers are with Claire Young’s family at this harrowing time. They’ve asked me to read you the following statement. “Claire was a sparkling person whose loss will haunt us forever…”’

  Alice wrapped her arm around herself, one hand fiddling with her hair, eyes fixed on the TV. ‘Have you worked with Detective Superintendent Ness before, I mean is she going to be someone that’s receptive to input from other—’

  ‘No idea. Must be new.’

  ‘“… ask that you allow us the time and space to grieve for our beautiful Claire…”’

  The pub’s inner door clunked open and a thickset woman in a vast padded jacket staggered in, laden down with pizza boxes. She had a woolly hat jammed down over her ears, face half-hidden by a knitted scarf. A plastic carrier-bag hung from one hand, swaying from side to side as she heeled the door shut behind her. ‘Did I miss it?’

  Huntly pulled a pinstriped jacket from the back of a chair and slipped it on, completing the suit. ‘Statement from the family.’

  Onscreen, Ness swapped one prepared statement for another. ‘Three twenty-three yesterday morning, an ambulance responded to a nine-nine-nine call near Blackwall Hill…’

  The woman in the padded jacket lurch
ed across the room, the contents of her carrier-bag clinking against her leg. ‘It’s OK, I don’t need any help…’

  ‘Sheila, my dearest lady, allow me to assist.’ Huntly took the top box off the stack and carried it over to the bar. Popped it open. The heady scent of garlic, onions, and tomato fluttered out, swirling through the air like trapped starlings. His shoulders dipped a notch. ‘Oh. This one’s vegetarian.’ Then he shut the box again.

  ‘… pronounced dead at the scene. That’s all I’m able to say at the moment, other than investigations are ongoing with assistance from our colleagues in the Specialist Crime Division and a team of independent experts.’

  Alice reached across and slid it down the bar towards herself. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

  Sheila lowered the remaining pizza boxes onto one of the tables and hauled off her gloves. Slipped her hands in between two of the cartons. ‘God, it’s perishing out there…’ A shiver. The scarf drooped, revealing a pair of round shiny cheeks and a small button nose. Then she stuck a hand out at me. ‘Sheila Constantine, pathologist; you must be Henderson. Welcome aboard. You owe me twelve pounds sixty-three.’ She turned a scowl in Huntly’s direction. ‘Everyone owes me twelve pounds sixty-three.’

  ‘… will now take questions.’ Ness pointed at someone off camera. ‘Yes?’

  A man’s voice: ‘Are you treating this as a copycat case, or is the Inside Man back again?’

  Huntly opened the next box in the stack. ‘Are these all vegetarian? Because I specifically asked for a meat feast.’

  Sheila struggled her way out of her coat. ‘That’s enough about your private life, Bernard, we’re about to eat. And before you ask: no, I won’t take an IOU this time.’

  ‘… not willing to be drawn into speculation about who’s responsible before we’ve investigated…’

  I stuck my hand in my pocket. Looked at the boxes, then at Alice, then at the boxes again.

  A little line appeared between her eyebrows. She nodded. ‘I’ll pay for Ash, as I’m his sponsor, or maybe we should all chip in as a sort of welcome to the team and—’

  ‘Ah, yes of course.’ Huntly slapped a hand against his forehead. ‘Mr Henderson is just out of prison. He’s financially embarrassed. How very insensitive of you, Sheila. We shouldn’t be speaking of money at a time like this!’

  ‘Detective Superintendent, who’s running the investigation here, you or Superintendent Knight? Doesn’t the Scottish Chief Constable trust Oldcastle to—’

  ‘It’s standard operating procedure to have multiple Major Investigation Teams working together on a case like this, and I for one welcome any assistance offered when young women’s lives are at stake. Do you think we should refuse SCD’s help out of some twisted sense of pride?’

  ‘I… Well, no, but—’

  ‘I will pursue and exploit every avenue available to me if I think it will help catch the person responsible for Claire Young’s death. Next?’

  Huntly moved on to another pizza. ‘Ah, finally. Something with salami on it.’ He dumped the box on one of the pub tables and settled into a chair. He pulled a triangle of dough, cheese, and greasy meat from the carton and pointed at Ness with it. ‘Good, isn’t she? Promoted and transferred up from Tayside. Giving the local bumpkins a shake-up by all accounts.’ He stuffed a mouthful in and chewed. Eating with his eyes fixed on the screen. Then dabbed at the corner of his lips with a handkerchief. ‘I did a case with her, back when she was a DS. Serial rape, very nasty… You wouldn’t think it, but she’s quite the femme fatale when she’s not wearing her game face.’

  ‘Has the Inside Man sent another letter?’

  ‘Let me repeat myself: we’re not speculating about who’s responsible. Next?’

  ‘Yes, but has a letter—’

  ‘Next?’

  Dr Constantine pulled out a chair and sank into it. The thick layers of her padded jacket ballooned out around her. ‘I’ve checked with Ness and Knight – we can have the deposition scene first thing tomorrow morning, and the body any time after two.’

  ‘What kind of doll was it?’

  ‘We’re not releasing that information. Next?’

  Huntly took another bite. ‘When do I get at the physical evidence?’

  Sheila scowled at him. ‘Not till you pay for that pizza.’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake…’

  ‘Was it a Tiny Tears, or a Baby Bunty doll?’

  ‘I’ve already answered that question. Next?’

  ‘These independent experts, do they report to you, or SCD?’

  Ness looked off to the side. ‘Detective Superintendent Jacobson?’

  ‘Ah.’ Huntly plucked the remote from my fingers. ‘Here we go.’ He turned up the volume.

  The briefing room smeared across the screen as the camera turned, and there was Jacobson, standing off to the side, staring out into the pub. He’d put on a brown tie, but hadn’t bothered with a suit, sticking with the tan leather jacket instead. ‘My team are all at the very top of their field, each one hand-picked for their ability to bring decades of experience and a unique perspective to any case.’

  A moment’s silence. Then whoever asked the question in the first place tried again. ‘Yes, but do you report to Oldcastle CID, or the Specialist Crime Division?’

  ‘An excellent question.’

  More silence.

  ‘Er… Would you like to answer it?’

  ‘The Lateral Investigative and Review Unit will feed its results, through me, to whichever Major Investigation Team is best suited to act upon them.’

  Alice sooked the grease from her fingers. ‘And now everyone thinks we’re in charge.’

  Sheila nodded. ‘You were right. Good suggestion.’ The camera swung back for a reaction shot from the top brass: cue coughing and spluttering.

  Then Ness pulled on a hard smile. ‘Having worked with Detective Superintendent Jacobson on several investigations, I’m pleased to welcome his LIRU team onboard.’

  The Superintendent sitting next to her stuck his chest out. It was covered in silver buttons, a row of multi-coloured ribbons above his left pocket: Golden Jubilee medal, Diamond Jubilee, and a Long Service & Good Conduct. All of them awarded for nothing braver than just being in the job long enough, but there he was, wearing them with pride. That would be Superintendent Knight, then. He jerked his chin up, the strip-lights flashed off his bald head. ‘The Specialist Crime Division is also pleased to work with Detective Superintendent Jacobson’s team.’

  Ness knocked on the tabletop, taking control of the briefing again. ‘Next question?’

  Huntly jabbed the remote at the screen and the volume ticked down until it was barely more than a mumble. ‘Excellent. That’ll put the felis catus amongst the columba palumbus. Deserves a celebratory drink, don’t you think, Sheila?’

  A sigh. Then she reached into the carrier-bag and came out with a bottle of red wine and one of white. ‘That’s an extra fiver each.’

  Huntly jumped up and produced a half-dozen dusty glasses from behind the bar. Huffed a breath into each, then polished them with his pink tie. Lined them up on the bar.

  Sheila handed me a pizza box, the DinoPizza’s T-Rex logo speckled dark with grease. ‘Don’t worry about the money. I’ll get yours off Bear. Now, would you like a glass of wine?’

  ‘Can’t: pills. But thanks.’ I opened the box. Mushrooms, ham, sweetcorn, and pineapple. Still, it could have been worse.

  Huntly clapped his hands. ‘That just means more for us!’

  Tiny white dots curled into the pub airlock as I stepped outside and thumbed Detective Inspector Dave Morrow’s number into Alice’s mobile phone. I pressed the green button and listened to it ring, breath billowing out in a pale grey cloud where it caught the streetlight. Say what you like about prison, at least they keep the place relatively warm…

  A rough voice crackled out of the earpiece. Slightly breathy and clipped. ‘Alice, this … this really isn’t
a good time.’

  ‘Shifty, it’s me. You OK?’

  A pause. ‘Bloody hell, she actually did it. When did you get out?’

  ‘Couple of hours ago. I’m going to need a favour.’

  He sniffed. ‘You know I’d have done Mrs Kerrigan if I could, right?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Last thing I need is Andy Inglis coming after me. Specially with the Rubber Heelers on a mission. Otherwise she’d be the filling in a shallow-grave buttie…’

  I stepped out into the evening chill, taking a few lumbering steps away from the pub door. Glanced back to make sure no one was listening. ‘Tonight: you, me, gun, her. Better get some petrol and a couple of shovels too.’

  A pause. ‘Ash, you know I’d—’

  ‘You’re wimping out?’

  ‘Am I buggery. You know what Andy Inglis is going to do when he finds out you’ve topped her though, don’t you?’

  ‘He’s not going to find out.’

  ‘Oh come on. You get out of prison and the very same night she gets shot in the face? How long’s that going to take him to work out?’

  True.

  Another couple of paces, looking up at the billboard on the other side of the road with its never-to-be-built retirement home. ‘So I don’t hang around afterwards. I kill her, we burn the body, and I get out of Oldcastle. Hop a boat to Norway. You still friends with that fish guy in Fraserburgh?’

  ‘Passport up to date, is it? Cos I kinda get the feeling the Border Agency will be keeping an eye out for you.’

  A clunk behind me. I turned and there was Dr Constantine, all bundled up in her padded jacket, a cigarette clamped between her jaws. She sparked it from a lighter, then waved.

  I waved back. Pointed at the phone against my ear. Turned away. ‘What about Biro Billy?’

  A sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Detective Superintendent Jacobson shrugged his way out of his leather jacket. A thin dusting of white flakes clung to the shoulders and the top of his head, melting away in the warmth of the defunct pub. He hung the jacket on the back of a chair. ‘Well?’

  Huntly swept his arms out, as if he was going to hug him. ‘You were magnificent!’