A Song for the Dying

by Stuart MacBride

  13

  Alice looked back over her shoulder as I pulled into Slater Crescent. ‘Are you sure it’s OK to leave Professor Huntly there, I mean what if he upsets all the—’

  ‘He’s a grown man.’ And besides, maybe getting punched on the nose by one of the Scenes Examination Branch would take the edge off him a bit. If we were lucky.

  The Suzuki jerked and juddered as my right foot slipped off the accelerator. Bloody idiot. Oh, no I’ll drive this time. It’s been far too long. Need the practice…

  Need my sodding head examined, more like.

  Teeth gritted, I put the aching foot back down, on the brake this time. Eased Alice’s car up to the kerb. Killed the engine. Folded forward and rested my forehead on the steering wheel. Hissed out a breath.

  ‘Ash? Are you OK?’

  ‘Fine. Perfect. Never better.’ God that hurt. ‘Just … been a while.’

  I straightened up, dug a pack of paracetamol from my jacket and dry-swallowed three of them. Pulled in a few deep breaths. Then opened the driver’s door. ‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’

  She stared at me. ‘And he’s an old friend.’

  ‘It’ll be fine.’ I grabbed my cane and struggled out of the car. Closed the door.

  Slater Crescent curled away down Blackwall Hill, giving the road a decent view across the valley to the Wynd. Over there, the sandstone terraces were arrayed like soldiers on parade. Expensive houses surrounding little private parks. Picturesque and historical beneath the heavy grey sky.

  And a lot prettier than the seventies maze of cul-de-sacs and dead ends that surrounded us. Blackwall Hill: a twisting nest of grey-harled bungalows and terracotta pantiles. Gardens jealously guarded behind leylandii battlements. Knee-high wrought-iron gates with nameplates bolted to them: ‘DUNROAMIN’, ‘LINDISFARNE’, ‘SUNNYSIDE’ and half a dozen variations on ‘ROSE’, ‘FOREST’, and ‘VIEW’.

  Number thirteen – the address I’d got from the mysterious Alec – had an archway of honeysuckle wound up and over a stupid little gate, like brittle strands of beige barbed wire. The nameplate had ‘VAJRASANA’ on it, picked out in gold letters. Gravel made a twisting path through bushes and dead flowers, seedheads heavy and drooping on either side. A concrete Buddha sat beside the path, his grey skin speckled with lichen.

  A little girl knelt before him, trundling a bright yellow Tonka tipper truck back and forwards, scooping up gravel and dumping it at the Buddha’s feet. Making the beep-beep-beep noises every time the tipper reversed for another load.

  I creaked the gate open and limped in, clanging it shut behind me with my cane. Pulled on a smile. ‘Hi, is your daddy in?’

  She jumped to her feet, clutching the Tonka against her stomach. Can’t have been more than five or six, but she had a single thick eyebrow stretching across a mealie-pudding face. She smiled, showing off a hole where the two bottom middle teeth should have been. ‘Yeth.’

  ‘Can you run and get him for me?’

  A nod. ‘But you have to look after my tiger for me.’ She pointed at an empty patch of grass, then lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘He’th thcared of clownth.’

  ‘OK, if any clowns come along, I’ll keep him safe.’

  ‘Promith?’

  ‘Course I do.’

  ‘OK.’ She patted a hand up and down, in mid-air. ‘You be good Mithter Thtripey, and don’t eat the man.’ And then she was off, skipping up the path and into the house.

  I limped over and rested against the Buddha’s concrete head.

  She was back two minutes later, dragging a small middle-aged man by the hand: dumpy, central parting, chinos and a cardigan. He fiddled a pair of glasses from his pocket and slipped them on. Blinked at me. Then beamed. ‘Ah, you must be Mr Smith. How nice to see you, Mr Smith.’ He turned to the little girl. ‘Sweetie, why don’t you take Mr Stripy through to the back garden so I can talk to Mr Smith?’

  She stared at him, face hard and serious. ‘Are there any clownth?’

  ‘They all ran away when they heard Mr Smith was coming over.’

  A nod, then she wrapped an arm around thin air and pulled it towards the side of the house. ‘Come on, Mithter Thtripey…’

  The man watched her go, head on one side, a wide smile on his face. Then sighed. Turned back to me. ‘Now then, Mr Smith, Alec believes you’re looking for some spiritual guidance?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  He placed a hand against his chest and gave a small bow. ‘This one has the questionable honour of being Alec.’

  ‘OK…’ Shifty was right, the man was a nutter. ‘In that case: semi-automatic, clean, at least thirteen in the clip, and a box of brass. Hollowpoint if you’ve got it.’

  ‘Hmm, that’s a lot of spiritual enlightenment.’ He joined me at the Buddha, leaning back against the statue. ‘Tell me, Mr Smith, have you truly contemplated the consequences of your actions here today? Because Karma is watching, and it’s never too late to change one’s path.’

  ‘Have you got it, or don’t you?’

  He placed both hands against his chest, fingertips spread. ‘Take Alec for example. Accepting the Buddha into his life made a world of difference to Alec. Alec was a sinner – it’s true – and his life was hard and dark… Well, until Alec had his little incident and decided to let the teachings of the Buddha into his cold, cold heart.’

  I pushed off the statue and stood, resting most of my weight on the cane. ‘You’re going to have another “little incident” if you don’t make with a gun in the next fifteen seconds. And it better be clean – I find out it’s been used in a hit, or a Post Office job, or some sectarian drive-by shite, I’m going to come back and introduce you to your god personally.’

  ‘Ah, Mr Smith, there is no “God”. The Buddha teaches us that Mahâ Brahmâ did not create all things. We come to being instead through paticcasamuppada, and—’

  ‘Do you have the bloody gun, or don’t you?’

  The smile hadn’t slipped an inch. ‘Patience, Mr Smith. Patience. Before we can proceed, Alec needs to know why you want it. What your intentions are.’

  ‘None of Alec’s bloody business.’

  ‘Ah, but it is a bloody business, is it not?’ He stood too, crunching along the gravel path, between the dying plants. Following the circle. ‘Alec struggled long and hard with the essential dichotomy of continuing in his chosen profession, given his beliefs. Alec meditated. He appealed to the Buddha for guidance. And in the end he came to realize that his place in the karmic cycle is to facilitate a moral choice on behalf of people like yourself. And so he achieved another step upon the road to enlightenment.’

  ‘Fine. Forget it.’ I made for the gate.

  ‘Alec can give you what you ask for, but he needs you to understand that right now you’ve got the option to just walk away from the darkness surrounding you. Take a plus in the Karma column. Be a better man.’

  ‘Yeah. Well I’m more of an Old Testament kind of guy. Eye for an eye. Bullet for a bullet.’

  ‘Ah, revenge…’ Alec stopped, head bowed. Then nodded. ‘Wait here.’ He headed back inside, and when he emerged again he held out a plush Bob the Builder doll – about the same size as a rugby ball, a grin stitched across its face, oversized yellow spanner in one hand. ‘Here.’

  ‘Are you seriously looking for a kick up the…’ There was something hard inside Bob. Something L-shaped. More somethings in his legs, as if they’d been stuffed with finger bones.

  ‘Mr Smith, are you certain Alec can’t convince you to turn from this?’

  At least a dozen bullets in there, possibly more. Wouldn’t know until I slit him open.

  Now all I had to do was keep my head down until I could introduce Bob to Mrs Kerrigan tonight. Twice. In the face.

  ‘Mr Smith?’

  I looked up, just as the clouds gave up their first drops. They struck the Buddha, darkening the concrete around his eyes, more and more joining them as the wind pick
ed up. Rolling down his fat cheeks.

  ‘How sad.’ Alec shook his head. Sighed. Let his shoulders fall. ‘You’ve made your mind up, and the world weeps for you.’

  Nothing like being pitied by an arms dealer who talked about himself in the third person to really put a shine on the day.

  I handed over Shifty’s envelope full of cash, then limped back to the car, Bob the Builder tucked tightly beneath my arm.

  Can we fix it? Yes, we bloody well can.

  ‘… for three days has been found in a disused quarry in Renfrewshire. Police are appealing for anyone who might have seen the six-year-old since she went missing on Thursday evening …’

  Rain smashed against the tarmac, bouncing back to make a knee-high spray of mist as Alice pulled into the car park. The Suzuki pitched and rolled through water-logged potholes, sending Bob the Builder sliding across the back seat.

  ‘… refusing to confirm or deny that there are similarities with three other children abducted since Halloween…’

  She picked a parking space not too far from the entrance, and sat there, the windscreen wipers scraping across the pitted glass. ‘It doesn’t look very promising…’

  ‘It’s the overflow facility for a mortuary, what did you expect: palm trees and marble?’

  ‘… an appeal from the mother of missing five-year-old, Charlie Pearce—’

  Alice killed the engine.

  The overflow facility was a low concrete bunker in a run-down industrial estate on the outskirts of Shortstaine – a mean line of grey and black, scowling behind chain-link fences festooned with warning signs about guard dogs, CCTV, and razor wire. Loading bay at one end, reception at the other. Shielded from the road by a barricade of green bushes.

  There was a clatter, and a couple staggered out through the mortuary doors: the man’s face ripped open by grief, wet with tears; the woman walking as if her knees wouldn’t bend any more. As if what she’d seen inside had fossilized them.

  The rain drummed against my shoulders.

  Alice stood with the keys in her hand, turning to watch the couple lurch into the car park. Him collapsing against an old Renault Clio, her walking around in small, stiff-legged circles. ‘Maybe we should do something?’

  A beat later, a uniformed constable crashed out into the rain, skidded to a halt on the top step, face flushed. A lumpy stain spread from the edge of her stabproof vest down one leg and the sharp, bitter smell of bile clung to her like a shroud. ‘Sorry…’ She gave me a pained smile, then went over to join the sobbing man and clockwork woman.

  Inside.

  Dr Constantine stood facing a blow heater, the sides of her Parka jacket held open, basking in the warm air.

  The room was small, bland, and functional: a stubby reception desk made of stainless steel; an easy-clean lino floor; walls covered with public health and information posters; a rack of leaflets about bereavement services; two security cameras – one watching the front door, the other the entrance to the mortuary proper; a dozen or so business cards from a funeral director’s strategically tucked where grieving relatives could see them: ‘UNWIN AND MCNULTY, UNDERTAKERS EST. 1965 ~ DISCREET PROFESSIONAL CARE FOR YOUR LOVED ONES’. A rubber plant loomed in the corner, its thick waxy leaves covered with a layer of dust. The air sagged beneath the cloying floral scent of too much air freshener, that still wasn’t strong enough to obliterate the dark smear of decay.

  The door swung closed with an electronic bleep, and Dr Constantine looked over her shoulder at us. Rolled her eyes. ‘They’ve only gone and lost the body.’

  Alice shook the water from her shoulders. ‘How could they lose the body, I mean this is supposed to be a major murder investigation and the whole world’s going to be—’

  ‘You know what I think?’ Constantine went back to the heater. ‘The natives are playing silly buggers, because they’re scared we’ll show them up.’

  I pressed the bell on the reception desk, and ringing sounded from somewhere behind the double doors leading deeper into the facility. ‘Yeah, I don’t think it’s quite that sinister.’

  No reply from the bell. So I tried again.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think it’s sinister, I think it’s petty bloody-mindedness.’

  One more go on the bell.

  Still nothing.

  Alice turned to stare at the door we’d come in through. ‘Actually, do you think it’ll be OK if I…?’ She pointed out towards the car park. ‘They seemed really upset.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  Last chance. I mashed my thumb down on the bell and held it there as she hurried back outside. The ringing stretched on and on and on and on… And still no answer.

  I crossed to the double doors. Frosted glass panes offered no view into the interior. I flattened my hand and slammed my palm against the wood.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  ‘DOUGAL, YOU USELESS FLAP OF SKIN, GET YOUR ARSE OUT HERE NOW!’ Then went back and leaned on the bell again. ‘This isn’t a conspiracy, they’re just morons. It’s always like this.’

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  ‘DOUGAL, I’M BLOODY WARNING YOU!’

  One side of the door creaked open and a wrinkled face peered out, eyebrows raised above a pair of dark, glittering eyes. Silver hair yellowing at the tips. ‘Ah… Yes…?’ A smile made of greying dentures. ‘Well, I never: Detective Inspector Henderson, how nice to see you again. I thought you were … away.’

  ‘What have you done with Claire Young’s remains?’

  His eyebrows drooped. ‘I was sorry to hear about your daughter, I can only imagine— Ulp!’

  I reached through the gap in the doors and grabbed a handful of white lab coat. Dragged him out into the reception area. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Ah, yes, Claire Young…’ His eyes darted to Dr Constantine, then back to me again. ‘Actually, that’s a funny story, well, maybe not funny per se, but it’s—’

  I gave him a shake. ‘Last time, Dougal.’

  ‘We’re looking, we’re looking! It’s not my fault, it—’

  Another shake. ‘Get the book. Now.’

  He staggered back, straightening the front of his lab coat, refastened the poppers. ‘Yes, the book, I’ll get the book…’ Then he ducked behind the reception desk and came out with a thick ledger, flopped it open at a leather bookmark about five-sixths of the way through. Pulled on a pair of big round glasses that magnified his dark rat-like eyes. Ran a finger down the name column. ‘Young, Young, Young… Ah, here we are, yes, right: Claire Young. She should be in Fifty-Three A, but we’ve looked and there’s no one there…’ He cleared his throat. ‘But we’re pulling out all the stops, searching every drawer in every unit, I’m sure she’ll turn up eventually. Right?’

  I burled the book around a hundred and eighty degrees, till it was the right way up for me. Scanned the rows and columns. ‘Says here she was PM’d yesterday morning. Have you checked she’s not still lying in the cutting room?’

  Dougal stuck his nose in the air, pulling the loose wattles of skin around his neck tight. ‘We’re not idiots.’

  ‘You do a bloody good impersonation of one. What about Thirty-Five A, have you tried there?’

  ‘Of course we…’ He stopped, his mouth hanging open. Then his lips contracted to make a wrinkly ‘O’. ‘Excuse me a moment…’ And he was gone.

  The front door bleeped again and Alice shuffled in, face all flushed, hair dripping wet, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her stripy top. She didn’t say a word, just crept up to me, wrapped her arms around my torso and pressed her face against my chest. Sniffing.

  I hugged her back. She was soaked. ‘You OK?’

  Another sniff. Then a deep breath. One last squeeze of my ribs, and she stepped back. Wiped her eyes again. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Detective Inspector?’ Dougal was back, flashing his dentured smile again. ‘I’m pleased to announce that we’ve managed to locate Claire Young. Give me a couple of m
inutes and she’ll be in the cutting room ready for you.’

  ‘Someone got the numbers the wrong way round, didn’t they?’

  ‘Well, the important thing is that Miss Young’s still here, all safe and sound.’ He pushed the door all the way open, holding it there as he gestured us in. ‘Was beginning to think our ghoulish friend had come back…’

  14

  ‘Now you’re sure I can’t get you a tea? Coffee?’ Dougal tilted his head on one side, hands in front of his chest, the fingertips stroking each other as Dr Constantine picked her way around all that remained of Claire Young. ‘I’ve got some fig rolls, if you like?’

  Alice shook her head. ‘Thanks, but … with the post mortem and everything…’

  ‘Ah, yes, right. Detective Inspector?’

  I nodded. ‘Tea. Milk. Two biscuits. And a proper mug – not polystyrene.’

  He scuttled off, leaving us alone in the cutting room. The thing was at least six times the size of the mortuary at Castle Hill Infirmary. A dozen stainless-steel tables were arranged in a grid of six by two, complete with drains, hoses, scales, and hydraulics. Each one sat beneath its own CCTV camera – the black globes hanging from the ceiling like fruiting bodies.

  A long glass wall ran down one side of the room, above a row of sinks and taps. Work surfaces covered the opposite wall, beneath anatomy posters and health-and-safety notices.

  Alice shuddered. ‘Why do they always have to hire creepy guys to work in mortuaries? Did you see his eyes? All dark and shiny…’

  ‘He looks like an oversized rat in a lab-coat doesn’t he? He’s overpowered the scientists and it’s their turn to be experimented on.’ I leaned back against the cutting table next to Claire Young’s remains. ‘One summer, when the girls were wee, it was just bakingly hot. For a week Oldcastle was like living in an oven, so we’d leave the windows open the whole time; trying to get a bit of cool air into the place. One night I went to check on the girls – both sound asleep – and there’s this big brown rat inching its way up the blankets towards Rebecca’s face. That’s what Dougal looks like.’