A Song for the Dying

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘You forgot to say, “Once upon a time”.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Alice shuffled her little red Converse trainers, turning on the spot, staring out at the cutting tables and sinks. ‘It’s very big.’

  ‘Comes in handy when a busload of school kids turns up, or something unpleasant happens at a nursing home, or the council unearths a mass grave…’ I twisted my fingers together until the joints burned. Looked away. ‘It comes in handy.’

  Dr Constantine wheeled a stainless-steel trolley over and dumped an oversized Gucci handbag on it. Delved inside and picked out a roll of fabric – unfurled that to reveal a glittering spread of knives, clippers, pliers, and shears. The tools of her trade. ‘You know, in the good old days I used to get first crack at a body.’

  She pulled on a lab coat, then crossed to a dispenser mounted above the sinks and tore a green plastic apron from the roll. Slipped it over her head and tied it at the back. Snapped on a pair of purple surgical gloves. ‘Would someone mind starting my Dictaphone? It’s in the bag.’

  I got it out and pressed the red button, hanging it by its strap from the lamp above the table.

  Dr Constantine worked her fingers across Claire Young’s abdomen.

  Two sets of scars dimpled the waxy skin, one punctuated with little black stitches, the other with the thick nylon thread beloved of pathologists everywhere. The little black stitches held together the cruciform cut, the thicker ones closing the Y incision that reached from Claire’s collarbones to her pubic hair.

  Constantine made humming noises behind her mask. ‘Well, at least they were bright enough not to disturb the Inside Man’s surgery.’ She took a pair of needle-nosed scissors and snipped through the thick thread. Peeled back the pre-loosened skin, exposing the ribs. ‘I suppose, in some ways, it’s nice not to have to do all the heavy lifting.’ She wrapped her fingers around both ends of the breastbone and popped the ribcage out; laid it on the trolley next to her implements. ‘Of course, this isn’t so good.’

  Claire’s chest and abdominal cavity were filled with clear plastic bags, each one full of something dark and glistening. Constantine rummaged through them, then plucked out one with what looked like a heart in it. ‘A not-so-lucky dip.’ She tipped the contents out into a metal bowl. ‘Mr Henderson, would you grab your wrinkly idiot friend and ask him if he’s still got the original victims in storage? Might as well, while we’re here…’

  I tracked Dougal down in the staff room, feet up on the coffee table, watching an old ‘Miss Marple’ film on the TV, and necking a bottle of Lucozade.

  ‘The pathologist wants the original victims’ bodies.’

  He pulled a face. Took another swig. ‘Might be a teeny bit of a problem there. We’ve only got one of them left. One went … missing, and we had to surrender two to their families for burial. I can dig number four out and defrost her, if you like? Take a while for her to get up to temperature though.’

  ‘Natalie May’s still frozen? Operation Tigerbalm haven’t been in to look at her?’

  A shrug. A swig. ‘Who can fathom the workings of Police Scotland? Anyway, she didn’t have any family, so no one came to claim her. Been here all cold and alone for eight years…’

  ‘Dig her out.’

  ‘Might be able to scare up some tissue samples and X-rays from the others. Depends if they survived the winter of twenty-ten.’ He looked away. ‘I really was sorry to hear about your daughter. And your brother.’

  On the TV screen, Margaret Rutherford tricked a young man into confessing to murder in a drawing room. Then had a cup of tea as the police took the guy away to be hanged. All nice and cosy.

  Dougal squeezed the Lucozade bottle, making it squeal. ‘When the leukaemia got our Shona… Well…’ Another swig. ‘Just wanted to say I know what it’s like.’

  Yeah, because losing a child to cancer and losing one to a serial killer were exactly the same thing.

  I didn’t say anything. Just turned and walked from the room.

  At least he got to say goodbye.

  The corridors squealed beneath my feet as I worked my way back towards the cutting room, walking cane thumping out a slave-galley beat against the grey terrazzo, phone pressed against my ear. ‘How long?’

  Shifty’s voice wheezed out of the mobile’s earpiece. ‘Yeah, well, you know, only till I get on my feet… I wouldn’t ask, but … you know.’

  ‘Andrew still being a dick?’

  ‘You won’t even know I’m there. Swear. I’ll get one of those blow-up mattresses from Argos, a duvet and all that. No trouble.’

  ‘I want to interview the Inside Man’s surviving victims – you text me their details and I’ll ask Alice about you bunking down in the lounge. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘And keep it low key. Don’t want Ness to know we’re speaking to them.’ I paused, one hand on the door back through to the cutting room. ‘I went to see your mate for some spiritual guidance.’

  ‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘And are you all enlightened?’

  ‘How does tonight sound?’

  The wheezing dropped to a whisper. ‘Pre-dawn raid?’

  ‘I want details about the address – security, dogs, access points, when she’s going to be there. The usual.’

  ‘Deposition site?’

  ‘I think the classics are the best, don’t you?’ I hung up. Dialled another number.

  It rang, and rang, and then click: ‘You’ve reached Gareth and Brett. We can’t come to the phone right now, but you can leave a message after the beep.’

  ‘Brett? It’s Ash. Your brother? Brett, you there?’

  Silence. Screening his calls, or genuinely out? Didn’t really matter either way.

  ‘I…’ I what? What could I possibly say that would make any difference? ‘I just wanted to let you know that … I’m taking care of it. You guys be good to each other, OK?’ Awkward silence. ‘Anyway, that’s it. Bye.’

  The phone went back in my pocket.

  Deep breath.

  Then I pushed through into the cutting room again.

  Dr Constantine’s trolley was covered in clear plastic bags, arranged in order of largest to smallest. She dug about in one containing a slab of purpley-black, humming the theme tune to The Archers as she went.

  Alice was sitting on the cutting table furthest away from the action, red shoes dangling three feet off the floor, one arm wrapped around herself, the other hand twiddling with her hair. Gazing up at the CCTV camera hovering over her head.

  ‘There’s a lot of cameras.’

  ‘Whole place is wired. About six years ago, they noticed bodies going missing from long-term storage. No idea who did it, or what they did with them.’ I shrugged. ‘Welcome to Oldcastle.’

  ‘Hmm…’ Alice went back to playing with her hair. ‘I’ve been thinking about Dr Docherty’s profile, I mean I can understand why he’s proposing Unsub-Fifteen’s a lone male hunting—’

  ‘It’s the same profile he drew up with Henry eight years ago. He’s fluffed the wording up a bit, but the only thing he’s really changed is the guy’s age. Used to be in his “late twenties”, now it’s “mid-to-late thirties”.’ A harsh electronic ringing noise cut through the musty air like a rusty scalpel: the mortuary phone, mounted on the wall by the samples fridge. It rang, and rang, and rang, then fell silent again. I stared at it. ‘Docherty obviously thinks Unsub-Fifteen’s the Inside Man.’

  Phones… I stared at the one by the fridge. How did he know? How did he know they’d work?

  Alice swung her feet. ‘I’d like to talk to the survivors, we can do that can’t we, Bear said we could and—’

  ‘Soon as Shifty sends through their details.’ I waved my cane at Dr Constantine. ‘Hoy, Doc? You going to be long?’

  She took a long-bladed carving knife to the slab of liver. ‘Please, don’t call me “Doc”. Makes me sound like one of the Seven Dwarfs.’ She took the slice of liver and cut it in
to bite-sized chunks. ‘And I’ll be at least another three hours. Maybe more. Depends if your pal Wrinkles can find those other victims.’

  ‘Who’s your computer guy?’

  She dumped a chunk of glistening purple into a sample tube. ‘Don’t have one.’

  ‘Thought you were supposed to be all leading edge.’ I pulled my team mobile out and pressed the entry for ‘~ THE BOSS’.

  Jacobson picked up on the fifth ring. ‘Ash?’

  ‘Why haven’t you got a forensic computer specialist on the team?’

  ‘Why, do we need one?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Sabir Akhtar – used to work with the Met, don’t know if he still does, but he’s the best.’

  ‘Listening.’

  ‘Tell him to get hold of the call log from the phone box we found this morning – the one where he tried to dump Claire Young. The Inside Man doesn’t just pick his deposition sites at random; he needs a working phone box within easy reach so he can call an ambulance. So…?’

  ‘So he’s got to be scoping them out and making test calls.’

  ‘Have Sabir run down every call for the last six weeks. Perhaps there’s a pattern. And give him the nine-nine-nine calls from the original victims as well. I want them cleaned up and any background noises isolated – we don’t care about anything from where they were played back, but if we can get something from where he recorded them in the first place… Might be worth a punt.’

  Silence from the other end of the phone.

  ‘You still there?’

  ‘Maybe you’re not so useless after all. I’ll let you know.’ And he was gone.

  About three seconds later my mobile buzzed. A text message from Shifty.

  Marie Jordan: Sunnydale Wing, Castle Hill Infirmary

  Ruth Laughlin: 16B, 35 First Church Rd, Cowskillin

  & U fancy curry for tea?

  Marie Jordan and Ruth Laughlin. Nothing for Laura Strachan. I texted him back, then stuck the phone in my pocket. Held out a hand for Alice and helped her down from the cutting table. ‘Constantine’s big enough to look after herself for a few hours. We’ll go see those survivors.’

  As we pushed through into the reception area, Dougal gave a little squeal. Grabbed the death book and clutched it against his chest. ‘Frightened the life out of me…’

  I paused, one hand on the door to the outside world. Pointed at him. ‘Find those samples and Natalie May’s body, or next time we meet you’ll be the one getting post-mortemed. Understand?’

  He tightened his grip on the book. ‘Yes, right, finding her now, not a problem.’

  ‘Better not be.’ I hauled on the handle and followed Alice out into the grey morning.

  Rain bounced off the tarmac and hissed against the mortuary’s concrete walls. A lake was forming in front of the loading bay, spreading out from an overflowing gutter.

  The little portico didn’t offer a lot of protection from the downpour, but it was better than nothing.

  Alice pulled up her hood. ‘You wait here and I’ll get the car.’ She skittered between the puddles, knees high, back hunched. Plipped the locks and scrambled in behind the wheel. The Suzuki’s lights flickered on, followed by the engine. Then it spluttered its way to the mortuary door, twitching with palsy tremors.

  I limped over, climbed in.

  Mist thickened the windows, eating the day until there was nothing left but blurry shapes and vague shadows. Alice cranked the blowers up full. Their roar drowned out the rain drumming on the roof. ‘Sorry… It’ll only take a minute.’

  A knock on the driver’s window made her flinch. A man’s chest filled the glass, barely visible through the fog – suit jacket, shirt and tie.

  She buzzed the window down. ‘Can I help you?’

  A high-pitched voice slithered into the car. ‘Felicitations, dear lady. May one enquire where you’re taking our good friend Mr Henderson this fine morning?’

  Shite.

  I clambered out of the car, hands balled into fists. ‘Joseph.’

  He looked across the bonnet at me and smiled. Big sticky-out ears, Neanderthal forehead, prominent chin, and a crewcut that did nothing to hide the scar tissue lacing back and forth across his scalp. The rain played a drum solo on his big black umbrella. ‘Mr Henderson, how splendid to see that you’re no longer incarcerated. We have missed you. Are you well?’

  Rain flattened my hair to my head, a trickle making its icy way down the back of my neck. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Moi?’ He placed a hand against his chest – a DIY swallow tattoo in faded blue marked the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I wanted to make sure that you’d come through your period of incarceration with your spirit intact, ready to take on the world once more with your legendary vigour.’

  I cricked my head to the left, then back again, tendons making popping noises at the top of my spine. ‘Are we going to have a problem?’

  ‘Oh, I do so hope not, Mr Henderson. I would so hate for us to have a falling out when we’ve always been the best of friends.’ He looked over my shoulder. ‘Isn’t that right, Francis?’

  Two years in prison. You’d think I’d have learned to keep an eye out for someone sneaking up behind me.

  Francis appeared at my shoulder, his reflection in the passenger window smiling down at me from behind his John-Lennon sunglasses. Curly red hair pulled back in a ponytail, big wild-west moustache, and little soul-patch. ‘’Spector.’

  His umbrella cut into the rain, looming above me like the wings of a massive bat.

  I stayed perfectly still. ‘Francis.’

  His mouth barely moved. ‘Got a message for you, like.’

  ‘Indeed we do, Mr Henderson. Our mutual friend is glad to hear that you’ve re-joined the land of the free, home of the Braveheart, and she looks forward to renewing your acquaintance at the earliest possible convenience.’

  I bloody bet she did. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  Joseph’s hand traced a lazy figure eight through the air. ‘Let’s just say that we’ve been the beneficiaries of a fortuitous happenstance.’

  I glanced back towards the mortuary doors and there was Dougal. His eyes widened, then he ducked down out of sight. Two-faced little sod. ‘Tell her, next time I see her, we’re going to have a long hard chat about what she did to Parker. And then I’m going to bury her vicious arse in a shallow grave in Moncuir Wood.’

  Francis leaned in close, the words breaking against my cheek on a waft of peppermint. ‘What about the rest of her?’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Joseph’s smile slipped a bit. ‘I fear Mrs Kerrigan is going to be … somewhat disappointed by your less than warm response to her kind invitation.’

  The blowers had made a dent in the fogged-up car windows. Enough to reveal Bob the Builder grinning up at me from the back seat. Typical bloody tradesman, never there when you needed them. ‘She’ll be more than disappointed when I get my hands on her.’

  ‘I see.’ A nod. ‘Then we shall leave you to enjoy your freedom. While it lasts. Francis…?’

  Something exploded in the small of my back, jagged needles ripping through my left kidney. Breath hissing out between clenched teeth. My knees buckled … but I got them in line, stood tall. Shoulders back. Stuck my chin out. Ground my teeth. ‘Big man, aren’t you?’

  Francis made a little sooking noise. ‘Nothing personal, like.’

  Strictly business.

  Joseph raised his umbrella, like he was doffing an imaginary cap. ‘If you change your mind, you know you can always get in touch.’ Then he leaned down and smiled through the open driver’s window. ‘It’s been a pleasure, dear lady. I’m sure our paths shall cross again.’

  They better bloody not.

  I stayed where I was until they’d got into their big black BMW 4×4 and growled their way out of the car park. Then I opened the Suzuki’s door and eased into the passenger seat. Hissed out a breath as my ribs touched the backre
st. Bloody innards were packed with ice and barbed wire.

  Two against one, just like every time in prison. Every sodding time.

  I balled my right fist and slammed it into the dashboard. ‘BASTARDS!’

  The noise overpowered the blowers for a moment, then their roar took over again. Now the barbed wire was threading through my knuckles, every movement tearing through flesh and cartilage. When I stretched out my hand, it wouldn’t stay still, fingers quivering and trembling in time to the blood bellowing in my ears.

  ‘Ash? Are you OK, only you don’t look so—’

  ‘Just…’ I clicked on the radio. ‘Just drive.’

  15

  ‘Look, Marie, you’ve got visitors.’

  Marie Jordan didn’t get up, just sat in her high-backed seat, gazing out of the rain-pebbled window – out through the wire mesh to the doctors’ car park and the concrete-and-glass block of the main hospital. Her hair was hacked off short enough to show her scalp in patches, tufts sticking out over one ear, a smattering of dark-red scabs visible in the thinner bits. A slack face, mortuary pale, with sunken red-rimmed eyes and a thin, almost lipless mouth. Dressed in a grey cardigan and jogging bottoms. Her bare feet weren’t flat on the floor, they rested on their outside edges, toes curled in towards each other like claws.

  Alice glanced back at me, then pulled up a chair with ‘DON’T TRUST THEM!!!’ scratched into the orange plastic. Sat down with her knees together, hands motionless in her lap. ‘Hi, Marie. I’m Dr McDonald, but you can call me Alice. Marie?’

  The room was big enough for half a dozen large padded chairs, a handful of cheap plastic ones, a coffee table covered in drifts of National Geographics, and a TV mounted high on the wall where no one could get at it. If anything, the place was even less comfortable than the rec room back at the prison.

  None of the other patients were here, leaving just Alice, Marie Jordan, an orderly, and me in the antiseptic silence.

  I leaned back against the windowsill, blocking Marie’s view of the car park. Didn’t seem to make any difference to her, she just stared right through me as I flexed my right hand. In and out. The bones and cartilage grinding and grating.