I thumped my mug down on the Beetle’s roof. Tea sloshed out onto the rusty paintwork. ‘Fuck you.’
Inside the car, Fire and Brimstone sat up, ears pricked.
‘Finally: a bit of passion.’ A smile twitched the corners of Wee Free’s moustache. ‘Jessica hasn’t said anything to me for years. Oh, I try, because I’m a good parent, but she’s wilful. Got that from her mother, God rest her tortured soul.’
My knuckles ached, pulled tight into fists. Burning in anticipation. ‘You don’t ever talk about my daughters.’
‘She was seeing someone, I know that. A godless man with a tattoo.’
Over by the container, Babs sniffed. ‘You got something against tattoos, like?’
‘Leviticus 19:28, “Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you.”’
‘Says the man with the moustache: Leviticus 19:27. And you cut yourself – we all saw it.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘But not for the dead.’ Then went back to his cigarillo. ‘You’ve no idea where he takes them, do you?’
I stepped back. Took a deep breath. Unclenched my teeth and fists. ‘We’re following a number of leads. I’ll see if we can get a Family Liaison officer to keep you up to date, be your point of contact for the investigation.’
‘In fact, you don’t know a single thing about him.’
‘We will catch him.’
The smile disappeared. ‘Not if I get there first.’
Babs stretched her arms forward, till her fingertips touched the windscreen. Then slumped back. ‘Thought that was going to be a total waste of time, but turned out pretty sweet in the end.’
Alice took the Suzuki down York Street, past the knot of halal butchers and dry cleaners, heading for the border with Castle Hill. The rush-hour traffic thickened the closer we got to the centre of town. ‘You should maybe think about getting some help for your emotional expression mechanism, an overt reliance on violence for serotonin release isn’t healthy.’
‘Meh. Each to their own, right? Sometimes it does you good to shoot things.’
I shifted in the back seat, but the ache in my ribs wouldn’t go away. Someone slammed a fist into them every time I breathed.
‘So,’ Babs turned and grinned at me, ‘what’s next? Anyone else needing a rattle?’
Alice stiffened. ‘The intention wasn’t to “rattle” Mr McFee, we were there to break the news about his daughter, and anyway, don’t you have to get back to work or something, I mean it’s been lovely meeting you again, but we don’t want to be a burden, do we, Ash?’
‘Nah, don’t worry about it. Told them I’d come down with that norovirus, they’re not wanting me back till it’s all cleared up. Can you imagine a prison full of guys with vomiting and the squits? Nightmare.’
I shifted again, but it still didn’t help. So another couple of Prednisolone got popped from their blister pack and swallowed dry. Probably should have read the instructions about maximum dosage and side-effects, but it was too late for that. And besides, everything hurt…
Alice tapped her fingers around the outside edge of the steering wheel, one at a time, like a centipede’s legs. ‘Tell me about the calling card.’
‘The key ring? Cheap plastic from China, sold through cash-and-carries at something like a hundred for a fiver. Nearest wholesale outlet is Colonel Dealtime’s in Logansferry. Retails from corner shops and pound-stores. We checked out all the retailers, but no one matched the profile.’
‘Hmm…’ Alice took the third exit on the Keller roundabout and onto Dundas road, where the traffic slowed to a crawl. ‘What about the key?’
‘Yale. YA-Sixteens. They’re all for different locks. We took the key profiles to every locksmith in the city, and got laughed at. No way to trace what lock they were for.’
The traffic finally ground to a standstill, a long line of red tail-lights stretching away from us. Probably backed up all the way to the bridge.
She pulled on the handbrake and wrapped one arm around herself. Using the other hand to fiddle with her hair. ‘The keys and key rings are symbolic – obviously the little plastic baby represents the bigger plastic baby he’s going to stitch inside Jessica, it’s fertility, fecundity, which means he’s probably sterile himself, I mean if he could get someone pregnant the normal way he wouldn’t have to go through the whole surgery routine, would he, he’d chain them to the floor and rape them.’ A frown. ‘But he did rape Ruth Laughlin, so maybe it’s belt and braces, or he’s mentally compartmentalized sex away from procreation?’
Babs rolled her head from side to side, stretching the cords in her neck. ‘Maybe he’s just a nutter? Maybe he likes cutting women open?’
‘If we want to get all Freudian the key represents the penis and the lock the vagina, it’s a metaphor for penetration and unlocking what’s hidden, but then I always thought Freud was a bit of a pervert, all that stuff about wanting to have sex with your mother is just plain disturbed.’
I tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Can we cut to the chase, here?’
‘What if it’s not a metaphor, what if it’s an invitation…? What if it’s a case of, when you get out of hospital and you’ve had my baby, here is the key to get back to me so we can be together?’
A snort came from the passenger seat. ‘He’s asking them to move in with him? Yeah, real romantic.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t hate women, maybe he loves them, and this is the only way he can express it: by giving them a baby…’
I tapped her on the shoulder again. ‘We’re moving.’
‘What?’
Behind us a symphony for angry car horns filled the night.
‘Oh, right…’
And we were on our way again.
My phone rang – Sabir’s number. I picked up. ‘What have you got?’
‘What, no pleasantries? No, “Here, Sabir, you’re my favourite bizzie, you are, a star among men and killer with the ladies”?’
Alice slid the car forward ten foot, then came to a halt again.
‘Finger out, we’re none of us getting any younger here.’
A pause. Then, ‘Fine. Be like that. Got an address for one Laura Strachan: Thirteen Camburn View Crescent, Shortstaine. And you want to know how I got it? It was doing my head in – they’re not living at the family home, probably cos of all the journos, so—’
‘The short version, Sabir.’
‘You know, I used to like you.’
‘No you didn’t.’
‘Bloody long time ago, mind. They’re not registered at the address, it doesn’t belong to a relative, and they’re paying the rent in cash. Playing properly hard-to-get. But her bloke… Now, I accidentally got hold of his credit-card details – don’t ask. He’s getting stuff delivered off the interwebs. And when I accidentally got access to his Amazon account too, guess what he’s using as a delivery address?’
‘Now you see, this is why I stick up for you when people start mouthing off about your general lack of personal hygiene. What about the audio?’
‘Personal hygiene? Cheeky bugger. You’ll get the audio when it’s ready. If I’d known you were going to be this big a pain in the arse, I would’ve had a word with your mam when I was shagging her last night. Got her to give you a clip round the lug.’
‘Bye, Sabir.’ The phone went back in my pocket.
So we finally had an address for Laura Strachan. Mind you, if the calls from that phone box panned out, we might be able to leave the poor woman alone after all… Still, it’d be nice if Ruth Laughlin could talk to her. God knew I owed Ruth that much.
I pointed through the windscreen. ‘Take the next left, we’ll cut along Slaine Road. Should miss the worst of it.’
‘… I’m not asking you to kill anyone, George, I just want you to check your records: why’s Cunningham on the sex-offenders’ register?’ I shifted my mobile from one ear to the other as Babs squeezed herself out of the Suzuki’s
passenger door and into the rain.
There was a pause. Then George’s nasal monotone droned out of the earpiece. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Just interested.’ Because there was no way I was going to tell him Cunningham had been on the receiving end of a call from the phone box where the Inside Man tried to dump Claire Young’s body. It’d be all over the station by the time I hung up the phone, and as soon as Jacobson found out… Well, he wasn’t likely to be very pleased at being kept in the dark, was he? ‘A quick search on the computer, how hard can it be?’
‘It’s not like it was in the old days, we’ve got a duty of care to the dodgy bastards. We can’t just go handing out their personal—’
‘Are you forgetting what happened in Falkirk?’
His voice jumped up an octave. ‘You promised!’
‘Then get me Cunningham’s details.’
Sitting in the driver’s seat, Alice widened her eyes, mouthing the word back at me. ‘Falkirk?’
I waved her away. ‘Now would be good, George.’
‘Wasn’t even my fault…’ The sound of fingers clattering across a keyboard. ‘Cunningham, Cunningham, Cunningham… Right. Here: done eleven years ago for having nine-gig of naked wee boys on a laptop. Two counts of indecent exposure about a month after release. Three assaults on pregnant women. And…’ More typing. ‘And unlawful sex with two minors, six years ago. What sort of idiot puts someone like that in charge of a primary-school swimming club? On the register for life. Gets a visit every other week from McKevitt and Nenova.’
‘How long for the kiddie porn?’
‘Erm… Four years, released on licence after two.’
‘Thanks, George.’ I stuck the phone back in my pocket. ‘Here’s something interesting: our sex offender has form for assaulting pregnant women.’ I climbed out of the car.
After a beat, Alice did too, closed the door and plipped the locks. Put up a little collapsible brolly. ‘Are you sure we shouldn’t tell Detective Superintendent Jacobson?’
‘If this works out, we go to him with a result. If it doesn’t pan out, he doesn’t need to know. Everyone wins.’
Carrick Gardens looped away down the hill – two rows of bland, respectable bungalows, some with loft conversions, all with neat front gardens and estate cars in the driveways. Not the poshest bit of Castleview by a long way, but infinitely better than the crappy flat Alice had rented in Kingsmeath. Decent view as well: over the river, Dundas Bridge, and up the cliff to the castle, streetlights twinkling in the darkness.
I hobbled after Babs, up the garden path to number nineteen. The blinds were down on the two front windows, the door painted red, with a semi-transparent stained-glass panel. ‘Cunningham’s been in and out of prison for the last eleven years, but was definitely at large during the Inside Man’s first spree.’
Babs thumbed the doorbell.
Alice stopped halfway down the path. Fiddled with her hair for a bit as the rain drummed on her umbrella. ‘I’m still not convinced we should be deviating so far from the profile.’
‘We’re not here because I think Cunningham’s the Inside Man, we’re here because someone called this number from the phone box where Claire Young was dumped. So perhaps Cunningham knows him? Long shot, but we’ve got sod-all else. Besides, you said it yourself: the profile’s wrong and Dr Docherty is a dick.’
‘I didn’t exactly use those words, I mean he’s a very well-respected psychologist and I’m just a—’ Her mouth shut with a click as a light came on inside. Then the front door opened and a puffy face peered out through the gap.
Mid-thirties, long blonde hair rumpled on one side, small mouth, a flash of what looked like a red towelling dressing gown. ‘Look, I’m not wanting solar bloody panelling, my drive re-tarmacked, a free quote for double glazing, help with a PPI claim, to talk about Jesus, Tupperware, Avon, or a sodding Anne Summers party. For the last time: leave – me – alone!’
I stepped up. ‘Actually—’
‘Go away. I’m not in.’
‘Miss Virginia Cunningham?’ I reached into my pocket and hauled out my old warrant card. The one I wasn’t supposed to have any more. ‘We’d like a word about where you were last night.’
She took one look at the warrant card and her mouth fell open – round and red, like a bullet wound. ‘Oh shite…’ She slammed the door shut before I could get the tip of my cane in the gap. Her voice came through, muffled from inside. ‘Shite, shite, shite…’ The bolt clacked home. ‘Shite, shite, shite…’ Then she turned and lumbered off down the hall, just visible through the stained glass.
Babs clapped her hands. ‘You want me to force entry?’
Alice blanched. ‘But we don’t have a warrant and we’re not—’
‘Do it.’
22
Babs slammed her elbow into the stained-glass panel, turning it into a multi-coloured spider’s web of cracks. One more and it burst inward with a bang, shards clattering down on the floor. Then she jammed her whole arm through the hole, face flat against the door as she fiddled with the locks. ‘Bing!’
The thing swung open and we tumbled inside.
All of us except for Alice. ‘Don’t we need a police officer and a warrant and—’
‘Watch the front!’
Inside, the hallway dog-legged around to the right. The lounge door was open, the sounds of some sort of kids’ programme on the TV blaring out its cheesy cheeriness. ‘… oooh, that is a spooky looking haunted house, isn’t it? But don’t worry, we can sing the “Bravery Song”!’ No one there – just two couches, a coffee table and a large sheepskin rug in front of an electric fire. Video camera on a tripod beside the television.
I pointed down the hall. ‘You take the door on the left, I’ll get the right.’
‘When things seem dark and scary, there’s no need to be afraid…’
Babs squared her shoulders and stomped down the corridor, hauled her door open as I hobbled to the next one. She stuck her head inside. ‘Boxroom: clear.’
‘Just think of lots of lovely things, like crisps and lemonade…’
Mine opened on a small bathroom that reeked of ammonia. A towel hung over the side of the salmon-pink bath, stained with brown streaks. A couple of small plastic bottles lay in the corner along with a box of hair dye. ‘Clear.’
‘Airing cupboard: clear.’
The last door opened on the kitchen: fitted units, pink fake-marble work surface, peach tiles on the floor. The back door hung open. The window above the sink looked out over a rain-soaked garden caught in the glow of a security light…
‘And you can sing the “Bravery Song”, whenever you get a fright…’
Virginia Cunningham was clambering up onto a set of plastic garden furniture arranged against the back fence. Her red towelling dressing gown flapped out behind her, showing off a pair of pale legs, massive spotty pants, and a pregnant bulge. Had to be at least seven months gone.
‘And, before you know it, everything will be all right!’
‘Babs! Back garden.’
Babs pushed past me, stomped across the kitchen. ‘Come back here!’
‘So forget the ghosts and goblins – no they can’t scare us today…’
‘And go easy. No violence.’
‘Cos we can sing the “Bravery Song”, and make them go away…’
Cunningham got one pasty leg hooked over the fence before Babs grabbed a double handful of dressing gown and pulled. Cunningham wobbled, then threw her arms back – the dressing gown slipped right off and Babs ended up on her arse in the wet grass.
‘The “Bravery Song”, the “Bravery Song”, sing it and you’ll feel big and strong…’
I limped out onto the top step as Cunningham pulled herself up the fence, now wearing nothing but mismatched underwear. ‘Seriously? You’re doing a runner in your bra and pants? Think it’s going to take long to catch you?’
She froze. ‘I didn’t do a
nything.’
Babs scrambled to her feet, reached out, and grabbed the strap at the back of the industrial grey bra. ‘Slip out of that. Go on, I dare you.’
Cunningham shut her eyes. Rain plastered her hair to her head. ‘Shite…’
She stood in the kitchen, dripping onto the peach tiles, clutching the dressing gown shut over her pregnant belly. ‘Can I at least get some clothes on?’
I leaned back against the fridge freezer. ‘Soon as you tell us where you were last night.’
Pink flushed her cheeks, hot against her pale fleshy face. ‘I was at home. Here. All night. Didn’t go out.’
‘And you can prove that, can you? Got a witness?’
Alice cleared her throat. ‘What do the Offender Management Unit think about you being pregnant?’
Cunningham just stared at her. ‘I want some clothes. And I need a pee. This is against my human rights.’
‘Right.’ The fridge freezer was covered in kid’s drawings. I pulled one free of its Blu-Tack. A happy stick-man family, grinning beneath a smiley yellow sun. ‘Home alone. No witness. No alibi.’
She raised her chin, taking the swell of skin underneath with it. ‘Didn’t think I needed one. Want me to pee on the kitchen floor? That what gets you off? Pregnant women peeing?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. Fine. Go: pee.’ I pointed at the hallway. ‘Babs, stand outside the door and make sure she doesn’t try anything.’ Well, it wasn’t as if she’d be able to wiggle out the bathroom window.
Cunningham waddled off with Babs in tow.
As soon as the toilet door clunked shut, Alice pulled a face. ‘I’m very uncomfortable with the thought of her having a child, I mean what if it’s a boy, do they think she won’t sexually abuse it just because it’s hers, because most abuse happens within the family and I really don’t think the child’s going to be safe, well, unless it’s a girl, and even then… Where are you going?’
‘Living room.’
‘Oh. Can I come too?’
The kids’ show was still playing – a pair of idiots in fluorescent dungarees dancing with a third idiot dressed as Jacob Marley, chains rattling as he went. ‘Oh, I used to be quite scary, but I’d much rather be nice. Because having friends and having fun—’
A Song for the Dying Page 18
