Song of the Dead

by Douglas Lindsay

  He nods, although there’s a look on his face that suggests he’s showing an appreciation of the coffee rather than acknowledging having met the stranger who’s crawled in from the past.

  ‘Yes. I spoke with him for several hours yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘That’s a long interrogation.’

  ‘Not so much an interrogation. A conversation I should say.’

  ‘What’s his story?’

  This is the part I know nothing about. The file the Chief Inspector gave me stopped with the end of Rosco’s investigation, some twelve years ago. Case closed, nothing to add since then.

  ‘I wonder if I should let him tell you himself,’ he says.

  ‘Then you wouldn’t be here. What’s his story?’

  ‘Very good. I am happy to relate, I just wanted to make sure that you wanted to hear it first from me, rather than the horse’s mouth.’

  ‘Your English is very good.’

  ‘Of course. Everyone in Estonia speaks excellent English. Apart from the Russians, who speak excellent Russian.’

  He drains his coffee, and then lifts the file, which has been waiting its moment. He hands it over.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to read my report. The tale is somewhat fantastical, but that does not mean it’s not true. Bad things happen to people in the Baltics, as elsewhere. It might be better for you to take that back to the privacy of your cabin. I will be here when you return.’

  I look down at my half-drunk coffee, lift it, finish off the rest of the cup and head back to my cabin.

  8

  There was something else from before. Just a moment, when I was disembarking from the boat in Gothenburg. A covered gangplank for foot passengers with windows along the side. I walked down amongst the mild throng, overhearing some of the conversations; few enough that voices were clear, words could be heard. Trying not to listen to the general chatter of others, no one with anything consequential to say. Glancing out the windows as I went.

  There was someone. A woman, sitting against a wall on the dockside. It seemed unusual, as it wasn’t the kind of place that anyone would wait. She wasn’t wearing the high visibility jacket of someone who was working in the port. A small figure, her head dropped forward, although her eyes were turned up at the ferry.

  It felt like I caught her eye, although it’s the kind of thing that in retrospect feels ridiculous. She would never have been able to clearly make out the faces of individuals as they walked down the gangplank behind murky windows.

  There was no dramatic, and-then-suddenly-she-was-gone moment, like you might expect. Although perhaps she was gone. At the next window my view to where she was sitting was blocked. And then at the next. And then we were off the gangplank and being directed towards a terminal and that part of the dock was lost to our sight.

  There was something though, something about her. Every day in a city you catch someone’s eye. Most of the time there’s nothing there. An awkward glance that just happens to have taken place, and then it’s gone and forgotten. Sometimes it means something more. Sometimes it’s worth following up.

  Or you’re walking down a busy street. In the space of a few hundred yards, a hundred people might walk past you in the other direction, maybe more. We avoid each other with the instinct of birds flying in formation, of ants scurrying along a worker’s route, of a great shoal of fish, swooping through the ocean creating extraordinary patterns. And yet, every so often, you almost bump into someone. You slow and step to the side, just as they step to the same side. There’s a glance, one stands still while the other passes, and the awkwardness passes with it.

  Why that person? Was it just chance that your basic instinct prevented you avoiding them, or was there something else drawing you in? And you pass by, and you never know.

  The thought of the woman, sitting by the dock, came to me again as I walked up the stairs back to my cabin. No reason. The thought just came and went. I wondered if she was still sitting there, because, strange as that would seem, I couldn’t imagine her doing anything else.

  * * *

  There’s a man claiming to be John Baden. Can we think of him as anyone else until we have proof of who he is?

  He walked into a small police station in Tartu at just after nine on Friday morning. When asked why he was at the station, he told the officer on duty that he was a British citizen, that he had been imprisoned twelve years earlier, and that he had managed to escape several days previously. Only on his escape, in fact, did he discover how long he’d been imprisoned, as the passing of the days and years had been lost to him. No television, no Internet, no marks scratched into the walls. Some days he was not even aware of the passing of night.

  Why had someone held him prisoner for twelve years? They wanted to harvest him, he said, by whatever means they could. They took some of his blood once every three weeks, and his bone marrow once every three months. At some point they removed his kidney, and at another half of his lung. X-rays taken at the military hospital had confirmed the organ removal. They had shaved his hair once a year, and taken his sperm.

  He was kept in a plain, clean room, with a mattress on the floor and no other furniture. There was a toilet and a sink. They would give him books to read in English, but nothing written after the early twentieth century. Society was lost to him. He would be fed once a day, usually vegetables and potatoes, occasionally some indiscriminate meat. At some stage, he relates, he wondered if the meat was flesh harvested from other prisoners – he had no sight of other prisoners, but assumed he was not alone – and stopped eating it. They told him he had to eat the meat or his life, and the lives of everyone he knew, would be forfeit. He went back to eating the meat.

  Every so often a young woman would be brought to him, and he was instructed to make love to her. Sometimes very young. Younger than sixteen he presumed. The first time it happened, he refused. The guard who’d brought the girl in began to beat her. Baden slept with her so that the beating would stop. Thereafter he complied every time.

  He had little to say about his captors. If he ever attempted to make closer contact with one of them, he would be instantly rebuffed and, more than likely, he would never see that person again. Some of them spoke better English than others. Some, it appeared, knew none at all. Occasionally one of his female captors would come to him, and use him for sex.

  This tale had been written out by Kuusk entirely dryly, as it should have been, giving its absurdity credence by expressing no incredulity. Women using men for sex, as though keeping a guy locked up is the only way to get him to sleep with you.

  I stopped as I read, realising that that was the first thing that had given me pause when reading it. All the rest, of keeping someone prisoner in order to harvest their blood and bone marrow, might have been far-fetched, but it’s a brutal world. Brutal. People do bad things all the time, and barely a tenth of it ever comes to anyone’s attention. Every now and again the media pick up the grotesque stories, but for the most part, they don’t want to know or, more likely, they just never find out.

  His tale of escape was interesting, relying on suggestions of a woman’s weakness. He said he’d fought back on occasion, and every time was brought crashing down. He was kept weak – he said – and they were all strong. Skilled. Every move he tried, every physical move, was rebuffed instantly, and pain followed as punishment.

  One time he got the better of one of his captors, just one time, and within ten seconds there were two more at the door and he was beaten. Beaten heavily, and not fed for two weeks. Two weeks, or so, as far as he could make out.

  Generally, when one of them came to him for sex, she would be accompanied by another, occasionally a man, who would stand guard. Watching, not taking part. Making sure Baden did not try anything.

  In twelve years, he never got as far as the door. Then, one night last week, a woman came to him on her own. She was hurried, he instantly got the impression that she shouldn’t have been there. She did not speak. He did not know her name, bu
t she had been several times before. In fact, he realised later as he thought of his escape, she had come to him for sex more than any of the others.

  She was wearing a white vest top, and dark jeans. She removed both of them and sat astride him. The women were largely made from the same model. Strong, slim, small breasts, short hair. Boyish almost.

  She kissed him. He responded to her passion, straight away, but realised that he had a rare opportunity. Occasionally there might have been chances in the past, but fear of capture had always cowed him. He didn’t know why, but for some reason, the rudeness of her arrival, or perhaps just beaten down by years of incarceration, he took a chance.

  He sat up, his lips on hers, his hands on her breasts, feigning passion, and then, when he was in the best position, brought his forehead down on the bridge of her nose. She fell back, and before she could react he jabbed his hand into her throat. He then made a movement on her that he had thought about doing, if ever the situation arose. Grabbed her leg and pulled it hard up, back and to the side. He heard the snap, a sound that sickened.

  She cried out, as best she could, given the blow to her throat, and then he pushed her off and ran.

  He was in the basement of a large house. He got to the back door and outside without being accosted. There were woods fifty yards behind the house, and he ran for them. He got the impression that the house was not alone, but he did not look back.

  As he reached the trees he heard shouting from the house. He kept running. And running. The story of his getting to Tartu involved a lot more running, a long walk through forests, and the not unexpected tales of stealing clothes off washing lines, and digging cabbages out of the dirt. He did not think for a second that he would be able to find the house again, but if the police wanted to accompany him, he’d be willing to try. Not that he knew where to start looking.

  And that was the somewhat incredible story of John Baden, whose body had been found dead at the side of a lake twelve years ago.

  9

  Kuusk is sitting in the same position, another latte in front of him. When I approach, he is looking off to the side. Wherever he is, it’s not here. Lost in thought, but a look on his face that suggests he won’t even be able to recall those thoughts when I bring him out of them.

  I would have expected to find him on the phone. That’s what we all do, isn’t it, when given a spare few minutes? Maybe you can’t get Internet on the boat. I haven’t checked.

  I announce my arrival by placing the file on the table. And he’s back.

  ‘Just going to get another coffee,’ I say. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  I return a minute later with a cappuccino and a glass of water. He’s ready for me this time, the file back where it was, tucked in beside the arm of the chair.

  ‘Do you believe him? Even if he hadn’t been pronounced dead, it’s pretty far-fetched.’

  ‘Too early to say,’ he says. ‘I think at the moment we’re still at the stage of listening, gathering the facts.’

  ‘You must…’ I shake my head. Stupid. Don’t go telling anyone they must anything. ‘You didn’t get a sense of him? His motivation? Some idea of–’

  ‘–He sounded entirely convincing. I know how it looks, and sounds. I would say, at least, that he himself believes it.’

  ‘How did he feel about being taken to a hospital? Didn’t he expect to be put in touch with his family? Did he still expect to see Emily King?’

  ‘He barely mentioned Miss King. Indeed, when I asked about her, his replies were short. That was certainly of interest. He was keen to know about his family, and when I saw him, I did not have the relevant information to update him. I believe someone from your Embassy has told him now.’

  ‘He wasn’t desperate to call anyone?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘You don’t think, if you’d been gone for twelve years, the first thing you’d want to do is get in touch with your family, partner, whoever?’

  ‘Yes, but you must consider the circumstances, Detective Inspector. Even now, if this is the real John Baden, he’s only thirty-five. Two-thirds of his adult life have been spent in a small room. His head must be pretty messed up. What thoughts he must have had, imprisoned all these years, no contact with the outside world. Could you survive by hanging on to thoughts of family, or would it be easier, better, to push them from your mind? And as for his girlfriend, in how many ways had he betrayed her? How many women? How many girls had he been forced upon? Might not some argue that he should have done nothing and faced the consequences? It would be a strong and peculiar man who did not feel a great amount of guilt.’

  Good points. Twenty-nine years old, and a better understanding of the human condition than I have.

  ‘OK. You X-rayed him…?’

  ‘Not me personally.’

  ‘If we’re going to get along, you can stop being pedantic.’

  He smiles.

  ‘He was X-rayed at the military hospital. It confirmed that half his lung, his spleen, his pancreas, a kidney, some liver tissue and a few feet of small intestine had been removed. There was also some evidence of needles being used in his arm, which he claims was for the frequent removal of blood, and also evidence of bone marrow removal. And by the old, painful method.’

  Take a drink of coffee. Time to think. Wouldn’t be the first time anyone had heard of this kind of thing. People being used in grotesque fashion by others. People will do anything, will fall into anything. Still nothing, of course, to square away the principal fly in the ointment: John Baden has been dead for twelve years.

  ‘There was nothing about how he was taken in the first place,’ I say.

  ‘He doesn’t remember.’

  ‘What does he remember?’

  ‘Going to bed in his hotel room with Emily King, and then waking up in what was to be his prison cell.’

  ‘So someone came into his room, anaesthetised him in some way, or had drugged him before he went to bed, and then made off with him in the night, without Emily, who was sharing a bed, knowing anything about it.’

  ‘That’s what we’ve got.’

  ‘Does he remember feeling peculiar before going to bed?’ Shake my head. ‘That’s not what Emily said. It all seemed like a regular evening, including having sex, which presumably he wouldn’t have done if he’d been drugged and feeling weird. Or whatever.’

  ‘What he remembers is an ordinary evening, making love to Emily at the end of it, and falling asleep with her in his arms.’

  He pauses for a moment, and then nods to himself at having decided to voice his opinion.

  ‘I wonder if possibly he blames her. Emily. There’s nothing he’s said, but it would be another explanation for her not being affected, and him being whisked off in the night. If, in some way, she was part of it. Maybe that’s what he’s told himself all these years. Although, of course, he doesn’t actually know whether or not she was taken.’

  ‘He hasn’t asked?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him that he’s been declared dead?’

  ‘No.’

  More coffee. Check my watch. Not such a bad time to have a gin & tonic in fact. And then dinner. And then an early night followed by an early morning, and back over the file, re-reading everything that I’d picked out before as being worthy of further consideration.

  ‘The story as he presents it,’ he says, ‘stands up to the scrutiny that we can currently give it. All except the first and most crucial part.’

  ‘The body.’

  He nods.

  ‘I need a drink, and dinner. You want to join me?’ I ask.

  He checks his watch.

  ‘Sure. The real action doesn’t start until eleven thirty.’

  10

  My first year on the job, first year in Dingwall, we had one of those cases that all police officers hate: the missing teenager.

  Teenagers go missing every day of course. They stay out, they come ba
ck a couple of days later; they run off, they never come back. The parents come to the police, and what can we do? Sometimes, they won’t even come to the police, because they don’t want the police to know the reason why their child ran off in the first place.

  You make a judgement every time, as soon as the missing person is reported. Sit tight and wait for them to crawl back from the pub; talk with the parents and establish why exactly their child might currently be sitting on the bus to London; or face the music, the instant knowledge that something’s happened. Go to the press, let them know, hope they buy into it, because on this occasion you need their help.

  Now, just because you’re asking the media for help doesn’t mean you have to have even the slightest respect for them. The media are like cats. They do what they want, when they want. They might give you the impression that they’re on your side occasionally, that you have some element of control over them, but in reality, you’re nothing to them other than dinner.

  The media will help the police if and when it suits them. I think that time, back in Dingwall, was a slow news cycle. The usual calamities overseas, but nothing much happening in Scotland. Added to that, however, was that the missing teenager was seventeen, female, and attractive.

  If you believed nothing but the newspapers you’d think the vast majority of people who go missing in Britain are good-looking teenage girls. The reality, of course, which we all know, is that those are the ones the editors want because those are the ones the public likes to hear about.

  Our girl, Abby, fit the bill. And I knew right from the off. She hadn’t run away, she wasn’t still draped over the end of the bar in the Ceilidh Place in Ullapool. Felt it in the first hour. Walked into the house to talk to the mum, dad and younger brother, and I could feel the crushing weight of sadness.

  Not from the family though. They weren’t sad. Not yet. They were still at the panicking stage. Panic and fear, coupled with some sense that by reacting this way, hopefully it would turn out to be unnecessary, that at any minute their daughter would be walking in the front door, and they could be relieved and laugh about it and apologise to the police.