Song of the Dead

by Douglas Lindsay

  I look back around the room, and then outside. She hasn’t just gone to the bathroom. It’s more than that. I open the door by her seat, and take a step outside. Slightly colder back here than at the front of the house, with the lawn and trees in shadow. The cold immediately clutches at me, and I almost hear the voice from inside the house before it comes.

  ‘Shut the door!’

  Take a moment to look around, stare into the trees. Has she gone in search of her deer? I step back inside and close the door behind me. The warmth in the room, compared to outside, is quite noticeable.

  ‘’Bout bloody time.’

  I ignore the mutter. Not even sure where it comes from.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Don’t look at him, shake my head slightly. Step forward, positioning myself a little better. Look around the room. There are eight people here, mostly sitting on their own. Communal separation.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Three of them look up.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I repeat, with a slightly raised voice.

  Now I’ve got the attention of all but one of them.

  ‘Mrs Baden, who usually sits by the window here. Does anyone know where she is?’

  Greeted by largely blank stares, as though most of them hadn’t realised that the same woman had been sitting by the window for the last few years.

  ‘She left,’ says one guy.

  ‘When?’

  He looks over his newspaper. A funny old guy, acerbic. I can read him. Of all of these people, the one you could sit and talk to. The one who would have the stories and opinions, all without sentimentality.

  Shakes his head, sighs.

  ‘Time in this place,’ he says, and he makes a small gesture with his right hand, the corner of the newspaper folding over as he lets it go.

  ‘Ballpark?’

  ‘American are you?’ he says.

  ‘Ten minutes or two hours?’

  He looks at the carpet for a moment, then lifts his gaze.

  ‘One of them, or somewhere in-between I expect.’

  ‘You’re not helping.’

  ‘I’m not trying to, son.’

  He raises his paper and disappears behind it. The door opens, and one of the nursing staff comes in, pushing a tray. Tea and biscuits. A few pastries. They probably use an endless supply of food as one of the selling points of the place, even though by the time they get to this age, no one wants to eat all day. It will allow the company to charge fifteen times more than the cost of the food that no one eats.

  ‘Can you tell me about Mrs Baden,’ I say, indicating the window.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s not in her spot. You know where she is?’

  The nurse glances over at the window, although the emptiness of the place where she usually sits hardly needs to be looked at to be confirmed, and then she nods and smiles.

  ‘She had a visitor.’

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘Might be in her room. Maybe they went off-site, although she should have checked in with the front desk.’

  ‘Who was the visitor?’

  ‘It was her daughter, I’m pretty sure.’

  ‘She doesn’t have a daughter.’

  ‘You’ll need to check at the front desk. Why don’t you do that? The woman that was here, she’s been before. We all know…’

  ‘Describe her.’

  She hesitates. With the raising of my tone, she suddenly realises she’s being questioned. No one likes being questioned.

  ‘I’m… why don’t you speak to the front desk?’

  I don’t bother pursuing it. I know what I need to do.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Mrs Baden sitting there?’

  Another glance at the vacant spot.

  ‘Might have been half an hour ago,’ she says. ‘Maybe longer.’

  * * *

  Go through the motions to confirm what I suddenly already know. The woman who was married to Rosco was also, somehow, Emily King. She came down here, ahead of me, to take Mrs Baden somewhere. And I had my car blocking her exit.

  Perhaps she’s never going home. Perhaps this is it. Her work done, and off she flies.

  Another phone call to Sutherland. I get him to bring up the photo of Debbie Rosco from her driving licence and e-mail it to me. I get the picture on my phone, I show the picture to two of the nurses. They confirm that she was the visitor to Mrs Baden. Having already checked the car park, I know that her car is no longer here. We establish from CCTV that they left, together, forty-three minutes previously.

  Forty-three minutes from Perth. Dundee, Stirling, Pitlochry, Dunfermline; any direction, from right in the middle of the country, north, east, south, west, and off she’d go.

  Behind at every step of the way, not making the decisions when I needed to. Ignoring gut instinct, too flat-footed, too wedded to procedure, too afraid of lawyers.

  Not willing enough to embrace the weird. The world is full of weird, and so often we miss it or we let it pass, because it’s too hard to explain. This case has had weird written all over it from the beginning, from Baden’s appearance to the strange tale of Dorothy. Was it ever going to be straightforward?

  Baden has been sitting in the car while I established the timeline of what happened, such as it is. I haven’t mentioned to him yet that the reason his mother isn’t here any more is because Emily King has taken her.

  I head back to the car park, after another call to Sutherland and a request to put out an APW for Mrs Rosco, and indicate for Baden to get out the car. Darkness beginning to fall, the air is perfect. Late autumn crispness, wonderful smell. Somewhere there’s a log fire just getting going. Not the time to enjoy it.

  Baden follows me back inside. I ask for the use of a private room for a few minutes, and they direct me to an office along the corridor. A small desk, one chair, no phone, a photocopier and a shredder, a couple of office cabinets and shelves with stationery.

  We stand in the room for a moment, barely enough space for the two of us, and I close the door and show him to the chair behind the desk. He sits down, looking nervous for the first time since we drove back to the forest together.

  ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My mum,’ he says, annoyance and hurt in his voice.

  Of course, I wasn’t trying to be oblique, mind just flying everywhere at once. Need to eliminate everything, and ask straightforward questions, intrinsic questions, to try to get to the heart of this.

  Before I was following the money. Now, regardless, I need to follow the weird.

  ‘Sorry, no, she’s not dead, not as far as I know.’

  I place my phone, with the picture from Debbie Rosco’s driving licence, on the desk. He looks at it, the surprise shows on his face.

  ‘You recognise her?’

  ‘That’s Emily,’ he says. ‘I think it’s Emily. She looks… different. Was this how she looked before she died?’

  He looks up at me. His fingers are resting on the phone, so I reach down and slip it back into my pocket.

  ‘Can I see it again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Emily’s dead, right? You said, Emily was dead?’

  ‘I need to know what happened when you were in Estonia.’

  ‘I’ve told you everything.’

  ‘No, you haven’t. I doubt you’ve told me ten percent of it.’

  He doesn’t say anything, but I doubt he’s even genuinely going to be able to deny the percentages.

  ‘I shouldn’t be interviewing you again. This was just about seeing your mum. But she’s not here, we’ve moved on from that, and this can’t wait for a courtroom, it can’t wait for your lawyer, it can’t wait for you to get taken back into custody. Talk to me.’

  He exhales a long breath, a little shake of the head.

  ‘I told you. Emily was bad. She was a bad person. She killed Solomon, she must have misidentified the body, just like we planned. That’s all.’

  ‘
That was Emily’s picture I just showed you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘This is the woman who came today and took your mother away.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Well, we don’t know why, do we? Emily King is alive and well and took your mother away from here today. We don’t know where. And yet, strangely, Emily King died last week. Just like Waverley and Gibson and Rosco, since your return was announced.’

  ‘What?’

  He’s looking confused, but there’s always something. Maybe I’m looking for it, and people usually find what they’re looking for, even if it takes some manipulation. For a moment, though, I think I see through the cracks. The John Baden on the other side.

  ‘What?’ he repeats, although this time there’s a different quality to his voice.

  ‘People have been dying, including Emily. And yet Emily was here, less than an hour ago. There are, it would appear, two Emilys.’

  ‘That’s absurd.’

  ‘Mr Baden, you know, you’re right. It is absurd. Give me another explanation.’

  ‘I can’t!’

  ‘Not good enough. You and Emily went out to Estonia together. You died out there, your body was identified. Emily died last week. Murdered. And yet you and Emily still roam the Earth.’

  ‘There was no body in Estonia. It was Solomon.’

  ‘It was Solomon?’

  ‘Yes. You know it was. We talked about this.’

  ‘So that’s a very straightforward explanation.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what’s the straightforward explanation for the fact there are two Emilys?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  His voice has lost some conviction now. Staring at the desk, head dropped down an inch or two. Fight going, just for a moment. It will come back, it always does, but this is the vulnerable time.

  ‘You appear back from the dead, and immediately everyone involved in the case starts dying. Waverley, Emily, Gibson, Rosco, they’re all dead. And now, at last, we have a suspect. This woman, who looks like Emily, and by all reckoning is Emily, has potentially now killed four people. And she’s just kidnapped your mother.’

  ‘It can’t be Emily,’ he says.

  ‘You just looked at that photograph and said it was Emily. Did your mother know Emily?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, that would be one reason why she just walked out of here without making any fuss whatsoever.’

  He sits back, face now a perfect picture of dejection. Lost. He came here, came back to the UK, feeling confident, and now it’s begun to collapse all around him.

  ‘Where might she have taken her, do you think?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Lean on the table, try not to make it too much of a clichéd copper move.

  ‘John, your mum’s out there with a serial killer. She might not be your classic knife-wielding, random psycho that you get in the movies, but she’s killed four people. She’s not going to stop now if she’s got more work to do, and she didn’t just come here to take your mum out shopping.’

  He swallows. Can’t hold my gaze.

  ‘Emily, Rosco, whoever she is, she’s taking out people from the old days. People that are going to know you. Is it possible that she’s going to kill your mother so she can’t identify you?’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There are lots of people that can identify me. I was at uni. I played football. There were guys at work, guys down the pub, ex-girlfriends. There must still be distant aunts and cousins.’

  ‘So, what is it then?’

  ‘Maybe she’s clearing up loose ends, but that doesn’t make any sense with Mum.’

  ‘Why’s she taken her then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe just… I don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe just what?’

  ‘Just doing it to get at me, to hurt me.’

  ‘Why would she be doing that?’

  ‘She… that Emily, she’s a bitch. A total bitch.’

  He shakes his head, still staring at the desk. I lean back against the wall, give him a moment. Even leaning back I’m still only a couple of yards away from him. I’m not worried about the time elapsing since the two women left. I have no idea where they went, and to be honest, I think the old woman is very possibly already dead.

  ‘What do you mean, that Emily? That Emily, as opposed to the other Emily?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He spits out the answer, as though he resents admitting it.

  ‘Then there are two Emilys?’

  ‘There were the last time I looked. Aren’t there two of everyone?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  He scoffs as though I’d just denied the existence of alcohol.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘We need to find Mum.’

  ‘I have no idea where she might have taken her.’

  ‘Anstruther maybe.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You said that’s where the other Emily was, the one who was killed.’

  ‘Well why would she go back?’

  ‘To meet me there. That’s where I’m supposed to be going. She doesn’t know I’m in police custody, does she?’

  Take a moment, look at my watch. How long would it take to get to Anstruther? Dundee, cross the Tay Bridge, down through Fife, through St Andrews. Just over an hour, maybe longer at this time with traffic around Dundee.

  What are my alternatives at this stage? Take Baden back to Gartcosh, head up the road and wait for word from around the country. Wait for some station somewhere to spot the car. That’s it. There’s nothing else positive to be done.

  Sometimes, of course, that’s all there is. Waiting for something to happen. But you have to try. I should be taking Baden back, and the Specialist Crime boys are going to be singularly unimpressed that I’m not.

  Make the decision on what to do, and part of that is to not call this in. At some point DCI Meadows will get in touch, and then I can have the uncomfortable conversation. If I call it in now, it will quickly escalate, it’ll be put through to Dingwall and Quinn will be bowing to the centre’s wishes.

  I walk back outside, not looking at the receptionist as we go. Lead Baden to the car, wait until the door is closed, and then call Sergeant Edelman in Anstruther. I run quickly through it. The car, the descriptions, the what-we-know and the what-we-don’t. Ask her to check out the house, warn her to be careful. If there’s anyone off duty, might be an idea to call them in. A couple of minutes, and then get in the car beside Baden.

  ‘Right, we’re going to Anstruther. It’ll take about an hour, which is plenty of time for you to tell me how there came to be two Emily Kings.’

  He holds my gaze for a moment and then looks away. Nervous.

  Time to go. Into gear, reverse out of the parking space, and on our way.

  49

  I give him ten minutes. Fifteen. We’re driving in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. The story is coming. Perhaps he’s giving himself time to make something up, and I’m sitting here letting him do that. But I don’t think so. He’s about to tell a story that he’s not told before. I’m used to them.

  ‘You’re not going to believe me,’ he says finally. Somewhere along the A90, traffic busy, sitting in the outside lane at a steady seventy-five. Make speed while we can, because Dundee is going to be much slower.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ I say.

  Another pause. Almost there.

  ‘It’s sad.’

  ‘I like sad.’

  Is that true? Do I really like sad? Or have I just become so used to it? I’ve allowed it to find me, I let these stories in.

  ‘You play chess, Inspector?’

  His voice has lowered. Words come slowly.

  ‘Occasionally.’

  ‘This starts with chess. Emily grew up in Canada. She was a chess genius. Long before I met her. I mean, she was young, she was five, six-years-old, a
nd she wasn’t just beating adults… she couldn’t find anyone to actually give her a game. She’d play several at a time. And, of course, with someone that young, and that much talent, it just defined who she was going to be. She was going to be the first woman to win the world chess championship. For a few years it was all she did. Didn’t go out, didn’t really have too many friends. She studied the game. She studied the great champions and their matches, she did what all these people do; learned hundreds, thousands of openings by rote. Her parents pushed her into it. They had a world champion on their hands, they weren’t going to let that go. They’d get her a coach, and she’d suck him dry and spit him out in a matter of months, moving on to the next guy. By the age of ten, eleven, she was winning tournaments on a national level, by thirteen she was a grandmaster. She was a thing in the local news, a couple of times in the national news, although, of course, no one was that interested in chess. But it was coming.

  ‘Then they get this guy in, a Russian. A Russian coach. He comes in all brusque and Slavic and rude, telling her she’s nothing, more or less a rank amateur, but that he can turn her into something special. Her parents go for it. They’ve got some sponsorship by now, they sign her up with this guy. He wants to take her around, travel, broaden her horizons, much more than they have been doing. The parents accompany them at first, but they have jobs, they don’t have limitless amounts of money. By the time she’s fourteen, Emily is travelling to tournaments, outside Canada, alone with this guy, and by the time she’s fourteen-and-a-half, he’s fucking her.

  ‘She doesn’t like it at first, but then it becomes normal, it becomes what happens. And then it’s not just him. And it’s not just, you know, straight sex. She has men doing all sorts of things to her.

  ‘That, really, was when Emily became two people. That was when it started. In her personality and in her head, I’m sure that was when it happened. She was this, well, not entirely normal fifteen-year-old girl, but innocent. She’d had this weird childhood, immersed in chess, and she’d missed everything. Boys, secret cigarettes, alcohol, normal teenage development. So there she was, quiet and shy, sweet and naïve, still had cuddly toys, still the little girl that her parents had always known. And then, there was the other Emily.’

  He pauses for a moment. I give him the time. He’s right, it is a sad story. I can feel it creeping into me, feel the melancholy and awfulness of it seep in through my head, pour through my body, infecting every part of me. The awfulness of human beings knows no boundary.