Song of the Dead

by Douglas Lindsay

  ‘Haven’t quite pinned it down. I began to wonder if there might really be two of him…’

  ‘Really? That doesn’t make sense. How can there be two of anyone?’

  I glance at her. Given her somewhat incredible story, I thought she might be more credulous, but I might as well be testing this theory out here, because I’ll need to do it once I get back to Dingwall. If I get back to Dingwall. That seems to be in some doubt for the moment.

  ‘Well, that’s an interesting point. Anyway, in the case of Baden, we’d dismissed it. There was another person who was in on their deal – one of my old lot actually, I mean, security services – went missing out there and it was his body that Emily King identified as Baden’s. It was all an insurance scam, which is sort of mundane really. She’d get the money, he’d sneak back into the country and off they’d go to live a happy life. Except, he got grabbed in the forest and held prisoner.’

  ‘But wasn’t the body identified back in the UK?’

  ‘Yes, but the police officer, Rosco, was tied up in it. He manipulated things, made sure they happened correctly. His father inadvertently helped by not properly identifying the body. Made it easier for everyone.’

  ‘What would Rosco have done if Baden’s father had looked at the corpse and said, that’s not him, as he surely would have expected him to do?’

  ‘They were similar build, height, etcetera. Hair not so different. The body was bloated anyway, which helped his cause, then post mortem the face had been badly beaten. It was going to be hard to identify, even if his father had looked at it properly. So, Emily King saw the body prior to that disfiguration, but her father didn’t. I don’t know yet if Rosco had any help on the inside at the mortuary in the UK, or in Estonia, but that’s for later. At the moment we just need to stop people getting killed.’

  ‘People are being killed?’

  ‘A couple from Baden’s university days, Rosco – we think – and Emily King.’

  ‘You think Rosco?’

  ‘Drowned in his own vomit. Might have had his face held in it, might not…’

  She nods. We continue along the outside lane. There doesn’t appear to be anything on either inside lane for the moment, but I can’t move the car, so I don’t think about it. Maybe we would change lane if I did think about it. Logically I must be controlling this entire thing with my thoughts, so why wouldn’t I be able to change lane?

  ‘So, who do you think is killing all these people?’ she asks.

  ‘Emily King,’ I say. ‘Pretty sure.’

  ‘I thought you said Emily King is dead.’

  ‘She is.’

  Dorothy smiles, and speaks in some bastardised version of a generic American accent.

  ‘Well, Officer Dibble, either she’s not, or you’ve been smoking some bad shit, you know what I’m saying?’

  Give her a glance and then look back at the road.

  ‘I know, it sounds weird, but I’ve begun to wonder if it’s a possibility. That in some way… the Emily King of twelve years ago was schizophrenic, so is it possible, that at a time of extreme stress, when her two halves were, I don’t know, feuding, tearing each other apart, tearing herself apart, that she somehow split in two?’

  I glance at her again to see her reaction. She’s staring straight ahead, face blank.

  ‘There must be something else,’ she says. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘The story you told me didn’t make any sense,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t remember the story.’

  ‘So what else is there?’ I say.

  Troubled by this Dorothy, and the possibility that she doesn’t remember the story she told me, troubled that I might have unsuitably lent her my credulity. Although shouldn’t I be more troubled by the fact that I’m here with her now?

  ‘If there are two people who are possibly Emily King, then simply put, one of them can’t be. One of them must be someone else. You have to examine who these two people are. So start with the one who’s still alive. Who is she?’

  ‘She was married to DI Rosco.’

  ‘Before this all started? Before twelve years ago? I thought she was with Baden?’

  ‘No, we’re not sure yet of her involvement with Rosco before the thing in Estonia. However, a few weeks after it, Rosco married a woman named Debbie Geddes. That’s all we had. They divorced a few years later in the face of Rosco’s drinking.’

  ‘And where does Emily King fit in?’

  ‘My Sergeant has done some digging around. We were curious because Debbie Geddes didn’t seem to have any sort of background. Turns out, Emily King became Debbie Geddes. I should say that we have no proof at this stage, it’s based on photographs. But it’s what we’re working to. And it certainly fits and makes sense.’

  ‘Apart from the fact that Emily King is already dead.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, let’s look at this other Emily King, the dead one. How do we know that this is Emily?’

  A few seconds. Glance at her again. I keep looking to make sure she’s there, because I know that at some point she’s not going to be.

  ‘She was living as Emily King. Everything was in her name. She had the history of Emily King in her paperwork. The house was in that name.’

  ‘Did anyone ID the body?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK, that seems crucial.’

  ‘There was no one to ID the body.’

  ‘Did she look like Emily King?’

  ‘Yes. Well, from photographs and what we could make out, given that again she was badly beaten.’

  ‘There’s a pattern emerging.’

  ‘Hmm… yes, maybe there is.’

  ‘So why did you take with such credulity that she was Emily King?’

  ‘Had no reason not to. She lived this strange, solitary life. She had all this paperwork, she had the birth certificate, she had everything in the house. As far as we could make out, this was Emily King, slightly older and a little bit strange and lonely, which would tie in with her boyfriend having died and her never recovering. Had no reason to think otherwise.’

  ‘OK, that’s not unreasonable. Now, however, in light of the fact you think this Debbie woman is Emily King, don’t you think it’s reasonable, rather than assuming they were both Emily and some strange act of separation took place, that in fact the one who’s dead isn’t Emily at all.’

  The car is now in the inside lane. How did that happen? Maybe it was because I wanted it to.

  Think it through. There is a pattern, isn’t there? The beating to disguise the doppelgänger, the use of the doppelgänger in the first place. It’s not a far-fetched coincidence, it’s a reuse of a tactic. And if Emily King and John Baden hatched a plan for him to disappear, perhaps they also hatched one for her to disappear.

  ‘You sorting it out yet?’ she asks. ‘I can see you thinking.’

  ‘Getting there.’

  ‘So, you think she played a long game? Set up this other self, paid this person off to be her.’

  ‘The other Emily, the now dead Emily, was receiving a thousand pounds a month, paid into an account.’

  ‘That ties in. Maybe they just found some homeless junky, set her up, paid her to keep schtum.’

  ‘That would fit.’

  And makes more sense than there being two different Emily Kings.

  ‘Although, it doesn’t answer why,’ I say. ‘Why would she do it? And if she was waiting for Baden, why did she marry Rosco?’

  ‘You think she killed four people already?’

  ‘At least. I mean, who knows? There have been four murders in the past week. And when we just turned up at the house in Anstruther, she was holding a police sergeant captive, with a knife at her neck. So that’s confirmation, at least, of her criminal intent. She’s who we’re looking for, that’s the first thing.’

  ‘And what about Baden?’

  I think about Baden and the last time I was with him. What happened? What was the last thing that happened?
r />   He asked Debbie Rosco where his mum was, and she told him she was fine. Just like we planned.

  Just like they planned.

  ‘I think he hit me over the head. And he didn’t seem surprised to see Emily as Debbie Rosco.’

  ‘So you think they talked after he escaped.’

  ‘That would make sense. Someone must have called her after he escaped in Estonia. I was wondering if it was someone on the inside in the police, but it would also make sense if it was him. He called her from Estonia. He explained what had happened and that he was coming home.’

  ‘She must have been pretty shocked. I mean, if she hadn’t known. How would she know he hadn’t just been living it up in the Caribbean all this time?’

  ‘You’re right, who knows what was said? And how would he have known where to call her?’

  ‘Hmm… This is getting complicated.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Still, things are usually simple when you find out all the facts. Maybe you should just ask them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just ask them.’

  I glance at her. She’s smiling. A sad smile. Suddenly, there’s a look about her that reminds me of how she’d been before. The serenity that was there a while ago has gone.

  ‘What about you?’ I ask.

  She stares at me, growing more melancholy before my eyes.

  ‘It’s not about me,’ she says.

  51

  Same room, now tied to a chair. Wake up, head slumped forward. Feel sick, neck hurting from the position I’ve been sitting in, head screaming from the blow.

  My first thought is of concussion. I must have concussion. How could I not? I shouldn’t drive when I leave here.

  I shouldn’t drive when I leave here? Seriously? That’s what you’re thinking?

  ‘You all right?’

  The voice is right behind me.

  ‘Dorothy?’

  A pause. How can it be Dorothy? Why am I even thinking about Dorothy? She was in the car. We both were. But there wasn’t a car. How could there have been? All there was, was me being an idiot, getting beaned over the head by Baden.

  ‘Edelman.’

  I look round as best I can, wincing at the movement. We’re back to back in the chair, traditional style. You’ve seen it in the movies. I have this image of her passing me a paperclip, and me somehow using it to untie the knots that are cutting into my wrists. The image vanishes into the void of its own implausibility.

  ‘Who’s Dorothy?’

  ‘Sorry, bang on the head.’

  ‘I saw. Are you all right?’

  ‘Not sure yet.’

  Raise my head, try to ignore the pain, look around the room. Same room as we walked in on, just Edelman and I. No sign of Baden and Rosco.

  ‘Nice to see you again,’ I say, even though I can’t really see her.

  Yes, feeling light-headed.

  ‘You too,’ she says, almost laughing.

  ‘Is it possible that they’re about to release poison gas and we’re going to have thirty seconds to get out of here?’

  She laughs this time.

  ‘I don’t think they’re that sophisticated,’ she says. ‘Although there’s a lot more going on than we realised.’

  ‘Yep.’

  Close my eyes. Too soon for coherent thought.

  ‘Maybe we could have dinner when all this is over,’ I say.

  ‘Seriously? You’re hitting on me when we’re tied to a chair and they’re probably going to kill us? I think you might’ve been watching too many films.’

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  She laughs again.

  ‘Smooth, Inspector. I can probably sue you for sexual harassment now, of course.’

  ‘Maybe if you won’t go out to dinner, our lawyers can go out to dinner together. We can have vicarious dinner.’

  ‘You need to clear your head, Inspector.’

  She’s still laughing when the door opens. Emily King watches us for a moment, then enters the room, Baden behind her. I turn to look at them, but the sharpness of the pain makes me turn away again.

  ‘Glad to see everyone’s having fun,’ says King. ‘Now what?’

  Eyes closed, deep breath through the noise. Exhale slowly. Same again. Let the head clear. I can feel it clearing. Forcing out the murk, forcing myself to think. Clear thoughts. Focus on something. Find a point, and home in on it. Clear everything else away, so it’s a single clear thought. Expand from there.

  You’ve just been in a car with Dorothy. How did that happen? Must have been dreaming. But we talked about the case. She said things that I hadn’t been thinking, didn’t she?

  There are not two Emily Kings. This is Emily King standing here.

  ‘Who was she?’ I say.

  Eyes still closed.

  ‘What?’

  Open my eyes, turn to King.

  ‘The woman who was living in this house, pretending to be you? Who was she?’

  King waves a desultory hand. If this was a real movie scene, she’d be holding a gun, but her hands are empty. Her hair is slightly more dishevelled than it was when I walked into the room, and I wonder if they’ve been having sex. Just the thought, or perhaps where it comes from, threatens to have the fug descend again, and I need to force my brain to remain clear.

  ‘Just some tramp. Picked her up off the street, kept her happy, drugged up. Paid her an allowance. She never needed much. Cover, in case that lot from the east ever came looking for me. It would just have been some hitman with a name to go after, and there she was. Except they never bothered. Either way, I didn’t really expect her to live this long. Didn’t matter up until now.’

  She turns to Baden, who’s leaning back against a small table.

  ‘Didn’t do quite enough to persuade him that there were two of me, did you?’

  He shrugs. She turns back, shaking her head.

  ‘I’m going to have to kill you both,’ she says.

  Close my eyes again, turn away. Perhaps it would be better if my head was in a fug after all.

  ‘Just haven’t decided if here’s the best place. Probably doesn’t matter.’

  ‘There’s no point,’ I say.

  What’s this? Negotiating for my life? Or negotiating for Edelman’s life? I already lost Dorothy, I can’t lose someone else.

  ‘Interesting,’ she says. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You’re going to get caught…’ I begin, pausing for a moment after she snorts, and Baden emits some low, dry laugh. ‘It was my sergeant who worked out that Debbie Rosco and Emily King were the same person, it was him who put me onto you. Everyone’s already looking for you. So, you’re right, it doesn’t matter where you kill us, just whether you actually do it. Everyone will know. Every police force, every border guard, every airport, every ferry port. So where exactly are you going to go? We don’t know the full story, but we know you’re guilty. Now, if you kill the sergeant and I, your crimes just get multiplied by a thousand. Some petty revenge or clearance operation from twelve years ago, involving holding someone’s face in vomit and a hit-and-run? No one’s interested. We might not even be able to prove that you did it. But cop killers? The media don’t like cop killers. No one does. Sure, the life of a cop isn’t actually worth more than the life of anyone else, but it’s bigger news. And bigger news attracts bigger sentencing. That’s just how it is.’

  Have delivered this little speech staring at the carpet. An ugly carpet. The carpet of someone who didn’t care about where she lived. Finally glance round. Head still screams with pain every time I move it, but I try to stay impassive. Disinterested, almost.

  She’s staring at me, head slightly lowered, eyes that tell it all. A woman who kills. Goading her is hardly likely to make her more reasonable. That’s not usually how it works.

  Time to extract the confession.

  ‘Do you really want to go back to prison, John, having been held captive for–’

  ‘–Ha!’ she spits out. ‘Call that captivity?
>
  Baden isn’t saying anything. Staring at her, thinking things through. Nervous eyes, coupled with a look of disdain at her casual disavowal of his twelve years in a basement. Trying to sort out their mess in my own messed up head, while having trouble enough putting one coherent thought in front of another.

  ‘Let’s just leave them and go,’ he says.

  ‘What?’ she barks at him. From the look on his face, he actually seems to be hurt by the tone. It’s the first argumentative note between them since they were reintroduced.

  ‘Why did you marry Rosco?’

  She turns her contemptuous look from Baden to me. I wonder what Edelman is thinking all this time. Working things out. Hopefully coming up with a plan, although I’ve no idea what it could be, to get us out of this. I’m stalling, right enough, because that’s what one should do in this kind of situation, but I’m not sure what I’m stalling for. Are we expecting reinforcements?

  Heavy sigh from King, followed by, ‘Fuck’s sake. Whatever. He was pathetic. Used to droop around me like some drunken, romantic poet. I thought John had just chosen to bugger off. I thought, you bastard. So I married Rosco. Suited me. I could keep an eye on him, and if John came back, it’d serve him right. Poor fucking Rosco. Just went to pieces when we were together. Couldn’t handle it. But, God, it was shit. I stayed away most of the time, and Rosco turned into this abject drunk. Then I heard on the grapevine that John was still alive, holed up in some prison somewhere, and Rosco, pissed out his head one night, admitted that he’d landed him in it. Fucker. Said he did it to protect me. He was pathetic. So, I left him. He, at least, kept his mouth shut because he had as much to lose as the rest of us.’

  ‘You didn’t come and find me, though, did you?’

  She looks sharply at Baden, and once again you can feel the increase in the tension. She turns back and I hold her gaze for a moment, before looking away. Stare back at the floor. And that’s all there is. It was about money. Nothing else. Maybe sex. Money and sex.

  I had managed to invent some romantic notion of the possibility of a person being able to split into two. An incredible notion. A criminal case that went beyond the mundane. Why had I wanted that to happen? Was the thought that there were two Emily Kings or two John Badens more about me than about the case?