A Song for the Dying

19

‘… train now departing from platform six is the delayed three forty-five to Aberdeen…’

I stuck my finger in my other ear and leaned back against the photo booth. ‘What?’ The word came out in a fog of breath.

On the other end of the phone, Sabir’s Liverpool accent was like hairy treacle. ‘I said, you’ve got a bloody cheek. My guvnor wasn’t exactly made up when I got yanked off Operation Midnight Frost.’ Chewing noises came down the phone, and Sabir’s accent got even thicker. ‘Like it’s my fault youse whackers up there in Jockland can’t work computers?’

The railway station’s ironwork had faded from green-and-gold to rust-and-grey, the anti-pigeon netting sagging and torn, speckled with feathers. The floor beneath the thicker beams streaked with droppings. The big, domed glass roof was thick with caked-on dirt, painted orange and red by the setting sun. A crowd of people shuffled through the automatic barriers, trundling suitcases and sour faces.

‘Did you find anything?’

‘Course I did: properly genius, me.’ The sound of thick fingers hammering away at a keyboard rattled through from the other end. ‘Got thirty calls in the last four weeks. Ten are to local residential numbers, two to the speaking clock, and eighteen to a business in Castle Hill — Erotophonic Communications Limited. Gave ’em a call and spoke to some biddie calling herself “Sexy Sadie”. Premium-rate sexline. Had a nice long chat and a ciggie afterwards.’

‘Hope you didn’t put that on expenses.’

‘You gorra email address now you’re out the nick? I’ll send you the numbers, names, addresses, and that.’

‘Hold on…’ I pulled out the instruction sheet that had come with Dr Constantine’s investigation kit, and read off the address. The arrivals and departures board flickered, updating itself. Sodding Perth train was going to be another ten minutes late. ‘Do me a favour and cross-reference the residential numbers with anyone on the sex-offenders’ register. Doubt there’ll be anything, but better safe than sorry. Then see if you can have a rummage through the HOLMES data for the original investigation. Might be a match there.’

‘Bleeding heck, not after much, are you? Fancy a foot-massage while I’m at it? I’ve-’

‘How are you getting on with the background noise on those recorded messages?’

‘Give us a chance! They’ve only just-’

‘And I want an address too: Laura Strachan. Still in Oldcastle, but might be living under an assumed name. Local plod can’t seem to find her.’

Munching came down the line again.

‘Sabir? Hello?’

‘Oh, have you finished? Thought you might’ve been after a pony as well. One that farts rainbows and pukes glitter.’

‘Sometime today would be good.’

‘You know the problem with youse Jocks? You’re all a bunch of-’

I hung up and stuck the phone back in my pocket.

The photo booth whirred and a strip of glossy pics dropped into the hopper. Me, looking like death had come early, staring straight into the lens. A horrible photograph, but it’d be just right for a fake passport.

I let it dry for a minute, then slipped it into my jacket as Alice emerged from WH Smiths with a carton of milk and a packet of extra-strong mints.

She crunched a couple, chasing them down with a swig of milk. ‘They were out of antacids.’

‘Should’ve had the stovies.’ I unhooked my cane from the lip of the photo booth. ‘Sabir says hi.’

Alice placed the palm of her hand below her breastbone and rubbed at the stripy sweater. ‘Is he coming up, because if he’s coming up we should all go out for a meal or something, well, not all of us, I mean Sabir’s not going to get on with Professor Huntly, but then I don’t think many people do, he’s a bit of an acquired taste and-’

‘Sabir’s going to track down an address for Laura Strachan. Just as well, because Shifty’s hopeless.’

The distorted voice crackled out of the station’s tannoy again. ‘The next train to arrive at platform one is the four seventeen from Edinburgh.’

She shifted from one red-shoed foot to the other. ‘About this, are you sure-’

‘Positive. Come on.’ I lumbered toward the automatic barriers, joining a boot-faced bloke in a suit, and a teenage girl with big hair and a homemade ‘WELCOME ♥ HOME ♥ BILLY!!!’ banner.

I leaned on the barricade separating the platforms from the concourse. ‘Alice…’

She crunched another mint, staring at me.

‘Alice, what would you say if I told you I had to go away for a bit?’

‘I won’t let them send you back to prison. We’re going to catch the Inside Man and-’

‘I don’t mean back to prison, I mean … away. Maybe Spain, or Australia?’

Her eyebrows pinched. ‘You’re leaving me?’

I cleared my throat. Looked away down the line heading south. ‘You could come with me, if you like.’

‘To Australia?’

‘Just… Just until things calm down a bit. You know, with Mrs Kerrigan.’

Alice stepped in close, stood on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on my cheek. ‘Could we get a house with a swimming pool? And a dog? And a barbecue?’

‘Don’t see why not. Money might be a bit-’ There was a warbling bleep and my official mobile vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out — an envelope icon blinked in the middle of the screen above ‘YOU HAVE ONE NEW EMAIL’. That’d be Sabir. I poked the icon and read the message… Ten names, complete with telephone numbers and addresses. He’d even annotated them with the results of a Police National Computer search. Say what you liked about Sabir, he didn’t mess about.

Alice peered over my arm at the phone. ‘Anything good?’

‘Every call made in the last four weeks from the phone box where Claire Young died. Two of the numbers are for people with form. One for housebreaking and assault, the other’s on the Sex Offenders’ Register.’

‘What for?’

‘Doesn’t say.’

A distant rumble resolved itself into the grubby diesel roar of the Edinburgh train as it hauled its blue-white-and-pink carriages into the station.

The girl with the banner bounced up and down on her tiptoes. Mr Suit-and-Tie checked his watch.

Alice hunched her shoulders. ‘What does Detective Superintendent Jacobson think?’

‘No idea — didn’t tell him.’

‘Ash…’

‘We’ll pay the sex offender a visit soon as we’ve broken the news to Wee Free McFee. Don’t need Jacobson or anyone else sodding it up before we get there.’

Bleeping, then the train doors hissed open and a dozen people stomped out onto the platform. And there she was — our muscle.

Officer Barbara Crawford had abandoned her prison uniform black-and-whites for a pair of jeans and a Raith Rover’s football top — tattoos on full display. Leather jacket tucked under one arm, big rucksack over the other shoulder.

She hung back, letting everyone else get through the barriers first.

The guy in the suit grumbled off with a nervous-looking woman in a beige twinset. But the teenage girl just stood there, looking up and down the empty platform, her banner wilting till the tip was on the floor. Then she turned and dragged it away.

Babs stayed where she was. Nodded. ‘Friends in high places, eh, Mr Henderson?’

‘Ash. We’re not in prison any more.’ I jerked my head to the left. ‘You know Dr McDonald.’

‘Alice, please, it’s nice to see you out of your uniform, Officer Crawford, oh, I don’t mean that in a suggestive way, I mean it’s not that I’ve been picturing you naked or anything, though I’m sure you’d look lovely, I’m not actually coming on to you, only it’s nice, isn’t it, to get a feel for people away from their work context?’

Babs’s right eyebrow climbed an inch. ‘She’s a lot more talkative than she was inside.’

‘Babbles when she’s nervous, Babs. Must be the thought of you in the nip. You ready?’

‘You got my money?’

‘Nope. Whatever deal you’ve got going, it’s between you and Detective Superintendent Jacobson.’

‘Fair enough.’ She pulled out her ticket and squeezed through the barriers. ‘I call shotgun.’

Alice pulled the Suzuki up to the kerb and hauled herself forward, chest pressed against the steering wheel as she squinted out at the eight-foot high wall of rust-streaked corrugated metal that stretched away into the darkness. Coils of razor wire looped around the top of the barricade; faded yellow signs declaring, ‘WARNING: THESE PREMISES PATROLLED BY BIG VICIOUS DOGS!’ and ‘PRAY FOR SALVATION FOR HE IS COMING!’

Babs filled the passenger side of the car like a ton of cement and broken bottles. She sniffed. ‘Got a squint at his jacket from a mate in Barlinnie. Nice bloke. Very family orientated.’

The horizon was on fire: a burning slash of gore and brass, trapped beneath a lid of coal-dark cloud. And in front of us, the junkyard loomed. A pair of tall gates — made of the same corrugated metal sheets — marked the entrance, topped with barbed wire and spikes. The words ‘FRAZER McFEE AND SON, RECLAMATION SPECIALISTS EST. 1975’ were daubed across them in white paint, just visible in the headlights.

‘Big vicious dogs…’ Babs sat back in her seat again. A smile crept across her face like blood on a kitchen floor. ‘Cool.’ She winked at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘According to my mate, Mr McFee’s got a biscuit tin full of severed human ears in there.’

I undid my seatbelt. ‘Ears?’

‘All dried and smoked, you know, like beef jerky? And every time he tortures someone, he takes one of the ears out the tin and eats it right in front of them. So they know what’s coming.’

‘Did your mate tell you about the time Wee Free took a chainsaw to PC Barroclough’s patrol car? Had half the roof off before they could stop him. Barroclough’s cowering in the well between the front and back seats, hands over his ears, screaming for his mother. Never really got over that…’

‘Way I hear it, there’s police officers with restraining orders out against this guy.’

‘Runs in the family. You should’ve seen his dad: “Blowtorch” Frazer McFee.’ I sucked a breath in through my teeth, making it hiss. ‘One man demolition crew.’

Alice licked her lips. Fidgeted in her seat. Cleared her throat. ‘And we’re certain this is a good idea?’

Of course it bloody wasn’t. ‘Babs, I think it’d be best if none of us end up in A amp;E tonight, so I’m going to leave you to take care of Fire and Brimstone.’

She half turned in her seat and squinted at me. ‘Fire and…?’

‘Alsatians. Big ones. You’re good with animals, aren’t you?’

The smile was back again. ‘Wonderful.’ She climbed out of the car, stomped around to the boot and clunked it open.

I pulled out my phone and called Shifty. Let it ring.

The boot thumped closed, and Babs appeared at the driver’s window, a stab-proof vest on over her Raith Rovers top. She pulled on a pair of heavy leather gloves. There was a sawn-off shotgun tucked under one arm. ‘We ready?’

The Suzuki rocked as I clambered out into the cold night. A faint whiff of diesel and fish underpinned the coppery smell of rusting metal. I nodded at Babs’s gun. ‘Holding up a Post Office later?’

She flicked the catch and the barrels hinged forwards, exposing their innards. ‘You’d be surprised how often Thatcher comes in handy. She’s very loyal.’ Two chunky red cartridges slipped into the holes, then she flipped the shotgun shut again. ‘Why, you going to report us?’

I blinked a couple of times. ‘Fine, but if anyone asks, you found her on the premises, understand?’

A shrug. Then Babs rolled her shoulders and lumbered off to the gates. Planted her feet wide, and mashed her thumb against the doorbell.

Nothing.

Alice climbed out of the car as I limped round to the boot and got the crowbar out. Thing was just about long enough to use as a walking stick. At least it’d leave me a hand free. I checked the Stanley knife was loaded and slipped it into my trouser pocket.

Yammering sounded from somewhere deep inside the junkyard. Barking and snarling, getting louder and closer on sharp pattering feet. Then BANG something big slammed into the other side of the gate at chest height, making the metal sheeting rattle. Whatever it was scrabbled backwards and had another go: BANG.

Alice backed away from the fence, palms flat against her chest, as if the heartburn was back. ‘Maybe it’d be a good idea to call for backup, I mean it’s not as if we’ve actually got any official powers here, is it…?’

Fur appeared in the four-inch gap between the corrugated-iron doors, teeth flashing. The second dog smashed into the gate again: BANG.

Fire and Brimstone.

Good job the gate was chained shut.

Babs sucked her cheeks in and raised an eyebrow. ‘Any chance he’s not in?’

BANG.

‘He’s in.’

‘Good. No point copping a sicky to come rattle some scally, only to find he’s not there.’ She frowned up at the razor wire. ‘Can’t go over. Have to go through. Come on, Crowbar Boy.’

BANG.

Yeah… Maybe not. ‘That chain’s the only thing between them and us.’

Babs lowered the sawn-off shotgun till it was at waist level. ‘Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Mr Henderson. Me and Thatcher will look after you.’

I lifted the crowbar, slipped the curved end in between the padlock and the hasp. Hissed out a breath. Bob the Builder was just sitting there, on the back seat. He’d probably like to help. Certainly it’d be a hell of a lot safer with him on our side. But that would make Babs a witness — yes, Officer, now you mention it, I did see Mr Henderson with an illegal handgun. And when Mrs Kerrigan turned up with her face blown off…

Yeah, maybe not.

I pointed back towards the Suzuki. ‘Alice, get in the car.’

The chain rattled as a huge furry body slammed into the other side of the gate.

‘Are you sure we shouldn’t just-’

‘Car. Now!’

She fumbled with her keys and scrambled inside. Slammed the door behind her. Thumbed the locks down. Stared up at me with wide eyes.

I turned back to the gate. Deep breath. ‘Right, on three. One. Two. Th-’

A harsh voice cut through the night. ‘FIRE! BRIMSTONE! SHUT UP, YOU WEE BUGGERS, OR I’LL SKIN YOU ALIVE!’

Framed in the gap between the gates, the two dogs froze: mouths hanging open, tongues lolling over jagged teeth, muscles in their haunches twitching. Then they turned their heads and looked back into the scrapyard.

A tall, thin man, wearing nothing but a pair of torn jeans padded out of the shadows. Bottle of Glenmorangie in one hand, a huge meat cleaver in the other. His chest and arms were smeared with scarlet and black, more blood on his jeans and bare feet. Scars criss-crossed his torso — some old and pale, others angry red-and-purple — stretched tight across muscle, the skin like tanned leather between the gore. A mane of dark hair reared up from his lined forehead, a grey moustache covering his top lip. Hooded eyes, narrow as stab wounds. A face carved from granite and other people’s pain.

He bared his teeth and whistled.

The dogs loped off to join him, silent and compliant.

Babs lowered her shotgun, one side of her mouth twisted up. ‘He’s a lot … better looking than I imagined.’

Never thought I’d be happy to see Wee Free McFee.