A Song for the Dying

23

I stood back, holding the door open. ‘Took your time.’

The detective constable standing on the step stuffed her warrant card back into the vast handbag slung over her shoulder. DC Nenova barely came up to my shoulder, the frown on her face making crow’s feet around her eyes. Jeans, denim jacket, and some sort of monochrome animal-print T-shirt. Curly brown hair, not quite shoulder-length. Her voice was even sharper in real life. ‘If we’re more than ten minutes late, you get to keep your sex offender for free.’ She looked back over her shoulder. ‘Billy, arse in gear, eh?’

She stepped inside, out of the rain. Lowered her voice. ‘Just between the two of us, this porn Virginia’s made…?’

‘Little blond boy, about four or five years old.’

‘Oh God.’ Something painful crossed her face. ‘She didn’t … you know?’

‘Thought you were supposed to be monitoring her.’

‘We are. We were.’ A shrug. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that: you know what it’s like. We’ve got more sex offenders per capita than anywhere else in the country. Can’t watch them all twenty-four hours a day. Haven’t got the resources or the budget. We do what we can.’

A small thin bloke hurried up the path behind her. Stopped just outside. ‘Shift over, Julia, it’s sodding bucketing down out here.’

Nenova did and he squeezed into the hallway. Stuck his hand out. ‘Billy McKevitt, OMU. Thanks for calling us, Mr…?’

Julia thumped him. ‘It’s Ash Henderson. Remember? Used to be a DI till they busted him to DC over that Chakrabarti stuff? His wee girl got grabbed by that…’ She stopped. Licked her lips. ‘Ah. Sorry. What I mean is: he’s one of us.’

‘Ah, OK.’ McKevitt nodded. ‘So, what we got?’

I handed Nenova the camcorder and she turned it over in her hands. Flipped open the screen. Then went hunting for the ‘ON’ button. ‘You haven’t touched the tape or anything, have you? Should be plastered with her fingerprints…’ The frown was back. ‘Did she say where she met him? The kid? Only- Ah, there it is.’ The screen flickered into life, speakers muffled by the palm of her hand. Grunting. Groaning. A high-pitched sobbing.

All the life sagged out of Nenova’s face. Her lips pinched together. Shoulders dipped. ‘Son of a bitch.’

She handed the camera to McKevitt. ‘What?’ His face did the same thing. Then he poked at the screen, sending it flickering into reverse again. Stood there in silence for nearly a minute. ‘We’ve got at least three kids on here.’ He slammed the door shut. What little glass was left in the thing tumbled to the floor. ‘Aaaaargh! Two years monitoring her, right down the bloody drain!’

Nenova clutched her handbag to her side. ‘Where is she?’

‘Kitchen.’

‘OK.’ The chin came up, the shoulders back as Nenova marched down the hall. ‘Virginia Cunningham, what the sodding hell do you think you’re playing at?’

I followed her into the kitchen, McKevitt right behind me.

Cunningham was still at the breakfast bar, the counter littered with discarded chocolate wrappers and crumpled yoghurt pots. A half-bottle of Gordon’s well on its way to empty. She took another swig. ‘I want my lawyer.’ Her finger pointed at me, then Alice, and finally Babs. ‘These bastards impersonated police officers and forced their way into my house. Assaulted me, conducted an illegal search, and detained me against my will.’

Nenova raised an eyebrow at me.

‘That’s not how I remember it. When we arrived Ms Cunningham seemed distressed. Worried for her safety, we secured entry, fetched her in from the rain, and encouraged her into dry clothes. We discovered the camcorder playing in the lounge displaying images of child pornography. At that point I placed her under citizen’s arrest and contacted you.’

Cunningham’s mouth hung open. ‘You’re not actually going to believe that shite, are you? He told me he was a policeman. Had ID and everything!’

‘Ms Cunningham’s mistaken. Perhaps she heard me refer to my associate as “Officer Crawford”,’ I nodded at Babs, ‘and assumed I meant police officer?’

Babs grinned. ‘Prison officer, actually. Must’ve been mistaken identity.’

‘They’re lying!’

Nenova placed the camcorder on the work surface, the screen flipped out and playing.

‘Come on, darling, do it for Mummy…’

Cunningham looked away.

‘Thought so.’ She closed the screen and switched the thing off. ‘Virginia Cunningham, I’m arresting you for the possession of indecent images of children…’

I made a porthole in the fogged-up Suzuki window. ‘Yeah, they’re just taking her away now.’

McKevitt marched out of Cunningham’s house, turned off the lights, locked the front door, then hunched his shoulders and ran for the unmarked Vauxhall parked outside. Soon as he was in the back with Cunningham, Nenova climbed out of the car and into the downpour. Walked across the road to where we were parked. Knocked on the window.

I wound it down. Held my phone against my chest, so the mouthpiece was covered. ‘Something wrong?’

She leaned one arm on the roof and poked her head into the car. ‘That was all bollocks, wasn’t it? You impersonated a police officer, forced entry, and conducted a search without a warrant.’

‘Us?’ I hauled on my best innocent face. ‘No, it all happened exactly as I said, didn’t it, Babs? Alice?’

Alice looked up from another one of the Inside Man letters, a yellow highlighter sticking out the corner of her mouth like a neon cigar. ‘Oh yes, definitely, I mean why would we lie about something like that?’

Babs grinned. ‘Word perfect.’

‘You see, Detective Constable? We’re all on the same side here.’

Nenova sniffed. Looked back at the Vauxhall. ‘Just make sure you stick to the story, OK? And stop telling people you’re a police officer. That shite’s illegal.’

Rain drummed on the car roof, almost loud enough to drown out the blowers going full pelt.

‘Right.’ She straightened up. Stuck a hand through the open window for shaking. ‘Thanks. At least now we can make sure she gets banged up where she belongs.’ Then Nenova turned on her heel and stomped back to her own car.

The Vauxhall’s headlights snapped on as it pulled away from the kerb — Cunningham glaring at us from the back seat. I returned to the phone. ‘You hear that?’

On the other end, Jacobson sounded as if he was chewing on something. ‘That you’ve been impersonating a police officer? No, not a word.’

‘According to Cunningham, the hospital allocated Jessica McFee as her midwife. Cunningham gets a call asking questions about Jessica from the very same phone box where Claire Young’s body is dumped three days later.’

‘And?’

‘Perhaps Virginia Cunningham isn’t the only one he called for info. Get Sabir a list of everyone on Jessica McFee’s books. Then stick Cooper on finding out if any of them got phone calls too. Do the same with the parents of Claire Young’s patients. Alice thinks the Inside Man’s checking to see if they’ll be good with children — good mothers.’

There was a pause.

Alice turned in her seat. ‘Tell him we’re going to drop Barbara back at the train station.’

Sitting next to her, Babs shook her head. ‘Oh no you don’t. I got a night in a hotel coming to me, and a brown envelope stuffed with cash. Dinner would be nice too.’

‘Jacobson, you there?’

‘Now would you care to explain why, exactly, you didn’t bother to keep me informed about what you were up to?’

‘You want me to bring you problems or solutions?’

‘They teach you that on some management course?’

‘Here’s one for you: how did the Inside Man know Jessica McFee was Cunningham’s midwife? Where did he get her telephone number?’

There was a pause, then, ‘Ah…’

‘Claire Young was in paediatrics. Jessica McFee is a midwife. Shall we play join the dots?’

‘This is it?’ Babs stood on the pavement, rucksack in hand, looking up at the Travelodge on Greenwood Street. ‘Really?’

I shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me, I didn’t book it.’

‘Supposed to be swanky…’

Behind us, the diesel rattle of black-cab taxis mingled with safety announcements about not leaving your luggage unattended or it’d be taken away and destroyed. The rumble of a train pulling out of the station.

‘If you’re hungry, they do a decent fry-up.’

She hefted the rucksack over her shoulder. ‘Cheapskate police scumbags…’ Then lumbered in through the automatic doors. ‘Better be a double room.’

I got back in the car and on the phone. Checked in with Shifty. ‘You got that info I was asking for?’

‘Did you really do an illegal search of that paedo’s house?’

‘Don’t need a warrant if you’re a private citizen, Shifty. No way it’s getting thrown out of court.’

‘There’s a wee ned owes me a couple of favours. Meeting him in an hour to go over what kind of security She Who Must Not Be Named’s got. My money’s on big dogs and barbed wire. How about you?’

Bob the Builder smiled up at me from the back seat, yellow spanner in hand. ‘We can fix that.’

‘Only problem is: we’re screwed for tonight. My bloke says she’s away through to Edinburgh for some charity boxing thing. Not back till tomorrow.’

Sodding hell…

Still nothing we could really do about it. If she wasn’t here, she wasn’t here. ‘OK, I’ve had enough of big dogs for one day anyway.’

Alice tugged at my sleeve. ‘Is David still getting the curry, or do we need to pick it up on the way home?’

‘We’re not going home.’ Back to the phone. ‘We’ve got a couple of things to take care of. You can let yourself in. And Shifty…?’

‘What?’

‘A decent curry, OK? The Punjabi Castle, not some dodgy rathole.’

It was after eight by the time we pulled into Camburn View Crescent. The housing estate curled around us like a brick cyclone: identical houses with identical front gardens and identical 4×4s in their identical driveways, all lit by identical lampposts that turned the rain into shimmering droplets of amber. The trees of Camburn Woods were thick silhouettes behind the houses. Solid black clouds, lurking in the darkness.

Ruth leaned forward in the passenger seat, staring out through the windscreen wiper’s arcs. ‘I can’t…’

Alice smiled at her. ‘Just picture yourself standing in the sunshine, like we practised. Feel its warmth seeping all the way down to your bones. Comfortable. Calm. Relaxed.’

Ruth shifted in her seat, fingers trembling on the black-plastic dashboard. ‘Maybe we should just go home…?’

I put a hand on her shoulder and she flinched. ‘It’ll be OK. You were friends, remember?’

‘It’s just… I don’t know her any more…’

‘You’ll be fine. Comfortable. Calm. Relaxed.’ Alice climbed out into the night. Then after a beat, Ruth did too, leaving me to struggle with the seat.

Finally, I found the little lever — folded the thing forward, clambered over it and onto the street. Scents of woodsmoke and sulphur drifted on the damp air, underpinned with something musky. Wet soil and rotting leaves.

Rain seeped through my hair, cold and damp, trickled down the back of my neck.

Ruth sidled closer to Alice, then fumbled for her hand. Holding it like a small child afraid of getting lost.

‘Comfortable. Calm. Relaxed.’

‘OK…’

I followed them up the driveway, past the chunky oversized Mini, to the front door. Leaned on the bell.

No answer. So I tried again.

Ruth fidgeted, her breath a cloud of pale grey. ‘She’s changed her mind, she doesn’t want to speak to us…’

‘Trust me.’ One more go.

Finally, the door cracked open a couple of inches and a man peered out. Short auburn hair, round cheeks, pale eyebrows above a pair of twitchy eyes. He looked Alice up and down, as if he was trying to memorize her. ‘Are you …’ He’d moved on to Ruth. Stood there with his mouth hanging open.

‘You remember Miss Laughlin.’ I pointed at her. ‘She was Laura’s flatmate.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Good God… Ruth?’

What was probably meant to be a smile flickered on and off. ‘Hello, Christopher.’

‘Bloody hell…’ Some blinking. Then he opened the door all the way and stepped out into the rain. Hugged her.

Her arms stayed at her sides.

‘How are you? God it’s been years.’ More blinking. ‘You … come in, please, God, I’m sorry. Standing out here in the rain. We’ll… I’m sure Laura’s dying to see you.’

He ushered Ruth inside, stood back to let Alice in, then closed the door behind me. ‘I’m sorry, we have to be careful.’ A shrug. ‘Journalists. Excuse me…’ He squeezed past the three of us. ‘Can you all just wait here a minute. I need to make sure Laura’s OK. She can be a bit… With the pregnancy.’ Christopher scurried off down the hall, and through a door into what looked like a kitchen, shutting it behind him.

Ruth twitched. ‘What if she throws us out? What if she never wants-’

‘Feel the warm sun on your face. Comfortable. Calm. Relaxed.’

Silence.

The hallway was anonymous, plain cream-coloured walls and laminate flooring, a single bland landscape painting screwed to the wall. As if it was a hotel room.

The kitchen door opened again. ‘Come in, come in… I’ve got the kettle on.’

Christopher backed out of the way and Ruth crept her way into the room. We gave it a beat, then followed her.

A heavily pregnant woman stood at the sink, peeling potatoes. Her bright-copper curls were tied back in a frizzy ponytail that reached halfway down her smock top. Laura Strachan looked over her shoulder. Didn’t smile. ‘The bloody media’s been hounding us ever since that scumbag got hold of my medical records. What bloody good was Leveson? Answer me that.’ She hurled a naked potato into a pot, and a dollop of water splashed out onto the working surface. ‘Can’t even stay in our own home any more, it’s like a siege — cameras and microphones and journalists everywhere.’

Christopher opened a cupboard and fetched out some mugs. ‘Well, we could always take Hello! up on their-’

Laura Strachan’s face soured. ‘We’re not talking about this again.’

‘Wouldn’t hurt to think about it, that’s all I’m saying. Sooner or later someone’s going to find us and the photos’ll be all over the papers anyway. At least this way we’d have some control.’

Ruth looked about two sizes smaller than she had in the car — all hunched over, her hands worked into knots against her chest. ‘Laura, I…’ She stared at her feet. ‘I’m sorry.’

Another potato got hurled into the pot. ‘I was going to come see you, in hospital, but they said you weren’t up to visitors. Said you tried to kill yourself in the loony bin. Said you’d gone mental.’

Ruth’s mouth goldfished for a moment. ‘I… It…’

Alice put a hand on her arm. ‘Everyone copes with stress differently.’

She looked away. ‘I knew this was a mistake. I’m sorry, I’ll go.’

‘Sweetheart, God, come on.’ Christopher rubbed at Laura’s shoulders. ‘Bet it’s taken a lot for Ruth to come here, after what she’s been through. You don’t have to be…’ He cleared his throat. Turned. Opened the fridge. ‘Who takes milk?’

‘I don’t have to be what? A bitch? A cow? Come on, Christopher, what don’t I have to be?’

Ruth rubbed a palm across her eyes. ‘I should never have come.’

I stepped up. ‘This was important to Ruth. She thought you were her friend.’

Laura glared at me. ‘She tried to kill herself and leave me on my own! Do you have any idea what that feels like?’

I just stared back.

She dumped the potato peeler in the sink, then turned and pulled up her smock, exposing her swollen belly. ‘Look at me!’

Had to be what: four, six weeks to go? She was massive.

A puckered line of scar tissue reached from about a hand’s-width below the line of her greying bra to somewhere below the waist of her elasticated trousers. A shorter scar crossed it at a right angle, a third of the way down — the angry pink lines stretched taut and shiny by the child growing inside her.

The kettle rumbled to a boil, then clicked itself off in the silence.

Then Ruth unbuttoned her padded jacket. Pulled up her sweatshirt. Did the same with the blue T-shirt underneath, showing off her identical cruciform scar.

The two women nodded, then lowered their tops, connected by an unenviable bond: members of an exclusive and horrible club.

Laura picked up the potato peeler again. ‘Christopher, take the others through to the lounge. Ruth and I have stuff to talk about.’