A Song for the Dying

33

The sky was a smear of charcoal-grey. Blood seeped from the horizon as the sun gave up on the day, making glistening spatter-patterns on the wet roads.

‘What?’ I stuck a finger in the other ear and turned my back on the hospital entrance while an ambulance Dopplered past, its wail lowering as it faded into the distance.

On the other end of the phone, Jacobson tried again. ‘Ness got everyone to drop the charges. Mr McFee’s a free man again.’

‘Good for him. What about Cooper — did Bad Bill remember Claire Young or Jessica McFee?’

‘This letter: you sure your journalist is on the up?’

‘He’s a journalist.’

‘Fair point. I’ll get it picked up anyway.’ The volume dropped, as if Jacobson had turned away from the phone. ‘Cooper, tell him what you told me.’

There was a scrunching noise, then PC Cooper cleared his throat at me. ‘Hello? Yes, OK, so, Bad Bill, AKA: William Moore. I showed him both photos and he thinks he’s seen Jessica McFee with a tall, red-haired, IC-One male. Says he can’t be certain about Claire Young. She looks familiar, but that might just be cos she’s been in all the papers and on the telly.’

So much for that. ‘Don’t suppose he’s got a security camera or anything?’

‘Said he’s never really bothered. Said, who’s going to risk a cleaver in the head just to nick a bag of burger buns and some fried onions? Professor Huntly thinks it’s unlikely Tim would have taken Claire Young with him when he bought her last meal anyway. He abducted her on the Thursday night, she turned up in the wee hours of the Saturday morning, Huntly says Tim’s not going to rape her, hold her hostage, then take her out for Friday lunch.’

Another ambulance roared past — this one heading the other way.

I checked my watch: ten to four. Have to get moving soon.

‘Did you-’

‘So I asked how many, erm…’ Pause. ‘“Double Bastard Bacon Murder Burgers” he sold between eleven a.m. and three p.m. on the Friday, and he became pretty abusive.’

Moron.

‘It’s a burger van, not a three-star restaurant. Cash-in-hand — no receipts. Where was he parked on Friday?’

Silence.

‘Cooper?’

‘Actually…’

I gave my head a little dunt off the wall. ‘You forgot to ask, didn’t you?’

‘Well, you said he’d be at the B amp;Q and he was, so I thought … you know, it would be his pitch.’ A cough. ‘Or something.’

‘The whole point of a burger van is that the damn thing’s got wheels. Go back and find out where he was Friday lunchtime.’

‘Sorry, Guv…’

So I was ‘Guv’ now? Well, at least that was something. ‘You did OK. Just got to keep your eye on the details.’

‘Yes, Guv.’

‘And get on to Control: I want a PNC check on one Darren Wilkinson, works in Human Resources at Castle Hill Infirmary.’

‘Yes, Guv.’

‘Off you go.’

Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and when I turned around, there was Noel Maxwell. He’d thrown an orange Parka on over his scrubs, bright white Nikes shuffling on the damp pavement. He grinned, making the little soul-patch thing twitch. ‘How’d that Prednisolone work out for you, OK?’

Jacobson’s voice came back on the phone. ‘Come on then: you’re the one who insisted shoe-leather was the way to making connections. What did you find out?’

‘Hold on.’ I pulled the phone from my ear and pressed mute. ‘Did you get it?’

Noel glanced back over his shoulder. Then dropped his voice till it was barely audible. ‘This is, like, industrial grade, OK? I mean it’s not-’

‘Did you get it or not?’

Another glance. As if he wasn’t acting shiftily enough already. He slipped his hand into his pocket and tugged out the corner of a brown envelope. ‘You got the cash?’

I counted out sixty quid from what was left of the hundred Jacobson had subbed me, and handed it over. One five-pound note and a handful of change left.

He had another glance about, then slipped me the envelope. Didn’t weigh much. I ripped open the flap.

His eyes went wide. ‘Don’t do that here!’

‘Yeah. Trust isn’t exactly high on my agenda today.’ Two syringes sat in the bottom of the envelope: clear, with orange caps on the needles. A folded sheet of paper lay with it, covered with small print.

‘Just make sure you read the instructions, OK? Stuff’s dangerous…’

That was the point.

‘How long?’

A shrug. Another glance. ‘Depends on body mass. Big fat bloke: three to four hours. Give a whole dose to a wee kid and they’re never waking up.’ A blush. ‘You know. If you were that way inclined.’

I popped the envelope into my pocket. Then stopped. Frowned.

‘Who else have you been flogging medical supplies to?’

Noel’s mouth flapped open and closed a couple of times. ‘I … don’t know what you’re talking about, selling medical supplies, why would I do that? I’m only doing you a favour cos I know you from the old days.’

‘Anaesthetics, antihypertensives, disinfectants, sutures, that surgical glue stuff?’ The kind of things needed to hack someone open and stitch a plastic baby doll inside them.

He shook his head. ‘Nah, you’re thinking of someone else, I don’t sell hospital gear, I’m not some sort of dealer, I’m just a good guy helping out an old mate.’

‘Noel, I swear to God I will drag your twitchy arse from here to Dundee by the balls.’

He backed up, stuffed his hands in his pockets, pulled his shoulders forward, making himself smaller. ‘I don’t do that no more, honestly. I did, maybe, a few years ago, but you had that word with me and I straightened up my act. Straight as a bullet me. Dead, dead straight.’

I just stared at him.

He shuffled a bit. Hunched his back a little more. ‘OK, so I might have, you know, given someone a hand with their pain management. Couple things of morphine and a few packs of Amitriptyline, maybe some Temazepam, but they had multiple sclerosis and that. Honest.’

Silence.

‘Just trying to be a good citizen, you know? Help my fellow man?’

‘What about antihypertensives?’

He licked his teeth, making bulges behind his lips. ‘Don’t get much call for them. Opioids and barbiturates are the drugs du jour amongst Oldcastle’s bright young things… Not that I would ever, you know: good citizen, fellow man…’

I stepped in close enough to smell the fug of cigarette smoke and bitter aftershave wafting off of him. ‘You like us being friends, don’t you, Noel?’

He rocked from side to side, hunching up even more, looking up at me like a nervous orange crow. ‘We’re friends, course we are… Why wouldn’t we be friends?’

‘If you want it to stay that way, here’s what you’re going to do: you’re going to speak to all your fellow good citizens and you’re going to find out who’s been filching surgical supplies from the stores. And then you’re going to tell me.’ I gave him a smile, keeping it nice and cold. ‘And you’re going to do it by this time tomorrow.’

He got smaller still. ‘What if I can’t? I mean, you know, obviously I’ll try my best, but what if I try and try, but no one’s saying anything?’

When my hand landed on his shoulder he flinched. Blinked at me.

I gave the shoulder a squeeze. ‘Let’s not find out, eh?’

The woman from Human Resources gave us a smile that didn’t make it any further than her cheeks. She towered over Alice as she ushered us into a pair of fake-leather seats. Her skin was pale as milk, dark hair long at the sides and hacked into a severe fringe at the front. ‘Darren will be joining us shortly, he’s on a call at the moment.’ She clasped her hands in front of her. ‘Now, what’s this all about?’

The clock on the wall behind her read twenty past four. Should still be OK if we did this quickly.

I settled into the chair, stretched my right leg out. ‘I’m afraid that’s between us and Mr Wilkinson.’

A sign, screwed to the middle of the open door, marked this as ‘SOFT MEETING ROOM 3’. Lemon-yellow walls, a couple of framed prints, a whiteboard on one wall, and a flipchart on a stand by the door. Six, low, fake-leather chairs and a coffee table scarred with cup-ring acne. It smelled of sweat and desperation.

‘Ah…’ Her smile thinned out a bit and wrinkles appeared around her eyes. ‘It’s out of the question I’m afraid. Hospital policy states that all members of staff must be supported by a representative from Human Resources during interviews with the media, bereaved families, or police, if conducted on CHI property.’ She swept a hand towards the door. ‘Of course, if you wish to detain him and remove him from Castle Hill Infirmary, that’s your prerogative. Do you want to detain him?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’

The eyes above the thin smile grew colder. ‘I can assure you that Darren is a valued member of my team, Detective Constable Henderson. The day after his accident, he was in here at nine. That shows dedication.’ She folded her arms. ‘What’s he supposed to have done?’

I gave her the stare.

She shook her head. ‘He’s been employee-of-the-month three times. And that’s hospital-wide, not just my department. He’s conscientious, hardworking, and really invested in our processes and procedures.’

Alice tugged the sleeves of her stripy top down over her fingertips. ‘He was in an accident?’

‘Hit and run, on a zebra crossing, no less. But he was still here, Friday morning, bang on time.’ She clapped her hands together, once. Hard and sharp. ‘Now, would anyone like a cup of tea?’

As soon as she was gone, Alice leaned over to me, voice low. ‘Do we really think Darren Wilkinson is the Inside Man?’

‘Why are you whispering?’

A pink bloom appeared on her cheeks. ‘I mean I know he works at the hospital, so he might have access to drugs, and he’d be able to find out about surgical procedures — he can probably watch them doing operations if he likes — and all the victims were nurses, and if he’s working in the HR Department he’s got access to their personnel records not to mention who Jessica McFee was being a midwife for, but…’ Creases appeared between Alice’s eyebrows. ‘Oh, I see. When you lay it out like that…’

‘And he just happens to be going out with one of the victims? Bit of a coincidence.’

‘Well, maybe-’

‘According to the Police National Computer, he’s twenty-seven. That makes him nineteen the first time Tim was around. Doesn’t exactly fit the profile, does it?’

The hands on the clock crept around to twenty-five past.

Alice wrapped one arm around herself, twiddled with her hair. ‘If he’s been assaulting Jessica McFee, that means he’s got control issues — both internal and external — Jessica’s his property, when she doesn’t do what she’s told that hurts him, it’s disrespectful… He has no choice, he’s got to punish her, I mean it’s not his fault is it, he’s helping her be a better person, does she really want to keep screwing up like that, she should be thanking him. She’s lucky to have him.’

Alice stuck her knees together, heels angled out on the scuffed carpet tiles. ‘It’s always the same though, isn’t it, women just don’t get it, they need a firm hand to lead them in the right direction. They like that: they like a man who can take charge, they need to be shown who’s boss, like his dad showed his mum…’ Alice blinked a couple of times, then stared up at the ceiling tiles. The frown was back. ‘But the abduction, the cutting, the dolls — impregnating them — yes, that’s a control thing, but Tim does it because he’s impotent, powerless in his day-to-day relationships.’

I took out my phone and read the text from Cooper again:

PNC on Darren Wilkinson (27) — 14 Fyne Lane, no convictions, warning for vandalism when 11, just applied for combined shotgun/firearms licence.

He could sing for his gun licence. No way that was going through now.

‘Ash?’ Alice brought her heels together, squeaking the rubbery soles against one another. ‘We didn’t check with Claire Young’s flatmates: what if Darren’s her boyfriend too? What if he romantically targets his victims, before abducting them?’

Shrug. ‘Possible.’

She slumped back in her seat and let her arms hang over the edge, stripy sleeves swinging back and forth. ‘But by physically dominating Jessica, by beating her, he’s actively demonstrating his power…’

I shut down Cooper’s text and called Sabir.

‘Oh, Christ, what now? I’m working on it, OK? Keep your knickers on, this stuff takes time!’

‘Does the name Darren Wilkinson ring any bells?’

Pause. ‘Who the hell is Darren Wilkinson?’

‘I need to know if he comes up in the HOLMES data for the original Inside Man enquiry.’

‘OK…’ There was a long, wet sigh. ‘Pick one.’

‘One what?’

‘All the stuff you’ve thrown at me — pick something, and that’s the thing that gets dumped to do this instead.’

‘Sabir, I-’

‘No. Youse lot seem to think I’m sitting on a fifty-man team down here, but there’s just me, get it? Me, on me tod, getting buried under all your Jock shite.’ What sounded like static boomed from the earpiece, then settled down into crunching — a mouthful of crisps? ‘So pick one.’

‘Don’t be such a drama queen. It’s-’

The door opened and the HR manager was back, a plastic beverage carrier in one hand with three plastic cups steaming away in the holes.

‘Sabir, just do it. I’ll call you back.’ I hung up as she placed the carrier on the little coffee table.

Alice pulled on a smile, eyes wide and bright. ‘How does Darren get on with his female team mates? Is he popular?’

The HR manager frowned for a moment. ‘I’d say yes: he is. He’s personable, well groomed, always brings cakes when it’s someone’s birthday.’

‘So not … you know: making off-colour jokes, invading personal space, maybe even a bit intimidating?’

‘Darren?’ Her cheeks twitched, then a little laugh slipped out. Followed by a cough. ‘He joined my team six years ago. He was only twenty-one. I have personally trained him. He’s not some sort of misogynistic neanderthal.’

‘Hmm…’ Alice went back to twiddling with her hair, one heel tapping against the carpet.

The plastic cup was scalding hot as I picked it out of the holder. ‘What about attendance? Any absences over the last three weeks?’

‘Not even after his accident — which, by the way, your colleagues have done nothing about. Darren is a model employee. And-’

There was a knock and a battered face appeared at the door. One eye was swollen shut, the skin dark and mottled with bruising that reached from the tip of his chin all the way up to his forehead on one side. A line of pink Elastoplast crossed the bridge of his nose. He was on crutches, using one of them to ease the door open. Crumpled white shirt, pale-blue tie. His right trouser leg was cut short, showing off a fibreglass cast covered in marker-pen signatures.

Whatever hit him, it must have been a damn sight bigger than a Mini.

His voice was soft and hissing, as if he was missing a few teeth, but the Dundee accent still came through like a foghorn. ‘You wanted to see me, Sarah?’

She turned in her seat and nodded. ‘Ah, Darren, perfect timing. I was just telling these officers what a valued member of… Darren, are you OK?’

His one good eye had gone wide at the word ‘officers’, mouth hanging open, exposing four or five ragged scarlet holes where teeth should have been. He backed away.

‘Darren?’

He glanced up and down the corridor, as if planning on hobbling for it. Then sagged against his crutches. Closed his eyes and swore.