A Song for the Dying

27

Shifty’s left leg trembled to a halt. His shoulders slumped. Head hung forwards.

Mrs Kerrigan dropped something to the floorboards, then stood on it. Worked the toe of her boot back and forth, as if she was grinding out a cigarette. ‘Right so. Shall we talk about that offer I was going to make yez?’

In the kitchen, Alice was rigid, eyes wide and round.

I took my time. Cleared my throat. ‘We need to get him to a hospital.’

‘There’s a certain gentleman of Mr Inglis’s acquaintance that we need taking care of. That’s yer job. Take care of him, and yez’ll get four grand off the top.’

‘He’s in shock, he could die.’

‘Think about it: four grand down, twenty-eight to go. And the warm fuzzy feeling of doing Mr Inglis a solid. All ye have to do is deliver the thieving fecker’s body to the old chandler’s warehouse on Belhaven Lane at nine tonight. Don’t even care how you do it, long as it gets done.’

‘Just call an ambulance and-’

‘Now, I know yez’re probably thinking, “Why the feck should I kill someone I don’t even know? What’s he done to me?” So I’m going to give ye a little incentive.’ She pursed her lips, tilted her head to one side. ‘How about we take ourselves a hostage? That good for you, Mr Henderson? That incentive enough?’

I just stared at her.

‘Now, obviously I can’t take yer doctor friend: that’d set off yer ankle monitor.’ A smile. ‘Mind you, I could always hack Miss McDonald’s foot off and leave her tracker with you. Would yez like that? Bit of freedom from the old ball-and-chain?’ She let the silence stretch. ‘Come on, Mr Henderson, yez’re after burying two daughters already, what’s one more dead girl? Should be used to it by now.’

Don’t even blink.

‘No? In that case, we’ll just have to take yer pal, Detective Inspector Morrow, with us. Seeing as he’s all started and everything. Bit messy, but we’ve got plastic in the boot of the car.’

She smeared her bloody thumb across Shifty’s neck. ‘Oh, and just in case yez are thinking of calling yer thickie mates to come arrest us — I own Oldcastle CID. I get so much as a whiff of that and Fat Boy here goes through a bacon slicer. We clear?’

‘He needs a doctor.’

‘We all need something, Mr Henderson. Right now, Dr McDonald needs every one of her fingers. But these things change, don’t they?’ Mrs Kerrigan looked over my shoulder. ‘Joseph, do yez have the pliers?’

‘I believe my colleague is in possession of our toolkit. Would you like me to fetch them?’

‘Well, Mr Henderson? Think we should start with a thumb or a pinkie?’

Alice moaned, feet slipping on the kitchen floor, pressing herself back into the cabinets. Going nowhere.

My tongue turned to sand in my mouth. It took two goes to get the words out. ‘Who needs to die?’

‘… ha, ha! Spectacularrrrrr. Right, we’ve got another heeeeee-larious wind-up call coming after Nigel News and Travel Trevor, but first: this one’s for all you special people out there searching for little Charlie Pearce today…’ A big orchestral intro, followed by an electric guitar.

I ran a hand across the Jaguar’s passenger window, carving a trail through the condensation. ‘Do we have to listen to this prick?’

Most of Jura Row sat behind high stone walls. Posh mansions with gravel drives and tall, barred, automatic gates. Imprisoning the kind of cars that cost more than the average family home. Fifteen years ago the Jag would have fit right in, but now — next to the street’s collection of Ferraris and Aston Martins and Lexuses — it looked like a shabby old man. Tired, saggy, and anonymous. Which was the whole point of stealing it in the first place.

Fake period streetlights made pools of glittering light on the wet pavements. The rain had given up, leaving everything still and damp beneath the pewter sky. Waiting for the sun to come up.

Alice fidgeted, eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror. Staring at Bob in the back seat. He just sat there, smiling his stitched-on smile, yellow fabric spanner held in his hand. ‘I still don’t understand why he has to be here…’ The words were slightly mushy, deformed by her swollen lower lip, the skin split, a bruise darkening around the crack of dried blood.

Francis was bloody lucky I hadn’t caved his head in. I would next time.

She reached up and twisted the rear-view mirror, so it was pointing at the car’s roof. Hiding Bob. ‘I don’t like the way he keeps staring at me. It’s creepy. Can’t we put him in the boot?’

‘You don’t put your lucky mascot in the boot.’

A woman’s voice, harsh and warbling, cut over the guitar. I switched the radio off. Stared out at the six-foot wrought-iron gate securing number twelve from the road.

Alice cleared her throat. ‘Can we please talk about what Mrs Kerrigan-’

‘There’s nothing to talk about. If we don’t do this, she kills Shifty. End of story.’

‘Please.’ Alice’s fingers trembled in her lap. She tucked them under her arms. Holding them still. ‘We … I can’t kill someone.’

‘You don’t have to: that’s my job.’ My official phone rang in my pocket. I pulled it out and hit the green button. ‘What?’

Jacobson sniffed. ‘Where the hell are you?’

Great. Just … great.

Time to toss him that nugget.

‘We’ve been chasing up a couple of leads. You need to get someone round to Bad Bill’s Burger Bar with photos of Claire Young and Jessica McFee. Probably find him parked outside the B amp;Q in Cowskillin. The last thing Claire ate was from there.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘It’s called a Double Bastard Bacon Murder Burger, AKA: double cheeseburger with bacon frazzles. No one else is mad enough to make them.’

A scrunching noise came from the other end, muffling Jacobson’s voice. ‘Cooper — get your backside over here. Got a job for you.’ There was some muttering, too low to hear, but probably Cooper getting his orders.

Alice tugged at my sleeve. ‘We should tell him.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘We need help!’

And Jacobson was back. ‘Good work, Ash, I’m impressed. Initiative, I like that.’

Good.

‘I want to talk to everyone who lives in the same halls as Jessica McFee. Might take a while, but I think it’s worth a go. And if there’s any time left, we’ll get stuck into her colleagues too.’

‘I don’t think so: any old plod can talk to witnesses. The Lateral Investigative and Review Unit is meant to be about insight, outside-the-box thinking, and applied knowledge. Not shoe-leather.’

‘Well, my applied knowledge says this is how we make connections. We gather information. We rattle people. We jog their memories. He’s got access to hospital drugs and patient records — he’s in there somewhere.’

Silence.

I wiped a hand across the glass again, making it cry. Teardrops of condensation dribbled down onto the rubber beading.

The light flickered on above the door of number twelve.

And then a sigh came down the line. ‘Fine. But I want regular updates, and I expect you both back here at seven for the team debrief. While we’re at it: I need to speak to Dr McDonald. She is there, isn’t she?’

Where the hell else was she going to be? I poked the button for speakerphone and held the mobile out. ‘Wants to talk to you.’

‘Dr McDonald?’ Jacobson’s voice echoed out into the old Jaguar. ‘I’ve had yet another call from Detective Chief Superintendents Knight and Ness, wanting to know why you’ve still not met with Dr Docherty.’

Alice licked the crack in her lip, setting it bleeding again. She cleared her throat. ‘It’s been-’

‘He might be a pain in the backside, but they’ve made formal requests for your input. They’re testing the team and I will not have anyone letting the side down. So you will damn well go and cooperate.’

Her bottom lip wobbled for a moment. Then she hissed out a trembly breath. ‘Yes, Detective Superintendent.’ Voice flat and dull.

‘But any startling insights you get — you tell me first, understand? It all comes through me. No giving it away like a drunken teenager.’

I nodded at the phone, curled my other hand into an aching fist.

She shook her head. ‘Yes, Detective Superintendent.’

Hairy little git.

I clicked off the speakerphone before he could say anything else, and held the thing back to my ear. ‘What’s happening with Sabir? He been through the HOLMES data yet?’

‘Why don’t you phone him and find out? Believe it or not, Ash, my job’s to run the team, not your errands. I’m actually beginning to think you’re a half-decent police officer, don’t spoil it.’ Then click he was gone.

I slipped the phone back in my pocket. ‘Ignore him, he’s a wanker.’

Number twelve’s door opened and a big man stepped out — tall and broad, hair swept back from his head, black overcoat, dark-grey suit, pastel lemon shirt, stripy tie. Hooked nose, high forehead. Distinguished looking. I checked the photo Mrs Kerrigan had left on the flat’s mantelpiece. The name ‘PAUL MANSON’ was picked out in biro capitals on the back, along with his home address and a mobile number. Definitely him.

A woman popped up next to Manson, handed him a briefcase, then stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. A wee boy appeared next, wearing the blue-and-gold blazer of the Marshal School. Manson reached down and ruffled the kid’s hair. Then turned and marched down the steps and over to the Porsche parked on the gravel driveway.

‘Look at them. Like something out of a bloody toothpaste commercial.’

Manson climbed into the car, set it growling like an angry Rottweiler. He must’ve had a remote in there, because the gates clunked then swung open.

Alice licked her lips. ‘I… I don’t think I can-’

‘You heard what Mrs Kerrigan said: he’s a mob accountant. All this — the house, the clothes, the car, the private school — it’s all paid for with drugs and prostitutes and extortion and beatings and murder. That bastard, right there, is the grease that keeps the machinery turning.’

‘It doesn’t mean he has to die.’

‘It’s him or Shifty. Start the car.’

‘It’s OK, just ease up a bit, let him get another car ahead.’

Alice drifted the Jag to a halt at the roundabout, paused, then slid out into the stream of traffic.

‘There you go, you’re a natural.’

The river was a ribbon of concrete, following the road on the right. To the left, it was all Victorian sandstone, laid out in rigid geometric patterns. Prestige offices with double-barrelled names rubbing shoulders with Oldcastle’s only five-star hotel.

Up ahead, Manson took a left, into the Wynd.

Alice followed him. Keeping her distance. Not racing or crowding the target. Doing well.

She licked her lips. ‘Ash, we have to talk about-’

‘Concentrate on driving. There, next right.’

She turned onto a leafy lane, lined with yet more sandstone. Only this time the pillars looked like marble and granite. The Porsche pulled into a marked space at the side of the road.

‘OK, just go past it and take the next left.’

‘But-’

‘You drive, I’ll worry about Manson.’ I grabbed the rear-view mirror and twisted it, keeping him centre-stage as he climbed out of the Porsche and marched towards the building opposite. He was just starting up the steps when the Jaguar made the turn and he disappeared from view.

I tapped the dashboard. ‘Park.’

She did, nose-in at the kerb beneath a bare rowan tree. Let out a long breath. Closed her eyes and folded over the steering wheel.

‘You did good.’ I reached across and rubbed her back. ‘Made me proud.’

‘I don’t feel well. My pulse is elevated, I’m dizzy. Headache. Stomach churning.’ Alice closed her eyes. ‘I can see him, squirming and shaking and bleeding and she’s gouging her thumb-’

‘There was nothing you could do.’

‘His eye…’ A shudder, then she wiped a hand across her face. ‘Thirty percent of people who witness a traumatic event go on to develop PTSD.’

I undid my seatbelt, stretched my leg out in the footwell. ‘You’re a forensic psychologist, you’ve seen much worse than-’

‘Not in real life! In photos, at post mortems, crime scenes. Never actually … happening.’ She took a deep breath, then shook. ‘You need a displacement activity, Alice, something to keep you occupied. You help people through things like this all the time, just treat yourself as any other patient. If it’s too raw to revisit, put some distance between you and it and let your subconscious frame it.’ A frown. ‘Or you could try playing violent video games. Or does that only work when you do it before the event? I don’t know, Alice, you should look it up on the internet…’ She blinked at me. ‘What?’

‘You’re talking to yourself.’

She stared at her fingers as they worked themselves into knots in her lap. ‘I don’t want to go back to the flat. I can’t stay there any more. Not after…’ Tears sparked in the corners of her eyes.

I rubbed her back again. ‘It’s OK. I’ll sort something out. We’ll get a hotel or a B-and-B or something.’

A little, sickly smile. ‘Tell me something about the Inside Man.’

‘Apparently we’re supposed to call him “Tim” now.’

‘No, something from the initial investigation.’

‘All right.’ I climbed out into the gloom, leaned on my walking stick. ‘Once upon a time there was a young man called Gareth Martin. Gareth hadn’t had the best of childhoods and spent a fair bit of time checking in and out of the local psychiatric ward. He set fire to a shop in Logansferry once.’ The car door clunked shut. ‘Jessops, I think it was.’

Alice got out the other side. Plipped the locks. ‘What if someone spots the number plate?’

A shard of light slashed through the low clouds as the sun finally made it over the horizon, leaving a scar of gold and scarlet across the grey.

‘Why do you think I nicked the car from an old folks’ home? No one’s going to notice it’s gone for weeks. And even then, they’ll probably think they just forgot where they parked it.’ I limped past, going back towards the street we’d turned off. ‘Four weeks after Ruth Laughlin was found, Gareth walked into the police station on Grigson Lane, covered in blood, put a plastic baby doll on the counter, and threatened the duty sergeant with a carving knife.’

We turned the corner onto Aaronovitch Lane. Brass plaques lined the street on both sides. Solicitor. Accountant. Stockbroker. Solicitor. Solicitor. PR Agency. Solicitor. And then the building Manson had disappeared into: number thirty-seven. ‘DAVIS, WELLMAN, amp; MANSON ~ CHARTERED ACCOUNTANTS.’

A flight of marble steps gleamed in the early morning light, leading up to a black wooden door with a brass knocker set dead in the middle of it.

Crime definitely paid.

‘Gareth copped to all four murders and the three abductions too. Said he’d done it because his grandmother used to clean his genitals with bleach and caustic soda when he was five.’

Alice stopped at the foot of the steps. ‘The poor boy…’

‘All bollocks, of course: he’d read it in some crime novel.’

‘Oh.’ She stared up at the building’s windows. ‘Killing Manson is stupid.’

‘What other choice do we have? It’s-’

‘That’s not what I meant.’ She looked up at me. ‘If we kill him now, what do we do with him? Drive about town with his body in the boot till it’s time to hand him over, I mean we’re in a stolen car, someone’s going to notice, what if we get pulled over and they search us and they find him?’

‘Who says we’re going to drive-’

‘We can’t just hole up somewhere, we’re both wearing GPS locators on our ankles, if we don’t go speak to Jessica McFee’s colleagues like we told Detective Superintendent Jacobson he’ll know. And he’ll come get us, and we’ll have a dead body in the boot of the car and we’ll get arrested and I’ll spend the rest of my life in prison…’

‘That’s why we’re not doing it right now.’ I started walking again, straight past the accountants’. ‘Stand there too long and someone’s going to notice.’ I took a sharp left, hobbling across the road.

‘Oh, OK, sorry…’ She hurried to catch up. Scuffed along beside me, dragging her little red shoes along the damp pavement. ‘But if we-’

‘We’re not getting caught. OK, so we have to pretend that nothing’s going on: speak to Jessica McFee’s flatmates, meet with that dick Fred Docherty, go through the motions. Fine: we can do that. We come back at close of business and grab Manson on the way home.’ I paused beside the Porsche, grunted my way down to one knee, as if I was tying my laces.

The small triangular window behind the driver’s door had a bright yellow sticker in it: ‘THIS CAR SECURED WITH 24/7 GPS TRACKING’ I copied the firm’s name into my notebook — Sparanet Vehicle Security — along with the telephone number and the car’s registration.

Time to go.

I stuck out a hand and Alice helped me up, then fell into step as we headed off down the pavement.

She glanced back at the accountants’. ‘So what happened?’

‘What, with Gareth? Turned out he’d broken into the petting zoo at Montgomery Park and hacked a lamb’s stomach open to get the doll inside. That’s why he was covered in blood. Confession was as fake as his bleach story.’

At the bottom of the lane, we took a right.

‘Every year we’d get two or three people turning up at Force Headquarters claiming to be the Inside Man. And twelve months later they’d be back claiming to be DIY Dave, or the Blackwall Rapist, or Johnny Fingerbones.’

‘Does he still confess to things?’

‘His swansong was putting his hand up for a rape-murder. The victim’s husband found out where Gareth lived, went round, out of his face on antidepressants, and beat him to death with a cricket bat. Got eight years — diminished responsibility.’

Another right, heading back towards the stolen Jaguar.

Alice slipped her arm through mine. Held on as if she was about to be swept away by the current. ‘Do you think David’s going to be OK?’

No. But I pulled on a smile anyway, gave her arm a squeeze. ‘He’s going to be fine. Trust me. Shifty’s not as soft as he looks. We’ll get him back.’

Or whatever was left of him.