A Song for the Dying

29

Another box. This one was scribbled with black marker pen, the case number crossed out three times and written in again. No wonder it was nearly impossible to find anything.

I dumped it on the floor with the others and reached into the row behind it. The shelves were scarred, the paint flaking away, rust spreading out from the joins. Dust covered everything with a blanket of fur, little puffs of the stuff drifting out every time something was moved. It glowed in the gloom, caught by the miserable gritty light of a fluorescent bulb.

PC Simpson had a scratch, setting the fat on his belly wobbling. Dumpy, balding, and coasting towards retirement in slow-motion. ‘Of course, the real problem’s the voting system, isn’t it?’

Next row wasn’t much better. All illegible numbers and corrections and why could no one ever file things properly? ‘Are you sure this is the right section?’

‘Take that Marilyn woman: can’t sing for cheese, but there she is week after week, because people think it’s funny. Thought Britain was meant to have talent?’

‘Simpson, I’m going to count to five, and then I’m going to take this walking stick and ram it so far up you everyone’ll think you’re a bloody unicorn!’

He stopped scratching and hauled out another box. ‘Should be in here somewhere. Tosspots from SCD and CID ransacked everything they could find when they started the investigation. But they lack the systematic approach, don’t they? Charging about like idiots.’

I dumped another box on the floor — two completely separate crime numbers scrawled on the greying cardboard. ‘How could you let the place get into this mess?’

‘Oh no you don’t; my system was working perfectly, thank you very much. I go off on the sick for a couple of months and some idiot puts that wee tosser Williamson in charge. When I get back everything’s all over the shop.’ He popped the top off a case file and rummaged in the contents. ‘You let people run amok in your archives and they get used to it. Take advantage. Number of times I’ve come down here to find that prat Brigstock hauling stuff out of boxes, or Rutledge, or that psychologist git, or bloody Detective Superintendent “Why can’t you get this place tidied up?” Knight. No one ever wants to sign for anything.’ His voice jumped half an octave, put on a posh Glaswegian accent. ‘“Oh, I just need to check something, I’ll put it right back.” Does this look like a sodding library?’

The next box had a knife and an axe in it, both in their clear plastic bags with dried flakes of blood in the bottom.

‘And how come it’s always cover versions? You want to be famous: write your own songs. Otherwise it’s just glorified karaoke.’

Another box, this time with no crime numbers on it at all.

‘But no one cares, do they? Ah, here we go.’ He thumped a box down in front of me. ‘Inside Man, “K” to “N”.’ He took a deep breath and wheezed it out across the lid, sending up a little storm of dust. ‘Told you it’d be back here, somewhere.’

I coughed, waved a hand back and forth. ‘God’s sake…’

‘Course, I could sort it out. Start at one end and re-index everything till it was back in shape again, but why bother? It’d take years. Come May, I’m retiring to sunny Perth to play golf and drink beer. Let whatever poor sod comes next sort it.’

I lifted the lid. Inside, it was stacked with evidence bags, paperwork, and notebooks. ‘You got a table I can use?’

‘Simpson said you were down here.’

‘Hmm?’ I looked up, and there was Rhona, leaning against the metal shelving, hands in the pockets of her suit trousers. Her shirt was unbuttoned to the bra line, a ring of orange-grey dirt around the inside of the collar, a grease stain darkening the green fabric.

She shrugged. ‘Looking for anything in particular?’

‘The Inside Man letters. Supposed to be in here.’

Rhona settled on the edge of the table and reached into the box. Pulled out an evidence bag. A scrunched up tissue sat inside, speckled with the dark brown dots of ancient blood. She put it on the tabletop and went back in for something else. ‘Listen, about that party, it’s not important. I was … you know: thought it’d be nice to celebrate you getting out.’

‘Been through everything in the box twice and there’s no sign of them. They’re on the evidence log, but they’re not here…’

‘We could just grab a drink, or something? Maybe down the Monk and Casket? Like the old days. Or we could even do it in the hotel bar?’

‘Hotel?’

‘The Pinemantle. Aren’t you staying with the LIRU and SCD lot?’

I settled back in my seat, stretched my right leg out. ‘Why would the letters be missing from evidence?’

She sucked at her teeth. ‘Maybe one of the other teams got there first?’

‘No. They’d have checked them out.’ I held up the sheet of paper with everything in the box listed on it. ‘And it took me and Simpson half an hour to find the sodding thing. It was clarted in dust — according to him, no one else’s been near it for years. There’s a scalpel missing too.’

I swivelled the chair all the way around, until I was facing the long, gloomy rows of shelves. ‘The letters are gone, and the HOLMES data is all screwed up. What if someone’s been covering their tracks?’

Rhona’s eyebrows went up. ‘You think the Inside Man’s one of us?’

It made a twisted sort of sense.

She whistled. ‘Bet it’s that dick DI Smith. Never trust an Aberdonian, that’s what my dad always said.’

‘He’s not been here long enough. Do me a favour: find out who was on the Inside Man HOLMES team eight years ago. Might be someone who transferred to another force for a while? That’d explain why we’ve got eight years with no Inside Man.’

‘Speaking of people dropping off the radar: you seen Shifty Dave on your travels? Her Ladyship’s not too impressed he skipped morning prayers.’

Damn.

I picked up the pile of notebooks and put them back in the box. ‘He’s sick. Said it was probably the norovirus or something.’ Well, if it was a good enough lie to get Officer Babs off work, it was good enough for Shifty. ‘Vomiting, diarrhoea, aching joints, the whole thing. Sounded dreadful. Thinks he won’t be in for a couple of days.’

‘Shifty’s got the squits? Not surprised, the amount of kebabs he puts away. Should’ve told the Super though, she’s in a bad enough mood as it is. You see that bit about Jessica McFee in the News and Post today? Tell you, half of CID couldn’t keep their mouths shut if you superglued their lips together.’

I stacked everything else back where it came from and put the lid on again. ‘I’ll let him know next time I see him.’

‘Anyway, about that drink, I was thinking after work?’

Couldn’t carry the box and the cane at the same time, so I had to limp my way back to the shelf, needles digging their way through my right foot with every scuffed step.

‘Guv?’

‘I can’t tonight. I’ve … got a thing.’

‘Oh.’

I slid the box through the dust to the rear of the shelf. Looked back at Rhona. ‘How about tomorrow?’

Her head drooped. A thin smile like a bad taste on her lips. ‘Yeah. Maybe tomorrow.’

A low buzz filled the canteen on the fourth floor. A PC stood in front of the glowing microwave rocking from side to side, as if he was slow-dancing with whatever ready meal he was nuking in there.

Other than him, and a civilian support officer eating a Pot Noodle, the place was empty. Just rows of ratty tables and creaky chairs. A communal fridge. Sink. Tea-and-coffee-making facilities. A vending machine that was fifty-percent chocolate and fifty-percent crisps.

The shutters were down over the service hatch. No chips till lunchtime.

I dumped a teabag in a mug and flicked the kettle on to boil.

Pulled out my phone and called Jacobson.

No answer. No answer from Huntly either. Or Dr Constantine.

Typical.

Could try chasing Sabir up … but then he’d only whinge about it.

The kettle rumbled to a halt.

Of course, what I really needed was a bit of muscle on my side when I introduced Bob the Builder to Mrs Kerrigan — in a run-down corner of an industrial estate, with a dead mob accountant in the boot of a stolen car. Perhaps Babs would like a little extra cash to get Joseph and Francis out of the picture for a bit, no questions asked?

Yeah, that’d go down well.

Hi, Babs, fancy keeping a pair of vicious bastards busy while I shoot their boss in the face a couple of times? What’s that? You’re calling the police?

Francis and Joseph would just have to take their chances with Bob the Builder too.

Shame Shifty wasn’t here…

Teabag. Hot water. Milk in over the top.

The distant sound of shouting oozed in through the open canteen door. Muffled curses and not so muffled yells of pain.

Over by the microwave, the PC glanced back at the corridor then went on dancing with the microwave. No one gave a toss any more.

I stuck my tea on the table and limped out, cane thunking against the cracked terrazzo floor. The shouting was louder to the left, by the stairs. Four or five of them yelling at the top of their lungs.

‘Ayabastard!’

‘Don’t just stand there, you cabbage: get him!’

‘Sod off, you get him!’

‘Aaaargh! Oh Jesus that hurts!’

‘Come on, you big bastard, try- Unf…’

‘Shite, shite, shite…’

By the time I got to the bottom of the stairs, there were half a dozen of Oldcastle’s finest cowering against the corridor walls. Uniform and CID all pressing themselves into the battleship-grey paint. A Community Support Officer had his bum on the floor, one leg stretched out, a bloody hanky clamped to his nose.

The rest of them were staring at the door to the family room.

More swearing from inside.

‘Help me! Please, you can’t just- AAGGHH!’

I shoved past. ‘The hell is wrong with you people?’ Then wrenched open the door.

The comfy sofas were tipped over, the coffee table smashed to firewood, big dents in the plasterboard, the light fitting torn from the ceiling. Picture frames cracked, glass littering the dirty carpet. Curtains dangled from their broken pole — there wasn’t really a window behind it. The whole place was a fake.

A uniformed officer was slumped against the far wall, scarlet glistening across her top lip, mouth, and chin. Another’s leg poked out from behind one of the sofas. Two CID face down on the carpet.

Wee Free McFee stood in the remains of the shattered coffee table, blue V-necked jumper torn at the shoulder, white shirt collar smeared with blood. Both hands curled into fists. Breathing hard.

Two more uniforms charged him, both with their batons out.

The first got a fist in the face that lifted him right off his feet. The second slammed into Wee Free’s chest, knocking him back a couple of paces. Raised the baton ready to take his knees out from under him-

But Wee Free was fast. He grabbed the arm, wrenched it back, yanked the officer towards him then slammed his forehead into the guy’s nose.

A wet crack, a grunt, and the uniform’s legs gave way. Wee Free caught him by the stabproof vest before he could go too far and battered a knee into his groin.

Let go.

The poor sod crumpled to the floor.

Wee Free raised his head and glared at me. Tiny spots of red dotted his cheeks and moustache. Chest heaving. ‘You — said — they’d — find — her.’

I raised one hand, palm out. ‘OK, I need you to calm down. Can you do that for me, Mr McFee?’

‘It’s — all over — the papers — but — but this lot — they — wouldn’t — tell me shite.’ He howched, then spat on the back of one of the CID bodies. ‘Bastards.’

‘Right now, someone’s on their way down here from the armoury.’ I checked over my shoulder, where the cowering idiots were just visible through the open door. ‘Aren’t they?’

One of the officer’s eyes went wide then they scurried off.

Morons.

‘That what you want, Mr McFee? Spend the rest of the day with a bullet hole in you?’

His breathing was getting easier. Less violent. ‘Supposed to be a Family — Liaison officer. Wouldn’t — even talk — to me.’

The uniformed officer slumped against the wall twitched. Wee Free took two quick steps towards her, then kicked her in the stomach. ‘RAN AWAY LIKE I WAS SCUM!’

‘This isn’t helping, Mr McFee, this is making matters worse.’ I limped closer. ‘Come on, let’s you and me go sit down somewhere quiet and we can-’

A screeching wail burst into the room, high-pitched and jarring, like a ruptured car alarm. I froze. Sodding hell: the ankle bracelet. The family room was at the opposite end of the building from the conference suite, four floors apart. The only way I could get further away and still be in the same building would be the cell block in the basement.

Two hobbling steps back towards the door … and the noise didn’t stop.

Brilliant.

‘MR MCFEE, LISTEN VERY CAREFULLY, I NEED YOU TO LIE FACE DOWN ON THE FLOOR WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!’

‘MY JESSICA DESERVES-’

‘THEY WILL SHOOT YOU!’

He puffed out his chest. ‘I’LL BATTER THE BLOODY LOT OF THEM!’

‘DON’T BE A DICK!’ No point backing away, it wasn’t making any sodding difference to the volume. ‘NOW GET DOWN! ON THE FLOOR! NOW!’

The door thumped against the wall behind me and a couple of firearms officers burst into the room, all done up in their SAS-style kit, complete with crash helmets and black scarves so their faces couldn’t be seen.

They had their tasers out — the things looked like children’s toys: bright-yellow plastic body, neon-blue cartridge on the end.

About time.

I held a hand up. ‘IT’S OK, I’VE GOT THIS, I JUST NEED EVERYONE TO-’ And then the bastards shot me.