A Song for the Dying

35

She looked at me. ‘We’ve got a plan B?’

I popped the back off the handset I bought, fiddled the sim card out and replaced it with one of the spare ones. Then dialled the mobile number biroed on the back of Paul Manson’s photo. Got my notebook out.

‘What’s plan B?’

‘Shhh…’ I pointed at the phone.

A prim voice came on the other end. ‘Paul Manson, can I help you?’

Time to drag out the Glaswegian accent Michelle always hated. ‘Aye, hello. Greg here from Sparanet Vehicle Security. I’m sorry, Mr Manson, but the system’s thrown an automatic alert about your Porsche Nine-Eleven. Nothing to worry about, just routine.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Can you just confirm the car’s location? We’re showing it on Leith Walk in Edinburgh.’

‘What?’ Some scrunching noises. What sounded like a car door thunking shut. Then he was back. ‘It’s right here outside my office, you idiot. Not Edinburgh: Oldcastle.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m bloody sure, I’m sitting in it.’

‘Oh dear… Well, sorry to have bothered you, Mr Manson. Drive safely.’ I hung up. Dropped the accent. ‘He’s just leaving now.’

Alice crawled the Jag forward, until we were a couple of car lengths from the Barnett roundabout. ‘What if he gets away?’

I held up a finger. ‘Plan C: we turn up at the meeting empty-handed, pretend we’ve killed him, then kill everyone else before they kill Shifty.’

She looked as if she’d just swallowed something bitter. ‘I don’t-’

‘OK.’ Another finger. ‘Plan D: we track down Mrs Kerrigan and we kill her before she can kill us. Rescue Shifty. Then disappear off into the night before anyone comes looking for us. Get that house in Australia with a dog and a pool.’

Alice shifted in her seat, craning her neck to see past the people-carrier turning right at the roundabout. She put her foot down, swinging the Jaguar out into the flow. ‘Why do all your plans have killing in them?’

‘Because I doubt baking Mrs Kerrigan a cake is really going to cut it. You saw what she did to Shifty.’

She took the second exit, onto Darwin Street. ‘There has to be a way that nobody has to die… How about plan E: we get in touch with all of David’s friends in Oldcastle Division and we turn up mob-handed, I mean there’s no way Mrs Kerrigan would hurt him with all those police officers there, would she, we could arrest her, and we wouldn’t have to kill Paul Manson, and it’d be like…’ Alice frowned at me. ‘What?’

I tried not to laugh, I really did. ‘You heard her: who knows how much of CID is in Mrs Kerrigan’s pocket? Two years ago I could’ve spotted them. Now?’

‘But-’

‘The only person we can trust for sure is Shifty.’

Alice drove the stolen Jag right up behind the Volvo in front. ‘But… Manson’s a mob accountant, OK? What if we got him to give Queen’s evidence and he went into a witness protection programme or something like that?’

‘And rat out Andy Inglis? He’d be dead before the end of the week. Now back off a bit before we end up in their boot.’

Down Darwin and onto Fitzroy Road. Past the Polish delicatessen, the Tesco Metro, and the Italian where Marco Mancini got his throat cut in the walk-in chiller. Right onto Sullivan Street, the rain getting heavier with every turn.

Alice took one hand off the steering wheel and reached over to grab my hand. Squeezed. ‘He’s going to be OK, isn’t he?’

Bob the Builder grinned at me from the back seat.

Probably not.

I squeezed back. ‘Of course he is.’

Time for another call. I hit redial.

This time, when Manson picked up, the dark growl of the Porsche’s engine rumbled in the background. ‘Paul Manson, can I help you?’

Back on with the accent. ‘Aye, Greg from Sparanet Vehicle Security again, Mr Manson. Erm… Sorry to bother you, but we’re still showing your Nine-Eleven in Edinburgh, just turning onto Easter Road, near the cemetery? Are you sure-’

‘As far as I’m aware, Porsche didn’t fit my car with a bloody teleporter, so no, it’s not in bloody Edinburgh.’

‘Ah. Right. So where is it, exactly?’

‘Begby Street.’

I hit mute. Pointed at the junction coming up. ‘Right there. Then first left.’ Back to the phone as Alice did as she was told. ‘Are you positive? The GPS has definitely got you in Edinburgh, and-’

‘I know the difference between Oldcastle and bloody Edinburgh, you moron. Your system’s wrong!’

‘Oh…’ A little pause — look at me being contrite and incompetent. ‘So you’ve not just taken a right onto Albion Road?’

‘Albion… Are you mentally deficient? I told you: I’m on Begby, about to turn onto Larbert Avenue. There. I’m on Larbert now.’

Mute.

‘Take a left, past the off-licence.’

Alice did, and the Jag swung onto Larbert Avenue.

‘I’m sorry about this, Mr Manson, we take your vehicle’s security very seriously. Can you bear with me while I try to sort out the problem? You’re still on Larbert?’

‘Of course I bloody am.’

‘Heading north or south?’

‘South. I’m at the traffic lights with … Blackford Street?’

I sat up in my seat. Coming the other way was a silver Porsche, stopped at the lights so someone could hobble across the road: an old man bent almost double by the curve of his spine. The street was deserted except for that solitary hunched figure, and the rain hammered against his back and shoulders, dripped from the brim of his tweed bunnet. Punishing him for venturing out while everyone else stayed indoors.

From here it was impossible to tell who was behind the Porsche’s wheel — the windscreen was washed in the neon glow of a kebab shop, blocking out the interior — but the number plate matched. ‘Ah, right, excellent. I’ve got you. Thank you, Mr Manson. Drive safely.’

‘Moron.’ He hung up.

The lights changed and the Porsche accelerated towards us.

Alice swore, head swinging left and right. ‘We’ll have to turn round…’

Closer.

Now or never.

I reached across and grabbed the steering wheel — forced it right. The Jaguar swung across the dotted lines, then the off-side corner of the bonnet battered into the driver’s door of Manson’s Porsche. Metal screeched as the Jag gouged its way along the bodywork. Then lurched to a stop — the engine stalled.

‘Oh God…’ Alice turned in her seat and stared at me, her eyes wide and pink. ‘What did you do that for? You made me crash, how could you make-’

‘Not your car, remember?’

In the Porsche, Manson had his hands wrapped around his wheel, teeth bared, lips twitching around something bitter. Face going a shocking shade of pink.

Behind us, someone leaned on their horn.

‘Wind your window down and apologize to the nice man.’

She stared at me for another beat. ‘But I didn’t-’

‘Soon as you like.’

She screwed her face up, then buzzed down her window. The drowning hiss of the rain collapsed into the car, bringing a cold mist with it. Alice pressed a fist against her chest. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what got into me, are you OK?’

Another horn howled in the night. Then another…

Manson glared back at her. ‘WHAT THE BUGGERING WANK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?’ Spittle popped from his lips, gleaming in the headlights of the other vehicles.

Alice held up her hands. ‘I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry, I didn’t-’

‘MORON!’ He stabbed a finger at her. ‘BLOODY WOMEN DRIVERS, YOU’RE A MENACE!’

More horns joined the chorus.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, it was-’

‘DON’T JUST SIT THERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BLOODY ROAD! PULL IN — OVER THERE, NOW!’

I laid a hand on her arm. ‘Do what the nice man says.’

‘Oh God, oh God…’ It took three goes to start the Jag again, then she wrenched the wheel to the left. The car inched forward, tearing another tortured squeal of metal-on-metal from the Porsche’s flank.

‘YOU’RE MAKING IT WORSE, YOU BLOODY IDIOT!’

A ping, then a clang, and the Jaguar lurched free. Alice pulled into the kerb, outside a closed furniture shop. Turned off the engine. Slumped over the wheel. ‘Why would you do that?’

Headlights glittered in the dark shop windows as the traffic got moving again.

I undid her seatbelt. ‘You need to get out of the car.’

‘Ash, he’s… Oh dear.’

Manson marched across the road, both hands curled into fists, teeth bared in the downpour. Black overcoat sweeping out behind him like a cloak. He stopped by Alice’s door, twisted himself back a pace, then a dull metallic thunk sounded as he slammed his foot into it.

Alice squealed.

‘It’s OK, he’s not going to hurt you. All mouth and no trousers.’ I pulled a pair of blue nitrile gloves out of my investigation kit and snapped them on. ‘Out you go.’

‘Oh God…’ She fumbled with the door handle, took a deep breath, then stepped into the rain, hands out as she blinked up at him. ‘Look, I know you’re angry, but-’

‘ANGRY?’ Manson towered over her. Threw a hand back towards his Porsche. ‘THAT’S A BRAND NEW NINE-ELEVEN! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH I PAID FOR IT?’

‘It was an accident, I really didn’t-’

‘YOU’RE A MORON!’

I undid my seatbelt and climbed out. It was like getting into a cold shower — plastering my hair to my head, soaking right through my jacket.

On the plus side, there was no one on the pavement.

Traffic slowed as it passed, everyone having a good rubber-neck at the battered sports car. A massive dent cratered the driver’s door, the paintwork gouged down to the buckled metal all the way along to the spoiler.

No one seemed interested in the old Jag’s crumpled bonnet.

‘WHAT ARE YOU? YOU’RE A MORON!’

‘Please, I didn’t-’

‘A MORON!’

A Transit van crawled past, then a little Fiat.

I stepped off the kerb. Skirted the Jaguar’s boot.

‘PEOPLE LIKE YOU SHOULDN’T BE ALLOWED TO DRIVE!’

The brown envelope rustled as I fished one of the syringes out.

Alice backed away, onto the pavement. ‘I really think it’d be better if we could all just calm-’

‘DON’T YOU TELL ME TO CALM DOWN, YOU STUPID BITCH!’ He followed her, screaming in her face, waving his arms about. Water dripped from the hem of his overcoat, made his face shine. ‘YOU RUINED MY CAR!’

The orange-plastic tip popped off between my teeth.

‘YOU’LL BLOODY PAY FOR THAT, DO YOU HEAR ME?’

A quick squeeze and a tiny jet of clear liquid arced into the night.

‘Please, it was an accident, I didn’t-’

‘BRAND NEW PORSCHE NINE-ELEVEN AND YOU- ulk…’

I wrapped an arm around his throat and rammed the needle into the side of his neck, just below the ear. Squeezed the plunger down. Jammed my right knee into the small of his back and pulled him towards me — leaning against the Jag. Holding him up as his hands flapped, fingers scrabbling at the syringe.

Getting weaker.

And weaker.

And then his arms went limp, his knees sagged, head fell forwards.

‘Open the back door.’

Alice wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Ash, this isn’t-’

‘All you’ve got to do is get the door, no one’s going to see.’ Not with the car between us and them.

She scurried forward and pulled the Jaguar’s back door open.

I turned and tipped Manson in, so he was slumped in the footwell behind the seats. Shoved his knees up so his feet didn’t stick out. Took the tartan blanket from the back seat and draped it over him. Clunked the door shut.

‘Snug as a bug.’ Even standing right next to the car and staring down between the front and back seats, you’d never know he was there.

I waited for a break in the traffic, then limped across the road to the Porsche, pulled out the sticker I’d liberated from the traffic office and plastered it across the windscreen: ‘POLICE AWARE’. The thing could stay there for weeks now and all anyone would do is moan about what a lazy bunch of sods Oldcastle plod were.

Plan A was back on track again.