‘You know, there’s always hope. Remember Laura Strachan?’ Alice dug into her leather satchel and came out with a copy of the Castle News and Post. Held it out. It was the one from last week: ‘“CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!” BABY JOY ON THE WAY FOR INSIDE MAN VICTIM’. She placed it on Ruth’s lap. ‘The doctors said she could never have children, and now look at her: nearly eight months pregnant.’
Ruth blinked at the paper for a couple of breaths. Then there was a soft thump – like a tiny punch – and a droplet spread out in a ragged circle of grey into the newsprint. Then another. She sniffed. Picked the paper up and pressed it against her chest as if she could absorb the words through her jumper and into her scarred skin.
Alice put her hand back on Ruth’s knee. ‘You’ve not spoken to Laura since the attack, have you?’
She shook her head, cheeks glistening, a dribble of silver shining on her top lip.
‘Well, what would you think if I arranged for you to see her again? Would you like that? And, maybe, afterwards we could make you an appointment with the fertility clinic – see what they say?’
‘I can’t believe it…’ Ruth wiped a hand across her trembling lips.
Alice reached into her satchel again and produced a couple of tissues. Held them out. ‘Now, I’d like to talk about what happened eight years ago. Could we do that?’
She took the tissues in one hand, the other still hugging the paper, and bunched them against her eyes. Then nodded.
‘OK, so just you sit back in your seat and relax. And—’
‘What if I can’t remember?’
‘Well, I’ve got a technique that can help, if you’re OK with it? Is that OK?’
Another nod.
‘Great. So I need you to make yourself comfy and take a deep slow breath and take us back to that day.’ Alice’s voice dropped, just like it had in the secure ward that morning. ‘Picture the smells. The sounds. The noises as you wake up that morning.’ Lower and slower. ‘You’re lying in bed and you’re warm and comfortable, drowsy with sleep, your muscles all relaxed and warm and you’re so comfortable and warm and you’re safe and nothing can hurt you…’
… and then I’m standing in the corner of the room, crying while they wheel her out and down to the mortuary. She’s forty-nine but there’s nothing left but tumours and yellow skin stretched over jagged bones.
‘God’s sake, Ruth. Get it together, yeah? It happens.’ Andrea squats in front of the bedside cabinet and empties it into a cardboard box. Perfume, a fuzzy monkey, a toilet bag, supermarket moisturizer. The end of a life. ‘You going to help, or what?’
So I do. Not saying a word. Trying not to sniffle in case it sets her off again. And then we strip the sheets off the bed, remove the pillowcases, spray the plastic-shrouded mattress with disinfectant and wipe it clean.
She’s the fourth woman to die tonight. Two cancers, one septicaemia, and a pneumonia. All thin and rattling and alone.
The lift jerks and shudders, like it’s crying, all the way down to the locker room. Names and swearwords are scratched into the stainless-steel walls.
It’s the end of night shift, but I’m the only one here. Everyone else bunked off dead on time to stomp down to the Severed Leg in Logansferry for Janette’s leaving do. A dozen haggard, hollow-eyed women hammering cocktails at five in the morning.
But Janette’s never liked me, so here I am. Alone.
Up above – in the triangle between the main building, the admin block, and the old Victorian part where they keep the psychiatric patients – the sky’s thick and deep-deep purple, like when you trap your fingernail in a door.
The doctors’ car park is full of BMWs and Porsches, all covered with a crisp layer of white frost that sparkles in the glare of security lights, but the entrance to the underground bit they make us use is shrouded in darkness. Even with four nurses dead and two in intensive care, they still haven’t put up lights. Just a notice printed in thick red letters, ‘WARNING: LONE WOMEN SHOULD NOT ENTER PARKING AREA UNACCOMPANIED’.
Because that’s going to help.
Still, it’s not as if I have to worry about it – I don’t have the car with me today. Some bastard robbed it on Old Year’s Night and left it burning in a lay-by near Camburn Woods. Which makes getting to the twenty-four-hour Asda a pain, but there’s nothing in the fridge but Bacardi Breezers and olives. So I take a left, through the broken security gate, beneath the lifeless gaze of a security camera with the wires dangling from its blackened casing, and onto St Jasper’s Lane.
Half the streetlights are out. The cold air smells like pepper and lemons.
The pavement crunches beneath my feet. Little piles of grit make goose-pimple patterns on the slabs, dirtying the ice. I dig my hands into my pockets.
My breath mists out in front of me, pulled away on the wind like a ghost from my mouth.
Cross the road.
Should really go the long way round: past St Jasper’s, along to Cupar Road and down to the bus stop, but it’s much quicker to nip down Trembler’s Alley.
When I was at school – can’t have been more than six or seven – they told us the Earl of Montrose trapped the town council there, caught in the narrow slit between the granite church wall and the apothecary’s. His men butchered them like hogs and painted the walls with their blood. Mounted their heads above St Jasper’s door for everyone to see … I had nightmares for months.
I… They haven’t… The council hasn’t gritted the alley. Maybe it’s too narrow for the machine, or maybe they just can’t be bothered? It’s icy, slippery. Mounds of crunchy snow you have to pick your way through and try not to fall flat on your arse.
And it’s dark. Just a couple of lights for the whole length, and they can barely work up a faint glow.
And… And I’m halfway down…
Please…
‘It’s OK, Ruth, you’re safe, remember? You’re in bed and you’re warm and you’re comfortable. So very comfortable and safe and warm and nothing can happen to you, because you’re safe.’
And there’s a noise. Behind me. Crunching. Like feet.
Oh God, someone’s following me. There’s someone there.
Faster. Get away.
Oh God, oh God…
‘Ruth, it’s OK. Take a deep breath. We’re here. Nothing can happen to you, you’re safe and—’
It’s Him! He’s right behind me and I try to run, but the ground’s like glass beneath my feet and I slip and stagger and try to stay up. Get away, run away! RUN AWAY!
‘OK, Ruth, I need you to come back to us. It’s OK, we’re here, you’re—’
And the pavement rushes up and cracks across my knees and my arm goes out, but I can’t stop myself and my head smashes into the ice and everything smells of old pennies and meat, and I’m crying and I can’t get up and he’s on top of me pressing me into the snow and there’s something over my mouth. Hot breath in my ear, sour like sick. Stubble rasps against my cheek. His hand grabs my belt, undoing it… Fingers jabbing into the zip of my jeans. Yanking them down. Grunting.
Please, don’t. No. Someone help me!
HELP ME!
‘Ash, slap her. Not too hard! Just a gentle—’
‘You hit her. I’m not—’
HELP ME!
Alice lurched out of her seat and whipped an open palm across Ruth’s cheek, hard enough to snap her head to the side. Hard enough to stop her screaming. Hard enough to leave a perfect five-fingered print on her tear-streaked face.
Then Alice was on her knees, pulling Ruth into a hug. ‘It’s OK, it’s OK. Shhh… You’re OK. We’re here. Nobody’s going to hurt you.’
Ruth’s shoulders shook, vibrating in time with her howling sobs.
‘It’s OK, it’s OK…’
I stepped back, the tips of my ears burning. Looked away – out of the window and down at the street below. At Alice’s rattled Suzuki. At the three-legged dog tripoding its way down the pavement in f
ront of a T-shirt-wearing skinhead. At a pair of vulture-sized seagulls tearing into a mound of black bin-bags. Up at the blood-streaked spire of the First National Celtic Church. Anywhere that wasn’t Ruth.
Anywhere that wasn’t pain and suffering and my bloody fault.
A harsh buzz trembled in my pocket, followed a moment later by a high-pitched ringing. I snatched out the phone that came in my investigation pack. Pressed the green button. Swallowed. ‘Henderson.’
Shifty’s voice rattled out of the earpiece. ‘Ash? You need to get your arse—’
‘Hold on.’ I put my hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Sorry, I have to take this.’ Yes, it was cowardly, but at least I wouldn’t be just standing there, wallowing in Ruth Laughlin’s pain…
Yeah, because it was her fault I’d let the Inside Man get away. Her fault that he’d gone after her. Way to be a prick, Ash. Great work.
I slipped out into the hall.
Must’ve been one o’clock, because the church bells chimed out their warm-up peal, followed by a single massive note. Dark and hollow.
‘Ash? You there?’
‘Have you got that address for Laura Strachan yet?’
‘Doesn’t matter where you are, or what you’re doing – you want to get over to… Hold on…’ His voice became muffled. ‘Where are we?’ Then back to full strength again. ‘Wishart Avenue. It’s behind the—’
‘I know where it is. Why?’
‘The Inside Man strikes again.’
17
Wishart Avenue made a redbrick arc between the condemned bingo hall on Mark Lane and the vacant business centre on Downes Street. It’d been residential once. Then shops. And now it was a gallery for badly spelled graffiti tags.
Most of the terrace was boarded up, thick sheets of plywood bloated with rainwater and swelling beneath the spraypaint. The handful of houses that were still occupied had steel front doors and bars on the windows. Puddles dotted the potholed tarmac.
Alice stayed close, her little collapsible brolly held over us both. ‘Did you know Ruth was raped, I didn’t know she was raped, why wasn’t there anything in the file about him raping his victims?’
‘We didn’t know.’ I sidestepped a pool of greasy water, the surface rippled by rain and rainbowed with diesel. ‘Ruth didn’t say anything about it when we questioned her eight years ago. Nor did Laura, or Marie… Though to be fair, we didn’t really get much out of Marie full stop. Not with the brain damage.’ I gave Alice a nudge with my shoulder. ‘You’re the only one who’s managed to get the truth out of Ruth.’
That got me a smile and a blush.
A white Scenes Examination Branch marquee sat two-thirds of the way down the road, in front of an alley through to Henson Row. A double layer of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape cut the street in half, a white Transit van and two patrol cars blocking either end.
Two figures stood in front of the tape barrier: Shifty in his cheap black suit – scowling beneath a red-and-green golf umbrella – and a short man in a waxed jacket and trainers. Baseball cap on his head, hands deep in his pockets. Shoulders up against the rain.
He squinted at us as Shifty pulled the tape up so Alice and I could duck under.
‘Ash Henderson? Dear Lord, when’d they let you out?’ The wee man grinned, stuck out his hand… Then used it to give his baseball cap a tweak when I didn’t shake it. ‘Good to see you. Sorry to hear about your daughter.’ He pointed at Alice. ‘Who’s this lovely creature?’ He gave her a little bow. ‘Russell Kirkpatrick, Castle News and Post, old friend of Ash’s. So you’re here about the murder?’
Alice opened her mouth, but I got in first. ‘Don’t say anything: he’s fishing. No comment, Russell.’
His face drooped. ‘Come on, Ash, be fair. No one else’s got wind of this yet – bottle of Glenfiddich if you help me out?’
‘It’s a blackout, Russell. No one’s talking.’
‘It’s not Charlie Pearce’s body, is it? Off the record?’
‘Bye, Russell.’
Shifty lowered the cordon and hurried after us. ‘So, you guys are up for a curry tonight? I’ll pick up a takeaway if you get the beers in.’
Russell’s voice echoed out behind us. ‘Bottle of whisky and a ticket to the Aberdeen–Dundee match. Corporate box!’
No chance.
As soon as we were out of earshot, Shifty made a big show of patting down his pockets. ‘Damn. Alice, any chance I can grab Ash for a minute?’
A small crease appeared between her eyebrows, then she nodded.
He gave Alice the umbrella. ‘Just be a minute.’
We stood there, in the rain while she walked off towards the SEB tent.
Shifty gave it a couple of beats then leaned in, his voice low and garlicky. ‘I’ve been onto my mate with the boat – you might need to hole-up in Fraserburgh for a couple of days, but you’ll be in Norway by the weekend. And Biro Billy says he can have the passport ready tomorrow, but he needs a headshot. Mobile phone won’t do: needs to be one of those approved photo-booth jobs.’
‘What was all that business with the pockets?’
Shifty shrugged. ‘Thought it’d be more convincing if it looked like I’d lost something.’ He nodded towards Alice as she reached the SEB marquee. ‘You taking her with you?’
I stood there, in the rain, mouth open for a bit. Hadn’t thought about that. If I sodded off to Norway on my own, Mrs Kerrigan’s goons would go after Alice sooner or later. And they wouldn’t care if she had nothing to do with the death or not, someone would have to pay.
Shifty could take care of himself, but Alice?
No way I was letting that happen.
I cleared my throat. ‘She’ll be safer with me.’
His face scrunched up on one side, the eyes narrowed. ‘Might be difficult. You know: abandoning her career and all that.’
Sodding hell. ‘It’d only be a couple of years.’
She’d understand, wouldn’t she?
One of Superintendent Knight’s team poked his head out of the SEB tent. Looked around until he was staring straight at Alice. Frowned. He stepped out into the road. Middling height with a slight paunch bulging the checked shirt out over his suit trousers. He bared his top teeth. Ran a hand along his monk’s tonsure. ‘DI Morrow, what’s this civilian doing here?’
I marched over. ‘What do you think, you baldy wee—’
‘Actually,’ Alice pulled out her widest smile, ‘we’re all on the same team really, aren’t we, I mean it’s not about jurisdiction or brownie points, is it, it’s about catching this guy before he has a chance to hurt anyone else, and my name’s Dr McDonald, but you can call me Alice if you like, what’s your name?’
He backed up a couple of steps, until he was right against the SEB tent. ‘Err… Nigel… No, erm … Detective Constable Terry.’
‘Nigel Terry, wow, that’s super, was it strange growing up with two first names, or did you not let that bother you, I know it can really undermine a person’s confidence if people keep getting their name wrong, I mean everyone probably gets confused and ends up calling you Terry, don’t they, and that’s got to feel really rude, so who’s running the scene?’
‘It… We… Em… I am?’
‘That’s just great, so if you’d like to sign us in we’ll take a look and then we can all get together and talk it through, is that OK, Nigel?’
‘But… Yes?’
‘Super.’
We scribbled our names into the log and stepped into the tent. Inside, the air was muggy and a good ten degrees warmer than outside, thick with the familiar smell of SEB marquee. A mix of Pot Noodle, coffee, and last night in the pub – sweated out into a white Tyvek suit and left to percolate for a couple of hours as they worked the scene in their own private saunas.
A couple of the SEB techs stood by a folding table, oversuits peeled off to the waist, chugging bottles of water. Steam rose from their shoulders in oily ribbons.
&
nbsp; One turned and puffed out her cheeks at me. ‘Hope you’re not expecting anything exciting.’ She pointed towards a flap at the back of the tent. ‘We’ve got one alley and one handbag. It’s not exactly Gone with the Wind.’
‘Is that all?’ Alice stood on her tiptoes and peered at the flap. ‘Why isn’t there a body, I thought there’d be a body, if there’s no body then how do they know it’s the Inside Man?’
The tech raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
I grabbed a couple of bagged Tyvek suits and handed one to Alice. Tore my own from its forensic sheath. ‘He leaves a calling card. First couple of times we missed it, but it’s always there.’
‘A calling card? Why wasn’t it—’
‘Suit up. You’ll see.’ I struggled my shoes through the suit’s legs, leaning on Shifty for balance. ‘You’ve done a sweep for DNA?’
The tech nodded. ‘Well, stickytaped the bit around the bag and the baby.’
I got my arms in and shrugged the oversuit over my shoulders. Zipped it up. ‘Any semen?’
A snort. ‘You’re kidding, right? Wishart Avenue is a Mecca for young lovers. Long as you’ve got the cash, or a wrapper of brown.’
I pulled up my hood. Grabbed an oversized evidence bag. ‘Just go back and look, OK?’ The cane went into the evidence bag, held on with a couple of elastic bands. One more to fix a blue plastic bootie over the rubber tip. Bit makeshift, but it’d work.
Alice hopped on one leg, the other tangled in her suit. ‘We just found out that he raped Ruth Laughlin before he abducted her, so he probably did it to the other victims too.’
‘He did?’ The tech’s face soured. ‘Great. Thanks for that.’ She turned and hauled back the tent flap. ‘HOY, RONNIE: DO A SWEEP FOR PUBES AND SPUNK! OUR BOY’S A FIDDLER.’
Alice hauled on the suit and did up the zip. ‘He’s unlikely to wear a condom, given the fact it’s all about putting a baby in the victims’ tummies, and why isn’t the calling card in the case files, how am I supposed to produce coherent behavioural evidence analysis if I don’t have all the facts, it’s—’
‘It’s not in the file because of Sarah Creegan. Now, get your gloves and booties on and let’s go take a look.’
A Song for the Dying Page 14