Rain drummed on the car roof, almost loud enough to drown out the blowers going full pelt.
‘Right.’ She straightened up. Stuck a hand through the open window for shaking. ‘Thanks. At least now we can make sure she gets banged up where she belongs.’ Then Nenova turned on her heel and stomped back to her own car.
The Vauxhall’s headlights snapped on as it pulled away from the kerb – Cunningham glaring at us from the back seat. I returned to the phone. ‘You hear that?’
On the other end, Jacobson sounded as if he was chewing on something. ‘That you’ve been impersonating a police officer? No, not a word.’
‘According to Cunningham, the hospital allocated Jessica McFee as her midwife. Cunningham gets a call asking questions about Jessica from the very same phone box where Claire Young’s body is dumped three days later.’
‘And?’
‘Perhaps Virginia Cunningham isn’t the only one he called for info. Get Sabir a list of everyone on Jessica McFee’s books. Then stick Cooper on finding out if any of them got phone calls too. Do the same with the parents of Claire Young’s patients. Alice thinks the Inside Man’s checking to see if they’ll be good with children – good mothers.’
There was a pause.
Alice turned in her seat. ‘Tell him we’re going to drop Barbara back at the train station.’
Sitting next to her, Babs shook her head. ‘Oh no you don’t. I got a night in a hotel coming to me, and a brown envelope stuffed with cash. Dinner would be nice too.’
‘Jacobson, you there?’
‘Now would you care to explain why, exactly, you didn’t bother to keep me informed about what you were up to?’
‘You want me to bring you problems or solutions?’
‘They teach you that on some management course?’
‘Here’s one for you: how did the Inside Man know Jessica McFee was Cunningham’s midwife? Where did he get her telephone number?’
There was a pause, then, ‘Ah…’
‘Claire Young was in paediatrics. Jessica McFee is a midwife. Shall we play join the dots?’
‘This is it?’ Babs stood on the pavement, rucksack in hand, looking up at the Travelodge on Greenwood Street. ‘Really?’
I shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me, I didn’t book it.’
‘Supposed to be swanky…’
Behind us, the diesel rattle of black-cab taxis mingled with safety announcements about not leaving your luggage unattended or it’d be taken away and destroyed. The rumble of a train pulling out of the station.
‘If you’re hungry, they do a decent fry-up.’
She hefted the rucksack over her shoulder. ‘Cheapskate police scumbags…’ Then lumbered in through the automatic doors. ‘Better be a double room.’
I got back in the car and on the phone. Checked in with Shifty. ‘You got that info I was asking for?’
‘Did you really do an illegal search of that paedo’s house?’
‘Don’t need a warrant if you’re a private citizen, Shifty. No way it’s getting thrown out of court.’
‘There’s a wee ned owes me a couple of favours. Meeting him in an hour to go over what kind of security She Who Must Not Be Named’s got. My money’s on big dogs and barbed wire. How about you?’
Bob the Builder smiled up at me from the back seat, yellow spanner in hand. ‘We can fix that.’
‘Only problem is: we’re screwed for tonight. My bloke says she’s away through to Edinburgh for some charity boxing thing. Not back till tomorrow.’
Sodding hell…
Still nothing we could really do about it. If she wasn’t here, she wasn’t here. ‘OK, I’ve had enough of big dogs for one day anyway.’
Alice tugged at my sleeve. ‘Is David still getting the curry, or do we need to pick it up on the way home?’
‘We’re not going home.’ Back to the phone. ‘We’ve got a couple of things to take care of. You can let yourself in. And Shifty…?’
‘What?’
‘A decent curry, OK? The Punjabi Castle, not some dodgy rathole.’
It was after eight by the time we pulled into Camburn View Crescent. The housing estate curled around us like a brick cyclone: identical houses with identical front gardens and identical 4×4s in their identical driveways, all lit by identical lampposts that turned the rain into shimmering droplets of amber. The trees of Camburn Woods were thick silhouettes behind the houses. Solid black clouds, lurking in the darkness.
Ruth leaned forward in the passenger seat, staring out through the windscreen wiper’s arcs. ‘I can’t…’
Alice smiled at her. ‘Just picture yourself standing in the sunshine, like we practised. Feel its warmth seeping all the way down to your bones. Comfortable. Calm. Relaxed.’
Ruth shifted in her seat, fingers trembling on the black-plastic dashboard. ‘Maybe we should just go home…?’
I put a hand on her shoulder and she flinched. ‘It’ll be OK. You were friends, remember?’
‘It’s just… I don’t know her any more…’
‘You’ll be fine. Comfortable. Calm. Relaxed.’ Alice climbed out into the night. Then after a beat, Ruth did too, leaving me to struggle with the seat.
Finally, I found the little lever – folded the thing forward, clambered over it and onto the street. Scents of woodsmoke and sulphur drifted on the damp air, underpinned with something musky. Wet soil and rotting leaves.
Rain seeped through my hair, cold and damp, trickled down the back of my neck.
Ruth sidled closer to Alice, then fumbled for her hand. Holding it like a small child afraid of getting lost.
‘Comfortable. Calm. Relaxed.’
‘OK…’
I followed them up the driveway, past the chunky oversized Mini, to the front door. Leaned on the bell.
No answer. So I tried again.
Ruth fidgeted, her breath a cloud of pale grey. ‘She’s changed her mind, she doesn’t want to speak to us…’
‘Trust me.’ One more go.
Finally, the door cracked open a couple of inches and a man peered out. Short auburn hair, round cheeks, pale eyebrows above a pair of twitchy eyes. He looked Alice up and down, as if he was trying to memorize her. ‘Are you …’ He’d moved on to Ruth. Stood there with his mouth hanging open.
‘You remember Miss Laughlin.’ I pointed at her. ‘She was Laura’s flatmate.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Good God… Ruth?’
What was probably meant to be a smile flickered on and off. ‘Hello, Christopher.’
‘Bloody hell…’ Some blinking. Then he opened the door all the way and stepped out into the rain. Hugged her.
Her arms stayed at her sides.
‘How are you? God it’s been years.’ More blinking. ‘You … come in, please, God, I’m sorry. Standing out here in the rain. We’ll… I’m sure Laura’s dying to see you.’
He ushered Ruth inside, stood back to let Alice in, then closed the door behind me. ‘I’m sorry, we have to be careful.’ A shrug. ‘Journalists. Excuse me…’ He squeezed past the three of us. ‘Can you all just wait here a minute. I need to make sure Laura’s OK. She can be a bit… With the pregnancy.’ Christopher scurried off down the hall, and through a door into what looked like a kitchen, shutting it behind him.
Ruth twitched. ‘What if she throws us out? What if she never wants—’
‘Feel the warm sun on your face. Comfortable. Calm. Relaxed.’
Silence.
The hallway was anonymous, plain cream-coloured walls and laminate flooring, a single bland landscape painting screwed to the wall. As if it was a hotel room.
The kitchen door opened again. ‘Come in, come in… I’ve got the kettle on.’
Christopher backed out of the way and Ruth crept her way into the room. We gave it a beat, then followed her.
A heavily pregnant woman stood at the sink, peeling potatoes. Her bright-copper curls were tied back in a frizzy po
nytail that reached halfway down her smock top. Laura Strachan looked over her shoulder. Didn’t smile. ‘The bloody media’s been hounding us ever since that scumbag got hold of my medical records. What bloody good was Leveson? Answer me that.’ She hurled a naked potato into a pot, and a dollop of water splashed out onto the working surface. ‘Can’t even stay in our own home any more, it’s like a siege – cameras and microphones and journalists everywhere.’
Christopher opened a cupboard and fetched out some mugs. ‘Well, we could always take Hello! up on their—’
Laura Strachan’s face soured. ‘We’re not talking about this again.’
‘Wouldn’t hurt to think about it, that’s all I’m saying. Sooner or later someone’s going to find us and the photos’ll be all over the papers anyway. At least this way we’d have some control.’
Ruth looked about two sizes smaller than she had in the car – all hunched over, her hands worked into knots against her chest. ‘Laura, I…’ She stared at her feet. ‘I’m sorry.’
Another potato got hurled into the pot. ‘I was going to come see you, in hospital, but they said you weren’t up to visitors. Said you tried to kill yourself in the loony bin. Said you’d gone mental.’
Ruth’s mouth goldfished for a moment. ‘I… It…’
Alice put a hand on her arm. ‘Everyone copes with stress differently.’
She looked away. ‘I knew this was a mistake. I’m sorry, I’ll go.’
‘Sweetheart, God, come on.’ Christopher rubbed at Laura’s shoulders. ‘Bet it’s taken a lot for Ruth to come here, after what she’s been through. You don’t have to be…’ He cleared his throat. Turned. Opened the fridge. ‘Who takes milk?’
‘I don’t have to be what? A bitch? A cow? Come on, Christopher, what don’t I have to be?’
Ruth rubbed a palm across her eyes. ‘I should never have come.’
I stepped up. ‘This was important to Ruth. She thought you were her friend.’
Laura glared at me. ‘She tried to kill herself and leave me on my own! Do you have any idea what that feels like?’
I just stared back.
She dumped the potato peeler in the sink, then turned and pulled up her smock, exposing her swollen belly. ‘Look at me!’
Had to be what: four, six weeks to go? She was massive.
A puckered line of scar tissue reached from about a hand’s-width below the line of her greying bra to somewhere below the waist of her elasticated trousers. A shorter scar crossed it at a right angle, a third of the way down – the angry pink lines stretched taut and shiny by the child growing inside her.
The kettle rumbled to a boil, then clicked itself off in the silence.
Then Ruth unbuttoned her padded jacket. Pulled up her sweatshirt. Did the same with the blue T-shirt underneath, showing off her identical cruciform scar.
The two women nodded, then lowered their tops, connected by an unenviable bond: members of an exclusive and horrible club.
Laura picked up the potato peeler again. ‘Christopher, take the others through to the lounge. Ruth and I have stuff to talk about.’
24
‘Thank you for organizing that.’ Alice turned the key in the ignition.
Sitting in the back seat, I shrugged, then deleted Shifty’s text message about not forgetting to pick up some beer. ‘Ruth deserves better than she got.’ Promising career slashed short by some scumbag with a scalpel, a private operating theatre, and a thing for torturing nurses.
The windscreen wipers squeaked back and forth in slow-motion arcs, clearing away the drizzle. Outside, the door to number thirteen opened, spilling warm light across the driveway. Ruth and Laura hugged, the physical contact looking awkward as they tried to accommodate the pregnant bulge. Then some laughter. A kiss on the cheek. And Ruth walked towards the car, pausing twice to look back over her shoulder.
Alice smiled at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘What if people found out you weren’t the scary grumpy old horror you pretend to be?’
‘Less of the cheek.’
Ruth clunked open the passenger door and climbed in. Wiped her shining cheeks. ‘Thank you.’
Alice pulled away from the kerb, skirting Camburn Woods, heading back towards Cowskillin while Ruth babbled about how great it was to see Laura again and how they were best of friends and wasn’t it wonderful about the baby and there was hope for everyone when you thought about it and wasn’t it lovely…
My phone went while we were negotiating the Doyle roundabout: Professor Huntly.
‘What?’
‘Ah, Mr Henderson, tell me, are you planning on gracing us with your presence at the Postman’s Head this evening?’
‘What do you want, Huntly?’
‘It’s traditional for the team to get together to discuss the day’s adventures. It’s how we keep abreast of developments.’
Great – an extra couple of hours listening to everyone droning on about how little they’d actually managed to achieve today. Perfect.
And there was no way I could just skip it… Was there?
Worth a go.
‘Is Jacobson there?’
‘Hold on.’
The City Stadium drifted by on our right. Dark and barren. Someone had strung up a couple of bed sheets from the metal superstructure. ‘BRING BACK THE WARRIES!’ and ‘SUPPORT FOOTBALL NOT CUTS!’ daubed in blood-red paint. They’d obviously been there for a while – the fabric grimy and tattered, frayed at the edges by the wind.
Ruth just stared out of the window, a big soppy smile on her face.
Jacobson came on the line, sounding as if he was in the middle of chewing something. ‘Ash?’
‘Yeah, this team meeting – any chance I can give it a miss? I got a sawn-off shotgun’s worth of rocksalt in my ribs at Wee Free’s place. Every time I breathe it’s like being stabbed. Need to go home and soak in the bath before I seize up completely.’
‘He shot you?’
‘No, Babs did. But to be fair, Wee Free’s dogs were trying to tear my throat out at the time.’
‘I see…’ A sigh. ‘Well, if you’ve been in the wars, I dare say we can probably manage in your absence.’
‘Sorry.’ Show willing. Don’t give him any excuse to send you back. ‘Anyway, do you want to give me an update? Let me know where we’re at?’
Jacobson’s voice got all echoey, as if he’d turned away from the phone. ‘Bernard? Bring Mr Henderson up to speed. He’s not joining us tonight.’
A rustling clunk, and Huntly was back. ‘Well, while you’ve been off larking around I, as usual, have been a superstar. That syringe I found contained Labetalol Hydrochloride, it’s a beta-blocker frequently used to treat hypertension in pregnant women. Lowers the blood pressure. Just the ticket if you’re planning on hacking someone open, but aren’t too keen on them bleeding to death. Not exactly widely available at your local Boots the Chemists.’
He found it?
‘What does Doc Constantine say about the PM?’
‘I could give you the full medical details, but I doubt you’d understand them, so we’ll try the CBeebies version. Claire—’
‘You think I won’t kick your arse, don’t you? First thing tomorrow morning you and I are going to have a wee chat, you pompous little prick.’ Just because I had to keep in with Jacobson it didn’t mean everyone else got a free pass.
‘Ah… Well, perhaps I did misjudge your sense of humour there.’
‘Post mortem.’
‘Sheila says Claire’s got four cracked ribs and bruising consistent with an extended period of CPR: Tim really didn’t want to let her go. Her last meal was a bacon cheeseburger with fries and pickles and some sort of maize-based crisps? Followed by chocolate cake. Consumed sixteen hours before she died.’
The spire of the First National Celtic Church rose above the surrounding houses, scratching at the burnt-orange sky. Ruth wrapped her arms around herself and let out a long sigh, as if she’d be
en holding something in for years and finally let it go.
All that hurt and pain…
I frowned at my reflection. ‘Who the hell is Tim?’
‘That’s what we’re calling him now. T.I.M. The Inside Man. Tim. Sixteen hours means he’s probably waiting for the food to clear their stomachs so they don’t choke on their own vomit under the anaesthetic.’
Bacon cheeseburger with crisps. No prizes for guessing where her last meal came from. A little nugget to keep in my pocket until it was time to throw Jacobson a treat. Look, Detective Superintendent, I have been working after all, not just killing time till I could do the same to Mrs Kerrigan.
‘Sheila also compared the stitches from Claire Young and the young woman they’ve still got in storage from the first time.’
‘Natalie May.’
‘In Sheila’s opinion they’re similar enough to assume they were made by the same person. The only difference is that the newer set are rougher than the ones holding Natalie together. She thinks whoever’s doing the stitching is out of practice. And whilst Sheila is frequently a barb in my flesh and a pain in my posterior, I will, reluctantly, accept that she’s a damn fine pathologist.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Just never tell her I said that.’
There wasn’t a single person on the streets, just parked cars and empty windows. ‘What about CCTV?’
‘Bear got them to pull the Closed-Circuit Television footage all the way along Jessica McFee’s route to work. Cooper’s about halfway through. So far all he’s done is whine about it. The boy’s quite useless.’
‘Well tell him to get his finger out. This isn’t playschool. And make sure Jacobson gets Sabir access to the HOLMES data too.’
‘And while we’re on the subject of useless, did you really ask Bear to see if they did rape kits on the previous victims?’
Alice pulled onto First Church Road, slowing to let a rogue Alsatian lope across the street, tail down as it disappeared between two parked cars.
‘Far be it from me to rain on your parade, Mr Henderson, but even a basic grasp of biological science should tell you that semen doesn’t remain viable in the female body for long. These women are abducted three to five days before they’re dumped, they’re all washed and the incision site cleaned down with chlorhexidine prior to their operations. So unless you’re suggesting he goes to all that trouble to keep things sterile, carries out major surgery, then clambers on-board for a quickie before calling the ambulance, a rape kit isn’t going to pick up much, is it?’
A Song for the Dying Page 20