A Song for the Dying

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘… car park at Moncuir Wood from eight this morning. In other news, a source close to Operation Tigerbalm, investigating the death of Claire Young, has revealed that the Inside Man has abducted another victim. Jessica McFee, a midwife at Castle Hill Infirmary, was snatched on her way to work yesterday…’

  ‘Good work, guys.’ Oldcastle CID didn’t so much leak information as haemorrhage the bloody stuff.

  ‘… declined to be interviewed, but Police Scotland issued the following statement…’

  Blah, blah, blah.

  It took a bit of effort, but I managed to lever myself upright, hissing and groaning all the way. Breakfast first, then a quick shower, then off to the Postman’s Head to let Jacobson know about Claire Young’s last meal. Maybe go interview Jessica McFee’s colleagues after that – ask if anyone had seen anything suspicious, anyone hanging about.

  Keep myself busy until it was time to bid Mrs Kerrigan a hollowpoint farewell. Right between the eyes.

  I struggled my way into a fresh set of clothes, unlocked the bedroom door, and limped out into the corridor.

  Yesterday there had been singing and showering, today there was silence.

  In the lounge, Shifty was hunched over, sitting on the edge of the inflatable mattress, his weight buckling it out shape. He had the duvet wrapped around his middle, fat fingers fumbling with the skin on his flushed cheeks, bags under his eyes.

  He grunted something, then scrubbed his face with his hands.

  ‘What, no cheery chappy coffee-making today?’

  ‘Urnnng…’

  The kitchen was awash with takeaway refuse, empty bottles and little scrunched-up tins of tonic. I stuck the kettle on and dragged out some mugs. ‘How does three in the morning sound?’

  ‘Urnnnng…’

  ‘Can’t decide if I want to take my time, or make it last.’ Stuck my head back into the lounge. ‘You ever tortured someone?’

  He hadn’t moved. ‘Why did you let me drink all that gin?’

  ‘Probably quite messy, but I’ve got that tarpaulin.’ A frown. ‘Mind you, you’d have to be pretty sick, wouldn’t you? It’s different if you need to get information out of someone, but doing it for the sake of it…’ Perhaps a couple of bullets in the head would be the safest thing after all. No need to drop to her level. Just as long as she ended up dead.

  But still…

  Shifty’s mouth split open in a yawn, then he shuddered. Sagged even more than his mattress. ‘You wimping out on me?’

  ‘Am I hell.’

  Back to the kitchen.

  The fridge was full of half-empty takeaway containers, the untouched bag of salad and the five bottles of alcohol-free lager I didn’t drink. No milk. Or anything else that wasn’t curry-related. And lamb Rogan Josh wasn’t exactly an enticing prospect for breakfast.

  I clunked the fridge shut again. ‘Shifty, fancy picking up some bread and milk?’

  ‘Can’t. Shave. Then shower. Then death.’ He flopped back, bare hairy legs sticking out from under the duvet. ‘Urgh…’

  Fine.

  Alice shuffled along beside me, eyes two bloodshot slits in her waxy face. Nose and ears heading from pink to red. ‘I’m not well…’ The words came out in a pale cloud of breath – last night’s onions and garlic and chillies mingling with the icy air.

  ‘Bit of exercise will do you a world of good then, won’t it?’

  The street glittered in the darkness – a dusting of frost catching the streetlights’ baleful glow. Glinting on the windscreens of parked cars. Above us, the sky was a patchwork of black and dirty orange, the approaching dawn just a smear of pale grey on the horizon.

  She dug her hands deeper into her pockets. ‘Cold…’

  ‘Did you think any more about it? You know, Australia?’

  ‘I think my brain died.’ She sniffed. ‘David’s a bad influence.’

  Up ahead, Mr Mujib’s Corner Emporium shone like a grimy beacon on the darkened street. Not quite half six yet, and the shop’s lights blazed in their wire cages. Bars covered the poster-filled windows, but the metal shutter over the door was up.

  I paused on the threshold. ‘Only I might have to leave sooner than I thought.’

  Inside it smelled of furniture polish and washing powder, mingling with the sweet earthy scent of rolling tobacco. The place was lined with shelves, covered in tins and packets and sachets and bottles and jars. Sweets in a big display by the lottery tickets, opposite the newspapers and soft-porn lads’ mags.

  A radio sat up on a shelf behind the counter, some greasy politician on the Today programme banging on about the latest round of cuts.

  Alice stared at me. ‘But we haven’t caught him yet…’

  ‘It’s complicated, OK?’ A large glass-fronted fridge growled away to itself between the bread and the household goods. I cracked it open and grabbed a pack of smoked streaky, a pat of butter, and two pints of milk. ‘You know what Mrs Kerrigan’s like. She’s been screwing with me for the last two years, do you think she’s happy I’ve got out?’

  ‘But Jessica McFee…?’

  ‘That’s what her thugs were doing outside the mortuary yesterday: threatening me.’ A loaf of sliced white from the rack by the fridge and a packet of tattie scones. ‘It’s no fun for her if I get away.’

  Alice reached out and held my sleeve. ‘We can’t just abandon Jessica.’

  ‘Jessica’s…’ Two steps away, then back again. ‘I don’t like it any more than you, but what am I supposed to do? Wait for her to come find me?’ Turned my back. Tin of beans, carton of eggs.

  ‘We can find her, I know we can.’

  Sigh. ‘We couldn’t catch the Inside Man eight years ago, what makes you think we can do it now?’ I placed the shopping on the counter, by the newspapers.

  The Castle News and Post had ‘LOCAL MIDWIFE NABBED BY SERIAL SICKO’ plastered across its front page above a photo of Jessica McFee.

  I rapped out a couple of beats on the wood with the head of my cane. ‘Shop! Mr Mujib? Hello?’

  Alice was tugging at my sleeve again. ‘Please?’

  Oh for God’s sake… I folded forward until my head rested on the counter. ‘It’s not the movies. Sometimes the bad guy gets away.’

  A rough voice sounded on the other side. ‘What?’

  When I looked up, a tall thin man was standing in front of me. Greying hair clung to either side of his head, skin the colour of curdled yoghurt – stained by a red patch on one cheek. A line of purple hooked at the corner of his left eye, the beginning of a proper shiner.

  ‘Where’s Mr Mujib?’

  ‘Cancer. Now do you want this stuff, or don’t you?’

  I brought my chin up. ‘You got a problem?’

  ‘Me? No. Why would I have a problem? Not like I’ve been ripped off again, is it?’ He totted up the total, lips moving as he counted. ‘And the bloody police are a joke, aren’t they? How am I supposed to run a business when scumbag crooks can just walk in here and demand protection money?’

  I handed over the cash and he thumped my change down on the counter.

  ‘Bloody city’s a disgrace.’

  Couldn’t argue with that.

  We took our shopping and headed back out into the pre-dawn chill.

  Alice scuffed along the pavement in silence, clutching the bacon, eggs, and milk to her chest.

  ‘I’m sorry, OK? I know it’s…’ I stopped. ‘She killed my brother. She kept me in prison. She even arranged this.’ I circled the tip of my cane over the top of my aching foot. ‘If I hang around for too long, she’s going to get bored and send someone after me.’

  ‘Can’t we, I don’t know, get her arrested or something?’

  I limped around the corner, back onto Ladburn Street. ‘She’s got Andy Inglis behind her, she’s not going to stay banged up for long. And when she gets out she’ll come right after us, worse than before.’

  Light blazed from our flat windows
– it was the only one lit up on the whole street. Obviously no one else had to be awake at seven on a Tuesday morning.

  Alice passed me the bacon and beans so she could rummage for her keys. ‘Then we have to find something that she can’t talk her way out of. Something serious with a long sentence.’

  God, the naivety of youth.

  I nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s a good idea.’ And then we could all climb aboard our unicorns and ride off into the lollypop sunset.

  She clambered up the stairs, pausing at the first landing to let me catch up. ‘I know it’s not ethical to frame someone for murder, but surely there must be a real one we can connect her to, one she did do?’

  My cane thunked on each step, like the beat of a faltering heart. ‘Go ahead, get the kettle on. I’ll catch up.’

  ‘Milk, two sugars, coming up.’ She smiled, turned, and scampered off, little red shoes disappearing up the stairs. Then the flat door rattled open and clunked shut again.

  Pfffff… Closed my eyes. Rested my forehead against the wall.

  OK, so she wasn’t happy about just abandoning the case, but how the hell was I meant to hang about Oldcastle after putting Mrs Kerrigan in a shallow grave?

  Unless I could fit someone else up for it?

  I started climbing again.

  That might work. Find some lowlife who deserved to be inside, and make sure there’s enough evidence to point to him. A junkie perhaps, or one of her dealers?

  Or a rival?

  That was good. More believable.

  Up the last flight of stairs and onto the top floor.

  Just need to get a few names from Shifty and manufacture some evidence – fingerprints on the gun, bit of DNA, some fibres. Even better if he was dead at the scene.

  A smile pulled my cheeks tight as I stepped into the flat and locked the door behind me.

  It was perfect.

  I shrugged my way out of my jacket and dumped it in my bedroom. Took the butter and tattie scones and beans out of my pockets. Gathered it all up along with the bread.

  Alice would be happy, Mrs Kerrigan would be dead, and I’d be in the clear.

  Absolutely perfect…

  Someone cleared their throat out in the corridor and I froze. Turned. Swore.

  There was a man, standing right outside my room, little pink eyes staring straight at me. Francis.

  A nod. ‘’Spector.’

  Damn…

  ‘Francis.’

  He jerked a thumb towards the living room. ‘They’re waitin’ for you.’

  26

  I stepped out into the corridor – still holding the shopping – and Francis moved to one side, blocking the front door.

  He was big, had to give him that. Broad shoulders. Some muscle working under the leather jacket, hands that looked as if they’d have no problems tearing someone’s face off. Bit of a reputation too.

  And I definitely owed him for that shot in the kidneys yesterday.

  Blood fizzed in my throat, soothed out the pain in my ribs and chest. Nothing like an adrenaline buzz to take the sharp edges off a bit of bruising.

  ‘Where’s Alice?’

  He just smiled.

  I took a step towards him…

  Then a voice oiled out from the corridor behind me. His other half: Joseph. ‘Actually, Mister Henderson, it might be considered unwise to reduce this to a bout of pugilism. I fear I would be duty bound to intervene, and two against one wouldn’t be sporting, would it?’

  Sodding hell. And where was Bob the Bloody Builder when you needed him? Sat on his stuffed backside at the end of the bed.

  I didn’t look around. ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘Suffice it to say that my colleague, Francis, is not unskilled in the locksmith’s arcane arts. Now, may I prevail upon you to join us in the lounge for a tête-à-tête?’

  Francis didn’t even blink.

  One I could take. Two at the same time? Wedged between them in a corridor?

  Like being right back in prison again. Trapped. Hemmed in. Waiting for two of Mrs Kerrigan’s goons to beat the living shite out of me.

  It … wasn’t worth the risk. Not with Alice in the flat.

  I cricked my head to the left, then the right. Held Francis’s gaze for a couple of breaths, then turned my back on him.

  Joseph nodded. ‘An excellent decision Mr Henderson. Now, shall we…?’

  ‘Let’s get one thing crystal: if you’ve laid a finger on her, I’m going to break every one of yours. Then make you eat them.’

  ‘Her?’ A frown. Then his face opened out again. ‘Ah, I see! The good doctor. Worry not, Mr Henderson, as far as I’m aware she’s perfectly safe. Well, perhaps not perfectly. It was, regrettably, necessary to restrain her after she became obstreperous.’

  Behind me, Francis sniffed. ‘Had to give her a bit of a slap. Teach her some—’

  I slammed my elbow back into his chest. Dropped the butter and the bread and the tattie scones. Twisted to the left then drove the tin of baked beans into his face, put all my weight into it too. Crunch. His head snapped back, mouth open, blood shining like tiny jewels in the light of the bare bulb.

  Two.

  Three.

  And there was Joseph, head down, charging. Arms pumping as if he was running the hundred metres.

  No point trying to dodge.

  So I lunged forward instead, leaned to the right, let his head pass under my left arm. Then looped my arm around his neck as his shoulder hit my chest. Tightened it. Let my knees sag. My backside hit the bare floorboards and Joseph went up and over, head still trapped under my arm, making choking noises, setting the light bulb swinging.

  Thump – he clattered into Francis and I let go. Scrambled to my feet. Took my weight on my right foot. A jab of pain. But it freed the left up to slam down on Joseph’s face. Once, twice, three times.

  Grunting.

  The pair of them were a tangled mess of arms and legs, Francis struggling to get out from underneath.

  Joseph’s hands came up, fluttering over his blood-spattered face, so I aimed for his throat instead. Got his clavicle. Chest. Then bingo.

  His eyes bugged, breath a ragged wheezing gasp.

  Francis shoved Joseph off. Got as far as his knees. Scarlet streamed down his chin, dripped from the end of that stupid little soul patch.

  I grabbed a handful of ginger ponytail and rammed my knee into his nose. A crunch. A spurt of blood. So I did it again, catching him right in the eye. Then brought the beans down like a hammer on the crown of his head, ripping off a flap of scalp. One more time for luck…

  A sound, behind me. A dark, metallic click.

  Ah.

  Then a cold Irish accent clawed its way down the corridor. ‘Have yez finished foostering about, or would ye like a bullet in the Gary Glitter?’

  I let go of Francis’s ponytail and he slumped sideways into the wall, bubbles of neon red popping between his lips, shoulders limp, arms dangling by his sides, blood oozing from his tattered scalp. Joseph gurgled and gasped, both hands wrapped around his throat, as if he was trying to force air into his neck through the skin.

  I turned, hands out where they were nice and visible.

  Mrs Kerrigan smiled back at me with sharp little teeth. Black suit, grey silk shirt buttoned all the way up, small golden crucifix hanging on a chain over the top. Her hair was almost solid grey, the ends still holding on to the last vestiges of brown where they escaped from the bun at the back. She had a semi-automatic in one hand, the metal dark as a tumour against her yellow Marigold gloves. The barrel drooped to point at my groin. ‘Now are ye going to be a good little boy, or shall we get yez singing soprano?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  A lopsided smile. ‘Yer a lucky man, Mr Henderson. I’ve got an offer for yez that’ll take a bite out what you owe Mr Inglis.’

  ‘I don’t owe anyone anything.’

  It was more like a bark than a
laugh. ‘Don’t be a caffler. Thirty-two grand.’

  My fist curled around the tin of beans. ‘Go to hell.’

  ‘A good Catholic girl like me, Mr Henderson? Don’t think so. Why do ye think we invented confession?’ The gun came up till it was pointing at the middle of my chest. ‘Now, why don’t ye drop the Heinz, and come join the party in the lounge? We’ll discuss this like civilized adults.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  At my feet, Joseph’s breathing was beginning to sound a little less like he was trying to inhale a bowling ball.

  She shrugged. ‘That’s OK. You hand over the thirty-two big ones, and we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘You killed my brother!’ I pulled my shoulders back. Stepped forwards.

  The gun came up again. Right between the eyes. ‘So why the hell would it bother me to rip the head off ye? And then go through for a little fun with yer doctor girl?’

  Don’t move. Don’t even blink. Don’t let her know she’s found a weak spot.

  ‘Or maybe I won’t kill yez? Maybe I’ll just put a hole in your belly and drag you into the bedroom, so you can watch me tie her down and ride the arse off her? Would yez like that? Bet you would, ye dirty old sod.’ The smile hardened. ‘Only I’ll be using a cordless drill with an eight-inch masonry bit. Oh, there’ll still be writhing and screaming, but a lot more mess.’

  Not so much as a twitch.

  ‘Unngh…’ Joseph rolled over onto his front, coughing and spluttering. Dragging in ragged breaths. Blood and spittle corkscrewed across the floorboards. ‘Bastard…’

  Mrs Kerrigan rolled her eyes. ‘Serves ye right, yez were getting lazy. Mr Henderson’s done yez both a favour.’

  More coughing. Then he spat out a blob of frothy pink. ‘Could’ve killed me…’

  ‘You should be so lucky.’ Then she stepped back into the lounge and twitched the gun at me. ‘Right so.’

  I let the baked beans thump to the floorboards, then followed her. Stopped. Swore.

  Shifty sat in the middle of the lounge, on one of the folding chairs, in the slashed wreckage of his inflatable bed. He was stripped to his pants, shivering – but probably not from the cold. Coils of duct tape fixed his arms and legs to the chair. Another thick band of it around his chest. His nose was nearly flat, blood a dark smear down the duct tape gag. A small cut pierced the silver tape, just enough to let out hissing, shuddering breaths. Scarlet oozed from a gash on his forehead. Thick weals of red made parallel lines across his chest. Bruising on his face, neck and shoulders.