A Song for the Dying

by Stuart MacBride

  A sign stood at the junction, pointing left. ‘ CASTLE HILL INFIRMARY ~ ALLOW TWENTY MINUTES’.

  Alice pulled in closer as we stepped onto the rain-rivered path, the run-off from the buildings making tiny breakwaters against her red All Stars. ‘No one trusts the on-site security, they never seem to do anything unless you force them. I said they should make some sort of formal complaint, I mean what’s the point of having security if it doesn’t make you feel secure?’

  ‘Anyone hanging around asking about Claire?’

  ‘No one specific. Well, there are peepers all the time, especially if you’ve got one of the rooms that backs onto the woods. You know what men are like.’ She sniffed. ‘No offence.’

  The nurses’ halls disappeared into the rain behind us. Up ahead, high walls hid the back gardens of a block of sandstone tenements. The spires of St Stephen’s, St Jasper’s, and the cathedral reared above their slate roofs. And just visible in the distance, the twin chimneys of the hospital incinerator, their white trails of smoke and steam making parallel scars across the sky.

  The only sounds were the hissing leaves and the drumming raindrops on the umbrella’s black skin.

  ‘They say anything about someone taking photos? Going through their rubbish?’

  She shook her head.

  Two hours of visiting flat, after flat, after flat of scared and worried nurses and the only lead we had depended on Detective Sergeant Sabir Akhtar being the technical genius he always told everyone he was.

  Alice peered past me, into the woods. ‘It’s like something out of the Brothers Grimm.’

  ‘Funny you should say that. Once upon a time, there was a young woman called Deborah Hill, and she—’

  ‘Please.’ Alice turned her head away. ‘Not this time. Let’s just … walk.’

  The nurse sniffed, then scrubbed a crumpled tissue across her nostrils, squidging her pudgy nose from side to side. ‘No. Well, you know…’ A shrug and a sigh. She was short, with thick purple bags lurking under her eyes, her face round in the shadow of her Puffa jacket’s hood. The zip was open, despite the rain, showing an expanse of blue scrubs and a name badge with ‘BETHANY GILLESPIE’ printed on it.

  Jessica’s flatmate. The one with the stalker ex-husband.

  She popped another chip in her mouth, chewed, then leaned in closer and dropped her voice. ‘You always get nutters, don’t you? I don’t mean people with learning difficulties or mental health issues, I mean the kind of nutters who want to sniff your fingers when you come out of the Ladies. Once had a bloke in here who’d scream about abdominal pain, then soon as you got the bed sheets pulled back he’d pee on you.’ Another sniff. ‘You know: nutters.’

  The queue for chips had dwindled to just one more nurse and then it was Alice’s turn, the four of us sheltering beneath the van’s awning. The air heady with the scents of fried batter, hot potatoes, and vinegar.

  Most of the hospital was hidden from this corner of the car park, blocked out by the tomb of Victorian sandstone where they kept people like Marie Jordan. Drugged up to the ears and locked in a room with bars on the windows. The tower rose behind it, but only the top two floors were visible, lights glinting in the windows – grey and thin below, warm and gold on the penthouse level. Where the private patients went.

  Bethany broke off a chunk of fish and crunched through the batter.

  I nodded towards the hospital. ‘What about patients, anyone make any complaints?’

  She swallowed. ‘About Jessica? God, no. She was completely brilliant with the mums and the dads. A total professional in every respect.’

  There was a rustle of paper and the other nurse wandered over, face lined and creased as she stuffed in a couple of chips. Thin, with whippet-grey hair pulled back from her face. A small, puckered mouth full of sharp little teeth – chewing with her mouth open. She eyed me up and down, then turned to Bethany. ‘Who’s your boyfriend?’

  Bethany grimaced for a moment, then replaced it with a smile. ‘I was just telling this nice policeman how professional Jessica is.’

  ‘Jessica? Professional?’ A snort. She bit the end off a battered sausage, chewing and talking at the same time. ‘You remember Mrs Gisbourne?’

  ‘Jean MacGruther, that is no way to talk of—’

  ‘That’s dead people. You’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead. Jessica’s not dead.’ Nurse MacGruther turned to me. ‘Is she?’

  I opened my mouth, but Bethany got there first. ‘You saw what they said in the paper this morning, it’s—’

  ‘Rubbish. Police are trying to do their job. You think that’s any easier if we all stand about like mealie puddings, telling them everybody loved her?’ Another wodge of chips disappeared. ‘Have you spoken to Jessica’s boyfriend yet?’

  ‘Any reason I should?’

  Bethany brought her chin up. ‘That was all a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Darren Wilkinson.’ Nurse MacGruther’s eyes glittered as she chewed. ‘First shift after Valentine’s Day, Jessica turns up with a shiner the size of a dinner plate. Proper beetroot and jaundice job. Course, they couldn’t let her deal with expectant mothers looking like that, could they? Had to spend the week doing filing and national statistics and things.’

  A big theatrical sigh. ‘She explained that. They were playing tennis on Darren’s Wii, and they were a bit drunk, and it was a complete accident.’

  ‘And the cracked ribs? Were they an accident too?’

  ‘You know she—’

  ‘How about the time he knocked out one of her teeth? A molar, right at the back. That takes some doing – lucky he didn’t break her jaw.’

  Bethany crunched through another bit of fish. ‘She was abducted by the Inside Man, not her boyfriend. He isn’t a serial killer, he works in Human Resources!’

  ‘Any bloke that beats up his girlfriend—’

  ‘She didn’t want to make a fuss, it—’

  ‘—ginger bastard. How can that—’

  ‘All right!’ I held my hands up and turned on the police-issue inspector’s voice that had terrified the two idiots in the patrol car yesterday. ‘I get it. He was assaulting her. She didn’t report it.’

  They both backed away. Eyed me.

  Bethany sniffed. ‘There’s no need to be like that, we’re only trying to help.’

  Alice leaned back against the two-tone wall – institution green on the bottom half, scuffed magnolia above. ‘I shouldn’t have eaten all of those chips.’ She puffed out a breath, let her shoulders droop. ‘An hour of talking to midwives, with rampant indigestion… Well, not the midwives, I mean I was the one with indigestion, though I suppose they might have had as well, only no one mentioned it. How about you?’

  Shouts and swearing echoed down the corridor, punctuated with the occasional scream. The miracle of birth.

  ‘I wasn’t there when Rebecca was born. A wee boy got savaged by a drug dealer’s dog, I spent the whole day tracking the bastard down. But I made Katie’s. She was … tiny. And all purple and screaming and covered in snot and blood.’ A small laugh tried to break free, but died before it could breathe on its own. ‘God, it was like an X-rated version of Alien.’ Back when anything was possible and nobody had to die.

  A little rip appeared in the middle of my chest, making every breath sting. I cleared my throat. ‘So, did your hour of indigestion get you anything?’

  ‘Everyone I talked to is scared of the Inside Man. They don’t walk back to the halls unless there’s three or four of them. They don’t use the car park here any more, because there’s still no CCTV.’ She wrapped an arm around herself. ‘He’s turning into a mythological monster – a sort of cross between Freddy Krueger, Jimmy Savile, and Peter Mandelson…’ She checked her watch. ‘Are we going to speak to Jessica McFee’s boyfriend, because maybe we should, I mean if he’s been beating her up then he’s obviously got anger-management and—’

  ‘What time is it?’

 
She checked again. ‘Twenty to four.’

  ‘OK, we finish up with Jessica’s colleagues, then give the boyfriend a grilling. But I want to be out of here by quarter past at the latest, so we’re not late for our mob accountant friend.’

  Alice’s head dropped, till she was staring at the tips of her little red shoes. ‘Can we not call him our “friend”, it’s—’

  ‘We’ve been over this. Him or Shifty, remember?’ I put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I know it’s hard, but— Crap.’ My phone trilled in my pocket. Still, it was about time Sabir got back to me with that ID. I hauled my mobile out and hit the button. ‘What kept you?’

  ‘That you, Henderson?’ Whoever it was, it wasn’t Sabir. Instead of the treacle-thick Liverpudlian accent, they had an Oldcastle burr.

  I pulled the phone from my ear and checked the screen: ‘NUMBER WITHHELD’.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Some detective: it’s Micky Slosser. You were in my office this morning, remember?’ A pause. Some rustling. Then he was back. ‘Something’s just come in that you might find interesting.’

  Silence.

  ‘Really not in the mood to play, Micky.’

  ‘One letter. Yellow legal paper. Signed, “the Inside Man”.’

  33

  The sky was a smear of charcoal-grey. Blood seeped from the horizon as the sun gave up on the day, making glistening spatter-patterns on the wet roads.

  ‘What?’ I stuck a finger in the other ear and turned my back on the hospital entrance while an ambulance Dopplered past, its wail lowering as it faded into the distance.

  On the other end of the phone, Jacobson tried again. ‘Ness got everyone to drop the charges. Mr McFee’s a free man again.’

  ‘Good for him. What about Cooper – did Bad Bill remember Claire Young or Jessica McFee?’

  ‘This letter: you sure your journalist is on the up?’

  ‘He’s a journalist.’

  ‘Fair point. I’ll get it picked up anyway.’ The volume dropped, as if Jacobson had turned away from the phone. ‘Cooper, tell him what you told me.’

  There was a scrunching noise, then PC Cooper cleared his throat at me. ‘Hello? Yes, OK, so, Bad Bill, AKA: William Moore. I showed him both photos and he thinks he’s seen Jessica McFee with a tall, red-haired, IC-One male. Says he can’t be certain about Claire Young. She looks familiar, but that might just be cos she’s been in all the papers and on the telly.’

  So much for that. ‘Don’t suppose he’s got a security camera or anything?’

  ‘Said he’s never really bothered. Said, who’s going to risk a cleaver in the head just to nick a bag of burger buns and some fried onions? Professor Huntly thinks it’s unlikely Tim would have taken Claire Young with him when he bought her last meal anyway. He abducted her on the Thursday night, she turned up in the wee hours of the Saturday morning, Huntly says Tim’s not going to rape her, hold her hostage, then take her out for Friday lunch.’

  Another ambulance roared past – this one heading the other way.

  I checked my watch: ten to four. Have to get moving soon.

  ‘Did you—’

  ‘So I asked how many, erm…’ Pause. ‘“Double Bastard Bacon Murder Burgers” he sold between eleven a.m. and three p.m. on the Friday, and he became pretty abusive.’

  Moron.

  ‘It’s a burger van, not a three-star restaurant. Cash-in-hand – no receipts. Where was he parked on Friday?’

  Silence.

  ‘Cooper?’

  ‘Actually…’

  I gave my head a little dunt off the wall. ‘You forgot to ask, didn’t you?’

  ‘Well, you said he’d be at the B&Q and he was, so I thought … you know, it would be his pitch.’ A cough. ‘Or something.’

  ‘The whole point of a burger van is that the damn thing’s got wheels. Go back and find out where he was Friday lunchtime.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv…’

  So I was ‘Guv’ now? Well, at least that was something. ‘You did OK. Just got to keep your eye on the details.’

  ‘Yes, Guv.’

  ‘And get on to Control: I want a PNC check on one Darren Wilkinson, works in Human Resources at Castle Hill Infirmary.’

  ‘Yes, Guv.’

  ‘Off you go.’

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and when I turned around, there was Noel Maxwell. He’d thrown an orange Parka on over his scrubs, bright white Nikes shuffling on the damp pavement. He grinned, making the little soul-patch thing twitch. ‘How’d that Prednisolone work out for you, OK?’

  Jacobson’s voice came back on the phone. ‘Come on then: you’re the one who insisted shoe-leather was the way to making connections. What did you find out?’

  ‘Hold on.’ I pulled the phone from my ear and pressed mute. ‘Did you get it?’

  Noel glanced back over his shoulder. Then dropped his voice till it was barely audible. ‘This is, like, industrial grade, OK? I mean it’s not—’

  ‘Did you get it or not?’

  Another glance. As if he wasn’t acting shiftily enough already. He slipped his hand into his pocket and tugged out the corner of a brown envelope. ‘You got the cash?’

  I counted out sixty quid from what was left of the hundred Jacobson had subbed me, and handed it over. One five-pound note and a handful of change left.

  He had another glance about, then slipped me the envelope. Didn’t weigh much. I ripped open the flap.

  His eyes went wide. ‘Don’t do that here!’

  ‘Yeah. Trust isn’t exactly high on my agenda today.’ Two syringes sat in the bottom of the envelope: clear, with orange caps on the needles. A folded sheet of paper lay with it, covered with small print.

  ‘Just make sure you read the instructions, OK? Stuff’s dangerous…’

  That was the point.

  ‘How long?’

  A shrug. Another glance. ‘Depends on body mass. Big fat bloke: three to four hours. Give a whole dose to a wee kid and they’re never waking up.’ A blush. ‘You know. If you were that way inclined.’

  I popped the envelope into my pocket. Then stopped. Frowned.

  ‘Who else have you been flogging medical supplies to?’

  Noel’s mouth flapped open and closed a couple of times. ‘I … don’t know what you’re talking about, selling medical supplies, why would I do that? I’m only doing you a favour cos I know you from the old days.’

  ‘Anaesthetics, antihypertensives, disinfectants, sutures, that surgical glue stuff?’ The kind of things needed to hack someone open and stitch a plastic baby doll inside them.

  He shook his head. ‘Nah, you’re thinking of someone else, I don’t sell hospital gear, I’m not some sort of dealer, I’m just a good guy helping out an old mate.’

  ‘Noel, I swear to God I will drag your twitchy arse from here to Dundee by the balls.’

  He backed up, stuffed his hands in his pockets, pulled his shoulders forward, making himself smaller. ‘I don’t do that no more, honestly. I did, maybe, a few years ago, but you had that word with me and I straightened up my act. Straight as a bullet me. Dead, dead straight.’

  I just stared at him.

  He shuffled a bit. Hunched his back a little more. ‘OK, so I might have, you know, given someone a hand with their pain management. Couple things of morphine and a few packs of Amitriptyline, maybe some Temazepam, but they had multiple sclerosis and that. Honest.’

  Silence.

  ‘Just trying to be a good citizen, you know? Help my fellow man?’

  ‘What about antihypertensives?’

  He licked his teeth, making bulges behind his lips. ‘Don’t get much call for them. Opioids and barbiturates are the drugs du jour amongst Oldcastle’s bright young things… Not that I would ever, you know: good citizen, fellow man…’

  I stepped in close enough to smell the fug of cigarette smoke and bitter aftershave wafting off of him. ‘You like us being friends, don’t you,
Noel?’

  He rocked from side to side, hunching up even more, looking up at me like a nervous orange crow. ‘We’re friends, course we are… Why wouldn’t we be friends?’

  ‘If you want it to stay that way, here’s what you’re going to do: you’re going to speak to all your fellow good citizens and you’re going to find out who’s been filching surgical supplies from the stores. And then you’re going to tell me.’ I gave him a smile, keeping it nice and cold. ‘And you’re going to do it by this time tomorrow.’

  He got smaller still. ‘What if I can’t? I mean, you know, obviously I’ll try my best, but what if I try and try, but no one’s saying anything?’

  When my hand landed on his shoulder he flinched. Blinked at me.

  I gave the shoulder a squeeze. ‘Let’s not find out, eh?’

  The woman from Human Resources gave us a smile that didn’t make it any further than her cheeks. She towered over Alice as she ushered us into a pair of fake-leather seats. Her skin was pale as milk, dark hair long at the sides and hacked into a severe fringe at the front. ‘Darren will be joining us shortly, he’s on a call at the moment.’ She clasped her hands in front of her. ‘Now, what’s this all about?’

  The clock on the wall behind her read twenty past four. Should still be OK if we did this quickly.

  I settled into the chair, stretched my right leg out. ‘I’m afraid that’s between us and Mr Wilkinson.’

  A sign, screwed to the middle of the open door, marked this as ‘SOFT MEETING ROOM 3’. Lemon-yellow walls, a couple of framed prints, a whiteboard on one wall, and a flipchart on a stand by the door. Six, low, fake-leather chairs and a coffee table scarred with cup-ring acne. It smelled of sweat and desperation.

  ‘Ah…’ Her smile thinned out a bit and wrinkles appeared around her eyes. ‘It’s out of the question I’m afraid. Hospital policy states that all members of staff must be supported by a representative from Human Resources during interviews with the media, bereaved families, or police, if conducted on CHI property.’ She swept a hand towards the door. ‘Of course, if you wish to detain him and remove him from Castle Hill Infirmary, that’s your prerogative. Do you want to detain him?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’