A Song for the Dying

by Stuart MacBride

  Alice groaned, then appeared in the doorway. Pink pyjamas buttoned up wrong. Her hair hung in a lank curtain, covering her face. ‘Urrgh…’

  ‘Well, whose fault is that?’

  ‘Where were you? I … I needed … someone … hold my hair.’

  I pulled back one side of the blankets. ‘Did you drink a pint of water?’

  ‘Bounced.’ She shuffled over and collapsed, face-down onto the bed. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Had to hand some keys in at reception. You want to be sick again?’

  ‘Urgh…’

  Her legs were like lead as I rolled her round the right way. Folded the blankets back over her. Then fetched the hotel bin and put it beside the bed.

  ‘You’re going to end up with liver failure, that what you want?’

  ‘Urrrrrrgh…’

  ‘Thought so.’ I paced to the window and pulled the curtain back a couple of inches. A car drifted by on Porter Lane, headlights picking out the bones of trees. ‘What would you say if someone suggested Dr Docherty might be the Inside Man?’

  ‘I’d … I’d say … leave me alone … I want … to die.’

  The branches trembled, and a fistful of rain beat itself to death against the window. ‘He’s the right age, he ticks all the boxes you were talking about, and he’s on the inside, isn’t he? Can’t get more inside than he is.’

  ‘It’s a bit… He can’t be the … Inside Man … he’s … he’s a knob.’

  The curtains fell back into place. ‘What, serial nut-jobs can’t be knobs?’

  ‘He… He…’ She squinted at the ceiling. ‘What do we … do we know about his … background? Does… Does he have a mother? Well, of course he’s got a mother, but is she alive and did she beat him when he was little, and why’s the room going round like that, make it stop!’

  I brushed the hair from her damp face, leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Your breath’s minging, by the way.’

  ‘What if … what if it’s not him? What if we go chasing … chasing after … and Dave…’

  ‘He fits your profile, that’s all. We’re not abandoning everything else.’

  She wobbled a hand at the adjoining door. ‘Leave … leave it open?’

  ‘Promise.’ I turned out the bedside lamp. Now the only light was what filtered through from my room. ‘No booze tomorrow, OK?’

  ‘Ash?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I hadn’t seen you … seen you carrying Paul Manson’s body … off into the … the woods… Why … why did you lie to me?’

  ‘When Rebecca’s guinea pig died, we hid the body and told her it’d gone away to live on a farm. Didn’t want its death to darken her.’ I picked at the handle of my cane, scraping back a patina of varnish with my thumbnail. ‘Suppose it was a bit like that…’

  Silence.

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘Thank you for trying…’ Her voice was little more than a fuzzy mumble in the darkness. ‘Ash? If … Dr Docherty is … is the Inside Man, then … then … why start again, after all this time? Eight … eight years, nothing, just like that.’

  ‘Go to sleep.’

  ‘Maybe … maybe he… Maybe he misses the screaming?’

  43

  A permatanned guy in a suit waved his hand across the map of Scotland. ‘Unfortunately, that area of high pressure means the rain’s going to be with us till at least the end of the week, and—’ I killed the sound and moved to the window. Pulled back the curtains, phone pressed against my ear.

  A battered Audi was just visible through the bare beech trees.

  ‘That you in the blue estate?’

  Rock-Hammer Robertson grunted. ‘Since half five. You want this background check or not?’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Dr Frederic Joshua Docherty, thirty-five, graduated from Edinburgh University with an MA in psychology—’

  ‘What about his childhood?’

  ‘Born to Steven and Isabella Docherty in Stirling. Middle child of three. Elder sister killed in a car crash when he was six. Younger brother did two years for possession with intent. Fred was referred to Social Services twice – once for a broken arm, and once for setting fire to a derelict house. He was eight.’

  Through in the other room, the sounds of groaning and moaning were interspersed with the occasional swearword and promise never to drink again.

  ‘Don’t suppose he tortured any animals, did he? Family pets – something like that?’

  ‘Not that I could find. Married Sylvia Burns six years ago, been divorced for eighteen months. Can’t find out why till the solicitors’ open at nine, but going by his ex-wife’s blog it’s got something to do with sex.’

  Not bad, considering he’d only got the job in the wee small hours.

  I tapped a finger against the glass. ‘Got to admit I’m impressed, Rock-Hammer.’

  ‘Alistair. Not Rock-Hammer. I left him behind last time I got out.’

  Sure he did.

  ‘… drug raids in Kingsmeath, so stay out of their way till noon.’ The duty sergeant checked his clipboard, voice droning out through the crowded room. ‘Next up – Charlie Pearce. We’ve got one dog unit going into Moncuir Wood this morning, and another searching the Swinney.’ He turned to Detective Superintendent Ness. ‘Super?’

  She stood, shrugged off the black suit jacket and picked up a stack of paper. The purple bags under her eyes were clearly visible through the makeup. ‘Charlie Pearce has now been missing for over twenty-four hours, statistically that means we’re probably now looking at a murder enquiry. I – do – not – want – this – getting – out. Are we clear? The family has enough to worry about. I catch anyone talking to the media and I’ll make the Spanish Inquisition look like a Chuckle Brothers tribute act. DS Massie, DCs Clark, Webster, and Tarbert – you’ll report to me for assignments after we’re finished.’

  Alice slumped further down against my shoulder. ‘I think I’m dying…’

  ‘Don’t be such a baby.’

  Sitting in the back row, Professor Huntly had his mobile phone out, poking away at the screen with his thumbs. Dr Constantine was knitting what looked like a Shetland sweater. While Jacobson scribbled notes in a black A4 pad.

  ‘Why did you let me drink so much?’

  ‘You’re a grown woman, and I’m not your mum.’

  The duty sergeant pointed a remote at the ceiling projector and the screen behind him filled with a familiar face. Hooked nose, high forehead, hair swept back from his head.

  Something tightened in my stomach.

  ‘Paul Manson: reported missing by his wife last night. Probably holed up somewhere with a mistress, but just in case – keep an eye out, OK?’ The sergeant poked the remote again and CCTV footage replaced Manson’s face.

  Oh God, they had us on film abducting him…

  The duty sergeant grinned. ‘I think you might enjoy this.’

  But it wasn’t Larbert Avenue on the footage, it was a section of pavement and road beneath some sort of canopy. No sound, picture only – the camera high up, looking down on a bald bloke in a dressing gown smoking a cigarette and talking on his mobile phone.

  A nurse walked past.

  ‘Wait for it…’

  A black 4×4 lurched to a halt beneath the camera. The passenger door swung open and a figure was shoved out: Mrs Kerrigan. She tumbled to the ground and lay there, sprawled on her back, her right arm stretched towards the smoker.

  Mr Dressing Gown dropped his cigarette and backed away.

  Wee Free should’ve killed her when he had the chance.

  Nurses burst into view. Bustled around. Shouted in silence. Then someone turned up with a wheelie porter’s chair and they bundled her inside.

  The duty sergeant pressed another button and the screen went blank. ‘At quarter to ten last night, one Mrs Maeve Kerrigan was unceremoniously dumped outside Castle Hill Infirmary A-and-E. Some kind soul shot her in th
e foot, then gouged one of her eyes out.’

  A ripple of laughter was punctuated with a couple of gasps and the occasional, ‘Bloody hell. Someone’s not feart.’

  He held up a hand. ‘Because it’s a gunshot wound, the hospital had to inform us. We will, of course, be treating this as a serious assault and pursuing the culprits to the fullest extent of the law. I don’t want to hear any talk about giving the guy a medal or buying him drinks, OK? Bad enough as it is.’

  A couple of people turned in their seats to stare at me.

  Brilliant. As if things weren’t bad enough.

  Why the hell did Wee Free have to shoot her in the foot? Now Andy Inglis would think I had something to do with it. Or he would as soon as the briefing was over and his pet police officers got on the phone.

  Ness was on her feet again. ‘All right, that’s enough. Settle down.’

  She waited till there was silence. ‘The Inside Man, slash, Unsub-Fifteen. We got a nine-nine-nine call at three seventeen this morning.’ She held out her hand and the Duty Sergeant passed her the remote.

  It hurt, but I crossed my fingers as crackling hissed out of the speakers. Please let it not be Jessica McFee. Not another pre-recorded message by a victim with her stomach slit open. Don’t make it too late to save her.

  Because if she was dead then so was Shifty.

  A woman’s voice: ‘Emergency Services, which service do you require?’

  The man who answered could barely catch his breath, the words broken and jagged. ‘She’s gone! She’s missing. I … it was … and I went through … and she was gone and you’ve got to help me find her!’

  ‘Who’s missing, sir, is—’

  ‘My wife. She’s gone… Oh God, what if he’s got her?’

  ‘All right, sir, calm down, give me your address and we’ll get officers right to you.’

  ‘It’s Thirteen Camburn View Crescent, in Shortstaine. Strachan. Laura Strachan. She’s pregnant!’

  ‘I’m going to put you on hold for a second while I get a car dispatched. Stay on the line for me—’

  Ness lowered the remote. ‘Three patrol cars are going street to street in Shortstaine broadcasting Laura’s description. Scenes Examination Branch are sweeping the house. Do I really need to tell anyone how much of a cocking disaster this is?’

  Alice scrubbed her face with her hands. Voice low. ‘Focus. Come on, you can do this.’

  Ness pointed. ‘Dr Docherty?’

  Dr Frederic Docherty stood, smoothed two hands down the front of his suit jacket. ‘Thank you, Detective Superintendent.’ He turned a smile on the crowd. ‘Clearly we have to assume that the Inside Man has begun abducting his former victims. We have three possibilities here. One: he feels his ownership of these individuals has been threatened by the actions of Unsub-Fifteen. By copying the Inside Man’s MO, Unsub-Fifteen is stealing his thunder, threatening his legacy.’

  Alice shifted in her chair, face scrunched up in a frown, head tilted to one side.

  ‘Two: Unsub-Fifteen has decided to lay claim to that legacy, not just by adopting the Inside Man’s MO, but by taking his victims as well.’

  She snorted. Gave her head a little shake.

  ‘Three: Unsub-Fifteen has been the Inside Man the whole time, and he’s taking the opportunity to wipe the slate clean. Dispose of the survivors and start again from scratch. This plays into his narcissistic belief in his own power and authority.’ Docherty gave the duty sergeant a cue, and the screen filled with scrawled handwriting on a yellow legal pad. ‘Given the letter published in the Castle News and Post this morning, this is the preferred scenario. You’ll notice the reference in here to a “sacrificial offering”, and—’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake…’

  Up at the front, Dr Docherty scowled. ‘You have something to contribute, Doctor?’

  Alice wobbled to her feet, holding onto the chair in front. ‘Why would he do that? Why would he want to dispose of Laura Strachan, she’s his only success.’

  Docherty looked at the ceiling for a second, before staring back at her, one eyebrow raised. ‘Because, Doctor, she’s isn’t. Laura Strachan, Marie Jordan, and Ruth Laughlin all survived the procedure, so it’s clear his success rate is—’

  ‘Laura’s the only one who achieved pregnancy. Impregnating them with the dolls is all about that, about putting a baby in their tummies, Laura Strachan is—’

  ‘Nonsense, the Strachan pregnancy is nothing to do with the Inside Man.’ Docherty’s smile was back, his voice like someone talking to a small child. ‘It’s been eight years since he,’ Docherty made inverted quotes with his fingers, ‘“impregnated” her. Rather a long gestation period, don’t you think?’

  Alice pinched the bridge of her nose. Spoke slowly and clearly. ‘Yes, for a normal rational adult, but would you call the Inside Man normal and rational? This is all about laying claim to Laura Strachan’s—’

  ‘Well, Doctor McDonald, you’ll excuse me if I don’t share your complacency.’ He stuck his nose in the air. ‘The Inside Man is targeting his previous victims. We need to place a guard on both Marie Jordan and Ruth Laughlin, assuming it’s not already too late.’

  ‘Yes, fine, get a guard on them, but you’re missing the point. He—’

  ‘I’m missing the point? Sit down, Doctor, you’re embarrassing yourself.’

  Alice glared back. ‘Why don’t you—’

  ‘All right, that’s enough.’ Ness was on her feet again. ‘Dr McDonald, you’ll have your chance to register any concerns after the meeting. Dr Docherty, continue.’

  Alice stayed where she was.

  Ness sighed. ‘Sit down, Doctor.’

  She glanced at me, then thumped into her seat. Arms crossed, legs too. Bottom lip pulled in by her teeth.

  Up front, Docherty grinned, then wiped it from his face. ‘The Inside Man is on the path of escalation from serial to spree killer. Given the timings between Claire Young and Jessica McFee’s abductions, it’s clear we’re going to see another victim go missing either today or tomorrow. Which means we need to get a warning out to every nurse in the city.’

  I put a hand on Alice’s arm, but she shook it off. Glowered at the floor tiles. Her eyes glittered in the strip-lights’ lifeless glow.

  Ness nodded. ‘Agreed. DS Stephen – liaise with media, I want a press release ready to go by nine. Next.’ She held up a tabloid red-top.

  Half the front page was taken up with photos of Claire Young and Jessica McFee, beneath the headline ‘IS “INSIDE MAN” POLICE SICKO?’

  A groan went up.

  Someone near the front: ‘God’s sake, not this again.’

  Ness hurled the paper out into the room. It broke apart, mid-air, and fluttered down as individual sheets. ‘How did the bloody Scottish Sun get hold of it? It’s all in there – the missing evidence, the letters, the screwed up HOLMES data. EVERYTHING!’

  No one volunteered.

  She jabbed a finger towards the back of the room. ‘Mr Henderson.’

  I levered myself out of my chair. ‘Before you ask: no I sodding didn’t.’

  ‘You said the HOLMES data from the original investigation was a mess.’

  ‘According to our computer guy, there was no way it was ever going to come up with a sensible action – everything’s misfiled and referenced incorrectly. It’s a not a mess, it’s a total sodding farce.’

  ‘Well, my computer guy tracked down the user ID for the entries, and guess who’s responsible.’

  Oh no… It would be my user ID, wouldn’t it? Whoever it was, they’d hacked my ID and used it to screw up every entry in the HOLMES database to make sure, when it came out, I was the one who got the blame.

  Son of a bitch.

  My chin came up. ‘Now you wait a sodding—’

  ‘Sergeant Thomas Greenwood.’ Ness raised her hands, as if she was about to bless the congregation.

  Another groan from CID.

  Knig
ht and the guys from the Specialist Crime Division just shrugged at each other.

  Who the hell was Thomas Greenwood?

  DS Brigstock turned a grimace in my direction. ‘AKA: Thom Dumb, Thicky Greenwood, and Sergeant Tommy Two-Planks.’

  Tommy Two-Planks – a scrawny halfwit, devoid of common sense and blessed with the ability to turn a minor irritation into a catastrophic disaster. How he managed to pass his sergeant’s exam was anyone’s guess. ‘Who the hell put him in charge of the HOLMES suite?’

  Ness nodded. ‘And do you know where Sergeant Greenwood is now? He’s not out there cutting nurses open, he’s in a hospice in Dundee with early-onset Alzheimer’s.’ She turned her back on the room. ‘So you can remove that from your list of conspiracy theories, Mr Henderson. Now sit down.’

  No chance. ‘That doesn’t explain the missing productions. Someone’s—’

  ‘SIT – DOWN!’

  Pretty much the whole room flinched, but I stayed where I was.

  Alice reached up and tugged at my sleeve. Her chin trembled as she mouthed the word, ‘Please…’

  I stared at the back of Ness’s head.

  OK. For Alice.

  The seat creaked under me as I settled back into it.

  Ness rolled her shoulders, then stared up at the projector screen. ‘This division leaks like a punctured lung, and every time it does, it takes oxygen from the investigation. It suffocates our efforts to get Jessica McFee back. Whoever’s talking to the press will stop. Now. Or you can consider yourself personally responsible for her death.’

  Silence.

  ‘It – stops – now.’

  ‘… deeply disappointed by your behaviour.’ Detective Superintendent Knight leaned in, looming over Alice as the assembled troops shuffled out of Morning Prayers. Narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you hungover? Is this how you think forensic psychologists are supposed to behave? Is it?’

  She pulled a manila folder from her satchel and held it out. ‘If you’ll just look at the behavioural evidence analysis, you can—’

  ‘Clearly, you have no grasp of the case and no business criticizing Dr Docherty who does. I was perfectly prepared to support Detective Superintendent Jacobson’s LIRU initiative, but it’s becoming obvious my trust has been misplaced.’