A Song for the Dying

8

Shifty dragged a hand down his face, pulling it out of shape. ‘Alec wouldn’t sell it to me, said it’d be bad karma.’

I opened the envelope. It was stuffed with creased tenners and twenties. Had to be at least three, maybe four hundred quid. Not bad at all. Shifty’s shoulder wobbled when I patted it. ‘That’s a lot of walking around money. You’re—’

‘Don’t be a divot. It’s for the gun. Alec won’t sell it to me, but he’ll sell it to you. He’s got bloody weird since he came down with Buddhism.’ One podgy hand went back in Shifty’s jacket and came out with a yellow Post-it note. He stuck it to my chest. A mobile phone number in scratchy red biro. ‘But it’s going to have to be tomorrow. Now are we having that drink or not?’

‘Tomorrow? I wanted—’

‘I know. It’s not that easy finding someone who’ll sell a gun to a cop, OK? Alec’s a pain, but he’s discreet.’ Shifty pulled his shoulders up to his ears. Let them fall again. ‘We’ll do her tomorrow. I promise.’

Well, after two years was one more night really going to make that much difference? So she got another twenty-four hours, so what? She’d still end up dead.

Fair enough.

I nodded back towards the flat. ‘Tea?’

‘You’re kidding, right? Tea? When you’ve just got out of the nick?’ A wink. Then he dipped into one of the carrier-bags at his feet and came out with two bottles. ‘Champagne!’

He followed me into the flat, standing in the hallway while I snibbed all the locks again then showed him into the living room.

Alice was out of her chair, standing like a fencepost, all pulled in and straight. She smiled. ‘David, how nice to see you again. Is Andrew well?’

‘I know we said tomorrow, but I couldn’t wait.’ He loomed over her, leaned in, and gave her a peck on the cheek. Then plonked one of the champagne bottles down beside the laptop and started picking the foil cap off the other. ‘You don’t have any decent glasses, do you?’

‘Ah, yes, right, I’ll see what I can dig up, sure there’s something lurking in the cupboards …’ She pointed at the kitchen, then disappeared through the door.

Shifty worked the wire cage off the cork, pacing as he did it. Never standing still. The floorboards creaking and groaning away beneath his feet.

Silence.

He stared at the laptop screen, where Laura Strachan was frozen halfway down a flight of stone steps, the pause icon overlapping her feet. ‘I … went round to see Michelle.’

‘Did you now?’ Two years, and not a single visit from her. Not so much as a letter.

‘She came to the door and she was all …’ He wiggled one hand beside his head. ‘You know? Hair all over the place, really pale and thin, bags under her eyes. Been drinking.’

I sank back into my camp chair. Folded my arms. ‘So?’

‘She’s got the house up for sale. Big sign in the front garden. Moving down south to be with her sister.’

Yeah. Well … she was a grown woman. Not as if we were married any more, was it? Could do what she liked. Didn’t have to tell me. ‘There a point to this?’

‘Just thought you’d … I don’t know.’ He stared down at the bottle in his hands. ‘Andrew threw me out. Apparently it’s not him, it’s me. Says I’m suffocating him.’ Those fat fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle, squeezing until their joints were pale as bone. ‘I’ll bloody suffocate him …’

Alice appeared in the kitchen doorway, carrying three generic wine glasses. ‘Who’s getting suffocated?’

‘Shifty’s boyfriend’s chucked him out.’

His bottom lip popped out an inch, then he shook his head.

‘Oh, David, I’m so sorry.’ She patted one of the camping chairs. ‘Here, you have a sit down and tell me all about it.’

Oh God, here we go.

‘Maybe later.’ He twisted the cork in one meaty paw, pulled and – it poomed out from the bottle bringing a coil of pale gas with it. He filled two of the glasses, then dipped back into his plastic bag and handed me a can of Irn-Bru.

Fair enough. I clicked off the tab and filled my glass with fluorescent-orange fizzy juice.

Shifty raised his. ‘A toast – to Ash, to friends, and to freedom.’

To revenge …

We clinked glasses.

He knocked back a mouthful. Sucked in air through his teeth. Gave a little shudder. Then sank into the chair. Slumped. ‘Sodding Andrew. Two years. Two sodding years. I came out for him.’

‘No … No, this’ll … this’ll be ffff … be fine.’ Shifty blinked one eye at a time, then wobbled down into a squat, falling forward so he was on his hands and knees. Arse up. Wearing nothing but a pair of black Calvin Klein pants. He wobbled a bit more, then half lowered himself, half collapsed onto his side. It was just a sheet laid out on top of the new rug, but it was going to have to do. At least he had a pillow. Throw in a couple of bath sheets for blankets, and …

Well, it wasn’t great, but after all the booze the pair of them had put away, he wasn’t likely to notice.

The sound of retching echoed out of the bathroom, amplified by the toilet bowl.

Shifty twitched a couple of times, then let out a long, low groan. Followed by a pause. A snuffle.

I draped another towel over him then picked up the two empty champagne bottles and what was left of the supermarket whisky. Took them through to the kitchen and ditched them next to the kettle. Grabbed the washing-up bowl from the sink.

By the time I got back to the living room he was flat on his back, snoring hard enough to make the air vibrate. His towel-blankets were all rucked up on one side, exposing a hairy expanse of pale belly. The rumbling drone stopped for a couple of beats … Then he grunted something that sounded like a name, and went back to snoring again.

‘Silly sod.’ I tugged the towels into place. ‘Try not to choke on your own vomit in the middle of the night, OK?’ I turned out the light. Closed the door. Left him to it.

The toilet flushed. Then gargling. Spitting. And finally Alice lurched out into the hall.

She’d done her tartan pyjamas up wrong, the left side one button out of synch with the right. Hair sticking out in a tangled mess. ‘Urgh …’

‘Come on: bed.’

She clasped a hand to one side of her face. ‘Don’t feel so good …’

‘Well, whose fault is that?’

Her bedroom door opened on a small room with a single bed, a flat-packed wardrobe, and a small bedside table. A Monet poster dominated the room, all greens and blues and purples.

She clambered into bed, hauled the duvet up around her chin. ‘Urrgh …’

‘Did you drink a pint of water?’ I put the washing-up bowl on the floor by her head. With any luck there wouldn’t be sick all over the floor in the morning.

‘Ash …’ She smacked her mouth a couple of times, like she was tasting something bitter. ‘Tell me a story.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘I want a story.’

‘You’re a grown woman, I am not reading—’

‘Pleeeeeease?’

Seriously?

She blinked up at me, grey bags under her bloodshot eyes.

Sigh. ‘Fine.’ I settled onto the edge of the bed, taking the weight off my right foot. ‘Once upon a time, there was a serial killer called the Inside Man, and he liked to stitch dolls into nurses’ stomachs. But what he didn’t know was that a brave policeman was after him.’

She smiled. ‘Was the policeman’s name, Ash? It was, wasn’t it?’

‘Who’s telling this story, you or me?’

Eight Years Ago

I hit the door hard, battering it open. Dodged a crowd of old fogies in their dressing gowns and slippers, surrounded by their own personal fog-bank of cigarette smoke.

Where the hell did he …

There – on the other side of the low wall that separated Castle Hill Infirmary from the car park. A pregnant woman screaming abuse, banging on the window of an ancient-looking Ford Fiesta as it roared away from the kerb.

More swearing erupted behind me as PC O’Neil staggered through the OAP smokers, his face flushed, sweat glistening on his cheeks. ‘Did you get him?’

‘Do I bloody look like I got him? Get the car. NOW!’

‘Oh God…’ He lumbered over the low wall – making for our rusty Vauxhall, parked on the double yellows.

The pregnant woman stood in the middle of the road, sticking two fingers up at the back of the Fiesta as it fishtailed out through the hospital gates and onto Nelson Street. ‘I HOPE YOU CATCH AIDS AND DIE, YOU THIEVING BASTARD!’

I staggered to a halt beside her. ‘Did you get a good look at his face?’

‘He stole my bloody car! Did you see that?’

‘Would you recognize him if you saw him again?’

‘My dog’s in the boot!’ She cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘COME BACK HERE, YOU WANKER!’

The pool car screeched out from the kerb, coming to a stop in a squeal of brakes on the wrong side of the road, opposite us. O’Neil buzzed the window down. ‘He’s getting away.’

I pointed the woman at the hospital. ‘You don’t go anywhere till someone’s taken your statement, understand?’ Then I ran around to the passenger side and clambered in. Slammed the door. Slapped O’Neil on the shoulder. ‘Put your foot down!’

He did, and the Vauxhall surged forward in a squeal of tyre smoke.

Left onto Nelson Street, just missing a Mini, the driver leaning on his horn, eyes wide, mouth stretched in horror.

O’Neil got the slide under control, both hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, teeth biting down on his bottom lip as the car raced up the hill. Newsagents, carpet shops, and hairdressers streaked past the windows.

I scrambled into my seatbelt, then flicked the switch for the blues and twos.

The pool car’s siren wailed above the engine’s bellow, forging a path through the lunchtime traffic.

We screeched up the hill while I pulled out my Airwave handset and called it in. ‘Charlie Hotel Seven to Control, we are in pursuit of the Inside Man. Eastbound on Nelson Street. Get someone out there blocking the road. He’s in a brown Ford Fiesta.’

A pause, then a hard Dundee accent came on the line. ‘You been drinking?’

‘Get backup out there now!’

The Vauxhall cleared the brow of the hill, flew for at least ten feet, then slammed back down onto the tarmac. O’Neil had his shoulders curled forwards, arms locked straight ahead, as if pushing the steering wheel would actually make the car go faster.

‘There he is!’ I jabbed a finger at the windscreen.

The Fiesta disappeared into the underpass.

We were there less than thirty seconds later, the dual carriageway rumbling above us as O’Neil kept his foot to the floor. The siren echoed back from the concrete. Out into the daylight again. ‘Almost there …’

Couldn’t have been more than four seconds between us now.

The Fiesta jumped the lights where Nelson Road cuts across Canard Street, narrowly missing a woman on a bicycle, and right into the path of a bendy bus. It ploughed straight into the Fiesta, grabbing the front passenger-side and wrenching it three feet into the air, spinning the whole thing around and into a streetlight.

‘Shite!’ O’Neil stamped on the brakes. Hauled the wheel left, sending the back end squealing out across the cobbles. And everything slipped into slow motion. All the colours and shapes bright and sharp in the thin December light. A woman with a pushchair, mouth hanging open; a man up a ladder outside Waterstones, painting over graffiti; a little girl coming out of Greggs, frozen mid-pasty. A Transit van, the driver leaning on his horn as we slammed into him.

The bang was like a shotgun going off – cubes of safety glass exploded across the Vauxhall’s interior. The car kicked up on my side, hurling me into the seatbelt as the airbags detonated. Filling the world with white and the stench of fireworks. Then down again, bouncing, safety glass pattering against my skin like rain. Nostrils filled with the smell of dust and spent airbag and petrol.

Everything clicked back to normal speed.

O’Neil hung forward against his seatbelt, arms dangling at his sides, blood seeping down his face from the gash in his forehead and broken nose. The Transit van’s radiator blocked his window.

I fumbled with the seatbelt, a high-pitched ringing filling my head.

Out … I shoved open the door and stumbled into the road, holding onto the pool car’s roof to stay upright.

Someone screamed.

The Fiesta was bent around the lamppost, the passenger side all buckled in. The lamppost hadn’t fared much better. It was bent and twisted, the glass head dangling from a couple of wires.

Yellow and black dots swirled around me, dimming the street.

I blinked. Shook my head. Cracked my jaw. And the ringing dropped from deafening to just painful. Christ, what a mess…

Glass crunched under my shoes as I picked my way across the road.

Whimpering came from the back of the Fiesta – a pair of brown eyes stared out at me, wet nose pressed against the cracked hatchback glass. Then the driver’s door creaked open and the bastard fell out onto the road: baggy blue tracksuit, trainers, big woolly hat pulled down over his ears. Couldn’t see his face, just the back of his head.

‘You! You’re under arrest!’

And that was it. He was up on his feet like he was on springs, not looking back, arms and legs pumping as he sprinted towards the blue-and-white monolithic Travelodge on Greenwood Street.

No you bloody don’t.

I lurched after him, dragging my handset out again. ‘I need an ambulance to the junction of Canard, Nelson, and Greenwood. Officer hurt. And get the Fire Brigade too – there’s a dog trapped in the wreckage.’

Moving faster, pulse thudding in my throat, roaring in my chest.

Around the corner of Greenwood. The train station loomed ahead – a big Victorian upturned boat in wrought iron and glass, with a blocky 1970s concrete portico stuck on the outside for taxis and smokers to loiter under.

I shoved my way through the main doors, into a din of people shouting and pounding music. The interior was one big open-plan space, with walkways arching over the tracks, connecting the half-dozen platforms. Light filtered down through the dirty glass roof.

Someone had set up a big tent-stage thing by the ticket office – the Castlewave FM logo emblazoned on either side with ‘TURNING MILES INTO SMILES!!!’ in the middle. A table at the front was draped in black, a pair of tossers standing behind it clapping their hands above their heads in time to the music, still holding their microphones.

A sea of bodies clapped back at them, shoulder to shoulder, crowded into the concourse.

‘Ha, excelente mi amigos!’ The music faded out. ‘What’s the total, Colin?’

‘Well, Steve, we’re all the way to Calais in France already, how cool is that?’

‘Megatastic coolio!’ Followed by a grating honk from an old-fashioned horn.

Where the hell was he?

No sign of anyone running, or of anyone getting up, swearing, shaking their fists because they’d been knocked out of the way.

‘You’re listening to Sensational Steve and Crrrrrrrazy Colin. It’s five past one, and we’re live, live, live from Oldcastle train station in Logansferry!’

The crowd roared out a cheer.

Had to be here somewhere…

‘You’re not wrong there, Steve, and we’re here cycling all the way to the Philippines to raise money for the victims of Typhoon Nanmadol! Six thousand, six hundred and seventy-four miles!’

I pushed into the crowd. There – blue tracksuit. ‘You! Don’t you dare run!’

‘That’s a lot of miles, Colin.’

‘It’s a lot of miles, Steve!’

People complained as I shoved them out of the way and grabbed the guy by the arm. Spun him around… Only it wasn’t a he, it was a she. A lumpy woman with a short haircut.

She wrenched my hand from her arm. Glared at me. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Get away from us, you freak!’ She backed up a pace, baring her teeth. ‘God, what happened to your face?’

Sodding hell. There was another woman in a blue tracksuit over by the automatic ticket machines. And a couple of men too – all wearing blue tracksuits with the Oldcastle Warriors logo stitched onto the left breast. Bloody local football team colours.

‘So if you’re listening at home, why not come on down to the train station and take a turn on one of our stationary bicycles? Help us turn miles into smiles for those poor Philippine people!’

‘Guv?’

I turned.

Constable Rhona Massie had her hands in her pockets. Blue tracksuit top on over a sweat-stained red T-shirt and a pair of stonewashed jeans. The bags under her eyes were shiny with sweat, cheeks hot-pink against her long pale face. ‘You OK? Jesus, what happened? You’re bleeding …’

What? I put a hand against my forehead, it came away red. That’s when it started to sting. And not just my head, a wave of aches and pains rolled up my right side, crashing at the base of my neck. Something sharp throbbed deep inside my left wrist. ‘Where is he?’

‘Right, time for another stellar tuuuuuune. I want to see everyone getting their funky thang on for Four Mechanical Mice and their “Anthem for a Shining Girl”!’ A big wobbling piano chord blared out of the speakers.

Rhona grimaced, showing off a row of perfect white teeth. ‘You look like you’ve been in a car bomb, or something!’

‘A guy, ran in here a minute ago. Woolly hat, white trainers, blue tracksuit.’

She stepped closer and brushed a flurry of safety glass off my shoulder. ‘We need to get you a doctor.’ She turned. ‘I NEED A DOCTOR OVER HERE! SOMEONE’S HURT!’ Then back to me. ‘You’re probably in shock.’ She held up a hand, the fingers splayed. ‘How many fingers am I—’

‘Get that out of my face.’ I slapped her hand away. ‘I want all the exits sealed. No one in or out. Get everyone in a blue tracksuit rounded up. And why aren’t you in uniform?’

‘She’s incandescent, she’s all ablaze…’

Rhona stared at me. ‘It’s my day off, I’m down raising money for the typhoon victims.’

‘She is the sound of a million glass grenades…’

‘Not tomorrow, Constable, now!’

‘Yes, Guv.’ She turned and ran off to the front entrance, waving her arms at a couple of guys in fluorescent yellow waistcoats with ‘SECURITY’ printed across the chest.

‘She is the shattered dawn, tearing round the world…’

Knots of broken concrete rolled their way through my spine. Jagged bars of rusty iron jabbing through the base of my neck. My knees refused to hold my weight.

Bloody Rhona. Felt fine till she started rabbiting on about how battered I looked.

‘She’s dark and light and home tonight, cos she’s the Shining Girl…’

I sank down, till my backside was on the cold tiled floor. Curled my throbbing wrist against my chest.

God, everything ached…

A circle of people formed around me, all of them staring. A couple had their mobile phones out, filming me sitting there, covered in broken glass and blood. Then someone shouldered their way through the cordon.

‘Come on, give the man some room to breathe. Back up.’

‘Who died and made you God?’

‘I’m a nurse, you moron, now back up before I put you on your arse in front of all your friends.’

I blinked up at her. A familiar face: broad forehead, small eyes, hair in a ponytail – blonde wisps sticking to her shiny face. A T-shirt with sweatmarks under the arms and between her breasts, white shorts and trainers. Wide hips and thick legs. A ‘TURN MILES INTO SMILES!!!’ towel draped around her neck.

She blinked back. ‘Inspector Hutcheson? Bloody hell… What happened?’

‘Henderson. Not Hutcheson.’

‘Of course, yes, sorry.’ She knelt on the ground beside me. Took my head in her hands and stared into my eyes. ‘Are you experiencing any nausea? Dizziness? Ringing in the ears? Headache? Confusion?’

I grabbed her hand. ‘Who are you?’

‘OK, that’s a yes on the confusion. It’s Ruth. Ruth Laughlin? Laura Strachan’s friend? You came to the flat after they found her, remember? Talked to all the nurses?’