A Song for the Dying

9

I eased Alice’s door closed and crossed the corridor to my own room. It was small, but functional, just big enough for the double bed against one wall, the chest of drawers, and wardrobe. A pair of dark-blue curtains that still had the same creases as the ones in the lounge. A cheap-looking alarm-clock radio on the floor beside the bed, glowing 00:15 at me.

My cell was bigger than this.

An old-fashioned brass key sat on top of the duvet, with a cardboard tag attached to it by a red ribbon. Spidery handwriting: ‘THOUGHT THIS MIGHT COME IN HANDY’.

Ah …

I turned. There was a lock fitted to the bedroom door, specks of sawdust dandruffing the floorboards underneath it along with a few quavers of shaved wood. The key slipped right in, and when I turned it, the bolt slid home with a clack.

After two years inside, it was strange how comforting that sound was. Especially combined with the muffled rattle of Shifty’s snores coming through the wall.

The laptop went on the bed, while I stripped, folded all my clothes, and placed them in the chest of drawers. Old habits.

I took out my shiny new mobile phone and thumbed in the number on Shifty’s Post-it note. It rang, and rang, and rang …

Crossed to the window, eased one side of the curtains open a couple of inches. Just concrete, gloom, and streetlights. Someone crept their way across the garden opposite with a torch. Good luck finding anything worth stealing around here.

Then a click, and a muzzy voice crackled from the earpiece. ‘Hello? Hello, who’s this?’

‘You Alec?’

Some rustling, a hissing noise, then a clunk. ‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’

‘I need a piece. Tomorrow. Semiauto—’

‘There must be some mistake. I offer spiritual guidance to wayward souls. Are you a wayward soul in need of guidance?’

Ah. Right. Cautious. Probably a good trait in a gun dealer. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think … I think that you’re on a dangerous path. That your life hasn’t turned out the way you hoped. That darkness surrounds you.’

Why the hell else would I need a gun? ‘So, what now?’

‘I think you should come see me. We can meditate on your predicament. Drink some herbal tea. Find a core of peace within you.’ A muffled yawn. ‘Now, do you have a pen and paper?’

I stuck Shifty’s Post-it to the windowpane. Went back to the wardrobe and pulled a pen from my jacket pocket. ‘Go.’

‘Thirteen Slater Crescent, Blackwall Hill, OC12 3PX.’

‘When?’

‘I shall be available for spiritual guidance between the hours of nine and five tomorrow. Well, I might head out to the shops around lunchtime, but other than that …’

‘OK: tomorrow.’

‘Peace be on you.’ And he was gone.

A rogue firework screamed up into the sky from a couple of streets over, booming and crackling in a baleful eye of scarlet.

Peace wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

I let the curtains fall closed, slipped in beneath the duvet and powered up the laptop. Propped it up on my chest and settled back to watch the rest of Wrapped in Darkness.

Laura Strachan picks her way along the High Street, ignoring the olde worlde charms of the surrounding buildings – now converted into charity shops, bookies, and places you could get a payday loan or pawn your jewellery. ‘What happened to me that night, and over the next couple of days … it’s slippery – difficult to hold onto. Like … Like it never really happened to me. Like it was happening to someone else, in a movie. All larger than life and shiny and fake. Does that make sense?’

Which might explain Baywatch Steve and the cheesy dialogue.

‘I wake up some mornings and I can almost taste the operating room. The disinfectant, the metal … And then it fades, and I’m left with this feeling like something’s crushing my chest.’

Then the scene shifts to the briefing room at Oldcastle Force Headquarters – the old one with the sagging ceiling tiles and sticky carpet. Before the refit. Journalists pack the seats, cameras, microphones and Dictaphones bristling towards the four men sitting behind the table at the front. Len’s at one end – bald even then – in his ancient double-breasted black suit. Next to him is the Media Liaison officer, ramrod-straight and sweating. And next to him …

Something popped deep inside my ribcage, letting out a little grunt of pain.

Dr Henry Forrester stares out of the laptop screen at me. He’s got more hair than he did at the end. More life about him. Before his cheeks sunk and the wrinkles stopped looking distinguished and started looking haggard. Before the guilt and the grief and the whisky hollowed him out.

‘Henry. You silly, silly bastard …’

The man sitting next to Henry – the last person on the table – can’t be much older than twenty-four. Slope-shouldered, a fringe of curly brown hair hanging over his eyes, a nimbus of it fluffing out around his head, coiling over the shoulders of a grey suit, shirt, and tie. Get a sensible haircut and he would be invisible.

A voice-over talks above the muted babble of questions and answers. ‘But while Laura was struggling to come to terms with the horrific events that had left her stricken with nightmares and scar tissue, the operation to catch the Inside Man faced struggles of its own.’

Cheesy, but correct.

A reporter sticks his hand up. ‘Detective Superintendent Murray, is it true you’re bringing in a psychic to help kick the investigation back to life?’

Someone else’s voice cuts in before Len can answer. ‘Think they’ll be able to contact your career?’

Laughter. Swiftly brought to a halt as Len hammers his fist down on the table. ‘Four women are dead. Three others will be scarred for life. Exactly what about that do you find funny?’

Silence.

Len jabs a finger at the crowd. ‘Any more of that and I won’t just clear the room, I’ll have you all barred. Are we clear?’

No one speaks.

The footage jumps forward, and someone else is having a go. ‘Is it true you almost caught him, but let him get away?’

Len’s face darkens. ‘No one “let him get away”. An officer was forced to abandon chase due to serious injuries sustained during the pursuit. If I see anything in print suggesting we “let the Inside Man go”, I will come down on you like the wrath of God.’

The scene cuts to wobbly mobile-phone footage of a large man slumped to his knees on a tiled floor, surrounded by a cordon of legs and mobile phones. Blood makes a red smear down the left side of his face, oozing out of gashes in his scalp and forehead, darkening his collar and suit jacket. Then a woman pushes into shot and takes his face in her hands. Lowers him down to the ground. Folds a tracksuit top and puts it under his head. Makes him comfortable.

Whoever’s doing the voice-over says something, but it’s just noise …

Did I really look that awful? No wonder Rhona wanted to call an ambulance.

I rewound a bit.

‘… down on you like the wrath of God.’

It’s not surprising I couldn’t stay upright – it looks like someone’s taken a baseball bat coated in broken glass to my head. Then Ruth Laughlin appears in her shorts and T-shirt and makes me lie down before I fall down.

Poor bloody woman. If I hadn’t let him get away …

‘Details are thin on the ground about what actually happened that day in Oldcastle, but what we do know is a high-speed chase across the city ended in a near fatal collision. Detective Inspector Ash Henderson pursued the Inside Man into the train station, but collapsed from his injuries and was rushed to Castle Hill Infirmary suffering from concussion, two cracked ribs, a broken wrist, and whiplash. The irony is that the woman seen helping him is Ruth Laughlin, who went on to become the Inside Man’s final victim.’

Because I didn’t stop him.

The mobile-phone footage is replaced by something slightly more professional with the Oldcastle Fire Brigade ident in the top-left corner. One team’s cutting the driver’s door off the battered pool car, while the other is spraying water on the burning Fiesta. ‘The driver of the unmarked car, Police Constable O’Neil, suffered a broken arm and a fractured skull.’

There’s no mention of what happened to the dog in the Fiesta’s boot.

Another jump and we’re back at the media briefing. Another question. Another angry answer from Len.

And then the voice-over oils in over the top: ‘With the investigation floundering, they went public with their psychological profile …’

The guy with the grey suit and perm looks at Henry. Henry nods.

A caption appears on the bottom of the screen: ‘DR FRED DOCHERTY – FORENSIC PSYCHOLOGIST’.

Dr Docherty clears his throat. ‘Thank you.’ He’s obviously trying to sound posh, but those two words are carved in the sandstone of a Glaswegian tenement. ‘We believe the person responsible for these crimes is in his late twenties, probably an unskilled worker who’s got difficulty holding down a job. He was very close to his mother, who’s probably died recently. His hatred of women stems from her smothering influence. He’ll be dishevelled in his appearance, and most likely has a history of mental illness, so we expect him to have been through police custody at some point in his life.’

Which didn’t exactly narrow the pool. Not in Oldcastle.

The rest of the DVD was a bit of a let-down. The police can’t catch the Inside Man, blah, blah, blah. The Crown Office refuse to release the first four victims’ bodies, so the relatives have to have a symbolic burial and wait for the investigation to be finalized.

Poor sods were probably still waiting.

Dr Docherty reappears for a follow-up segment on Laura Strachan. He’s fidgeting in a big leather armchair, eyes flicking to a spot just left of the camera, as if he’s looking for approval from whoever’s standing there. His Glaswegian burr is slightly less pronounced than it was at the press conference. He’s obviously been practising. ‘Of course, it was an intensely traumatic experience for Laura. We have weekly sessions exploring her feelings and helping her come to terms with what happened. It’s a long path to wellness, but she’s getting better.’

An off-camera voice: ‘And do you think she’ll ever be normal again?’

Dr Fred Docherty goes still in his seat. ‘Normal is a relative concept that has no value in psychology. We’re all individuals – there’s no such thing as “normal”. What we’re trying to do here is help Laura get back to a state that’s normal for her.’

‘And what about Marie Jordan?’

His fingers pick at the seam of his trousers. ‘Sadly, Marie isn’t responding quite as well. As I said, everyone’s different, we all cope differently.’

‘She’s been committed to a secure psychiatric facility, hasn’t she? She’s on suicide watch.’

‘The human mind is a complicated animal, you can’t just …’ He looks down, into his lap. Stills his hands. ‘She’s getting the care she needs. As is Ruth Laughlin.’

Cut to CCTV footage of a woman collapsing in a supermarket’s fruit-and-veg section, arms wrapped around her head, rocking back and forth while people steer their trolleys around her, not making eye contact.

Voice-over: ‘Unable to cope with the nightmares and anxiety attacks following her abduction, Ruth Laughlin had a nervous breakdown in the Castleview Asda and is currently receiving treatment at the same facility as Marie.’

And the Inside Man is still at large.

Not exactly an upbeat ending.

Welcome to the real world.

10

‘… and that was Mister Bones with “Snow Loves A Winter”. You’re listening to Jane Forbes, holding the fort till Sensational Steve kicks off the Breakfast Drive-Time Bonanza at seven. Stick around for that, it’s going to be … awesome!’

I blinked at the ceiling. It wasn’t the right shape, the light was all wrong. Why the hell was …

A breath shuddered its way out of my chest and the thumping in my ears faded, slowed. Another breath.

Right. Not in a cell any more.

‘We’ve got the news and weather coming up – spoiler alert, it’s going to be a wet one – but first here’s Halfhead, with their Christmas single “Sex, Violence, Lies, and Darkness” …’ The sound of distorted piano and mournful guitars oozed out of the radio alarm clock’s speakers.

The lead singer’s voice was like barbed wire dipped in molasses. ‘Bones in the garden, they sing like an angel …’

I rolled over and checked: quarter past six. What was the point of getting out of prison if you couldn’t even have a lie-in? Bloody Jacobson.

‘The shadows are sharp and they burn deep inside …’

Morning prayers at Force Headquarters. That was going to be fun. Perhaps I’d get lucky and not have to break anyone’s jaw …?

Keep it calm today. Nothing rash. No lashing out. Nothing that could get me sent back to prison before Mrs Kerrigan could meet with that unfortunate accident.

‘Her body is cold, her voice hard and painful …’

No hitting anyone. Eyes on the prize.

Come on, Ash. Up.

In a minute.

I spread out beneath the duvet, taking up the whole double bed. Just because I could.

‘A knife-blade of bitterness, spite, and hurt pride …’

Then the pressure in my bladder had to go and spoil everything. Groaning, I levered myself up, swung my legs out of bed, sighed. Rolled my right foot in small circles from the ankle. One way, then the other. Flexing the toes. Making little blades of hot iron grate along the bones – scraping away beneath the puckered knot of scar tissue the bullet left. A metaphor for my whole bloody life, right there.

‘Sex, lies, and violence, a love filled with sharpness …’

No point putting it off any longer. Up.

I limped over to the chest of drawers.

‘Stoking the fires to stave off the darkness …’

A brief search turned up a couple of big towels in the third drawer. I wrapped one around my waist, grabbed my cane, then unlocked the bedroom door as the song headed into an instrumental break. All minor chords and misery.

The sound of someone murdering an old Stereophonics tune rattled down the corridor, with a boiling kettle as backup. Shifty poked his head out of the living room and grinned at me. His eyes were all shiny and bright, despite the fact he’d put away enough champagne and whisky last night to fill a bathtub. He’d even shaved. ‘Hope you’re hungry, we’ve got enough here to feed a family of six. Breakfast on the table in five, whether you’re there or not.’ And then he was gone again.

‘Morning, Shifty.’ I tried the bathroom door handle. Locked.

Alice’s voice came from inside, the words all muffled and rounded as if she had her mouth full. ‘Hold on …’ Then some spitting and a running tap. The bathroom door opened and there she was, wearing a fluffy bathrobe, a towel wrapped around her head. A cloud of orange-scented steam billowed out behind her. ‘Are you not dressed yet, only we’ve got the morning briefing at seven and it’s—’

‘What happened to the hangover?’

‘Coffee. Coffee’s great it really is and it’s just, like, pow first thing in the morning and I think I got up in the middle of the night to drink some water, I was having the strangest dream and I was in a car crash and there was a dog and I’m chasing someone into the train station only it turned into a rock concert and there was a woman in a blue tracksuit and everyone was all sweaty, isn’t that weird?’ She squeezed past, and opened the door to her room. Froze on the threshold. A crease formed between her eyebrows. ‘Maybe it was the pizza, probably shouldn’t eat a quattro formaggio that close to bedtime, only it wasn’t really bedtime was it, it was a slightly late dinner, and I like cheese, don’t you, it’s—’

‘OK.’ I held up a hand. ‘No more coffee for you.’

‘But I like coffee, it’s the best, and Dave brought this little metal teapot thing with him that you put on the cooker and coffee goes in one end and water in the bottom and you get great espresso—’

‘Shifty says breakfast’s in five minutes.’

‘Oh, right, better get dressed and really you should try his espresso it’s terrific, it—’

I slipped into the steamy bathroom and locked the door behind me.

Alice leaned in close, her voice cranked right down to a whisper. ‘So it wasn’t a dream?’

The briefing room must have been given a coat of paint recently, the cloying chemical smell still coiling out of the walls. Uniform and plainclothes had arranged themselves in a semicircle of creaky plastic chairs around the table at the front of the room, the distance between them marking out the individual tribes. Front left: the men and women who’d have to go out and patrol the streets. Front right: the boys and girls from the Specialist Crime Division, looking prickly in their sharp suits. Behind them: Oldcastle CID, looking like a riot in a charity shop. Everyone with their pens out and notebooks at the ready.

And at the rear of the room: Jacobson’s Lateral Investigative and Review Unit, all in a line: Jacobson, PC Cooper, Professor Huntly, Dr Constantine, and Alice. I’d grabbed the seat next to her, on the outside. Right leg stretched out, walking stick hanging on the back of the chair in front as the duty sergeant monotoned his way through the day-to-day assignments.

‘… car thefts up fifteen percent in that area, so keep your eyes peeled. Next, shoplifting …’

I shifted in my seat. ‘Of course it wasn’t a dream, you wanted a bedtime story so I told you one.’

Alice looked up at me. ‘You did? That’s so sweet.’

‘About how the Inside Man got away.’

‘Oh.’ The smile slipped a bit. ‘Still, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it. So you really did round up all the people in blue tracksuits?’

I nodded. ‘Rhona got all nine of them. Two hours earlier and there would’ve been dozens – the whole sodding football team came down to ride on the bikes. The Super checked everyone’s stories and alibis. Nothing.’

She glanced at the front of the room.

The duty sergeant was still droning on: ‘… break-in at the halls of residence on Hudson Street …’

‘What about the train to Edinburgh?’

‘Just missed it at Arbroath, but they were waiting for it at Carnoustie. No one in a blue tracksuit. But the in-carriage security camera caught someone matching the description getting off at the first stop.’

‘… to remember, that just because they’re students it doesn’t mean you can treat them, and I quote, “like workshy sponging layabouts”. Fitzgerald, I’m looking at you …’

‘It was him, wasn’t it?’

‘We put out an appeal, got an ID, and did a dawn raid. Turned out it was a religious education teacher up to do the charity cycle.’

‘Oh.’

Professor Huntly leaned over, glowered past Dr Constantine, teeth bared around a hissing whisper. ‘Will you two shut up?’

‘… Charlie went missing sometime between half eleven last night and six this morning. He’s only five, so keep your eyes peeled. He’s run away twice before, but his mum’s still frantic. Best efforts, people.’

I stared back at Huntly until he licked his lips and looked away. Sat back in his seat.

Should think so too.

I leaned into Alice again. ‘But we searched his house anyway. Came up with a stash of child pornography and an unlicensed firearm. I think he’s on life-support now – someone cracked his head open on a washing machine in the prison laundry.’

‘… but not least: lookout request for one Eddie Barron. He’s got form for GBH and assault with a deadly, so don’t say I never warned you …’

On the other side of Alice, Dr Constantine sat up. ‘Oh-ho, here we go.’

At the front of the room, the duty sergeant brought things to a close. ‘Right, if you’re not on Operation Tigerbalm, you’re excused.’ He held up a sheet of paper with ‘HAVE YOU SEEN CHARLIE?’ in big letters above a photo of a wee dark-haired kid – sticky-out ears, a squint smile, and a face full of freckles. ‘Pick up one of these, then get your backsides out there and catch some villains.’

Half the room shuffled out, Uniform and CID moaning about being told to sod off, bragging about their weekends, or muttering dark curses about having to support Aberdeen or Dundee now the Warriors were gone. The duty sergeant marched after them, arms full of paperwork.

Detective Superintendent Ness took the floor. ‘Someone get the lights.’

A couple of clicks and gloom settled into the room. Then Ness pointed a remote at the projector mounted on the ceiling, and two photos appeared on the screen behind her. The one on the left was a painfully pale woman on the beach at Aberdeen, grinning away in a green bikini and goose pimples. The other was the same woman, curled on her side in a thicket of brambles. Her white nightgown had got caught up on their barbed-wire coils – riding up to show off the purple slash across her belly. The wound’s sides held together with crude black stitches over the distended skin.

‘Doreen Appleton, twenty-two, the Inside Man’s first victim. Nurse at Castle Hill Infirmary.’

Ness jabbed the remote again. Doreen Appleton was replaced by a happy brunette in a wedding dress, and the same woman lying flat on her back in a lay-by. She was dressed in a similar white nightdress to the first victim, the fabric stained with blood all across her swollen abdomen. ‘Tara McNab, twenty-four. Victim number two. Nurse at Castle Hill Infirmary. Someone called nine-nine-nine from a public phonebox a mile from where she was found …’

Click, then a hissing old-fashioned audio-tape noise, and a man’s voice filled the room, clipped and professional. ‘Emergency Services, which service do you require?’

The woman who answered sounded as if she’d been caught in the middle of a two-day bender, the words thick and slurred. Distorted. ‘A woman’s been … been dumped in a lay-by, one … one point three miles south of Shortstaine Garden Centre on the Brechin Road. She’s …’ A small catch in her voice, as if she was holding back a sob. ‘She’s not moving. If you … hurry, you can save her. She’s, very weak, possible internal bleeding … Oh God … Blood type: B-positive. Hurry, please …’