Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

‘Some of the bigger GP practices will do small procedures.’

‘Right.’ She made more marks.

Probably useless, but what else did we have? That and a pair of barely audible audio files.

The door thunked open again and Huntly paused on the threshold. Straightened his tie. Gin and tonic in one hand. The words were slightly soft at the edges, but not enough to count as slurred. ‘So this is where you’re all squirreling away, is it?’

I played the first audio file again, volume cranked up full. There was the ringtone again: distorted, crackly, and — according to Sabir — available on millions of mobiles. It was repetitious, going up and down, but the quality was too poor to make out the actual tune.

Huntly loomed over Rhona and Alice at the map. ‘His Royal Highness the Great Bear has sent me to fetch everyone. For lo, la pizza è arrivata .’ He looked at me. ‘Or for those of you with a less classical bent, “grub’s up”.’

Surgical facilities and a ringtone.

I clicked on M-Jordan.wav and set it playing again. The audio file hissed and crackled in its window, next to the video file I’d been watching. Frozen at the final frame: Ruth Laughlin, arms in the air. Turning miles into smiles.

Why that file? Why keep going back to it? What was wrong with it?

Huntly moved to the other side of the laptop. Made shooing gestures. ‘Well, come on then, don’t want the pizzas getting cold, do we?’

I set the audio playing again. Hiss. Crackle. A short smear of music, so faint it was barely there.

Huntly sniffed. Then picked up my notebook. It was open at the last page, where I’d been scribbling down points while talking to Sabir. ‘I wasn’t aware you were into campanology, Mr Henderson.’

I snatched it back. ‘What did I say about being a dick?’

‘Refreshingly challenging, remember?’ He pointed at the notebook. ‘“Cambridge Quarters”.’

‘Don’t you have someone else you could be annoying?’

‘Here’s a little fact for you. Did you know that Big Ben plays a variation called “Westminster Quarters”? Four bars of four notes to denote each quarter hour. Hence the name.’

Ruth Laughlin frozen for all time. Arms up in triumph. The timestamp for the last frame unblinking in the corner, ‘14:13:42’. A cordon of nurses cheering her on. Happy faces arrayed behind her…

Oh. Shit.

Huntly crossed his arms and smiled at the damp-stained ceiling. ‘I remember I once had to test two hundred mini Big Bens. An enterprising group of Manchester businessmen had mixed heroin and plaster of Paris, with a handful of coffee grounds thrown in to mask the smell.’

Four bars of four notes.

It wasn’t a ringtone.

I pushed back my chair and stood. Grabbed my cane. ‘Get Jacobson, now .’

Alice tugged at my sleeve. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I know where they are.’

Jacobson peered at the map, leaning on the bar with one hand while he traced a finger around a red-biro circle. ‘And this source of yours is sure?’

I shook my head. ‘A hundred percent? No. But he’s come through in the past. If he says he’s seen Docherty going in and out of there, it’s got to be worth a try, isn’t it?’ My finger poked at the map, just south of Shortstaine. ‘Think about it. Secluded, easy access to the dual carriageway, all paid in cash, no ID needed.’

Rhona’s forehead creased. ‘But, Guv, we-’

‘I know: you think you should tell Detective Superintendent Ness first, but it’s Jacobson’s call. He’s senior officer on the ground.’ I gave him a nod. ‘Boss?’

He looked around the room. ‘Everyone, get the car. We’re going on a field trip.’

Huntly groaned. ‘But it’s all just hearsay . He hasn’t got any evidence and my pizza’s getting cold and-’

‘Then take it with you.’ Jacobson pointed at the door. ‘If there’s any chance of rescuing Docherty’s victims, we’re doing it. Car. Now .’

Another groan, then Huntly slipped two tins of ready-mixed gin and tonic into his pockets.

‘But…’ Rhona stared at me. ‘We-’

‘You’re right.’ I patted her on the shoulder. ‘I’ll only slow them down.’ Then waggled my cane at Jacobson. ‘You lot go ahead. Alice, Rhona, and I can get started on the debriefing strategy.’

Jacobson beamed at me. ‘I knew you’d be a great addition to the team, Ash.’ And then they piled out through the pub doors, leaving the three of us behind.

Pause.

Two.

Three.

Rhona scrunched up her face. ‘But we checked the caravan park. Other than a couple of disused lots, they’re all accounted for. Docherty didn’t rent any of them.’

Four.

Five.

Six.

I pointed Alice towards the door. ‘Go make sure they’ve gone.’

She was back ten seconds later. ‘Jessica, Ruth, and Laura aren’t at the caravan park, are they?’

‘Get the car.’

Rhona pulled the Suzuki in to the kerb, hands skittering back and forth on the wheel, as if it was red-hot and she was scared of getting her fingers burned. ‘Err… Guv, I really think we should’ve told the boss about this…’

Lights shone in the windows of the houses — happy families and venetian blinds all shut up for the night. Only a week after Bonfire Night and some silly sod had a Christmas tree up already.

The shops on the other side of the road sulked beneath the streetlights: a butcher’s, a grocer’s, and a vet’s. Their boarded-up windows still plastered with posters for the ghost of circus past. Every bit as abandoned as they had been when we’d driven past on Monday.

I undid my seatbelt. ‘I’d love to call it in, but I can’t get a mobile signal. Can you, Alice?’

She pulled out her phone. Frowned at it. ‘I’m getting four bars, maybe your…’ And then her face opened up. ‘Ah, right . No, I’m not getting anything. Must be one of those black spots.’

‘Exactly.’ I popped the door handle. ‘Besides, if we go in mob-handed someone’s going to end up dead.’ And God knows there’d been enough of that.

Rhona sat forward, rested her head against the steering wheel. ‘This is, way above my pay grade. What if something happens?’

I climbed out into the rain. ‘Then you’ll be a hero, won’t you?’ Water seeped through my hair as I limped around the car and got the crowbar from the boot. Then used it as a cane to hobble across the road.

‘Ash, wait, wait, wait…’ Alice clambered out of the back seat and scurried up beside me, clutching my other arm, umbrella thrumming above our heads. ‘Don’t we need that little battering-ram thingie, I mean he’s not just going to leave them there with the door unlocked, is he, that would be reckless, they might get out…’ A frown. ‘Or someone might get in, which I suppose would be us, are we going in?’

It wasn’t just the shop windows that were boarded over with chipboard, the doors were too. ‘You stay behind me, understand?’

Rhona caught up.

She stared up at the building, water dripping from the ends of her hair, darkening the grey of her suit. ‘Do we try to kick it in, or go round the back?’

I hobbled onwards. ‘We go round the back.’

An alley led down the rear of the shops, the entrance sealed off with a length of chain bolted to the wall on one side and padlocked on the other. I ducked under it, waited for Alice, then stopped.

A small van sat behind the vet’s — dented and rusted. Reversed in so the back doors faced the building, the lettering for a carpet fitters still visible where the vinyl lettering had been peeled away. I pointed. ‘Rhona? Number plate.’

‘Guv.’ She pulled an Airwave handset from her jacket. ‘Sierra Oscar Four-Forty to Control, I need a vehicle check on a grey Ford Escort van…’