Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

I handed over Shifty’s envelope full of cash, then limped back to the car, Bob the Builder tucked tightly beneath my arm.

Can we fix it? Yes, we bloody well can.

‘ … for three days has been found in a disused quarry in Renfrewshire. Police are appealing for anyone who might have seen the six-year-old since she went missing on Thursday evening … ’

Rain smashed against the tarmac, bouncing back to make a knee-high spray of mist as Alice pulled into the car park. The Suzuki pitched and rolled through water-logged potholes, sending Bob the Builder sliding across the back seat.

‘ … refusing to confirm or deny that there are similarities with three other children abducted since Halloween… ’

She picked a parking space not too far from the entrance, and sat there, the windscreen wipers scraping across the pitted glass. ‘It doesn’t look very promising…’

‘It’s the overflow facility for a mortuary, what did you expect: palm trees and marble?’

‘ … an appeal from the mother of missing five-year-old, Charlie Pearce- ’

Alice killed the engine.

The overflow facility was a low concrete bunker in a run-down industrial estate on the outskirts of Shortstaine — a mean line of grey and black, scowling behind chain-link fences festooned with warning signs about guard dogs, CCTV, and razor wire. Loading bay at one end, reception at the other. Shielded from the road by a barricade of green bushes.

There was a clatter, and a couple staggered out through the mortuary doors: the man’s face ripped open by grief, wet with tears; the woman walking as if her knees wouldn’t bend any more. As if what she’d seen inside had fossilized them.

The rain drummed against my shoulders.

Alice stood with the keys in her hand, turning to watch the couple lurch into the car park. Him collapsing against an old Renault Clio, her walking around in small, stiff-legged circles. ‘Maybe we should do something?’

A beat later, a uniformed constable crashed out into the rain, skidded to a halt on the top step, face flushed. A lumpy stain spread from the edge of her stabproof vest down one leg and the sharp, bitter smell of bile clung to her like a shroud. ‘Sorry…’ She gave me a pained smile, then went over to join the sobbing man and clockwork woman.

Inside.

Dr Constantine stood facing a blow heater, the sides of her Parka jacket held open, basking in the warm air.

The room was small, bland, and functional: a stubby reception desk made of stainless steel; an easy-clean lino floor; walls covered with public health and information posters; a rack of leaflets about bereavement services; two security cameras — one watching the front door, the other the entrance to the mortuary proper; a dozen or so business cards from a funeral director’s strategically tucked where grieving relatives could see them: ‘UNWIN AND MCNULTY, UNDERTAKERS EST. 1965 ~ DISCREET PROFESSIONAL CARE FOR YOUR LOVED ONES’. A rubber plant loomed in the corner, its thick waxy leaves covered with a layer of dust. The air sagged beneath the cloying floral scent of too much air freshener, that still wasn’t strong enough to obliterate the dark smear of decay.

The door swung closed with an electronic bleep, and Dr Constantine looked over her shoulder at us. Rolled her eyes. ‘They’ve only gone and lost the body.’

Alice shook the water from her shoulders. ‘How could they lose the body, I mean this is supposed to be a major murder investigation and the whole world’s going to be-’

‘You know what I think?’ Constantine went back to the heater. ‘The natives are playing silly buggers, because they’re scared we’ll show them up.’

I pressed the bell on the reception desk, and ringing sounded from somewhere behind the double doors leading deeper into the facility. ‘Yeah, I don’t think it’s quite that sinister.’

No reply from the bell. So I tried again.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think it’s sinister, I think it’s petty bloody-mindedness.’

One more go on the bell.

Still nothing.

Alice turned to stare at the door we’d come in through. ‘Actually, do you think it’ll be OK if I…?’ She pointed out towards the car park. ‘They seemed really upset.’

‘Go on then.’

Last chance. I mashed my thumb down on the bell and held it there as she hurried back outside. The ringing stretched on and on and on and on… And still no answer.

I crossed to the double doors. Frosted glass panes offered no view into the interior. I flattened my hand and slammed my palm against the wood.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

‘DOUGAL, YOU USELESS FLAP OF SKIN, GET YOUR ARSE OUT HERE NOW!’ Then went back and leaned on the bell again. ‘This isn’t a conspiracy, they’re just morons. It’s always like this.’

BANG! BANG! BANG!

‘DOUGAL, I’M BLOODY WARNING YOU!’

One side of the door creaked open and a wrinkled face peered out, eyebrows raised above a pair of dark, glittering eyes. Silver hair yellowing at the tips. ‘Ah… Yes…?’ A smile made of greying dentures. ‘Well, I never: Detective Inspector Henderson, how nice to see you again. I thought you were … away .’

‘What have you done with Claire Young’s remains?’

His eyebrows drooped. ‘I was sorry to hear about your daughter, I can only imagine- Ulp!’

I reached through the gap in the doors and grabbed a handful of white lab coat. Dragged him out into the reception area. ‘Where is she?’

‘Ah, yes, Claire Young…’ His eyes darted to Dr Constantine, then back to me again. ‘Actually, that’s a funny story, well, maybe not funny per se , but it’s-’

I gave him a shake. ‘Last time, Dougal.’

‘We’re looking, we’re looking! It’s not my fault, it-’

Another shake. ‘Get the book. Now .’

He staggered back, straightening the front of his lab coat, refastened the poppers. ‘Yes, the book, I’ll get the book…’ Then he ducked behind the reception desk and came out with a thick ledger, flopped it open at a leather bookmark about five-sixths of the way through. Pulled on a pair of big round glasses that magnified his dark rat-like eyes. Ran a finger down the name column. ‘Young, Young, Young… Ah, here we are, yes, right: Claire Young. She should be in Fifty-Three A, but we’ve looked and there’s no one there…’ He cleared his throat. ‘But we’re pulling out all the stops, searching every drawer in every unit, I’m sure she’ll turn up eventually. Right?’

I burled the book around a hundred and eighty degrees, till it was the right way up for me. Scanned the rows and columns. ‘Says here she was PM’d yesterday morning. Have you checked she’s not still lying in the cutting room?’

Dougal stuck his nose in the air, pulling the loose wattles of skin around his neck tight. ‘We’re not idiots.’

‘You do a bloody good impersonation of one. What about Thirty-Five A, have you tried there?’

‘Of course we…’ He stopped, his mouth hanging open. Then his lips contracted to make a wrinkly ‘O’. ‘Excuse me a moment…’ And he was gone.

The front door bleeped again and Alice shuffled in, face all flushed, hair dripping wet, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her stripy top. She didn’t say a word, just crept up to me, wrapped her arms around my torso and pressed her face against my chest. Sniffing.

I hugged her back. She was soaked. ‘You OK?’

Another sniff. Then a deep breath. One last squeeze of my ribs, and she stepped back. Wiped her eyes again. ‘Sorry.’

‘Detective Inspector?’ Dougal was back, flashing his dentured smile again. ‘I’m pleased to announce that we’ve managed to locate Claire Young. Give me a couple of minutes and she’ll be in the cutting room ready for you.’