Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

‘Someone got the numbers the wrong way round, didn’t they?’

‘Well, the important thing is that Miss Young’s still here, all safe and sound.’ He pushed the door all the way open, holding it there as he gestured us in. ‘Was beginning to think our ghoulish friend had come back…’

‘Now you’re sure I can’t get you a tea? Coffee?’ Dougal tilted his head on one side, hands in front of his chest, the fingertips stroking each other as Dr Constantine picked her way around all that remained of Claire Young. ‘I’ve got some fig rolls, if you like?’

Alice shook her head. ‘Thanks, but … with the post mortem and everything…’

‘Ah, yes, right. Detective Inspector?’

I nodded. ‘Tea. Milk. Two biscuits. And a proper mug — not polystyrene.’

He scuttled off, leaving us alone in the cutting room. The thing was at least six times the size of the mortuary at Castle Hill Infirmary. A dozen stainless-steel tables were arranged in a grid of six by two, complete with drains, hoses, scales, and hydraulics. Each one sat beneath its own CCTV camera — the black globes hanging from the ceiling like fruiting bodies.

A long glass wall ran down one side of the room, above a row of sinks and taps. Work surfaces covered the opposite wall, beneath anatomy posters and health-and-safety notices.

Alice shuddered. ‘Why do they always have to hire creepy guys to work in mortuaries? Did you see his eyes? All dark and shiny…’

‘He looks like an oversized rat in a lab-coat doesn’t he? He’s overpowered the scientists and it’s their turn to be experimented on.’ I leaned back against the cutting table next to Claire Young’s remains. ‘One summer, when the girls were wee, it was just bakingly hot. For a week Oldcastle was like living in an oven, so we’d leave the windows open the whole time; trying to get a bit of cool air into the place. One night I went to check on the girls — both sound asleep — and there’s this big brown rat inching its way up the blankets towards Rebecca’s face. That’s what Dougal looks like.’

‘You forgot to say, “Once upon a time”.’

‘Sorry.’

Alice shuffled her little red Converse trainers, turning on the spot, staring out at the cutting tables and sinks. ‘It’s very big.’

‘Comes in handy when a busload of school kids turns up, or something unpleasant happens at a nursing home, or the council unearths a mass grave…’ I twisted my fingers together until the joints burned. Looked away. ‘It comes in handy.’

Dr Constantine wheeled a stainless-steel trolley over and dumped an oversized Gucci handbag on it. Delved inside and picked out a roll of fabric — unfurled that to reveal a glittering spread of knives, clippers, pliers, and shears. The tools of her trade. ‘You know, in the good old days I used to get first crack at a body.’

She pulled on a lab coat, then crossed to a dispenser mounted above the sinks and tore a green plastic apron from the roll. Slipped it over her head and tied it at the back. Snapped on a pair of purple surgical gloves. ‘Would someone mind starting my Dictaphone? It’s in the bag.’

I got it out and pressed the red button, hanging it by its strap from the lamp above the table.

Dr Constantine worked her fingers across Claire Young’s abdomen.

Two sets of scars dimpled the waxy skin, one punctuated with little black stitches, the other with the thick nylon thread beloved of pathologists everywhere. The little black stitches held together the cruciform cut, the thicker ones closing the Y incision that reached from Claire’s collarbones to her pubic hair.

Constantine made humming noises behind her mask. ‘Well, at least they were bright enough not to disturb the Inside Man’s surgery.’ She took a pair of needle-nosed scissors and snipped through the thick thread. Peeled back the pre-loosened skin, exposing the ribs. ‘I suppose, in some ways, it’s nice not to have to do all the heavy lifting.’ She wrapped her fingers around both ends of the breastbone and popped the ribcage out; laid it on the trolley next to her implements. ‘Of course, this isn’t so good.’

Claire’s chest and abdominal cavity were filled with clear plastic bags, each one full of something dark and glistening. Constantine rummaged through them, then plucked out one with what looked like a heart in it. ‘A not-so-lucky dip.’ She tipped the contents out into a metal bowl. ‘Mr Henderson, would you grab your wrinkly idiot friend and ask him if he’s still got the original victims in storage? Might as well, while we’re here…’

I tracked Dougal down in the staff room, feet up on the coffee table, watching an old ‘Miss Marple’ film on the TV, and necking a bottle of Lucozade.

‘The pathologist wants the original victims’ bodies.’

He pulled a face. Took another swig. ‘Might be a teeny bit of a problem there. We’ve only got one of them left. One went … missing, and we had to surrender two to their families for burial. I can dig number four out and defrost her, if you like? Take a while for her to get up to temperature though.’

‘Natalie May’s still frozen? Operation Tigerbalm haven’t been in to look at her?’

A shrug. A swig. ‘Who can fathom the workings of Police Scotland? Anyway, she didn’t have any family, so no one came to claim her. Been here all cold and alone for eight years…’

‘Dig her out.’

‘Might be able to scare up some tissue samples and X-rays from the others. Depends if they survived the winter of twenty-ten.’ He looked away. ‘I really was sorry to hear about your daughter. And your brother.’

On the TV screen, Margaret Rutherford tricked a young man into confessing to murder in a drawing room. Then had a cup of tea as the police took the guy away to be hanged. All nice and cosy.

Dougal squeezed the Lucozade bottle, making it squeal. ‘When the leukaemia got our Shona… Well…’ Another swig. ‘Just wanted to say I know what it’s like.’

Yeah, because losing a child to cancer and losing one to a serial killer were exactly the same thing.

I didn’t say anything. Just turned and walked from the room.

At least he got to say goodbye.

The corridors squealed beneath my feet as I worked my way back towards the cutting room, walking cane thumping out a slave-galley beat against the grey terrazzo, phone pressed against my ear. ‘How long?’

Shifty’s voice wheezed out of the mobile’s earpiece. ‘ Yeah, well, you know, only till I get on my feet… I wouldn’t ask, but … you know. ’

‘Andrew still being a dick?’

‘ You won’t even know I’m there. Swear. I’ll get one of those blow-up mattresses from Argos, a duvet and all that. No trouble. ’

‘I want to interview the Inside Man’s surviving victims — you text me their details and I’ll ask Alice about you bunking down in the lounge. Deal?’

‘ Deal. ’

‘And keep it low key. Don’t want Ness to know we’re speaking to them.’ I paused, one hand on the door back through to the cutting room. ‘I went to see your mate for some spiritual guidance.’

‘ Oh .’ Pause. ‘ And are you all enlightened? ’

‘How does tonight sound?’

The wheezing dropped to a whisper. ‘ Pre-dawn raid? ’

‘I want details about the address — security, dogs, access points, when she’s going to be there. The usual.’

‘ Deposition site? ’

‘I think the classics are the best, don’t you?’ I hung up. Dialled another number.

It rang, and rang, and then click : ‘ You’ve reached Gareth and Brett. We can’t come to the phone right now, but you can leave a message after the beep. ’