Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

‘Brett? It’s Ash. Your brother? Brett, you there?’

Silence. Screening his calls, or genuinely out? Didn’t really matter either way.

‘I…’ I what? What could I possibly say that would make any difference? ‘I just wanted to let you know that … I’m taking care of it. You guys be good to each other, OK?’ Awkward silence. ‘Anyway, that’s it. Bye.’

The phone went back in my pocket.

Deep breath.

Then I pushed through into the cutting room again.

Dr Constantine’s trolley was covered in clear plastic bags, arranged in order of largest to smallest. She dug about in one containing a slab of purpley-black, humming the theme tune to The Archers as she went.

Alice was sitting on the cutting table furthest away from the action, red shoes dangling three feet off the floor, one arm wrapped around herself, the other hand twiddling with her hair. Gazing up at the CCTV camera hovering over her head.

‘There’s a lot of cameras.’

‘Whole place is wired. About six years ago, they noticed bodies going missing from long-term storage. No idea who did it, or what they did with them.’ I shrugged. ‘Welcome to Oldcastle.’

‘Hmm…’ Alice went back to playing with her hair. ‘I’ve been thinking about Dr Docherty’s profile, I mean I can understand why he’s proposing Unsub-Fifteen’s a lone male hunting-’

‘It’s the same profile he drew up with Henry eight years ago. He’s fluffed the wording up a bit, but the only thing he’s really changed is the guy’s age. Used to be in his “late twenties”, now it’s “mid-to-late thirties”.’ A harsh electronic ringing noise cut through the musty air like a rusty scalpel: the mortuary phone, mounted on the wall by the samples fridge. It rang, and rang, and rang, then fell silent again. I stared at it. ‘Docherty obviously thinks Unsub-Fifteen’s the Inside Man.’

Phones… I stared at the one by the fridge. How did he know? How did he know they’d work?

Alice swung her feet. ‘I’d like to talk to the survivors, we can do that can’t we, Bear said we could and-’

‘Soon as Shifty sends through their details.’ I waved my cane at Dr Constantine. ‘Hoy, Doc? You going to be long?’

She took a long-bladed carving knife to the slab of liver. ‘ Please , don’t call me “Doc”. Makes me sound like one of the Seven Dwarfs.’ She took the slice of liver and cut it into bite-sized chunks. ‘And I’ll be at least another three hours. Maybe more. Depends if your pal Wrinkles can find those other victims.’

‘Who’s your computer guy?’

She dumped a chunk of glistening purple into a sample tube. ‘Don’t have one.’

‘Thought you were supposed to be all leading edge.’ I pulled my team mobile out and pressed the entry for ‘~ THE BOSS’.

Jacobson picked up on the fifth ring. ‘ Ash? ’

‘Why haven’t you got a forensic computer specialist on the team?’

‘ Why, do we need one? ’

‘Detective Sergeant Sabir Akhtar — used to work with the Met, don’t know if he still does, but he’s the best.’

‘ Listening. ’

‘Tell him to get hold of the call log from the phone box we found this morning — the one where he tried to dump Claire Young. The Inside Man doesn’t just pick his deposition sites at random; he needs a working phone box within easy reach so he can call an ambulance. So…?’

‘ So he’s got to be scoping them out and making test calls. ’

‘Have Sabir run down every call for the last six weeks. Perhaps there’s a pattern. And give him the nine-nine-nine calls from the original victims as well. I want them cleaned up and any background noises isolated — we don’t care about anything from where they were played back, but if we can get something from where he recorded them in the first place… Might be worth a punt.’

Silence from the other end of the phone.

‘You still there?’

‘ Maybe you’re not so useless after all. I’ll let you know. ’ And he was gone.

About three seconds later my mobile buzzed. A text message from Shifty.

Marie Jordan: Sunnydale Wing, Castle Hill Infirmary

Ruth Laughlin: 16B, 35 First Church Rd, Cowskillin

amp; U fancy curry for tea?

Marie Jordan and Ruth Laughlin. Nothing for Laura Strachan. I texted him back, then stuck the phone in my pocket. Held out a hand for Alice and helped her down from the cutting table. ‘Constantine’s big enough to look after herself for a few hours. We’ll go see those survivors.’

As we pushed through into the reception area, Dougal gave a little squeal. Grabbed the death book and clutched it against his chest. ‘Frightened the life out of me…’

I paused, one hand on the door to the outside world. Pointed at him. ‘Find those samples and Natalie May’s body, or next time we meet you’ll be the one getting post-mortemed. Understand?’

He tightened his grip on the book. ‘Yes, right, finding her now, not a problem.’

‘Better not be.’ I hauled on the handle and followed Alice out into the grey morning.

Rain bounced off the tarmac and hissed against the mortuary’s concrete walls. A lake was forming in front of the loading bay, spreading out from an overflowing gutter.

The little portico didn’t offer a lot of protection from the downpour, but it was better than nothing.

Alice pulled up her hood. ‘You wait here and I’ll get the car.’ She skittered between the puddles, knees high, back hunched. Plipped the locks and scrambled in behind the wheel. The Suzuki’s lights flickered on, followed by the engine. Then it spluttered its way to the mortuary door, twitching with palsy tremors.

I limped over, climbed in.

Mist thickened the windows, eating the day until there was nothing left but blurry shapes and vague shadows. Alice cranked the blowers up full. Their roar drowned out the rain drumming on the roof. ‘Sorry… It’ll only take a minute.’

A knock on the driver’s window made her flinch. A man’s chest filled the glass, barely visible through the fog — suit jacket, shirt and tie.

She buzzed the window down. ‘Can I help you?’

A high-pitched voice slithered into the car. ‘Felicitations, dear lady. May one enquire where you’re taking our good friend Mr Henderson this fine morning?’

Shite.

I clambered out of the car, hands balled into fists. ‘Joseph.’

He looked across the bonnet at me and smiled. Big sticky-out ears, Neanderthal forehead, prominent chin, and a crewcut that did nothing to hide the scar tissue lacing back and forth across his scalp. The rain played a drum solo on his big black umbrella. ‘Mr Henderson, how splendid to see that you’re no longer incarcerated. We have missed you. Are you well?’

Rain flattened my hair to my head, a trickle making its icy way down the back of my neck. ‘What do you want?’

‘ Moi ?’ He placed a hand against his chest — a DIY swallow tattoo in faded blue marked the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I wanted to make sure that you’d come through your period of incarceration with your spirit intact, ready to take on the world once more with your legendary vigour.’

I cricked my head to the left, then back again, tendons making popping noises at the top of my spine. ‘Are we going to have a problem?’

‘Oh, I do so hope not, Mr Henderson. I would so hate for us to have a falling out when we’ve always been the best of friends.’ He looked over my shoulder. ‘Isn’t that right, Francis?’

Two years in prison. You’d think I’d have learned to keep an eye out for someone sneaking up behind me.

Francis appeared at my shoulder, his reflection in the passenger window smiling down at me from behind his John-Lennon sunglasses. Curly red hair pulled back in a ponytail, big wild-west moustache, and little soul-patch. ‘’Spector.’