Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

Alice peered over my arm at the phone. ‘Anything good?’

‘Every call made in the last four weeks from the phone box where Claire Young died. Two of the numbers are for people with form. One for housebreaking and assault, the other’s on the Sex Offenders’ Register.’

‘What for?’

‘Doesn’t say.’

A distant rumble resolved itself into the grubby diesel roar of the Edinburgh train as it hauled its blue-white-and-pink carriages into the station.

The girl with the banner bounced up and down on her tiptoes. Mr Suit-and-Tie checked his watch.

Alice hunched her shoulders. ‘What does Detective Superintendent Jacobson think?’

‘No idea — didn’t tell him.’

‘Ash…’

‘We’ll pay the sex offender a visit soon as we’ve broken the news to Wee Free McFee. Don’t need Jacobson or anyone else sodding it up before we get there.’

Bleeping, then the train doors hissed open and a dozen people stomped out onto the platform. And there she was — our muscle.

Officer Barbara Crawford had abandoned her prison uniform black-and-whites for a pair of jeans and a Raith Rover’s football top — tattoos on full display. Leather jacket tucked under one arm, big rucksack over the other shoulder.

She hung back, letting everyone else get through the barriers first.

The guy in the suit grumbled off with a nervous-looking woman in a beige twinset. But the teenage girl just stood there, looking up and down the empty platform, her banner wilting till the tip was on the floor. Then she turned and dragged it away.

Babs stayed where she was. Nodded. ‘Friends in high places, eh, Mr Henderson?’

‘Ash. We’re not in prison any more.’ I jerked my head to the left. ‘You know Dr McDonald.’

‘Alice, please, it’s nice to see you out of your uniform, Officer Crawford, oh, I don’t mean that in a suggestive way, I mean it’s not that I’ve been picturing you naked or anything, though I’m sure you’d look lovely, I’m not actually coming on to you, only it’s nice, isn’t it, to get a feel for people away from their work context?’

Babs’s right eyebrow climbed an inch. ‘She’s a lot more talkative than she was inside.’

‘Babbles when she’s nervous, Babs. Must be the thought of you in the nip. You ready?’

‘You got my money?’

‘Nope. Whatever deal you’ve got going, it’s between you and Detective Superintendent Jacobson.’

‘Fair enough.’ She pulled out her ticket and squeezed through the barriers. ‘I call shotgun.’

Alice pulled the Suzuki up to the kerb and hauled herself forward, chest pressed against the steering wheel as she squinted out at the eight-foot high wall of rust-streaked corrugated metal that stretched away into the darkness. Coils of razor wire looped around the top of the barricade; faded yellow signs declaring, ‘WARNING: THESE PREMISES PATROLLED BY BIG VICIOUS DOGS!’ and ‘PRAY FOR SALVATION FOR HE IS COMING!’

Babs filled the passenger side of the car like a ton of cement and broken bottles. She sniffed. ‘Got a squint at his jacket from a mate in Barlinnie. Nice bloke. Very family orientated.’

The horizon was on fire: a burning slash of gore and brass, trapped beneath a lid of coal-dark cloud. And in front of us, the junkyard loomed. A pair of tall gates — made of the same corrugated metal sheets — marked the entrance, topped with barbed wire and spikes. The words ‘FRAZER McFEE AND SON, RECLAMATION SPECIALISTS EST. 1975’ were daubed across them in white paint, just visible in the headlights.

‘Big vicious dogs…’ Babs sat back in her seat again. A smile crept across her face like blood on a kitchen floor. ‘Cool.’ She winked at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘According to my mate, Mr McFee’s got a biscuit tin full of severed human ears in there.’

I undid my seatbelt. ‘Ears?’

‘All dried and smoked, you know, like beef jerky? And every time he tortures someone, he takes one of the ears out the tin and eats it right in front of them. So they know what’s coming.’

‘Did your mate tell you about the time Wee Free took a chainsaw to PC Barroclough’s patrol car? Had half the roof off before they could stop him. Barroclough’s cowering in the well between the front and back seats, hands over his ears, screaming for his mother. Never really got over that…’

‘Way I hear it, there’s police officers with restraining orders out against this guy.’

‘Runs in the family. You should’ve seen his dad: “Blowtorch” Frazer McFee.’ I sucked a breath in through my teeth, making it hiss. ‘One man demolition crew.’

Alice licked her lips. Fidgeted in her seat. Cleared her throat. ‘And we’re certain this is a good idea?’

Of course it bloody wasn’t. ‘Babs, I think it’d be best if none of us end up in A amp;E tonight, so I’m going to leave you to take care of Fire and Brimstone.’

She half turned in her seat and squinted at me. ‘Fire and…?’

‘Alsatians. Big ones. You’re good with animals, aren’t you?’

The smile was back again. ‘Wonderful.’ She climbed out of the car, stomped around to the boot and clunked it open.

I pulled out my phone and called Shifty. Let it ring.

The boot thumped closed, and Babs appeared at the driver’s window, a stab-proof vest on over her Raith Rovers top. She pulled on a pair of heavy leather gloves. There was a sawn-off shotgun tucked under one arm. ‘We ready?’

The Suzuki rocked as I clambered out into the cold night. A faint whiff of diesel and fish underpinned the coppery smell of rusting metal. I nodded at Babs’s gun. ‘Holding up a Post Office later?’

She flicked the catch and the barrels hinged forwards, exposing their innards. ‘You’d be surprised how often Thatcher comes in handy. She’s very loyal.’ Two chunky red cartridges slipped into the holes, then she flipped the shotgun shut again. ‘Why, you going to report us?’

I blinked a couple of times. ‘Fine, but if anyone asks, you found her on the premises, understand?’

A shrug. Then Babs rolled her shoulders and lumbered off to the gates. Planted her feet wide, and mashed her thumb against the doorbell.

Nothing.

Alice climbed out of the car as I limped round to the boot and got the crowbar out. Thing was just about long enough to use as a walking stick. At least it’d leave me a hand free. I checked the Stanley knife was loaded and slipped it into my trouser pocket.

Yammering sounded from somewhere deep inside the junkyard. Barking and snarling, getting louder and closer on sharp pattering feet. Then BANG something big slammed into the other side of the gate at chest height, making the metal sheeting rattle. Whatever it was scrabbled backwards and had another go: BANG.

Alice backed away from the fence, palms flat against her chest, as if the heartburn was back. ‘Maybe it’d be a good idea to call for backup, I mean it’s not as if we’ve actually got any official powers here, is it…?’

Fur appeared in the four-inch gap between the corrugated-iron doors, teeth flashing. The second dog smashed into the gate again: BANG.

Fire and Brimstone.

Good job the gate was chained shut.

Babs sucked her cheeks in and raised an eyebrow. ‘Any chance he’s not in?’

BANG.

‘He’s in.’

‘Good. No point copping a sicky to come rattle some scally, only to find he’s not there.’ She frowned up at the razor wire. ‘Can’t go over. Have to go through. Come on, Crowbar Boy.’

BANG.

Yeah… Maybe not. ‘That chain’s the only thing between them and us.’

Babs lowered the sawn-off shotgun till it was at waist level. ‘Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Mr Henderson. Me and Thatcher will look after you.’