Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

Alice slid the car forward ten foot, then came to a halt again.

‘Finger out, we’re none of us getting any younger here.’

A pause. Then, ‘ Fine. Be like that. Got an address for one Laura Strachan: Thirteen Camburn View Crescent, Shortstaine. And you want to know how I got it? It was doing my head in — they’re not living at the family home, probably cos of all the journos, so- ’

‘The short version, Sabir.’

‘ You know, I used to like you. ’

‘No you didn’t.’

‘ Bloody long time ago, mind. They’re not registered at the address, it doesn’t belong to a relative, and they’re paying the rent in cash. Playing properly hard-to-get. But her bloke… Now, I accidentally got hold of his credit-card details — don’t ask. He’s getting stuff delivered off the interwebs. And when I accidentally got access to his Amazon account too, guess what he’s using as a delivery address? ’

‘Now you see, this is why I stick up for you when people start mouthing off about your general lack of personal hygiene. What about the audio?’

‘ Personal hygiene? Cheeky bugger. You’ll get the audio when it’s ready. If I’d known you were going to be this big a pain in the arse, I would’ve had a word with your mam when I was shagging her last night. Got her to give you a clip round the lug. ’

‘Bye, Sabir.’ The phone went back in my pocket.

So we finally had an address for Laura Strachan. Mind you, if the calls from that phone box panned out, we might be able to leave the poor woman alone after all… Still, it’d be nice if Ruth Laughlin could talk to her. God knew I owed Ruth that much.

I pointed through the windscreen. ‘Take the next left, we’ll cut along Slaine Road. Should miss the worst of it.’

‘… I’m not asking you to kill anyone, George, I just want you to check your records: why’s Cunningham on the sex-offenders’ register?’ I shifted my mobile from one ear to the other as Babs squeezed herself out of the Suzuki’s passenger door and into the rain.

There was a pause. Then George’s nasal monotone droned out of the earpiece. ‘ Why do you want to know? ’

‘Just interested.’ Because there was no way I was going to tell him Cunningham had been on the receiving end of a call from the phone box where the Inside Man tried to dump Claire Young’s body. It’d be all over the station by the time I hung up the phone, and as soon as Jacobson found out… Well, he wasn’t likely to be very pleased at being kept in the dark, was he? ‘A quick search on the computer, how hard can it be?’

‘ It’s not like it was in the old days, we’ve got a duty of care to the dodgy bastards. We can’t just go handing out their personal- ’

‘Are you forgetting what happened in Falkirk?’

His voice jumped up an octave. ‘ You promised! ’

‘Then get me Cunningham’s details.’

Sitting in the driver’s seat, Alice widened her eyes, mouthing the word back at me. ‘Falkirk?’

I waved her away. ‘ Now would be good, George.’

‘ Wasn’t even my fault… ’ The sound of fingers clattering across a keyboard. ‘ Cunningham, Cunningham, Cunningham… Right. Here: done eleven years ago for having nine-gig of naked wee boys on a laptop. Two counts of indecent exposure about a month after release. Three assaults on pregnant women. And… ’ More typing. ‘ And unlawful sex with two minors, six years ago. What sort of idiot puts someone like that in charge of a primary-school swimming club? On the register for life. Gets a visit every other week from McKevitt and Nenova. ’

‘How long for the kiddie porn?’

‘ Erm… Four years, released on licence after two. ’

‘Thanks, George.’ I stuck the phone back in my pocket. ‘Here’s something interesting: our sex offender has form for assaulting pregnant women.’ I climbed out of the car.

After a beat, Alice did too, closed the door and plipped the locks. Put up a little collapsible brolly. ‘Are you sure we shouldn’t tell Detective Superintendent Jacobson?’

‘If this works out, we go to him with a result. If it doesn’t pan out, he doesn’t need to know. Everyone wins.’

Carrick Gardens looped away down the hill — two rows of bland, respectable bungalows, some with loft conversions, all with neat front gardens and estate cars in the driveways. Not the poshest bit of Castleview by a long way, but infinitely better than the crappy flat Alice had rented in Kingsmeath. Decent view as well: over the river, Dundas Bridge, and up the cliff to the castle, streetlights twinkling in the darkness.

I hobbled after Babs, up the garden path to number nineteen. The blinds were down on the two front windows, the door painted red, with a semi-transparent stained-glass panel. ‘Cunningham’s been in and out of prison for the last eleven years, but was definitely at large during the Inside Man’s first spree.’

Babs thumbed the doorbell.

Alice stopped halfway down the path. Fiddled with her hair for a bit as the rain drummed on her umbrella. ‘I’m still not convinced we should be deviating so far from the profile.’

‘We’re not here because I think Cunningham’s the Inside Man, we’re here because someone called this number from the phone box where Claire Young was dumped. So perhaps Cunningham knows him? Long shot, but we’ve got sod-all else. Besides, you said it yourself: the profile’s wrong and Dr Docherty is a dick.’

‘I didn’t exactly use those words, I mean he’s a very well-respected psychologist and I’m just a-’ Her mouth shut with a click as a light came on inside. Then the front door opened and a puffy face peered out through the gap.

Mid-thirties, long blonde hair rumpled on one side, small mouth, a flash of what looked like a red towelling dressing gown. ‘Look, I’m not wanting solar bloody panelling, my drive re-tarmacked, a free quote for double glazing, help with a PPI claim, to talk about Jesus, Tupperware, Avon, or a sodding Anne Summers party. For the last time: leave — me — alone!’

I stepped up. ‘Actually-’

‘Go away. I’m not in.’

‘Miss Virginia Cunningham?’ I reached into my pocket and hauled out my old warrant card. The one I wasn’t supposed to have any more. ‘We’d like a word about where you were last night.’

She took one look at the warrant card and her mouth fell open — round and red, like a bullet wound. ‘Oh shite…’ She slammed the door shut before I could get the tip of my cane in the gap. Her voice came through, muffled from inside. ‘Shite, shite, shite…’ The bolt clacked home. ‘Shite, shite, shite…’ Then she turned and lumbered off down the hall, just visible through the stained glass.

Babs clapped her hands. ‘You want me to force entry?’

Alice blanched. ‘But we don’t have a warrant and we’re not-’

‘Do it.’

Babs slammed her elbow into the stained-glass panel, turning it into a multi-coloured spider’s web of cracks. One more and it burst inward with a bang, shards clattering down on the floor. Then she jammed her whole arm through the hole, face flat against the door as she fiddled with the locks. ‘Bing!’

The thing swung open and we tumbled inside.

All of us except for Alice. ‘Don’t we need a police officer and a warrant and-’

‘Watch the front!’

Inside, the hallway dog-legged around to the right. The lounge door was open, the sounds of some sort of kids’ programme on the TV blaring out its cheesy cheeriness. ‘ … oooh, that is a spooky looking haunted house, isn’t it? But don’t worry, we can sing the “Bravery Song”! ’ No one there — just two couches, a coffee table and a large sheepskin rug in front of an electric fire. Video camera on a tripod beside the television.