Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

On the other end, Jacobson sounded as if he was chewing on something. ‘ That you’ve been impersonating a police officer? No, not a word. ’

‘According to Cunningham, the hospital allocated Jessica McFee as her midwife. Cunningham gets a call asking questions about Jessica from the very same phone box where Claire Young’s body is dumped three days later.’

‘ And? ’

‘Perhaps Virginia Cunningham isn’t the only one he called for info. Get Sabir a list of everyone on Jessica McFee’s books. Then stick Cooper on finding out if any of them got phone calls too. Do the same with the parents of Claire Young’s patients. Alice thinks the Inside Man’s checking to see if they’ll be good with children — good mothers.’

There was a pause.

Alice turned in her seat. ‘Tell him we’re going to drop Barbara back at the train station.’

Sitting next to her, Babs shook her head. ‘Oh no you don’t. I got a night in a hotel coming to me, and a brown envelope stuffed with cash. Dinner would be nice too.’

‘Jacobson, you there?’

‘ Now would you care to explain why, exactly , you didn’t bother to keep me informed about what you were up to? ’

‘You want me to bring you problems or solutions?’

‘ They teach you that on some management course? ’

‘Here’s one for you: how did the Inside Man know Jessica McFee was Cunningham’s midwife? Where did he get her telephone number?’

There was a pause, then, ‘ Ah… ’

‘Claire Young was in paediatrics. Jessica McFee is a midwife. Shall we play join the dots?’

‘This is it?’ Babs stood on the pavement, rucksack in hand, looking up at the Travelodge on Greenwood Street. ‘Really?’

I shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me, I didn’t book it.’

‘Supposed to be swanky…’

Behind us, the diesel rattle of black-cab taxis mingled with safety announcements about not leaving your luggage unattended or it’d be taken away and destroyed. The rumble of a train pulling out of the station.

‘If you’re hungry, they do a decent fry-up.’

She hefted the rucksack over her shoulder. ‘Cheapskate police scumbags…’ Then lumbered in through the automatic doors. ‘Better be a double room.’

I got back in the car and on the phone. Checked in with Shifty. ‘You got that info I was asking for?’

‘ Did you really do an illegal search of that paedo’s house? ’

‘Don’t need a warrant if you’re a private citizen, Shifty. No way it’s getting thrown out of court.’

‘ There’s a wee ned owes me a couple of favours. Meeting him in an hour to go over what kind of security She Who Must Not Be Named’s got. My money’s on big dogs and barbed wire. How about you? ’

Bob the Builder smiled up at me from the back seat, yellow spanner in hand. ‘We can fix that.’

‘ Only problem is: we’re screwed for tonight. My bloke says she’s away through to Edinburgh for some charity boxing thing. Not back till tomorrow. ’

Sodding hell…

Still nothing we could really do about it. If she wasn’t here, she wasn’t here. ‘OK, I’ve had enough of big dogs for one day anyway.’

Alice tugged at my sleeve. ‘Is David still getting the curry, or do we need to pick it up on the way home?’

‘We’re not going home.’ Back to the phone. ‘We’ve got a couple of things to take care of. You can let yourself in. And Shifty…?’

‘ What? ’

‘A decent curry, OK? The Punjabi Castle, not some dodgy rathole.’

It was after eight by the time we pulled into Camburn View Crescent. The housing estate curled around us like a brick cyclone: identical houses with identical front gardens and identical 4×4s in their identical driveways, all lit by identical lampposts that turned the rain into shimmering droplets of amber. The trees of Camburn Woods were thick silhouettes behind the houses. Solid black clouds, lurking in the darkness.

Ruth leaned forward in the passenger seat, staring out through the windscreen wiper’s arcs. ‘I can’t…’

Alice smiled at her. ‘Just picture yourself standing in the sunshine, like we practised. Feel its warmth seeping all the way down to your bones. Comfortable. Calm. Relaxed.’

Ruth shifted in her seat, fingers trembling on the black-plastic dashboard. ‘Maybe we should just go home…?’

I put a hand on her shoulder and she flinched. ‘It’ll be OK. You were friends, remember?’

‘It’s just… I don’t know her any more…’

‘You’ll be fine. Comfortable. Calm. Relaxed.’ Alice climbed out into the night. Then after a beat, Ruth did too, leaving me to struggle with the seat.

Finally, I found the little lever — folded the thing forward, clambered over it and onto the street. Scents of woodsmoke and sulphur drifted on the damp air, underpinned with something musky. Wet soil and rotting leaves.

Rain seeped through my hair, cold and damp, trickled down the back of my neck.

Ruth sidled closer to Alice, then fumbled for her hand. Holding it like a small child afraid of getting lost.

‘Comfortable. Calm. Relaxed.’

‘OK…’

I followed them up the driveway, past the chunky oversized Mini, to the front door. Leaned on the bell.

No answer. So I tried again.

Ruth fidgeted, her breath a cloud of pale grey. ‘She’s changed her mind, she doesn’t want to speak to us…’

‘Trust me.’ One more go.

Finally, the door cracked open a couple of inches and a man peered out. Short auburn hair, round cheeks, pale eyebrows above a pair of twitchy eyes. He looked Alice up and down, as if he was trying to memorize her. ‘Are you …’ He’d moved on to Ruth. Stood there with his mouth hanging open.

‘You remember Miss Laughlin.’ I pointed at her. ‘She was Laura’s flatmate.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Good God… Ruth?’

What was probably meant to be a smile flickered on and off. ‘Hello, Christopher.’

‘Bloody hell…’ Some blinking. Then he opened the door all the way and stepped out into the rain. Hugged her.

Her arms stayed at her sides.

‘How are you? God it’s been years.’ More blinking. ‘You … come in, please, God, I’m sorry. Standing out here in the rain. We’ll… I’m sure Laura’s dying to see you.’

He ushered Ruth inside, stood back to let Alice in, then closed the door behind me. ‘I’m sorry, we have to be careful.’ A shrug. ‘Journalists. Excuse me…’ He squeezed past the three of us. ‘Can you all just wait here a minute. I need to make sure Laura’s OK. She can be a bit… With the pregnancy.’ Christopher scurried off down the hall, and through a door into what looked like a kitchen, shutting it behind him.

Ruth twitched. ‘What if she throws us out? What if she never wants-’

‘Feel the warm sun on your face. Comfortable. Calm. Relaxed.’

Silence.

The hallway was anonymous, plain cream-coloured walls and laminate flooring, a single bland landscape painting screwed to the wall. As if it was a hotel room.

The kitchen door opened again. ‘Come in, come in… I’ve got the kettle on.’

Christopher backed out of the way and Ruth crept her way into the room. We gave it a beat, then followed her.

A heavily pregnant woman stood at the sink, peeling potatoes. Her bright-copper curls were tied back in a frizzy ponytail that reached halfway down her smock top. Laura Strachan looked over her shoulder. Didn’t smile. ‘The bloody media’s been hounding us ever since that scumbag got hold of my medical records. What bloody good was Leveson? Answer me that.’ She hurled a naked potato into a pot, and a dollop of water splashed out onto the working surface. ‘Can’t even stay in our own home any more, it’s like a siege — cameras and microphones and journalists everywhere.’