Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

‘For God’s sake.’ I rapped my walking stick on the counter, raised my voice to a shout. ‘Did you fall in and drown, or something?’

No response from the closed door.

Alice took her red biro and circled a couple of highlighted adverbs. ‘Anyway, the handwriting in the “From Hell” letter is nothing like the “Dear Boss” ones. Neither have any punctuation, but the “Dear Boss” one’s three hundred percent neater, and the spelling’s way better. Lots of people think the “Dear Boss” letters are genuine — because they describe events that you could only know if you were Jack, or on the investigation — but “From Hell” came with half a human kidney preserved in wine.’

‘Michelle used to get hers delivered from Tesco.’ I banged on the counter again. ‘Get a bloody shift on!’

‘They can’t both be from Jack the Ripper, can they? He goes from super-neat handwriting to badly spelled scrawl, and you can’t just pick up half a human kidney from the corner shop, so clearly that’s come from a very disturbed individual who’s probably killed and mutilated someone, but that doesn’t mean they’re the same person.’

‘Is there a point to this?’

The sound of a toilet flushing filtered out through the door at the back.

She circled another pair of words. ‘So what we have to ask ourselves is was “Dear Boss” the real Jack the Ripper and “From Hell” a copycat, or was it the other way around? Or were neither of them really him?’

‘Still not seeing how this helps.’

‘Just thinking out loud. “A choir of power and pain ”… That’s how I’d put it. Power and pain.’

The back door opened and the guy left in charge of the shop lurched out, face pale beneath the short spiky haircut and designer stubble. He had one hand pressed against the middle button on his chunky cable-knit cardigan, cheeks puffed out, a black spike sticking out of his left earlobe. Donald’s name badge was squint, a gold star stuck to the plastic. ‘Sorry about that… You wanted half a dozen Cobra and some alcohol-free lager, right?’ He crossed to the shelves on the right and picked up a pair of six-packs. Placed them on the counter beside Alice’s letters. ‘God knows what I ate, but dear God…’ He rubbed at the button. ‘Anything else?’

She nodded. ‘Bottle of shiraz, a chardonnay — Australian if you’ve got it — and a bottle of Gordon’s. And some tonic.’

‘Right. Cool.’ Donald peered down at the photocopy with its whorls of red biro and streaks of yellow highlighter. ‘You see the documentary? I did it for my media studies dissertation. Some people think the hyperrealism of the re-enacted segments breaks the implicit contract of truth between director and viewer, but I think it represents a more fundamental inner truth by mirroring Laura Strachan’s emotional narrative.’ He pulled a little smile, waggled his head from side to side. ‘Got a two-one.’

I picked up the Cobra and tucked it under my arm. ‘Glad to see that’s working out for you.’

He shrugged. ‘Recession.’ A bottle of red and a bottle of white got dumped on the counter, followed by one of gin. ‘Most people just don’t understand that the documentary works on so many levels. Take the characters: they’re not just people, they function as fable archetypes. Laura Strachan is the Imprisoned Princess, Detective Superintendent Len Murray is the Troubled Knight, the psychologist Henry Forrester is the Venerable Mage, and Dr Frederic Docherty is the Wizard’s Apprentice, isn’t he?’ Donald took a step towards the chiller cabinet. ‘You want regular tonic, or diet?’

Alice slipped the letters back into her satchel. ‘Regular.’

‘He’s even got his own narrative arc, hasn’t he? From bumbling curly-haired sidekick to this slick TV personality in a suit, right? And we all know what Nietzsche says about staring into the abyss. Wouldn’t it be the perfect transformative actualization if it was classic Thomas Harris — the psychologist battles his patients’ inner monsters, but in real-life he’s the monster. You want a bottle or tins? Bit more expensive, but they don’t go flat as quick.’

‘Erm… OK, tins.’ She tilted her head to one side, staring at him as he got the tonic from the chiller cabinet. ‘So, you think Dr Frederic Docherty is a cannibal?’

‘Metaphorically — consuming his mentor’s knowledge and legacy to emerge reborn as a media celebrity.’ Donald returned with a box of six tiny tins. ‘And the Inside Man: he’s the Dragon. Lurking in the darkness, taking virgin sacrifices. Yes, I know they’re not actual virgins, but the analogy’s sound because he gets them pregnant with the dolls. Do you want to stick your card in the chip-and-pin thing?’

The brand-new microwave droned its electronic monotone in the corner of the kitchen while Shifty popped the top off a bottle of Holsten and passed it over, then opened a Cobra for himself. Clinked it against my lager and swigged back a couple of mouthfuls. ‘Ahhh…’ Then nodded at the bottle in my hand. ‘A soft drink’s one thing, but alcohol-free lager? Bit gay, isn’t it?’

‘You can talk.’

The working surface was littered with plastic carryout containers. Curries, rice, dals, side dishes, a silvered paper bag with garlic naan poking out of the top. A plastic bag of salad. Little polystyrene containers of dips and sauces.

I had a sip of the lager. Malty and hoppy and bitter. Five years on the wagon and it was like being eleven again, trying it for the first time and wondering what all the fuss was about. Should’ve just got some more Irn-Bru. ‘So, where does she live?’

Shifty peered through into the lounge, then lowered his voice. ‘Cullerlie Road, in Castleview? Victorian townhouse with private parking and big back garden. Mind that family where the dad stabbed them all to death in their sleep, then slit his throat in the bathroom? Just down the street from that.’

Tendrils of cumin and coriander reached out into the kitchen as Shifty pulled open the microwave door, before it went bleep.

‘Security?’

‘Bluelight special. Window locks and three-point UPVC door with deadlock.’ The containers in the microwave got replaced by another set. ‘According to my bloke, she’s got a pair of dogs too — Doberman-Alsatian cross. So I win.’

‘Need a couple of tasers then.’

Shifty sucked on his teeth as he programmed the microwave and set it going again. ‘No chance. They’re a lot stricter about that kind of thing since the merger. Could just pop the dogs, but … noisy. And bit of a shame too — not their fault their mistress is a bitch, is it?’

Alice stuck her head in from the lounge. ‘Who’s a bitch?’

‘Erm…’ He pulled on a frown. ‘We raided a bondage dungeon in the Wynd this morning. Shocking language off the woman running it.’

‘We about ready to eat? I’m starved.’

‘Just got the rice and naan to do.’

‘Great. I’ll set the table.’ She opened three drawers before she found the cutlery, then went back through.

‘How about pepper-spray then?’

He nodded. ‘That I can do. Been squirrelling it away for months: Andrew…’ Shifty cleared his throat. ‘Bastard was cheating on me. He’d come home reeking of Paco Rabanne, but he only ever wore Lacoste. Like I couldn’t tell the difference? Really?’ A shrug. Then Shifty stared down at his hands, the kitchen light reflecting off his bald head. ‘Was going to swap them over — you know, booby-trap his aftershave with it. Didn’t have the guts in the end. Didn’t want to confront him about it, in case he picked whoever it was over me. How pathetic is that?’

The microwave bleeped time.