Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

I coughed, waved a hand back and forth. ‘God’s sake…’

‘Course, I could sort it out. Start at one end and re-index everything till it was back in shape again, but why bother? It’d take years. Come May, I’m retiring to sunny Perth to play golf and drink beer. Let whatever poor sod comes next sort it.’

I lifted the lid. Inside, it was stacked with evidence bags, paperwork, and notebooks. ‘You got a table I can use?’

‘Simpson said you were down here.’

‘Hmm?’ I looked up, and there was Rhona, leaning against the metal shelving, hands in the pockets of her suit trousers. Her shirt was unbuttoned to the bra line, a ring of orange-grey dirt around the inside of the collar, a grease stain darkening the green fabric.

She shrugged. ‘Looking for anything in particular?’

‘The Inside Man letters. Supposed to be in here.’

Rhona settled on the edge of the table and reached into the box. Pulled out an evidence bag. A scrunched up tissue sat inside, speckled with the dark brown dots of ancient blood. She put it on the tabletop and went back in for something else. ‘Listen, about that party, it’s not important. I was … you know: thought it’d be nice to celebrate you getting out.’

‘Been through everything in the box twice and there’s no sign of them. They’re on the evidence log, but they’re not here…’

‘We could just grab a drink, or something? Maybe down the Monk and Casket? Like the old days. Or we could even do it in the hotel bar?’

‘Hotel?’

‘The Pinemantle. Aren’t you staying with the LIRU and SCD lot?’

I settled back in my seat, stretched my right leg out. ‘Why would the letters be missing from evidence?’

She sucked at her teeth. ‘Maybe one of the other teams got there first?’

‘No. They’d have checked them out.’ I held up the sheet of paper with everything in the box listed on it. ‘And it took me and Simpson half an hour to find the sodding thing. It was clarted in dust — according to him, no one else’s been near it for years. There’s a scalpel missing too.’

I swivelled the chair all the way around, until I was facing the long, gloomy rows of shelves. ‘The letters are gone, and the HOLMES data is all screwed up. What if someone’s been covering their tracks?’

Rhona’s eyebrows went up. ‘You think the Inside Man’s one of us?’

It made a twisted sort of sense.

She whistled. ‘Bet it’s that dick DI Smith. Never trust an Aberdonian, that’s what my dad always said.’

‘He’s not been here long enough. Do me a favour: find out who was on the Inside Man HOLMES team eight years ago. Might be someone who transferred to another force for a while? That’d explain why we’ve got eight years with no Inside Man.’

‘Speaking of people dropping off the radar: you seen Shifty Dave on your travels? Her Ladyship’s not too impressed he skipped morning prayers.’

Damn.

I picked up the pile of notebooks and put them back in the box. ‘He’s sick. Said it was probably the norovirus or something.’ Well, if it was a good enough lie to get Officer Babs off work, it was good enough for Shifty. ‘Vomiting, diarrhoea, aching joints, the whole thing. Sounded dreadful. Thinks he won’t be in for a couple of days.’

‘Shifty’s got the squits? Not surprised, the amount of kebabs he puts away. Should’ve told the Super though, she’s in a bad enough mood as it is. You see that bit about Jessica McFee in the News and Post today? Tell you, half of CID couldn’t keep their mouths shut if you superglued their lips together.’

I stacked everything else back where it came from and put the lid on again. ‘I’ll let him know next time I see him.’

‘Anyway, about that drink, I was thinking after work?’

Couldn’t carry the box and the cane at the same time, so I had to limp my way back to the shelf, needles digging their way through my right foot with every scuffed step.

‘Guv?’

‘I can’t tonight. I’ve … got a thing.’

‘Oh.’

I slid the box through the dust to the rear of the shelf. Looked back at Rhona. ‘How about tomorrow?’

Her head drooped. A thin smile like a bad taste on her lips. ‘Yeah. Maybe tomorrow.’

A low buzz filled the canteen on the fourth floor. A PC stood in front of the glowing microwave rocking from side to side, as if he was slow-dancing with whatever ready meal he was nuking in there.

Other than him, and a civilian support officer eating a Pot Noodle, the place was empty. Just rows of ratty tables and creaky chairs. A communal fridge. Sink. Tea-and-coffee-making facilities. A vending machine that was fifty-percent chocolate and fifty-percent crisps.

The shutters were down over the service hatch. No chips till lunchtime.

I dumped a teabag in a mug and flicked the kettle on to boil.

Pulled out my phone and called Jacobson.

No answer. No answer from Huntly either. Or Dr Constantine.

Typical.

Could try chasing Sabir up … but then he’d only whinge about it.

The kettle rumbled to a halt.

Of course, what I really needed was a bit of muscle on my side when I introduced Bob the Builder to Mrs Kerrigan — in a run-down corner of an industrial estate, with a dead mob accountant in the boot of a stolen car. Perhaps Babs would like a little extra cash to get Joseph and Francis out of the picture for a bit, no questions asked?

Yeah, that’d go down well.

Hi, Babs, fancy keeping a pair of vicious bastards busy while I shoot their boss in the face a couple of times? What’s that? You’re calling the police?

Francis and Joseph would just have to take their chances with Bob the Builder too.

Shame Shifty wasn’t here…

Teabag. Hot water. Milk in over the top.

The distant sound of shouting oozed in through the open canteen door. Muffled curses and not so muffled yells of pain.

Over by the microwave, the PC glanced back at the corridor then went on dancing with the microwave. No one gave a toss any more.

I stuck my tea on the table and limped out, cane thunking against the cracked terrazzo floor. The shouting was louder to the left, by the stairs. Four or five of them yelling at the top of their lungs.

‘ Ayabastard! ’

‘ Don’t just stand there, you cabbage: get him! ’

‘ Sod off, you get him! ’

‘ Aaaargh! Oh Jesus that hurts! ’

‘ Come on, you big bastard, try- Unf… ’

‘ Shite, shite, shite… ’

By the time I got to the bottom of the stairs, there were half a dozen of Oldcastle’s finest cowering against the corridor walls. Uniform and CID all pressing themselves into the battleship-grey paint. A Community Support Officer had his bum on the floor, one leg stretched out, a bloody hanky clamped to his nose.

The rest of them were staring at the door to the family room.

More swearing from inside.

‘ Help me! Please, you can’t just- AAGGHH! ’

I shoved past. ‘The hell is wrong with you people?’ Then wrenched open the door.

The comfy sofas were tipped over, the coffee table smashed to firewood, big dents in the plasterboard, the light fitting torn from the ceiling. Picture frames cracked, glass littering the dirty carpet. Curtains dangled from their broken pole — there wasn’t really a window behind it. The whole place was a fake.

A uniformed officer was slumped against the far wall, scarlet glistening across her top lip, mouth, and chin. Another’s leg poked out from behind one of the sofas. Two CID face down on the carpet.

Wee Free McFee stood in the remains of the shattered coffee table, blue V-necked jumper torn at the shoulder, white shirt collar smeared with blood. Both hands curled into fists. Breathing hard.