Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

‘ Four of the officers he spanked have dropped the charges; still waiting on the other three. And I’ve got Sabir going through the journal entries on the HOLMES data. He thinks he can get a user ID from the mess. ’

‘Told you he was the best.’

‘ And while we’re on the subject, don’t forget we’re having a team briefing this evening at seven. No excuses this time: you will be there. ’

Seven o’clock.

If Huntly didn’t run his mouth there would still be time to deliver Paul Manson’s body to the dump site by nine. As long as we got everything prepared in advance.

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

I slid the phone back into my pocket. ‘You ready?’

‘Hmm…? In a minute.’ She traced her finger to the end of the page, then sat back. Stared at the Suzuki’s roof for a bit. Frowned. ‘The more I read, the more I’m sure there’s something … off about these.’

‘What, other than they were written by a nut-job who likes impregnating nurses with plastic dolls?’

She didn’t move, just sat there staring at the ceiling.

‘Alice?’

‘Power and control.’ She tucked the pictures into the large brown envelope, reached back and placed it in the rear footwell. ‘“A choir of power and control” doesn’t make any sense. I mean control is power, isn’t it?’

I opened the door — grabbing the handle as the wind tried to rip the whole thing off the side of the car — and struggled out into the rain. Stood on my good foot and leaned back in to retrieve my cane. ‘Try to look like a journalist.’

We hurried past the parked cars, both of us barely fitting under Alice’s little black umbrella. Rain sparked and thrummed against the black material.

The security camera above the main double doors pointed down at the keypad, but someone had stuck a yellow smiley-face sticker over the lens. No wonder there was never any CCTV footage when someone got attacked.

I thumbed the button for flat number eight. The names ‘MCFEE, THORNTON, KERR, AND GILLESPIE’ were printed on a plastic label next to it. No sign of Claire Young’s name on the board, so she had to be in building A or B.

Nothing happened for a bit except the rain.

A couple of posters were sellotaped to the glass — ‘SAVE OUR HALLS!’, ‘JUMBLE SALE IN AID OF SOMALIA’, and ‘HAVE YOU SEEN TIMMY?’ above a photo of a ginger cat with a white bib.

Alice fidgeted next to me, her umbrella bucking and twisting in the wind as she glanced back over her shoulder at the hyenas huddled in their cars. ‘Eight years ago, did Henry say anything about the letters? Any suspicions? Anyone on the periphery of the investigation who used lots of pompous imagery in their reports, or when they spoke?’

‘To be honest, Henry really wasn’t a lot of use.’ I tried the bell again. ‘Ellie had just been diagnosed. Most of the time he was plastered. And when he wasn’t, he was on the phone to her oncologist. He and Docherty played mentor and student at the press conferences, but really the magician’s apprentice was doing all the work.’

The intercom bleeped, and a low, clipped Scottish accent rode out on a wave of static from the speaker. ‘ She doesn’t want to see you, Jimmy, take the hint. ’

I leaned in close. ‘It’s the police. We need to talk to you about Jessica McFee.’

‘ Again? ’ What might have been a sigh. Then, ‘ Hold on, frickin’ buzzer’s broken… ’

Alice shifted her grip on the brolly as the wind caught it again. ‘I thought we weren’t supposed to tell people we were the police any more?’

‘It sounds better than, “Hello, we’re not actually police officers, but we’re part of a team of old-fart specialists who’re sort of assisting the official investigation, only we’re not allowed to tell them anything, because our boss is on a scheming power-trip.”’

‘True.’

There was a clang from somewhere inside, echoing down the stairwell.

Alice bumped her shoulder into my arm. ‘So Henry didn’t come up with the behavioural evidence analysis?’

‘Could barely walk straight half the time. He reviewed everything Docherty did though… Or at least, he said he did.’

She bit her bottom lip, shuffled her feet. Then fiddled with her hair. ‘I think we need to ditch the profile and go back to the beginning.’

A pair of shoes appeared at the top of the stairs inside.

‘I mean if Dr Docherty came up with the original profile and Henry rubber-stamped it without really reading the thing, it’s no surprise Docherty’s just regurgitating it for Unsub-Fifteen, he’s wedded to the ideas he came up with eight years ago because he thinks Henry agreed with them, but they’ve never been subjected to any real scrutiny.’

The feet descended the stairs, bringing a pair of jeans with them, then a red strappy top with a butterfly picked out in sequins, showing of a jiggle of cleavage. Finally the head — sun tan, cherry lipstick, eye shadow, blonde hair in a long bob with a fringe, a sparkling glass necklace around her throat. A bit done up for twenty-to-twelve on a Tuesday morning.

Alice dropped her hands to her sides. ‘We need to pick up some more whisky.’

The woman stopped on the other side of the door and squinted at us, her voice muffled by the glass. ‘Can I see some ID?’

I fished out my expired warrant card and she nodded, then pressed the button by the side of the door. A grating buzz. We pushed in, out of the rain. Stood, dripping on the mat.

Behind us, a ripple of flashes caught the glass door, as the hyenas finally realized we might be worth photographing.

The woman folded her arms, increasing the cleavage. ‘You’ve found her, haven’t you? You’ve found Jessica and she’s dead.’

Nurse Thornton opened the bedroom door and wafted a hand towards it. ‘This is Jessica’s.’

The place was a mess: drawers pulled open, their contents spilled on the floor; wardrobe empty; mound of coats and dresses, trousers and shirts piled on the bed; duvet crumpled into one corner, pillows on top of it. The rainbow-coloured rug on the floor was barely visible.

She sighed. ‘I tidied up after the first lot searched the place yesterday, but I’ve not got time to do it again. Taxi’s coming at twelve.’

I stepped over the threshold. Did a slow three-sixty. Then pointed at a rectangular patch on the wall, delineated by dust. ‘Them?’

‘No, that was Jessica. Smashed the frame into a million pieces, tore the photo up, and burned it.’

Hmm… I picked my way through a drift of underwear to the window. The room backed onto Camburn Woods, thick and dark and glistening in the rain. A couple of paths wound away into the forest gloom. ‘Miss Thornton, did Jessica mention anyone who’d been hanging around? Maybe someone who made her feel uncomfortable?’

‘It’s Liz. And your mates asked all this. Both lots.’ She turned on her heels and click-clacked off down the corridor. Marking time with the music seeping out from the living room.

Alice sniffed, poked at the corpse of a green jumper with her toe. Her voice was barely audible as she frowned at the mess. ‘Back to the start. What do we know about the Inside Man…’

I followed Liz Thornton through into the kitchen. It was big enough for an electric cooker, fridge freezer, small table, sink, and a washing machine. She opened the fridge door and pulled out a small yellow tin of tonic. Then delved into the freezer for a bag of pre-made ice cubes and a bottle of vodka. ‘You want one?’

‘Can’t: pills.’

‘Anything good?’ A glass from the cupboard got half-filled with clinking ice.

‘Arthritis and a gunshot wound.’