Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

‘Sorry to hear that.’ A slug of vodka, topped up with tonic. ‘And if you’re thinking it’s too early to be drinking, I’ve been on nights for a fortnight. It’s about eight in the evening for me, so technically this is a sundowner.’ She nodded at the cupboard I was leaning against. ‘There’s a bag of cashews in there.’

I pulled it out, ripped it open, then poured them into the proffered bowl. ‘She was your friend?’

Liz’s bare shoulders dropped an inch. ‘Why do you lot always ask the same questions?’

‘Because they’re important, and we want to get Jessica back.’

A sigh, then she took a sip, closed her eyes. ‘Happy birthday to me.’ The nuts rattled in the bowl as she dipped into them. ‘We’re supposed to be off to Florida for Christmas. Her, Bethany, and me. Renting a villa.’ Liz picked up the glass with her fingertips, holding it palm-down as she clacked through into the living room.

It was a decent size — posters and framed photos on the walls, a stack of DVDs by the TV, books in a case beneath the window overlooking the car park, two sofas covered with tartan throws facing each other across a coffee table littered with magazines and a random pile of bits and pieces. Rod Stewart crooned from the stereo, telling everyone how he was clueless about history, biology, science, and French.

The television was on, with the sound turned down. Dr Fred Docherty stood in the middle of the screen, talking to some serious-faced woman in a green suit. A ticker scrolled across the image beneath them: ‘HUNT FOR SERIAL KILLER CONTINUES IN OLDCASTLE JESSICA MCFEE CONFIRMED AS LATEST VICTIM • FORENSIC PSYCHOLOGIST SAYS KILLER IS GETTING REVENGE AGAINST MOTHER • …’

Little sod. So much for no information gets out except through formal press briefings.

Liz sank into the sofa. Picked up the remote and killed the TV. ‘You’ve never rescued any of them, have you? I remember one of the poor cows coming in — I’d just started at CHI, only been on A amp;E a week, when…’ A frown. ‘What was her name, Mary Jordan?’

‘Marie.’

‘They brought her in and there was blood everywhere. I held her hand as they rushed her straight into surgery… That’s what’s going to happen to Jessica, isn’t it?’

‘Not if we can find her first. Did she mention anyone?’

‘Pfff. You mean the “Camburn Creeper”?’ Liz took another swig of pre-noon sundowner and made a couple of cashews disappear. ‘Dirty sod was hanging about here for weeks . Taking photos. Caught him going through the bins one time, probably hunting for old pants and used tampons. Had to pelt him with the recycling to make him sod off.’ A grin. ‘Wine, gin, and vodka bottles. Should’ve heard him scream , running off with hands over his head, glass exploding all around him.’

‘Good for you. What else did he do, other than the rubbish?’

‘Oh, the usual. What frickin’ idiot thought it was a good idea to back the nurses’ halls onto a chunk of woods? The number of times I’ve had to call security because some perv’s up a tree with a telephoto lens or binoculars while we’re changing.’

She reached beneath the coffee table and pulled out a big leather handbag. Picked a lipstick and a BlackBerry from the random pile of stuff and dumped it inside. Followed by a comb, purse, keys, pen… ‘Of course, security come running straight away to chase the perverts off.’

‘That’s something.’

A laugh. ‘Do they hell! If you’re lucky they’ll stick a form through the letterbox the next day asking for “details of the alleged offence”.’

Alice appeared in the doorway. Shook her head.

I creaked into the sofa opposite. ‘Did you give them a description?’

A card wallet, collapsible brolly, and another lipstick disappeared into the bag.

‘I did better than that — I took a photo of the dirty sod when he was hanging about the car park one night.’ Liz dipped back into her handbag and came out with the BlackBerry again. Fiddled with the buttons for a moment, then held it out.

A man — had to be at least six feet, going by the Fiat 500 he was standing beside — in a black bomber jacket, black woolly hat, black jeans, and black gloves. His face was blurred, caught in the middle of moving. The phone’s camera hadn’t been quick enough in the low light.

I squinted, moved the phone away from me and back again. Did he have glasses? Maybe a moustache-beard thing? Then again, it could’ve just been a shadow cast by the lamppost between the camera and the Fiat. Almost impossible to tell.

On the CD player, Rod launched into ‘If You Don’t Know Me by Now’.

‘Did you show this to the other police officers?’

A blush turned her neck pink. ‘The first lot spent the whole time staring at my breasts. I was getting ready to head off for my shift, and I was in a towel, and so frickin ’ angry with them… Second lot acted like they were James Bond or something. I…’ She looked away, went back to stuffing things in her handbag. ‘I forgot it was on my phone till just now.’

I handed the BlackBerry back. ‘It’s OK, probably nothing anyway. Any chance you can text the photo to my mobile?’

I gave her the number and she thumbed the buttons, still not looking at me. ‘Jessica said he followed her to work a couple of times. Home too. Then, about a week ago, he just stopped coming around.’ The phone in her hand bleeped. ‘Or he just got better at hiding.’

Alice settled next to me on the couch. Picked up a couple of DVDs, turning them over in her hands. ‘I like The Bourne Identity , but I’m not too keen on the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo , don’t you think Daniel Craig looks a bit like a monkey, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I find it a little off-putting…’

‘Suppose.’

The phone in my pocket trembled — that would be Liz’s text. I pulled it out and forwarded it on to Sabir:

I need this cleaned up and sharpened

I want an ID ASAP — check sex offender’s register

And can you do something about these bloody ankle tags???

Alice put the DVDs down. ‘The photo Jessica smashed, was that the Jimmy you mentioned when you answered the buzzer?’

A grimace, then Liz knocked back a mouthful. ‘No. Jimmy is Bethany’s ex-husband. He doesn’t seem to get that she’s not his emotional punch-bag any more.’ She looked at me. ‘Don’t suppose you could harass him a bit, could you? Pretend he was a paedophile or something?’

My phone trembled again:

God, Ur not shy, R you? What did Ur last slave die of?

‘He done anything to her? Smacked her around? Anything we could do him for?’

Liz blew out a breath. ‘Never mind.’

‘So,’ Alice scooted forward, ‘the photograph?’

‘Jessica was going out with this bloke — well, boy really — from Human Resources. Darren Wilkinson. Very clingy and needy. All over her like she’d evaporate if he wasn’t touching her.’ A shake of the head and a roll of the eyes. ‘Then one day he sends her a text saying he didn’t want to see her any more and he was moving on with his life. Dumps her by text message. How frickin’ pathetic is that?’

I put the phone back in my pocket. Sabir might be a moan, but he’d get on it. ‘When was this?’

A little crease appeared between Liz’s neatly plucked eyebrows. ‘Last Thursday? No, Friday — I know because she’d been planning a trip to the pictures to see that new French film, and she’d got tickets and booked a table for dinner, and she was getting all dolled up to go out when the text came in. Standing there in her bra, new skirt, and four-inch heels swearing a blue streak.’