Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

‘Ah…’ Her smile thinned out a bit and wrinkles appeared around her eyes. ‘It’s out of the question I’m afraid. Hospital policy states that all members of staff must be supported by a representative from Human Resources during interviews with the media, bereaved families, or police, if conducted on CHI property.’ She swept a hand towards the door. ‘Of course, if you wish to detain him and remove him from Castle Hill Infirmary, that’s your prerogative. Do you want to detain him?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’

The eyes above the thin smile grew colder. ‘I can assure you that Darren is a valued member of my team, Detective Constable Henderson. The day after his accident, he was in here at nine. That shows dedication.’ She folded her arms. ‘What’s he supposed to have done?’

I gave her the stare.

She shook her head. ‘He’s been employee-of-the-month three times. And that’s hospital-wide, not just my department. He’s conscientious, hardworking, and really invested in our processes and procedures.’

Alice tugged the sleeves of her stripy top down over her fingertips. ‘He was in an accident?’

‘Hit and run, on a zebra crossing, no less. But he was still here, Friday morning, bang on time.’ She clapped her hands together, once. Hard and sharp. ‘Now, would anyone like a cup of tea?’

As soon as she was gone, Alice leaned over to me, voice low. ‘Do we really think Darren Wilkinson is the Inside Man?’

‘Why are you whispering?’

A pink bloom appeared on her cheeks. ‘I mean I know he works at the hospital, so he might have access to drugs, and he’d be able to find out about surgical procedures — he can probably watch them doing operations if he likes — and all the victims were nurses, and if he’s working in the HR Department he’s got access to their personnel records not to mention who Jessica McFee was being a midwife for, but…’ Creases appeared between Alice’s eyebrows. ‘Oh, I see. When you lay it out like that…’

‘And he just happens to be going out with one of the victims? Bit of a coincidence.’

‘Well, maybe-’

‘According to the Police National Computer, he’s twenty-seven. That makes him nineteen the first time Tim was around. Doesn’t exactly fit the profile, does it?’

The hands on the clock crept around to twenty-five past.

Alice wrapped one arm around herself, twiddled with her hair. ‘If he’s been assaulting Jessica McFee, that means he’s got control issues — both internal and external — Jessica’s his property, when she doesn’t do what she’s told that hurts him, it’s disrespectful… He has no choice, he’s got to punish her, I mean it’s not his fault is it, he’s helping her be a better person, does she really want to keep screwing up like that, she should be thanking him. She’s lucky to have him.’

Alice stuck her knees together, heels angled out on the scuffed carpet tiles. ‘It’s always the same though, isn’t it, women just don’t get it, they need a firm hand to lead them in the right direction. They like that: they like a man who can take charge, they need to be shown who’s boss, like his dad showed his mum…’ Alice blinked a couple of times, then stared up at the ceiling tiles. The frown was back. ‘But the abduction, the cutting, the dolls — impregnating them — yes, that’s a control thing, but Tim does it because he’s impotent, powerless in his day-to-day relationships.’

I took out my phone and read the text from Cooper again:

PNC on Darren Wilkinson (27) — 14 Fyne Lane, no convictions, warning for vandalism when 11, just applied for combined shotgun/firearms licence.

He could sing for his gun licence. No way that was going through now.

‘Ash?’ Alice brought her heels together, squeaking the rubbery soles against one another. ‘We didn’t check with Claire Young’s flatmates: what if Darren’s her boyfriend too? What if he romantically targets his victims, before abducting them?’

Shrug. ‘Possible.’

She slumped back in her seat and let her arms hang over the edge, stripy sleeves swinging back and forth. ‘But by physically dominating Jessica, by beating her, he’s actively demonstrating his power…’

I shut down Cooper’s text and called Sabir.

‘ Oh, Christ, what now? I’m working on it, OK? Keep your knickers on, this stuff takes time! ’

‘Does the name Darren Wilkinson ring any bells?’

Pause. ‘ Who the hell is Darren Wilkinson? ’

‘I need to know if he comes up in the HOLMES data for the original Inside Man enquiry.’

‘ OK… ’ There was a long, wet sigh. ‘ Pick one. ’

‘One what?’

‘ All the stuff you’ve thrown at me — pick something, and that’s the thing that gets dumped to do this instead. ’

‘Sabir, I-’

‘ No. Youse lot seem to think I’m sitting on a fifty-man team down here, but there’s just me, get it? Me, on me tod, getting buried under all your Jock shite .’ What sounded like static boomed from the earpiece, then settled down into crunching — a mouthful of crisps? ‘ So pick one. ’

‘Don’t be such a drama queen. It’s-’

The door opened and the HR manager was back, a plastic beverage carrier in one hand with three plastic cups steaming away in the holes.

‘Sabir, just do it. I’ll call you back.’ I hung up as she placed the carrier on the little coffee table.

Alice pulled on a smile, eyes wide and bright. ‘How does Darren get on with his female team mates? Is he popular?’

The HR manager frowned for a moment. ‘I’d say yes: he is. He’s personable, well groomed, always brings cakes when it’s someone’s birthday.’

‘So not … you know: making off-colour jokes, invading personal space, maybe even a bit intimidating?’

‘Darren?’ Her cheeks twitched, then a little laugh slipped out. Followed by a cough. ‘He joined my team six years ago. He was only twenty-one. I have personally trained him. He’s not some sort of misogynistic neanderthal.’

‘Hmm…’ Alice went back to twiddling with her hair, one heel tapping against the carpet.

The plastic cup was scalding hot as I picked it out of the holder. ‘What about attendance? Any absences over the last three weeks?’

‘Not even after his accident — which, by the way, your colleagues have done nothing about. Darren is a model employee. And-’

There was a knock and a battered face appeared at the door. One eye was swollen shut, the skin dark and mottled with bruising that reached from the tip of his chin all the way up to his forehead on one side. A line of pink Elastoplast crossed the bridge of his nose. He was on crutches, using one of them to ease the door open. Crumpled white shirt, pale-blue tie. His right trouser leg was cut short, showing off a fibreglass cast covered in marker-pen signatures.

Whatever hit him, it must have been a damn sight bigger than a Mini.

His voice was soft and hissing, as if he was missing a few teeth, but the Dundee accent still came through like a foghorn. ‘You wanted to see me, Sarah?’

She turned in her seat and nodded. ‘Ah, Darren, perfect timing. I was just telling these officers what a valued member of… Darren, are you OK?’

His one good eye had gone wide at the word ‘officers’, mouth hanging open, exposing four or five ragged scarlet holes where teeth should have been. He backed away.

‘Darren?’

He glanced up and down the corridor, as if planning on hobbling for it. Then sagged against his crutches. Closed his eyes and swore.

Darren blinked across the table at me. ‘I…’ He picked at the lining of the cast on his left arm. ‘It’s not like that.’ A sniff. ‘ Wasn’t like that.’