Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

‘Jessica McFee was being targeted by a stalker, and I know who he is.’

‘ Oh aye…? ’

‘So, we can all sit about on our thumbs, talking about the investigation, or we can get off our backsides and do something about it.’ I limped back towards the stolen Jag. ‘Interested?’

Dr Docherty’s voice oozed out of the car radio. ‘ … an excellent question, Kirsty. You see, the man who’s committing these acts doesn’t see himself as an avenging angel, or the hand of God, he’s acting out of rage and loneliness… ’

Patterson Drive curled around the base of the cliff. Up above, the old battlements were visible against the heavy sky, crumbling stonework lit by coloured spotlights. The Victorian buildings of Castle Hill clung to the edge, like wide-eyed children, too scared to jump, staring down at the dirty sandstone tenements below.

Wet cobbles burred beneath the Jaguar’s wheels. Windscreen wipers moaning and groaning their greasy arcs through the rain, passing commentary on Docherty’s interview.

‘ … of course. But you see, Kirsty, a psychopathology like this is a lot more common than you might think… ’

‘OK.’ I poked my mobile’s screen, closing the dialogue box with the instructions on it. ‘Here’s how it works: Sabir’s app uses our phones’ GPS to tell how far apart we are. Green is less than thirty-three yards; yellow covers from there to sixty-six; then it’s red; and if it turns blue and flashes, Jacobson’s goons are probably on their way. There’s a sort of optional Geiger counter ping as well.’ Would have been nice to have something that stopped the bloody things going off in the first place, but it was better than nothing.

‘ … have to admit that I do have a certain degree of experience in this field, and that’s why I can say for certain… ’

I pointed, through the windshield and over to an alleyway that snaked off towards Kings Park. ‘Pull in there.’

‘ … deeply damaged individual. But if you’re listening, I want you to know that we can get you the help you need… ’

Alice bit her bottom lip and did as she was told, slotting the car in behind a row of municipal wheely-bins.

‘ … professionals. I’m even prepared to offer my own considerable expertise to facilitate your- ’

She killed the engine, cutting Docherty off mid-boast. ‘Maybe we should’ve swapped vehicles, what if someone-’

‘No one’s going to see it.’ And with Paul Manson bound and drugged in the boot, there was nothing incriminating on show. Well, except for the dent-buckled bonnet. I climbed out into the rain and waited for her to do the same.

Alice locked the car, then huddled in next to me, slipping her arm through mine, keeping the umbrella above us. Stood there, staring down at the boot. ‘Are you sure it’s OK to leave him in there, I mean what if he-’

‘He’s not going anywhere. Three hours, remember?’ Plenty of time to get everything in place. ‘Soon as we’re done here, we pick up the Suzuki, drive both cars out to Moncuir woods, and dump yours there. All set for a quick getaway when we burn the Jag.’

The cane’s rubber tip thunked against the concrete slabs as we made our way along Patterson Drive. Streetlights cast stepping stones of sodium yellow on the wet pavement.

Dark ginnels led off to the right, cutting through the terrace to the next street. A smell of rotting garbage and old nappies. The sound of someone’s telly, up too loud, blaring out the news. Water gurgling from the mouth of a broken downpipe.

She cleared her throat. ‘What if Mrs Kerrigan decides she’s not going to give David back? What if she keeps him and tortures him and we have to keep doing horrible things for her?’

‘I’m not going to let that happen.’

With a little help from my friend, Bob.

We passed by a window with the curtains open. A pair of middle-aged men slow-danced in candlelight, wrapped up in each other and the music. Next door boomed with country-and-western. The house after that…

I stopped. Pointed. ‘Up there.’

A big black Range Rover sat by the kerb, exhaust trailing grey wisps into the gloom. As soon as we drew level, the driver’s door swung open and PC Cooper climbed out. He’d put a stabproof vest on over his usual outfit, complete with baton, handcuffs, and airwave handset. Peaked cap in place, rain pattering off the plastic cover he’d put over the top.

He pulled on a fluorescent yellow jacket. Nodded. ‘Guv.’

‘What did Bad Bill say?’

‘Friday lunchtime he was parked outside the castle. There was this big protest about the council trying to close Midmarch Library. Crowds, TV crews, the lot. Says he made a fortune.’

I patted Cooper on the shoulder. ‘Good work.’

Given the smile that burst across his thin face, you’d think I’d just offered his dying mum one of my kidneys. ‘Thanks, Guv.’

‘Soon as we’re done here, I want you on to the TV companies. We need all the footage they’ve got of the protest — not just the broadcast stuff, the bits they edited out too.’ I hooked a thumb towards the building we were standing outside. ‘If we’re lucky, Laughing Boy here’s been caught on film buying Claire Young’s last meal.’

The smile got bigger. ‘Right, Guv.’

A thunk sounded on the other side of the car, and Jacobson appeared, bringing a friend with him. Officer Babs towered at his shoulder, shoulders back, wearing a big grin.

She hauled on a pair of gloves, working the leather down into the gaps between her fingers. ‘We ready?’

‘Thought you’d gone home.’

‘And miss all the fun? Nah.’ She slapped Jacobson on the back and he nearly fell over. ‘Bear decided to extend my contract.’

He recovered, brushed some imaginary lint off the front of his leather jacket. ‘When I reviewed Mr Robertson’s record, I decided it would be best to proceed with caution.’

I turned in place, giving the street a good once-over. Obviously ‘proceeding with caution’ didn’t extend to asking Ness for some backup.

Alice tugged at my sleeve again, keeping her voice to a whisper. ‘Who’s Mr Robertson?’

Cooper led the way into the building’s hallway. A bulkhead light was fixed to the ceiling, the glass dome peppered with the bodies of dead insects. Its pale greasy light oozed across the scuffed walls and concrete steps. A pair of broken wooden chairs lay tangled in the remains of a wheel-less pram. Cooper straightened his cap and headed up the stairs, Jacobson stomping up behind him.

I jerked my head at Babs. ‘You want the front or the back garden?’

‘Front.’ She rubbed her gloved fingertips together. Frowned. ‘No: back. People do runners out the back.’ Babs turned and lumbered down the hallway, disappeared into the gloom.

The thump of a door closing, and Alice and I were on our own again.

She twisted round, bending backwards to stare up the gap between the stairs. ‘So … Mr Robertson?’

‘Alistair to his friends.’ I steered her back out onto the street. ‘Rock-Hammer Robertson to everyone else.’

‘Is he…?’

‘Very.’

She put her brolly up and we huddled beneath it. I propped the front door open with the tip of my cane, keeping it ajar.

Alice closed her eyes. Blew out a breath.

‘It’s OK. Soon be over.’ One way or another.

She squeezed my arm tighter. ‘I don’t want to die. What if Mrs Kerrigan-’

‘It won’t come to that. Rule number one, remember? You run away.’

‘I don’t want you to die either.’

‘Then that makes two of us.’

Banging echoed down the stairwell and out through the open door, followed by Cooper’s voice. ‘ MR ROBERTSON — THIS IS THE POLICE! OPEN UP! ’