Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

Alice had a little shiver. Then a deep breath. ‘So, “Rock-Hammer Robertson”… Sounds nice.’

‘ COME ON, MR ROBERTSON, WE ONLY WANT TO TALK. ’

‘Once upon a time, there was a wee boy called Alistair Robertson, whose mummy and daddy loved him very much. They also loved to rob Post Offices. And one day-’

‘Does this story end with him battering someone to death with a rock hammer?’

‘Oh, you’ve heard it?’

‘ MR ROBERTSON? I’M EMPOWERED TO FORCE ENTRY, MR ROBERTSON. DON’T MAKE THIS ANY HARDER THAN IT HAS TO BE. ’

‘Why can’t any of your stories have teddy bears and fluffy bunnies in them?’

I nodded. ‘OK. Once upon a time, there was a fluffy bunny called Alistair, and when Mummy Rabbit and Daddy Rabbit got sent down for eighteen years to life, he and his wee sister got put into care. There was a very nasty teddy bear working in the care home who liked to interfere with little girl bunnies…’

A crash sounded upstairs. Followed by a thump. Followed by swearing, and then a high-pitched scream. More swearing.

It didn’t sound as if Rock-Hammer Robertson was assisting Cooper with his enquiries.

‘OK.’ I put a hand on Alice’s back and gave her a gentle push towards the road. ‘I think you should go stand behind the car, don’t you?’

She wrapped her hands around the brolly’s handle. ‘But-’

Someone bellowed, and then there was a splintering crack. A crash. And chunks of baluster pinged and clunked down from the staircase above.

‘Now would be good.’

Footsteps on the stairs. Thumping down. Getting closer.

Alice backed away towards Jacobson’s Range Rover.

The front door yanked open and there he was: Rock-Hammer Robertson. He froze on the threshold. His white shirt was torn at the collar. Little flecks of red stippled the fabric across his chest. He’d lost a lot of hair since last time — what was left was greying and shorn short. Sabir’s algorithms hadn’t done that bad a job, but they’d screwed up with the vertical soul-patch thing. It wasn’t facial hair, it was a deep scar that ran in a straight line from just below his nostrils, slashed through his lips, bisected his chin, and kept going four inches down his throat. A pair of Eric Morecambe glasses sat squint on his face.

My hands ached themselves into fists as I gave him a smile. ‘Evening, Alistair. Remember me?’

‘Aw … shite .’ He slammed the door — or at least he tried to. It hit the tip of my cane and bounced, battering open again as he turned and legged it for the back door. He disappeared out into the wet night.

I gave it a count of ten. Then another ten for luck.

Alice shuffled up next to me. ‘Aren’t you going after him?’

‘No need. But we can if you like.’ I hobbled down the hallway, past the nest of broken chairs and the scattering of shattered balusters before pushing through into the back garden.

Patchy grass filled the narrow gap between this row of tenements and the one behind, jaundiced in the light seeping out through curtained windows. A wooden fence enclosed an area not much bigger than three parking spaces, a crumbling shed slouched in the corner, a couple of washing poles standing sentry — their lines drooping under the weight of sodden towels, dripping in the rain.

Rock-Hammer Robertson lay face down on the grass, right arm twisted up behind his back, kicking and swearing. Officer Babs had her knee between his shoulder blades and, as he struggled, she leaned forwards until he grunted and stopped.

She grinned up at us. ‘Oh, I do like Oldcastle.’

Jacobson sat in the armchair, a packet of frozen peas pressed against his right cheek. Cooper perched on the arm of the sofa, a box of fish fingers clutched to the side of his head and a wodge of toilet paper poking out of each nostril.

Rock-Hammer Robertson stood in front of the two-bar fire, working his right shoulder around in small circles. Both hands cuffed behind his back. He nodded towards the hall. ‘You’re going to pay for that.’

Jacobson glowered at him. ‘That a threat , Mr Robertson?’

‘Statement of fact. You owe me one door.’

‘You were given ample warning before we kicked it in.’

‘I was on the bloody bog! You’d have heard me shouting if it wasn’t for your idiot sidekick making all that racket.’

The living room had striped wallpaper, a swirly rug, and arty black-and-white prints of people on bicycles either side of the fireplace. An old-fashioned roll-top writing desk sat in the corner, next to a bookcase laden with tatty paperbacks.

The desk’s wooden top rattled up when I pulled it, revealing sets of small drawers on either side and a magazine-rack-style bit in the middle.

Robertson bared his teeth at me. ‘Let’s see a search warrant.’

‘Don’t need one.’ I took a handful of paperwork from the centre section. Flipped through it: telephone bills, gas bills, council tax, electricity. Several of each, and all for different names and addresses.

‘I know my rights, and-’

‘Tough, because I’m not a police officer.’ I dumped the bills and tried one of the little drawers instead. ‘Members of the public don’t need a warrant to be nosey bastards.’

The top one was a jumble of paperclips, elastic bands, a box of staples, and a stapler.

He scowled at Jacobson. ‘You going to let him invade my privacy like that?’

Jacobson peeled the packet of peas from his cheek and scowled back. ‘Where were you on Sunday evening, when Jessica McFee was abducted?’

‘Who’s Jessica McFee? Never heard of her.’

I pointed at the wastepaper basket sitting beside the desk. A copy of the Castle News and Post stuck out of the top. ‘That’s funny, because she’s all over the papers. And…’ I picked a bill from the pile on his desk and waved it at him. ‘And you just happen to have Jessica McFee’s mobile phone statement in your desk. Isn’t that a fun coincidence?’

He pursed his lips, frowned. Then stuck his scarred chin in the air. ‘I’m saying sod-all else till you get me my lawyer.’

The downstream monitoring suite was getting crowded. Ness and Dr Docherty sat at the desk, staring at the flatscreen TV mounted on the wall. Both of them had headsets on — the kind with a little microphone, as if they worked in a call centre — the cables snaking away into the console. Behind them, Superintendent Knight and Jacobson sat with their arms crossed, leaving just enough space for Alice and me to squeeze against the back wall.

Twenty minutes in, and the smell of garlic, vinegar, and past-its-sell-by-date meat tainted the air, oozing out of someone who needed a stronger deodorant.

On the screen, a line of numbers flickered away in the corner, marking time as Rock-Hammer Robinson no-commented his way through the interview.

The camera lens was wide enough to get him, his solicitor, and the two interview-trained officers — one male, one female — onscreen.

A hard Aberdonian accent crackled out of the TV’s speakers. DI Smith: ‘ You’re not helping yourself, you know that, don’t you? We’ve got your- ’

‘ Stop right there .’ The solicitor held up a podgy hand that sparkled with sovereign rings. A gold chain disappeared into the sleeve of his shirt. He pulled his wide face into a frown. ‘ My client has already told you that he didn’t abduct Jessica McFee. Move on. ’

Dr Docherty leaned forward in his seat, hands clasped in front of his chest, as if he was praying. ‘Millie: ask him about his relationship with his mother.’

The detective on the left knocked on the table. She’d rolled her shirt sleeves up to the elbow, showing off forearms thick with muscle, a tattoo of Buzz Lightyear just visible on the right one. Brown hair cut into a sensible bob, tucked behind her ears. ‘ So, Alistair, did you see your mum much, after she got sent down? ’