Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

‘ I hardly see what my client’s mother has to do with- ’

‘ Mr Bellamy, if you wouldn’t mind keeping your obstruction of our investigation to every other question this will go a lot quicker. ’

‘ Detective Sergeant Stephen, do I really need to remind you how the law works in Scotland now? To wit: Cadder versus HM Advocate — 2010. Look it up. ’

Alice tugged at my shoulder. ‘We need to search for any outbuildings, or maybe he’s got access to some property we don’t know about, somewhere he could set up an operating theatre and-’

‘Believe it or not,’ Detective Superintendent Ness turned in her seat, ‘we have already thought of that. There are teams scouring the land register and contacting letting agencies as we speak. Now, if you don’t mind…?’

Alice clicked her mouth shut.

‘ Must’ve been pretty terrible, growing up with your mother in prison though. ’

‘ Sergeant Stephen, I don’t want to have to tell you again: move on. ’

‘ Especially after what she did to that poor woman .’ On screen, DS Stephen reached below the table and returned with a manila folder. ‘ They ever show you what Gina Ashton looked like when your dear old mum had finished with her? ’ She pulled a photo from the folder — the surface caught the light, obscuring the detail as she laid it on the table. ‘ Must be hard, knowing that your mum was capable of something like that… ’

Robertson glanced down at the photo, then folded his arms. Sat there, not saying a word.

‘ Detective Sergeant Stephen, I have warned you. If you continue in this vein I’m going to make an official complaint and make sure the court knows of your inappropriate behaviour during this interview. Move — on. ’

Alice tugged my shoulder again, then stood on her tiptoes so her lips brushed my ear. ‘He’s not going to respond to this. If he’s the Inside Man, he’s been preparing for this moment for years. He’ll sit there and say nothing until Jessica McFee dies of dehydration or hunger. They’ll have to release him and he won’t go anywhere near where he’s got her hidden. Dr Docherty will never get him to talk. If we can’t find her on our own, she’s dead.’

Rhona pointed at the double doors. ‘He’s through there.’

Division Headquarters thrummed with the sound of the back shift getting on with the day’s paperwork, drinking cups of tea, and complaining about the lazy sods on the day shift. I paused with one hand on the door, the other wrapped around a manila folder from the media office. ‘How long?’

A shrug. Then she sooked at her teeth. ‘Hour and a bit? Brigstock and me went over to the junkyard and gave him a copy of that new Inside Man letter. Next thing we know, bam. There he is. Sitting in reception.’

‘And he’s not moved?’

‘Think he’s been for a pee, but that’s it.’

I checked my phone — Sabir’s app glowed a solid orange at me. As long as we both stayed on this floor it should be fine. Provided Alice didn’t go for a wander…

Rhona pushed the door open and I stepped through to the reception area. Plastic seats lined the walls, bolted to the floor and facing the reception desk so no one could get up to anything. The place was plastered with posters: Crimestoppers; rape hotlines; how to spot cannabis farms, terrorists, and abused kids.

Wee Free McFee sat beneath a big corkboard covered with clippings from the Castle News and Post , all featuring photos of seized drugs and officers battering their way into scumbags’ homes.

There were at least another dozen people in the room — drunks, junkies, a couple of old biddies looking murderous — sitting cheek by jowl. Packed in. But no one sat anywhere near Wee Free. The three seats to his left, and the three seats to his right, were empty.

Rhona coughed, keeping her eyes on the corridor behind us. ‘You, erm … want a hand? Only I’ve got a stack of paperwork…’

I stepped out onto the grey terrazzo floor. ‘William?’

He turned his head and a small smile twitched into life beneath his grey moustache. ‘You again.’

‘Fancy a cuppa?’

He unfolded himself from his chair and the people closest to him shifted as far away as they could without abandoning their seats. ‘Why haven’t you found her yet?’

I nodded towards the blank door to the side of the reception desk. ‘Come on.’

Took me three goes to remember the keycode, but eventually the door swung open on a small room: four chairs; a grey table; a filing cabinet with a kettle on top; and a bin overflowing with Pot Noodle cartons, crisp packets, and takeaway containers.

I placed the folder on the table and headed for the kettle. ‘You’ve seen the letter he sent to the News and Post .’

Wee Free lowered himself into one of the seats, legs spread wide, one arm over the back of the chair next to him. ‘Stinks in here.’

‘They’re running it tomorrow morning. Front page.’ I clicked the kettle on to boil. Opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet. ‘We’re still running tests, but a graphologist says the handwriting’s a match for the ones sent eight years ago.’ A jar of coffee sat next to a box of teabags, a handful of mugs, a bag of sugar, and a pint of blue-top. Two of the mugs went next to the grumbling kettle. ‘Did you know someone was stalking Jessica?’

The milk smelled OK, so I slopped a glug into each.

When I turned, Wee Free hadn’t moved. The folder lay untouched on the table in front of him, but his face was flushed. Eyes like granite chips. ‘Who?’

‘We made an arrest this evening. They’re interviewing him now.’

‘Was she…?’

‘No. We’re still looking.’ Steam billowed from the kettle.

He leaned forward, forearms on the table, hands curled into claws. ‘I want a name.’

‘He’s got form for violence, extortion, and trafficking.’ Hot water into both mugs.

‘I said-’

‘Ever have a run-in with Rock-Hammer Robertson? Used to run with Jimmy the Axe Oldman.’ I tapped a forefinger against my chin, drawing in an invisible scar. ‘Well, till they had their falling out.’

Wee Free turned his head, staring up at the ceiling in the general direction of the interview rooms. And when he looked back at me, his shoulders slumped. His head drooped. ‘You bunch of tits…’

The mugs clunked down on the table top. ‘Did you know we found a foot floating in the water at Kettle Docks? DNA matched it to Jimmy Oldman. Pathologist said it was probably hacked off with a hand-axe.’

Wee Free reached for the mug and wrapped his fingers around it. ‘How could you be so thick?’

‘Some think Jimmy did it to himself. Made it look as if he was dead and dismembered. Figured it was the only way he could disappear and not have Robertson come after him. No point chasing a corpse, is there?’ I settled into my seat. ‘Me? I think Rock-Hammer got out of hospital, tracked Jimmy Oldman down, and hacked him into little bits with his own axe.’

‘Alistair Robertson is … was working for me. He didn’t abduct Jessica. You morons caught the wrong man.’

‘This better be bloody important.’ Jacobson stomped into the corridor, thumped the observation suite door shut behind him, and scowled up at me. It looked as if the frozen peas hadn’t helped much: the scrape on his cheek had turned into a thick scab riding on a paisley-pattern of red and blue and purple.

I raised my walking stick and thunked the tip against the wall at shoulder height, blocking him in at the end of the corridor. ‘He’s not our man.’

‘He was seen at the nurses’ halls and he had-’

‘It’s not him. Rock-Hammer Robertson’s a private investigator now — works for Johnston and Gench in Shortstaine. Wee Free hired him to keep tabs on his daughter.’ One quick call to the senior partner’s mobile and that was it: we didn’t have a suspect any more.