Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

Jacobson closed his eyes, then banged the back of his head off the wall a couple of times. ‘Shite…’

‘That’s why he was hanging around. Going through their bins. Getting receipts and phone bills.’

A frown, then Jacobson peeled open one eye. ‘Don’t suppose Mr McFee’s just playing you? Telling us this guy’s legit so we’ll release him, and the next thing we know he’s being hung up by his thumbs and tortured with a Dremel multi-tool?’

‘I just spoke to the guy who runs the firm. He says Robertson’s been on their books for eighteen months. Spent the last six weeks trailing Jessica McFee for her father. They have case reports, a contract, everything.’

‘So why’s he sitting in there like Lumpy the Garden Gnome saying “No comment” to everything?’

Good question. ‘Robertson isn’t exactly a boy scout, but Wee Free’s a psychotic nut-job. You don’t clype on someone like that, unless you’re suicidal.’

‘Arseholes…’ Jacobson turned and paced the two steps to the end of the corridor, then back again. ‘Thought you said he was our man?’

‘No, I said he was stalking Jessica. Which he was. It just happened to be on her dad’s behalf.’

Following her. Finding out where she’d been, who she’d been with. And next thing you know: her boyfriend gets the crap kicked out of him and suddenly decides he’s never going to see Jessica McFee ever again. What a coincidence.

Jacobson gave the wall another couple of dunts with his head. ‘So we’re back to square sodding one.’

I lowered the cane. ‘Not necessarily.’

‘… complete bloody waste of time.’ DI Smith glared at me for a beat, then turned and stormed off down the corridor, hands knotted into fists.

Detective Sergeant Stephen watched him go, then sighed. ‘He’s going to be a bundle of laughs to work for tomorrow.’ She ran a hand across her forehead. Then nodded back towards the interview room. ‘Shall we?’

Inside, it smelled exactly the same as it had two years ago — a dirty mix of cheesy feet and stale breath, over a layer of rust and sweat.

DS Stephen slumped back into her chair and reached for the unit built into the wall. Ejected the tapes and dumped them on the tabletop.

Robertson’s lawyer puckered his lips, then frowned up at the camera in the corner. The little red light was off. ‘Is this intended to intimidate my client? We’re not being recorded so you can threaten him?’

Jacobson settled in next to DS Stephen. ‘You do know that wasting police time is an offence, don’t you, Mr Robertson?’

The lawyer put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t answer that.’

I took up position behind Jacobson. Leaned back against the wall. Crossed my arms. ‘You have got to be the crappest private investigator ever.’

Rock-Hammer Robertson glared at me. The scar that ran from his nose to his throat deepened as he clenched his jaw. ‘No comment.’

‘Don’t be thick — we’ve got Wee Free McFee downstairs and he’s told us all about it. You’ve been spying on his daughter and reporting back to him.’ I pulled on a big smile. ‘Only, a decent PI wouldn’t have been spotted by half the world and chased off not once, but twice.’

The lawyer stiffened. ‘Unless you turn that tape recorder back on, my client won’t be answering any more questions. This is a gross breach of-’

‘You got pelted with empty bottles by a nurse. Not exactly Magnum PI , is it? Seriously, how thick can you-’

‘I am not a crap private investigator!’ Robertson was half out of his seat, face darkening. ‘Stakeout like that should’ve had a three-man team on it — the whole place is hoaching with potential witnesses, people coming and going all hours of the day and night. I was on my own. For six weeks!’ He took a couple of deep breaths then lowered himself back into his seat. ‘I mean: no comment.’

‘Don’t be daft — we’ve got your client downstairs. We’ve spoken to your boss. We know .’

‘My client said, “no comment”.’

Jacobson leaned forward. ‘You see, Alistair — I can call you Alistair, can’t I? “Rock-Hammer” makes you sound like an American wrestler — we know you had Jessica McFee under surveillance. I’m assuming you took photographs?’

He didn’t move.

‘Because if you’ve got surveillance photos, it’s possible the real Inside Man’s on one of them.’

I nodded. ‘Mr McFee wants you to hand over everything you’ve got. And he says to tell you that if you sod us about, he’s going to come looking for you. Either way, we’re getting those photographs. It just depends if you want a trip to A amp;E or not.’

Rock-Hammer chewed on the inside of his cheek for a bit, twisting his scar out of shape. Then looked at his lawyer.

‘Or…’ Jacobson held up a finger, ‘we can talk about your resisting arrest and assaulting two police officers.’

Jacobson’s smile turned into a grin as we marched down the corridor. ‘You, Mr Henderson, may now call me Bear.’ He rubbed his paws together. ‘Right. We get the photos, we give them to Cooper and Bernard to troll through, and the rest of us head off for a slap-up Chinese banquet.’

‘Can’t.’ I backed away, hands up. ‘Alice has a thing, and if I don’t go with her, the ankle bracelets go off and your goon squad gets called in.’

‘Oh.’ Jacobson sagged. ‘You sure?’

‘I’d love to, but you know what women are like. Maybe tomorrow?’

Assuming Mrs Kerrigan didn’t kill us first.

The Jag pinged and rattled as the engine cooled beneath the dented bonnet. I reached into the back seat and grabbed Bob the Builder by his grinning squishy head.

Outside, the industrial estate was abandoned. Just the cold glow of the streetlights and the drifting rain to keep us company.

Alice skimmed the steering wheel with her fingertips. ‘Maybe it’s not too late to call-’

‘This isn’t a Ghostbusters situation. This is “God helps those who help themselves”.’ The Velcro around Bob’s crotch parted with a loud rip.

I pulled out the semiautomatic, checked the safety was on, ejected the magazine — still full — and clacked it back into place. Then leaned forward in my seat and tucked the gun into the waistband at the back of my trousers. ‘And what happens if it all goes horribly wrong?’

‘Are you sure I can’t-’

‘Positive.’

A sigh, then she tightened her grip on the wheel. ‘Rule number one: run.’

‘Good. You don’t hang around, you don’t do anything heroic, you get your little red shoes on the ground and you run .’

‘But you-’

I pointed through the driver’s window at the passageway that disappeared into the darkness between the chandlery warehouse and a line of decaying offshore containers. Where the shadows were thick and deep. ‘And I want you over there. Where they can’t see you.’

‘But if I-’

‘No. You run.’ I put a hand on her knee. ‘Promise me.’

She gazed up at me for a minute, then lowered her eyes to the steering wheel. ‘Promise.’

‘Go for the hole in the fence we made. No heroics. No stopping. No looking back.’ I gave her knee a squeeze. ‘And if someone grabs you, you batter their head in with the lump hammer.’

‘No looking back.’ She let go of the wheel and took my hand. ‘And you: no getting stabbed, shot, beaten, or killed. Promise .’

‘Promise.’ I popped open my door, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She smelled of mandarins and mangoes. ‘Now: get your backside over there where it’s safe.’

She got out of the car, popped her umbrella up and loped away into the gloom. Her dark jacket and black jeans were swallowed by the darkness, leaving nothing but the flash of white around the bottom of her trainers. And then even that was gone.