Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

‘Feeling any better?’

Alice squinted up at me. The tea towel had darkened, beads of water ran down her hand and dripped off her palm onto the sticky table top. ‘No.’

Over at the far end of Buffalo Bob’s, the only other couple in the place were having a low-volume argument. Throwing their arms and hands about, baring teeth and hissing at each other over barbecue chicken, beans, and chips.

Dark wood panelling covered the walls, just visible between the tsunami of framed photos and vintage memorabilia. A long bar with hand pumps and neon ‘BUD LIGHT’ and ‘COKE’ signs. A ceiling fan creaking round and round. Bruce Springsteen grunting out of the speakers.

‘We should get you checked out. It’s-’

‘I’m not going to the hospital.’

‘-got a concussion, and-’

‘Please. It’s…’ She shuddered. Prodded at the spare ribs on her plate. ‘So, is Mrs Kerrigan dead too?’

The woman jumped to her feet, snatched up her milkshake, and threw the contents in her partner’s face. ‘BASTARD!’ Then stormed out into the car park, slamming the door behind her.

Two beats, then the man was on his feet, dripping with pink, hurrying after her. He paused at the door to throw us a pained smile. ‘Sorry…’ And then he was gone.

I dipped a chip in blue cheese sauce, scowled at my reflection in the window. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ Maybe Wee Free McFee was hacking her up on his butcher’s block, feeding strips to his dogs. Eating some himself. His chest smeared with blood and scars.

She should have been mine .

A nod. Then Alice picked up a rib. The meat dark and sagging against the charred bone. ‘I’m sorry.’

I reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘Hey: you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.’

‘He was just … there, and I tried to get away, but he hit me and…’ The bone clattered back onto the plate. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s going to be all right. All we have to do is rescue Jessica McFee, get Shifty back, and that’s us.’ One more squeeze. ‘You did everything you could.’

‘But-’

‘Wee Free’s got Mrs Kerrigan, so she can’t come after us. He’s not going to hurt Shifty because he needs us to find his daughter. The only thing that happened tonight is a mob accountant died.’

She nodded.

I took another bite of burger, forcing it down like a greasy slab of cardboard.

Just a mob accountant. Not an innocent man who bragged about his family to the wrong person.

Alice tried the rib again, getting it as far as her mouth this time. ‘Wonder what his wife and son will think. That he’s run away with another woman? Been grabbed by a rival gang?’

I kept my eyes on my chips. ‘Probably best not to think about it.’

Alice sighed. Plopped the rib back on the plate and pushed it away. ‘I know this kind of thing probably happens all the time when you make your living laundering cash for crime lords.’ She lowered her eyes, fidgeted with her napkin. ‘But I can’t help feeling sorry for him.’

And now the burger tasted like burnt flesh marinated in methylated spirits. I shoved my plate to the side. It clinked against hers.

‘OK.’ My fingers spread across the table top. ‘How do we catch the Inside Man?’

She reached into her leather satchel and pulled out a folder. Placed it on the table. Pulled out a sheaf of papers.

‘Excuse me?’ The young bloke who’d taken our order appeared at the end of the table. Denim shirt going grey around the collar, American-flag waistcoat spattered with stains, a name badge with ‘HI Y’ALL, I’M BRAD ~ YOU WANT IT? WE GOT IT!!!’ His baseball hat was squint on top of his greasy curls. ‘You need any more ice? It’s not a problem, we’ve got loads?’

Alice took the tea towel from her head and handed it over. ‘Thanks.’

The egg on her forehead had settled down. Now it was little more than a bump, crowned with a pink-and-yellow scrape. Joseph was bloody lucky to get off with a shattered leg. If I’d had more time…

Brad pointed. ‘You want another round of drinks?’

She nodded. ‘Can I have a large Jack Daniel’s with ice please? And a pint of lager. And a pot of tea?’

‘Perfect: Jack on the rocks with a beer back, and a tea.’ Brad scurried off with the dripping dishtowel, and Alice spread her papers out on the table.

Each one had two photos of an Inside Man victim on it: the head-and-shoulders photo of them alive above the deposition site where their body turned up. She put all nine of them in date order. Doreen Appleton — the oldest — on the left, then Tara McNab, Holly Drummond, Natalie May, Laura Strachan, Marie Jordan, Ruth Laughlin, and Claire Young, finishing off with Jessica McFee on the right.

Alice went back into the folder for post-mortem photos. And followed those up with the copies of the letters she’d charmed out of Micky Slosser.

And last, but not least, the letter that had arrived today.

She rocked backwards and forwards in her seat, one arm wrapped around herself, the other hand twiddling its way through a strand of brown curls. ‘Well, the handwriting’s clearly very similar. Not identical — the angle of the letters is a bit more pronounced, the loops messier, which is a good sign.’

‘It is?’

‘Is your handwriting exactly the same today as it was eight years ago? Mine isn’t, it gets worse every year, I think it’s because we all spend too much time on computers and not enough with a pen and paper, no one writes letters any more, well, unless they’re serial offenders…’ She picked up the newest one and squinted at it, eyes disappearing under the furrow of her brow. Then she went back into the satchel and came out with a pair of glasses. ‘That’s better. Right. Ahem… “Have you missed me? Because I know I’ve missed you. All of you. My victims, my pursuers, my public. I’ve missed you like a drowning man misses the cold hard earth beneath his feet.”’ Alice blew out a breath. ‘Not exactly subtle, is it?’

‘Maybe he’s a literature student, you know what they’re like.’

‘“The first one wasn’t right. She wasn’t strong enough for my dark purpose. Didn’t make my heart sing. But Jessica is different. Her cries and curses are the finest wine to my jaded palate. Her flesh, my feast.”’

The tea was cold, but I drank it anyway. ‘I take it back, not even literature students are that pretentious.’

‘It gets worse. “She’s worthy of the love that burns within…”, “The pale skin of her breast rises and falls as she breathes me in, her heart quickening like a startled hare…”, “And soon I will plunge my knife deep into her quivering flesh, laid out naked before me. A sacrificial offering to climb inside…”’ Alice put the letter down, tapped her fingers against the Formica. ‘Is it just me, or is he writing torture porn? I mean, there’s nothing like that in any of the other letters. Yes, they’re just as pretentious, but now he’s going out of his way to push the sex angle.’

‘Sex sells.’

Her fingertip danced across a line of handwritten text. ‘“The pale swell of her hidden pleasures call to me. Oh how she begs for me to enjoy their warm, dark embrace…” If serial killers sent letters in to Playboy , this is what it’d sound like.’

I picked the very first letter from the set. Dated the day after we found Tara McNab’s body in the lay-by. No mention of sex, or breasts, or warm dark embraces. Lots of stuff about power and control and how disrespectful it was of the papers to call him the Caledonian Ripper, but no sex.

The next one was dated the day before Holly Drummond turned up. The content was much the same as the first letter. And so was the next one. And the one after that. ‘Maybe his handwriting’s not the only thing that’s changed? Perhaps he’s just being more honest about what’s driving him?’