Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

Perfect. Just what we needed at check-in — her blowing ribs and chips all over their gravel driveway.

A pause. Then she shuddered and picked herself out of the car. Lurched over, stiff-legged, to the portico. Slumped against me. ‘Mmmsleepy.’ The words slithered out in a fog of Jack Daniel’s and barbecue sauce.

A shadow moved across the rippled glass panel in the door.

‘Try not to look like you’re about to puke everywhere or they won’t give us a room.’

‘Sleeeepy…’

Great.

The shadow filled the pane, then clunk — the door opened.

A man in slippers and a black cardigan blinked up at me, his face lined and sagging. Wafts of Ralgex and peppermint rolled out of him. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I need two rooms.’

He did a bit more blinking, going back and forth between me and Alice. ‘I see.’ He flexed his shoulders beneath his baggy cardigan then glanced down at Alice’s suitcase and my holdall. ‘Would you like some help with your bags?’

‘We’re fine, thanks.’

Alice tugged at my sleeve. ‘Twin room. I don’t want … want to … alone?’

‘Two rooms. Have you got anything adjoining?’

A handkerchief appeared in his hand, followed by a long snottery honk on his nose. ‘I think we might be able to accommodate you.’ Then he turned and doddered back into the hotel.

Tartan carpet surrounded a wooden reception desk with a stag’s head mounted above it. Hunting scenes and portraits of men and women in olde-worlde uniforms and dresses punctuated the walls — surrounded by heavy golden frames.

The man took our names, car registration, an imprint of Alice’s credit card, then held out a pair of room keys. ‘Breakfast is from half six till nine thirty in the Balmoral Room. I’d suggest you leave it until after seven though — we have a large party of police officers staying with us and they tend to hog the buffet.’ He pointed off to the left. ‘And if you’d like to put your car in the car park around the side, I’ll give you a token to get in.’

‘Thanks.’

He rummaged under the desk for a bit. Then emerged with a frown. ‘Could’ve sworn they were here… Just be a tick.’ And he was off, slippers scuffing at the tartan carpet.

Soon as he was out of sight I reached over and plucked the register from the reception desk. Flicked back through it a couple of days.

The page was covered in cops. Rhona was right: the whole team from the Specialist Crime Division had checked in, along with Jacobson and his Lateral Investigative and Review Unit.

And last, but not least: Dr F. Docherty, room 314.

‘ … was Love Amongst Ruin and “Home”. Five to midnight and you’re listening to the Witching Hour, with me, Lucy Robotham. ’

The token I’d got from the night porter opened a barrier that led into a car park built beneath what looked like conference facilities. I took the Suzuki between the thick concrete pillars and dumped it in the first available space. Sat there for a minute with my head back as my right foot throbbed.

‘ … take a look at tomorrow’s papers and the Daily Record leads with “Gotcha!” Scandal rocks Number Ten as the Business Secretary Alex Dance is arrested for perjury and attempting to pervert the course of justice… ’

Another couple of breaths and it had settled down a bit.

‘ … Press and Journal has “Parents’ fear for missing Charlie”, going with the hunt for missing five-year-old Charlie Pearce… ’

God what a day…

‘ … The Independent and the Scotsman both go with the ongoing manhunt in Oldcastle for the Inside Man. While the Castle News and Post devotes its front page to a letter supposedly sent in by the killer to- ’

I clicked the radio off. Levered myself out of the car. Leaned heavily on my cane, and hobbled back towards the exit.

Couldn’t get a mobile signal in the car park, but as soon as I stepped outside it was up to four bars. My thumb picked out the numbers, the hotel concrete scraping against my jacket as I leaned back and listened to it ring.

A porridge-thick Easterhouse accent brayed out of the earpiece. ‘ Police Scotland, Oldcastle Division. ’

‘That you Daphne? It’s Ash Henderson. I need to know if you’ve still got Rock-Hammer Robertson kicking about.’

‘ Ash, you auld bugger, how’s the foot? ’ The sound of fingers attacking a keyboard rattled down the line.

‘Like I’ve got a hedgehog in my shoe. Joe well?’

‘ Silly bugger fell down the stairs and broke his collar bone… No — according to this Mr Robertson has been released without charge. ’

After what he’d done to Cooper and Jacobson? Lucky Mr Robertson.

‘Got a number for him?’

‘ Give us a minute… ’

Wednesday

‘ … Are you serious? It’s gone midnight! ’

‘How much?’

There was silence from the other end of the phone as I hobbled into reception. Then Rock-Hammer Robertson was back. ‘ Hundred and twenty a day. Plus expenses. ’

‘And I want a full background check by seven a.m. Parents, childhood, police, the lot.’

‘ Tomorrow morning? You’re off your- ’

‘Thought you said you were good.’

There was no sign of the night porter as I popped behind the reception desk and searched through the keys on their hooks. Three-one-four was missing. Which meant Dr Fred Docherty probably had it on him. One key, right at the bottom of the rack, had a red leather fob with the word ‘Master’ on it.

‘ Not exactly giving me a lot of time, are you? ’ A sigh. ‘ I’ll see what I can do. No promises though. ’

I grabbed the master key, limped to the elevators and thumbed the button.

‘When I checked with your employers they said you weren’t as gormless as the nurses’ halls made you look. I’m trusting you not to screw this up. Because if you do, we’re going to be having words, understand?’

‘ I told you, it wasn’t my fault. A job like that should’ve had- ’

‘And this is strictly between us. Nothing goes through the company books. You report to me, and if anyone asks you’re just taking a couple of days off for personal reasons. Tell them you’ve got the norovirus or something; there’s a lot of it going around.’

Ping — the lift doors slid open, bringing a wash of Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’ with them.

‘ Done. ’

I pressed the button for the third floor. The lift whirred and clunked its way up the building as I pinned the phone between my shoulder and my ear and snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. ‘I want to know where he goes, who he talks to, if he’s got a lock-up, or a house somewhere.’

‘ I’ll be all over him like plukes on a teenager. ’

Ping — the doors opened on a tartan-floored corridor. A sign on the wall: ‘ROOMS 301–312 ~ ROOMS 313–336

The corridor to the right took a dogleg, then up a couple of steps.

‘You see anything dodgy, you call me. You don’t touch anything, you don’t go charging in, you call me.’

‘ Yeah, yeah, I know the- ’

‘Say it.’

A sigh. ‘ I call you. ’

‘Good.’ I took out the master key. No sign of light seeping out under the door of 314, so either Dr Docherty was already asleep, or he was out. ‘Now shut up for a minute.’

The key slid into the lock. Turned delicate and slow. Then click . I eased the door open.

The curtains hadn’t been closed properly, letting in a thin wash of yellow light that leached the colour out of the room, turning the tartan carpet monochrome.