Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

Bed was still made, the blanket tucked in tight, a room-service menu on one of the pillows. Nice room. Big enough for a small couch and a coffee table by the window. Spotless.

Back to the phone. ‘I want you outside the Pinemantle Hotel on Porter Lane from half five at the latest.’

‘ And you want a full background tonight as well? You have heard of sleep, haven’t you? ’

‘Time for that when you’re dead.’ I hung up and slipped the phone back in my pocket.

One bedside cabinet had nothing but a Gideon Bible and a hairdryer in it, the other was neatly layered with socks and pants. The narrow drawer under the desk was stuffed with all the usual hotel information bumph — folders, binders, and leaflets. Nothing under the bed. Bathroom: a stick deodorant, pink toilet bag, toothbrush in a plastic holder, toothpaste, floss, two tubs of hair gel, bottle of aftershave.

The wardrobe hid a red wheelie suitcase. I hauled it out and had a rummage inside. A Tesco carrier-bag full of dirty underwear sat in one corner, a couple of books in the netting pouches built into the lid. There was a solid, zipped compartment above them. I eased it open.

Well, well… I reached in and pulled out three pairs of black lacy thongs. A scarlet lipstick was next, then a pair of dangly silver earrings with blue stones in them, and right at the bottom: a push-up bra.

I sat back on my haunches. So, maybe he liked to dress up and become Susan at the weekends? Didn’t prove anything. They all went back where they came from.

The two suits, three shirts, and the overcoat hanging in the wardrobe got a quick search, then I was back out in the corridor, as if nothing had ever happened.

Locked the door again.

Stood there, frowning at the wood.

Docherty wasn’t likely to leave anything incriminating lying about in his hotel room, was he? Housekeeping would find it. He wasn’t thick, after all…

Retching echoed out from the open bathroom door of the adjoining room. Alice’s feet stuck out at right angles to each other, white socks twitching as she heaved.

She’d only been in it twenty minutes and her hotel room already looked like a teenager’s bedroom. Clothes all over the floor, more on the chair, the bed rumpled, papers spread all over the little desk.

Her socks twitched again.

‘You’re a disaster…’ I picked up the jeans, folded them and draped them over the back of the chair. Hung the jacket up in the wardrobe, and the stripy tops. Picked up the scattered socks and underwear. Put them back in the suitcase. Stuck it in the corner.

Alice groaned, then appeared in the doorway. Pink pyjamas buttoned up wrong. Her hair hung in a lank curtain, covering her face. ‘Urrgh…’

‘Well, whose fault is that?’

‘Where were you? I … I needed … someone … hold my hair.’

I pulled back one side of the blankets. ‘Did you drink a pint of water?’

‘Bounced.’ She shuffled over and collapsed, face-down onto the bed. ‘Where were you?’

‘Had to hand some keys in at reception. You want to be sick again?’

‘Urgh…’

Her legs were like lead as I rolled her round the right way. Folded the blankets back over her. Then fetched the hotel bin and put it beside the bed.

‘You’re going to end up with liver failure, that what you want?’

‘Urrrrrrgh…’

‘Thought so.’ I paced to the window and pulled the curtain back a couple of inches. A car drifted by on Porter Lane, headlights picking out the bones of trees. ‘What would you say if someone suggested Dr Docherty might be the Inside Man?’

‘I’d … I’d say … leave me alone … I want … to die.’

The branches trembled, and a fistful of rain beat itself to death against the window. ‘He’s the right age, he ticks all the boxes you were talking about, and he’s on the inside, isn’t he? Can’t get more inside than he is.’

‘It’s a bit… He can’t be the … Inside Man … he’s … he’s a knob.’

The curtains fell back into place. ‘What, serial nut-jobs can’t be knobs?’

‘He… He…’ She squinted at the ceiling. ‘What do we … do we know about his … background? Does… Does he have a mother? Well, of course he’s got a mother, but is she alive and did she beat him when he was little, and why’s the room going round like that, make it stop!’

I brushed the hair from her damp face, leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Your breath’s minging, by the way.’

‘What if … what if it’s not him? What if we go chasing … chasing after … and Dave…’

‘He fits your profile, that’s all. We’re not abandoning everything else.’

She wobbled a hand at the adjoining door. ‘Leave … leave it open?’

‘Promise.’ I turned out the bedside lamp. Now the only light was what filtered through from my room. ‘No booze tomorrow, OK?’

‘Ash?’

‘What?’

‘If I hadn’t seen you … seen you carrying Paul Manson’s body … off into the … the woods… Why … why did you lie to me?’

‘When Rebecca’s guinea pig died, we hid the body and told her it’d gone away to live on a farm. Didn’t want its death to darken her.’ I picked at the handle of my cane, scraping back a patina of varnish with my thumbnail. ‘Suppose it was a bit like that…’

Silence.

‘Alice?’

‘Thank you for trying…’ Her voice was little more than a fuzzy mumble in the darkness. ‘Ash? If … Dr Docherty is … is the Inside Man, then … then … why start again, after all this time? Eight … eight years, nothing, just like that.’

‘Go to sleep.’

‘Maybe … maybe he… Maybe he misses the screaming?’

A permatanned guy in a suit waved his hand across the map of Scotland. ‘ Unfortunately, that area of high pressure means the rain’s going to be with us till at least the end of the week, and- ’ I killed the sound and moved to the window. Pulled back the curtains, phone pressed against my ear.

A battered Audi was just visible through the bare beech trees.

‘That you in the blue estate?’

Rock-Hammer Robertson grunted. ‘ Since half five. You want this background check or not? ’

‘Go on then.’

‘ Dr Frederic Joshua Docherty, thirty-five, graduated from Edinburgh University with an MA in psychology- ’

‘What about his childhood?’

‘ Born to Steven and Isabella Docherty in Stirling. Middle child of three. Elder sister killed in a car crash when he was six. Younger brother did two years for possession with intent. Fred was referred to Social Services twice — once for a broken arm, and once for setting fire to a derelict house. He was eight. ’

Through in the other room, the sounds of groaning and moaning were interspersed with the occasional swearword and promise never to drink again.

‘Don’t suppose he tortured any animals, did he? Family pets — something like that?’

‘ Not that I could find. Married Sylvia Burns six years ago, been divorced for eighteen months. Can’t find out why till the solicitors’ open at nine, but going by his ex-wife’s blog it’s got something to do with sex. ’

Not bad, considering he’d only got the job in the wee small hours.

I tapped a finger against the glass. ‘Got to admit I’m impressed, Rock-Hammer.’

‘ Alistair. Not Rock-Hammer. I left him behind last time I got out. ’

Sure he did.

‘… drug raids in Kingsmeath, so stay out of their way till noon.’ The duty sergeant checked his clipboard, voice droning out through the crowded room. ‘Next up — Charlie Pearce. We’ve got one dog unit going into Moncuir Wood this morning, and another searching the Swinney.’ He turned to Detective Superintendent Ness. ‘Super?’