Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

Raised voices came from upstairs — ‘ You should be out there finding her! ’

‘ We’re doing everything we can, sir, please, you need to calm down, OK? Deep breaths. ’

No sign of anything broken in the lounge, or the kitchen. A stack of mugs and plates were lined up on the draining board, all covered with fingerprint powder. In the daylight, the window overlooked a postage-stamp garden with a bird table in one corner and a whirly washing drier.

An SEB tech was just outside, on his knees at the open back door, dusting the white UPVC with amido black, earbuds in — nodding in time to whatever the music was.

I tapped him on the shoulder and he nearly fell off the step. ‘Gah! Don’t do that!’

‘Where’s the key fob?’

He pointed at the stainless-steel flight case in the middle of the floor. ‘Doesn’t fit the lock though. Well, you know, it goes in, but it won’t turn.’

‘You try it in the front?’

‘Doesn’t fit there either.’ He sat back on his haunches. ‘You here to talk to the husband?’

‘Any sign of a struggle? Break-in?’

‘No so much as a squint picture on the walls.’

‘Don’t forget to check the flowerbeds for footprints.’ I headed back through into the hall. Stopped. Lowered my voice as the argument continued upstairs. ‘She knew him. She came downstairs, she opened the door, and she went with him. Didn’t put up a fight.’

Alice looked up the stairs. ‘Would she know Dr Docherty?’

‘ You don’t understand: she’s pregnant. Pregnant! ’ The voice got louder. ‘ What if he hurts our baby? ’

‘He was her therapist for a while, after the attacks.’

Laura’s husband — what was it, Christopher? — appeared at the top of the stairs. Both hands were linked over the back of his head, as if he was trying to pull it into his chest. ‘He can’t hurt our baby. You’ve got no idea how hard it was to get this far!’

A uniformed officer emerged behind him. She’d ditched the fluorescent waistcoat and the stabproof vest, her black fleece hanging open — showing off the black T-shirt underneath. ‘We’re only trying to help. Maybe there’s someone you could call? A friend, or relative?’

Christopher turned all the way around, mouth pinched tight shut… Then he stopped and stared at me. ‘You.’

I nodded. ‘Any chance we can have a word?’

I let the curtain fall back into place. ‘That’s Sky TV arrived.’ Making it four TV crews, half a dozen photographers, and a handful of journalists.

Christopher sat on the edge of the bed, folded forward so his chest rested on his knees, still pulling his head down. ‘Why can’t they just go out and look for her?’

Alice sat down next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault.’

‘Of course it is. I’m supposed to look after her. I promised .’ A shudder. ‘Especially after last time…’

I leaned back against the windowsill. ‘Who else knew you were living here?’

His head came up. ‘No one. Not even my mum knows where we are. We run this place like something out of a spy movie. Laura…’ His head went down again, voice wobbling. ‘She doesn’t want anyone to find us.’

Alice gave the shoulder a little rub. ‘Has she been seeing anyone for her anxiety? A doctor? Or maybe a therapist?’

‘She did all that years ago. She’s not paranoid, she’s just… She wants us to be careful, that’s all.’

Not careful enough.

I took out my notepad. ‘When did you notice she was missing?’

A sigh rippled through him. ‘We’ve been sleeping in different rooms for a couple of weeks. She’s too hot, with the baby, and she needs to spread out. When I got up to pee at three, her light was on. Sometimes she falls asleep with a book, so I went in to switch it off, and she wasn’t there.’ He rocked forwards and backwards, making the bed creak. ‘I checked everywhere. Going room to room, switching on all the lights. Ran up and down the streets, shouting for her. Oh God…’

‘So you last saw her…?’

‘I took her up a cup of camomile tea at eleven before I went to bed.’ He picked at the duvet, wrapping the cover around his fingers.

Alice looked at me, face pinched, then back to him. ‘Christopher, I know this is going to be difficult, but if you keep focusing on what happened last time, it’s going to eat you.’

‘What if you can’t find her?’

‘We’ll find her. But I need you to understand that just because she was raped and cut open last time, there’s no reason to… What’s wrong?’

He stiffened. Sat up. ‘Raped?’

Alice pulled her chin in. ‘When she was abducted?’

‘She wasn’t raped! Who said she was raped?’

Alice nodded, kept her hand on his shoulder. ‘A lot of rape victims don’t tell their partners. Sometimes they feel guilty — even though there’s nothing to feel guilty about — it’s not their fault, it’s-’

‘She would’ve told me.’ He folded back over again. ‘We don’t keep secrets from each other. Ever.’

The media scrum faded in the rear-view mirror, then disappeared as we turned back onto Camburn View Avenue. On the radio, an old Foo Fighters song clattered to a halt, and the pips filled the car. ‘ It’s nine o’clock and you’re listening to Castlewave FM. News now, and we’re joined in the studio by Dr Frederic Docherty. Dr Docherty- ’

I turned off the radio.

Alice ran her hands around the wheel. ‘Maybe he didn’t rape her eight years ago?’

‘Why wouldn’t he rape her? He raped Ruth Laughlin.’

She took us out onto the main road, heading for Cowskillin. ‘Or maybe he didn’t rape her till after she was drugged?’

‘Perhaps he couldn’t get it up? Or there wasn’t time? Or perhaps she just didn’t tell Christopher? Misplaced guilt, like you said. Or-’ The phone in my pocket rang — not the official one, the burner. I dug the thing out. Pressed the button. ‘What?’

Wee Free McFee’s voice snarled out of the earpiece. ‘ You found my little girl yet? ’

‘We’re looking.’

‘ Tick-tock, Henderson. Tick-tock. Your fat friend’s not looking so good. ’

‘He needs a doctor.’

‘ And I need my daughter. You remember how that feels, don’t you? Knowing she’s out there and some bastard’s got her? ’

Houses and shops swept by as Alice took the turning marked ‘CITY STADIUM’. The First National Celtic Church spire rose above the houses. A drop of rain spattered against the windscreen.

‘ You still there, Henderson? ’

‘We’re going as fast as we can, OK? As soon as we’ve got something I’ll call you.’

‘ Your fat friend’s only got one eye, doesn’t need two ears as well, does he? Why don’t I stick one in the post for you? ’

‘We’re…’ I closed my eyes and dunked my head off the window. Held it there. The road vibrations burred into my skull. ‘I remember what it feels like. We’re doing everything we can. We’re going as fast as we can. We’ll find her.’

‘ You better. ’

Down on the street below, a single patrol car sat outside Ruth Laughlin’s building, its blue-and-whites spinning, catching the falling rain and turning it into sapphires and diamonds.

There might have been a media scrum outside Laura Strachan’s place, but, so far, not so much as a photographer from the local rag had turned up here.

But then Laura had always been the popular one. Most people couldn’t even name the other two survivors, let alone the four women who died eight years ago.