Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

‘ Cos we can sing the “Bravery Song”, and make them go away… ’

The kid’s arms go rubbery, no longer able to support their own weight. Then fall at his sides.

‘ The “Bravery Song”, the “Bravery Song”, sing it and you’ll feel big and strong. ’

I swallowed. ‘When was this? Is there a timestamp on the camera? We need to know when the kid went missing.’

‘ And you can sing it all night long, till good things come along. ’

She lets go of his throat and sits up, a grin stretching her face wide. Pants a couple of times.

Then faint banging comes from the tiny speaker, followed by a muffled, ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP!’

My voice.

That was me banging on the wall. Didn’t need a timestamp, it was filmed when we were in the house.

Right there in the next room waiting for her to get dressed…

Cunningham rolls off the bed, grabs the little boy by the legs and drags him off screen.

Some thumps and bumps, then she’s back, looming large as she reaches for the phone.

A clunk, and the door behind her opens. Officer Babs stamps in. ‘ All right, that’s enough. Get your bloody clothes on already! ’

The screen went blank, then reverted to a load of stills arranged like tiles.

Alice had her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh no…’

All the breath in my body leaked out, pulling my shoulders down. We were right there .

Nenova put the phone back on the bedside cabinet.

I sank down onto the end of the bed, stared at the wardrobe — that pale hand sticking out from the pile of shoes. ‘We could’ve saved him…’

She paced up and down beside the bed. ‘We have to get our stories straight. We couldn’t know, right? We couldn’t search the house, we didn’t have time.’

I should’ve made Babs stay with her. Made sure she wasn’t left unsupervised. I was in charge.

What was it Cunningham said, sitting on the couch in her maternity dress, flexing her hands, spitting venom and defiance? ‘ It’s all your fault. That’s what I’ll tell them. All — your — fault. ’

I pulled on a pair of gloves from my kit and got down on my knees in front of the wardrobe. Lifted shoes and boots out one by one and lined them up on the carpet until I could see the kid’s face.

Blond hair. Ears he’d never grow into. Freckles standing out like ink spattered on milkbottle skin. Familiar, but not quite right. I screwed up my eyes. Why did he look…?

‘Oh, shite …’

Nenova shuffled up close. ‘We are so screwed.’

It was the blond hair that was wrong. The bathroom stank of ammonia the first time we were here — a box of dye sitting beside the bath. She’d dyed his hair.

It took two goes to get the words out. ‘Call Control. Tell them we’ve found Charlie Pearce.’

‘ … deepest regret I have to announce that the body of Charlie Pearce was discovered by officers today at a home in the Blackwall Hill area of the city. The parents have been informed, and have asked for their privacy at this terrible time to be respected. ’

Rain lashed the windscreen, sounding like a thousand hammers on the Suzuki’s roof.

‘ Detective Superintendent Elizabeth Ness there, speaking at the press conference a few minutes ago. Sport now, and there’s troubling times ahead for Partick Thistle- ’

I switched off the radio.

Wind buffeted the car, rocking it on its springs.

On the other side of the chain barrier, Kings River was thick and dark, swollen against the harbour walls. A lone seagull swooped past, going sideways, wings bent with the strain of holding onto the air.

Alice curled forwards around Bob the Builder, and rested her head on the steering wheel.

When my phone rang, we both flinched.

I pulled it out. ‘~ THE BOSS!’ flashed on the screen.

Yeah, that could go to voicemail.

You’d think, after two hours, Jacobson would take the hint.

Silence.

Alice shifted in her seat. ‘He was right there, all the time.’

Yes. Yes he was.

My neck popped and cracked as I stretched. ‘We need to find Jessica McFee.’

‘Ash, he was only five .’

‘We didn’t know. How could we?’

She blinked a couple of times. Then sniffed. ‘He was right, wasn’t he? Detective Superintendent Knight? I’m an embarrassment-’

‘You’re not an-’

‘-amateur. Unprofessional. She had a terrified little boy trapped in the house, while we were there . I should have known.’ Alice scrubbed a hand across her eyes. ‘I’ve got no right to call myself a psychologist.’

‘Alice, don’t, OK?’

‘Can’t get anything right. Should just go into private practice. Marriage guidance, or something, where screwing up doesn’t kill people…’

Sigh. ‘Are you finished?’

No reply.

‘ You didn’t kill Charlie Pearce, Virginia Cunningham did. You didn’t screw up. You’re not psychic.’ My other phone went, playing the default ringtone I hadn’t bothered to change.

God’s sake. As if things weren’t bad enough.

I dug it out and hit the button. ‘I know, I know — tick-tock.’

‘ Eh? ’ A pause. ‘ This Ash Henderson? ’

Not Wee Free after all. ‘Rock-Hammer. You got something for me?’

‘ I told you: it’s Alistair, and yes. You got an email address I can send these reports from the Social to? ’

What, and let Jacobson and his team find out what we…? You know what? Sod it. Too late to worry about that. I gave him my LIRU email.

‘ And I spoke to his divorce lawyer. Turns out officially Docherty versus Docherty was about irreconcilable differences brought on by pressures of work. She got half of everything and a regular stipend as well. ’

‘And unofficially?’

‘ Mrs Docherty wasn’t down with the role-playing or the pornography. And I don’t mean roll-a-dice-and-pretend-you’re-an-elf role-playing: he liked her to pose like the dead women in his crime-scene photographs before doing it. Even covered her in fake blood. ’

‘Yeah, I can see why that’d be kind of a turn-off.’

Alice rose from the steering wheel, Bob pressed tight against her chest. ‘What?’

‘Dr Frederic Docherty has a thing for dead women.’ Back to the phone. ‘Anything else?’

‘ Right now he’s at Division HQ. Patrol car picked him up from the hotel at six forty-five. Not been out since. ’

The seagull was back, a pale streak against the dark sky.

‘Does he have a car, or did he come up by train?’

‘ Got the number plate from the register this morning. Hold on… ’ Some rustling.

My official mobile bleeped. That’d be the reports from Social Services. I dug it out, called up the email, then handed the phone to Alice. ‘Read.’

‘ Sorry, the DVLA’s slow this morning… Right: it’s a dark-blue Volvo V-Seventy. You want the reg number? ’

I scribbled it down in my notepad. ‘Thanks, Alistair. Let me know if Docherty goes anywhere, OK?’

‘ Will do .’ And he was gone.

I tapped the phone against my chin. A thing for dead women…

Time to give Noel Maxwell a shout — see what info he’d got from his fellow hospital drug dealers. His mobile rang nearly a dozen times, before,

‘ Yeah? ’

‘Noel? It’s me.’

A pause. ‘ Ah, right, Mr Henderson, great. Erm … what a coincidence, I was just about to call you. ’

Sure he was. ‘Well?’

‘ Still a couple of guys on nights I’ve not spoke to yet, but I did hear rumours about someone flogging on a couple vials of Thiopental Sodium. Kinda like the stuff … you acquired, only a bit more risky for breathing and heart problems and that. ’