Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

‘What did you say to Cunningham?’

The blush was back. ‘So we have to work back from where he left their bodies. What’s within ten, fifteen minutes of all of them?’

‘Other than the hospital?’

She rocked backwards and forwards in her seat a couple of times. Sighed. ‘I told her it wasn’t fair to make Charlie’s parents go through the mobile-phone video in open court, in front of everyone. That it’d make things much worse for them. That every time they thought of him, every time a song came on the radio he liked, they’d see her strangling him.’

Wow. ‘And that was it: she decided to plead guilty?’

‘Of course not.’ Alice picked up her pen again. ‘So I told her about all the people I’d helped in prisons all over the country — all those people with mental health problems and violent tendencies — and how it’d only take one word from me and they’d be falling over themselves to make her life a living hell. Well, not one word, obviously, it’d probably take at least a dozen, but the point’s the same.’

She drew a circle on the map around the spot where Claire Young’s body had been discovered, covering Blackwall Hill and part of Kingsmeath. ‘I thought, if Mrs Kerrigan could do it, why couldn’t I?’ Another circle went around the lay-by where we’d found Tara McNab. Eyes fixed on the map. ‘And before you ask: no, I’m not proud of myself.’

‘Well, I am.’ I poked a finger at Castle Hill Infirmary. ‘What about the hospital?’

She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a bit. ‘A disused operating theatre?’

‘Or mortuary? Been a hospital there since the seventeenth century. Every hundred years or so, they’d build new bits on top of the old structure. God knows what’s down there. There’s even supposed to be secret tunnels heading out to the docks.’

‘I don’t know… It’s all a bit, Dan Brown, isn’t it?’

‘Probably.’ I pulled out my phone. ‘Worth a call anyway.’ I dialled Rhona’s number and made for the pub door, pushed through into the little airlock.

Rain bounced off the pavement, battered against the chipboard barrier on the other side of the road. Soaked into the abandoned breezeblock.

‘ DS Massie. ’

‘Rhona, I need you to take a look at Castle Hill Infirmary. Any old operating theatres or mortuaries in the place? Anything that’s not been in use for years?’

‘ Yeah, let me guess — someone’s just figured out that the hospital’s the only thing definitely within emergency response times: there and back? ’

‘Ah…’

‘ I looked into it last week. The original mortuary got turned into a museum as part of that Oldcastle Millennium bollocks, so that’s a nonstarter. There’s an old surgical wing that’s not been used since the seventies, but it’s been completely stripped for a refurb. Not so much as a kidney dish or a bed pan left in the place .’ A yawn ripped free, followed by a long sigh. ‘ And there’s been architects and builders and councillors in and out of there on a regular basis for months. ’

So much for that. ‘Should you not have gone home by now?’

‘ We’re hitting the Monk and Casket after work. ’

‘All right for some.’

A pause. ‘ Are you not coming? ’

Jacobson’s big black Range Rover growled out of the rain, headlights glowing back from the wet road. Dr Constantine grinned at me from the driver’s seat. Waved.

I waved back. ‘What about the addresses Docherty had access to?’

‘ Hold on… Right, everything’s been searched top to bottom. We’ve had a dog team up to the Castleview place, and Moray-and-Shire have done the one in Stonehaven. Nothing. Now we’re waiting for the dogs to get to the properties in Dundee and Blackwall Hill so we can get them ticked off too. ’

‘You don’t sound hopeful.’

A sucking sound came through the earpiece, as if she was breathing in through her teeth. ‘ He’s not daft, is he, Guv? He’s a slimy turdhole, but he’s not stupid. He knows we’d connect him to those houses. He’s got them somewhere no one knows about, but him. Maybe renting under an assumed name? ’

The Range Rover’s lights went out, and Jacobson climbed down from the passenger side, turned his collar up, reached back into the car for half-a-dozen carrier-bags and hurried for the pub entrance.

Renting…

I stood to one side and let him squeeze past. He held up one of the bags. ‘Lots and lots of wine.’ Then he grimaced. ‘But Docherty’s still not owning up.’ And he was through into the pub.

Renting a house? A flat wouldn’t work, you couldn’t drag victims up and down the stairs without someone noticing.

Dr Constantine lumbered her way around from the boot, laden down with boxes of Grolsch and fruity cider. She paused as I held the door open for her, stood on her tiptoes and kissed my cheek. ‘Not bad for a copper.’ Then she was gone.

You’d need something secluded. Out of the way…

‘What about that static caravan park, south of Shortstaine? You’re what, two minutes from the dual carriageway there — could be anywhere in the city in ten, if traffic was light.’

‘ Like it: they’re big enough to set up a wee operating room, no one’s going to bother you, and the older ones probably cost peanuts. Bet they don’t ask for ID if you pay cash either… Nice one, Guv, I’ll get someone out there. ’

‘And when you’re done, forget the Monk and Casket: Postman’s Head on Millen Road, opposite where they were going to put that care home. Looks like we might be having some sort of shindig tonight — consider yourself invited. Might be an idea to bring a bottle.’

With any luck, we’d be celebrating more than just catching the bastard.

Rain crackled against the window. Outside, on the street below, a man slogged past, baseball cap pulled low, shoulders hunched against the onslaught. He didn’t stop. Didn’t look across the road at the Postman’s Head.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t watching it.

The sound of a TV news bulletin oozed up from the bar downstairs.

If anything, it made the silence in the manager’s flat even thicker. Nearly all the furniture was gone, leaving a small table, two wooden chairs — that looked as if they’d been liberated from the pub — and a cracked mirror above the bathroom sink. A broken chest of drawers in the bedroom. An ancient fitted kitchen with no cooker or fridge, just grey tidelines of dust and grease to mark their passing.

I went back to my phone. ‘And?’

On the other end, Noel Maxwell huffed out a breath. ‘ Still off her face on morphine and sedatives. ’

The guy in the baseball cap kept going, until the night swallowed him.

‘She had any visitors?’

‘ Couple of heavies been in since nine this morning. Scary, scary blokes all covered in bruises. One of them’s got his head bandaged up like a mummy, the other’s on crutches. ’

That would be Joseph and Francis.

Noel cleared his throat. ‘ Listen, about Boxer, you didn’t tell anyone I clyped on him, did you? Cause if the guys find out- ’

‘When they releasing her?’

‘ -reputation and they’ll kick the crap out of me too. ’

God’s sake. ‘I didn’t tell anyone, OK? Now when are they letting Mrs Kerrigan out of hospital?’

‘ Not today. Probably not tomorrow either. You know what it’s like up there on the private floor — place is a sodding hotel. Fine dining, wine, and all the drugs you want, who’d leave? ’

So twenty-four hours, maybe forty-eight before she came looking for us… Of course, she’d want to be there in person to rip out our teeth with pliers, but there was nothing to stop her getting a few of her dogs to grab Alice and me off the street any time she wanted. Keep us somewhere cold, dark, and painful until she was ready to play.