Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

‘ These days you can get anything your greasy little heart desires on your phone. Download it from iTunes, or your provider, or get some software off the net and rip it yourself. ’

‘Yes, but it sounds pretty basic. Probably one of the default ones on an older handset.’

‘ Pffff… It was eight years ago. They were all older handsets then. Hold on .’ He hunched forwards again, the clatter of fingers on keyboard crackling out of the laptop’s speakers. ‘ Got something you’ll properly love, by the way. There. ’

My phone vibrated — another email. I opened it up. Looked like a web address. ‘What’s this?’

‘ Been off a-hacking in your local radio station’s servers, haven’t I? And guess what I found? ’

‘What?’

‘ Click on the link, you scone-head. ’

I tried. Nothing.

‘It’s not working. How do I get it up on the laptop?’

‘ God save us… ’

Two minutes later and there was a window on the screen full of little video previews with nonsense filenames. People in white T-shirts and big grins.

‘ It’s the fund raiser they had at that train station. Where you landed on your arse and the Inside Man legged it? They posted highlights on the website and that, but I had a geg and snooped out all the raw footage for youse. ’

I hovered the mouse across the first file. ‘Did they get me on film?’

‘ Nah. It’s all people dancing in their trainies, and having a pie-eating competition, and doing one of them stupid static-bike rides. Couple of fit judies in there though. You know: if you like them sweaty… ’ A frown. ‘ How come I can’t hear a party or anything? ’

‘Because we-’

‘ You caught the bastard, and you’re sitting there on your tod in the dark? You should be off filling your boots, mate. Then I could get back to climbing on top of your ma. She’s feeling frisky tonight. ’

‘We can’t find Ruth, Jessica, or Laura.’ I tried a smile. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy doing a bit of digging and see if you can find any properties Docherty’s paying rent for, or bought under a false name or something? Go through his credit cards like you did Laura Strachan’s boyfriend? We’ve been looking for somewhere he could set up an operating theatre, but the guys up here don’t have your … unique talents.’

Sabir chewed on his bottom lip for a bit. ‘ Give it a go, I suppose. Take a while though .’ More clicks from the keyboard.

I shrunk the window with him in it, selected the first video clip and set it playing. Laughter boomed from the speakers, tinny and distorted by the train station roof. I turned the volume down till it was almost non-existent.

A group of young men in Oldcastle Warriors tracksuits are cheering on an older man in a suit and tie as he rides the static bike. Poor sod looks ready to peg out. Didn’t he used to be the manager? The timestamp ticks over in the corner — 11:10:15, 11:10:16, 11:10:17…

‘ Here, you thought about a van or something? Big Transit van. Strip out the load bay and you’d get a decent operating theatre in there. You could shift it about, park it up and do the business, then just drive off to the dump site. No sodding about .’ Sabir nodded, giving himself another three chins. ‘ Better yet, want to make sure they’re still alive when the ambulance gets there? Do the surgery on site, drop the vic out the back, then drive away. Did youse lot check for tyreprints at the scenes? ’

‘Nothing conclusive…’

Next clip. A group of little school kids dance to a Britney Spears number. All elbows and knees and cheesy grins for the camera. It keeps zooming in on one wee girl with dark pigtails and a smile that’s missing two front teeth. Lingering. As if the cameraman is auditioning for a role on the sex offenders’ register. 10:31:01, 10:31:02, 10:31:03…

‘ Yeah, well, I’m getting the same from that ringtone. Just been running it through a dozen different filters and some military-grade algorithms I’m really not supposed to have. And it’s definitely polyphonic, but it’s that generic, it’s useless. Can download it from anywhere. Got hits from Nokia, Motorola, Sony, Siemens… ’

The next clip is an interview with one of those local celebrities who’s famous for being on reality TV, and then completely forgotten about. Pretty certain he got done for soliciting and possession-with-intent a couple of years later. 15:18:42, 15:18:43, 15:18:44…

‘ Case you’re interested, it’s called “ Cambridge Quarters ”.’

‘OK.’ I scribbled it down in my notebook, underlined it twice and stuck a couple of question marks on the end.

Next clip. A group of three young women grin for the camera, bouncing up and down in time to the music… They’re all nurses — that’s why they look familiar — Laura Strachan’s flatmates. Down to raise money in her name, while she’s in intensive care wired up to half a ton of machinery. 12:41:58, 12:41:59, 13:00:00…

‘ You want anything else, or can I go back to giving your ma a good time? She’s pretty demanding. You know, sexually? ’

‘Your own fault for digging her up. Should’ve left her where we buried her.’

The noise from the bar downstairs grew louder, as music replaced the drone of the TV.

Then creaking on the stairs, and Alice thumped in through the door. An extra-large whisky sloshed in one hand. ‘Ash? Pizza’s going to be here soon, you should… Oh, is that Sabir?’

She scuffed over to the laptop and hunched down in front of the screen. ‘Sabir!’ Took a sip of whisky, waving at the camera while she drank. ‘We’re having pizza. Are you having pizza? You should have pizza, I’ve not seen you forever , would you like a drink?’

He raised a can of something caffeinated to the monitor. ‘ Alice. How’s me favourite Looney Tunes character then? ’

She pouted. ‘You have to do the voice.’

‘ Nyeaaaaaaah, what’s up, Doc? ’

Next clip. More nurses cluster around the bicycle, cheering on a short woman who’s sweated through her T-shirt. Is that Jessica McFee’s flatmate? It is. A young Bethany Gillespie. Presumably before she married Jimmy the control-freak. 12:25:03, 12:25:04, 12:25:05…

I moved on to the next one while Alice and Sabir gossiped like a pair of auld wifies.

Another bicycle shot. This time there was no problem recognizing the rider. Ruth Laughlin hammered away at the pedals, surrounded by Jessica’s friends and colleagues. Sweat darkened her T-shirt, bare knees pumping, face glowing and dripping with sweat. 14:12:35, 14:12:36, 14:12:37…

Poor old Ruth. Hollowed out in a crummy flat in Cowskillin, flinching at her own shadow, terrorized by a bunch of snotty wee kids. Taking antidepressants and being spat at. Wishing the doctors had let her die.

And all because I turned up at the train station, covered in blood, and put her on Dr Frederic Docherty’s radar.

How did he get away? Did he hop the train, slip off at the first stop, and get a taxi back to town? Or just nip out of a side entrance to the station. Scurry away through the streets.

Did he go back to work afterwards or take the rest of the day off?

On screen they do a countdown. Ruth throws her hands in the air, grinning as they reach zero, the ‘TURN MILES INTO SMILES!!!’ banner fluttering behind her.

It was the same image Ness had put up at the briefing.

Did Docherty go to bed with a smile on his face that night? Outwitted the cops again. Made us look like morons. Scott free, with a new victim to target, just because she’d helped me.