A Song for the Dying. Stuart MacBride

body cavity by the time she got here. Hence the relative cleanliness.’

      Alice hadn’t moved from the roadside. ‘Why bother though?’ She curled an arm around herself, the other hand playing with her hair again. ‘I mean he could’ve just left her there, behind the bus shelter, why pick her up again and carry her all the way through the woods to the bit of waste ground where she was found, doesn’t that seem like a bit of a waste of time?’

      I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pair of gloves from Dr Constantine’s investigation kit. Tore open the sterile packaging, and snapped them on. Scuffed through the weeds and grass to the far side of the flattened area – taking the long way around to avoid treading on any evidence. ‘Have you got a photo of this?’

      Huntly sniffed. ‘Of what?’

      ‘Syringe.’ It lay in a clump of dockens, lined with frost, its yellow cap about a foot away.

      ‘Ah…’ He followed the path I’d made, his digital camera at the ready. ‘Say cheese.’

      Alice still hadn’t moved. ‘Unsub-Fifteen tried to save her. He got Claire all the way out here, then he takes the cry for help he made her record and goes to call an ambulance, but she crashes. She’s not breathing. So he gives her … maybe something like adrenaline? Tries to start her heart again. He doesn’t want them to die, he wants us to get to them in time, like Laura Strachan, Marie Jordan, and Ruth Laughlin. Claire was meant to live. This was a failure.’

      Huntly took another couple of shots. ‘And he didn’t want us to connect her body with this place, in case he’d left something of himself behind. So he moved the remains.’ The digital camera went back into Huntly’s pocket. ‘Of course, he didn’t reckon on tangling with someone of my calibre. They never do.’ He grinned. ‘Here’s a fun fact for you: one of the ambulance men who saved Laura Strachan, himself went on to become the last ever victim of another serial killer: the Nightmare Man. Personally, if I lived in Oldcastle, I’d move.’

      Damp grass scuffed around my ankles as I made for the telephone box. The door squealed as I dragged it open. A new-car stench of burnt plastic slumped against me, underpinned with a bleachy tang. The phone itself looked reasonably intact, under all the black-marker swearwords and cocks scratched into the metal. I picked the handset up and held it so the mouthpiece was nowhere near my lips. The dialling tone burred in my ear.

      Still working. I punched in 1471, looking for the last number dialled, but the LCD display came up ‘— BARRED NUMBER —’ The handset went back into its cradle then I stepped out into the unburnt air again. Pulled out my new official phone and powered it up. It’d been pre-programmed with a half-dozen numbers, ‘~ THE BOSS!’ sitting at the top of the list, above ‘ALICE’, ‘BERNARD’, ‘HAMISH’, ‘SHEILA’, and ‘X – DOMINO’S PIZZA’. My finger hovered over the first entry. Of course, by rights it should be Control, not Jacobson getting the first call. Then again, Control couldn’t send me back to prison.

      And there was no way I was risking that. Not when I was so close…

      The phone rang for a bit, then Jacobson picked up, listened while I filled him in. Then, ‘Excellent. Bernard might be a pain in the arse, but he’s worth it. Get as many photos as you can, then call Ness – get her to send out a Scenes Examination Branch team. I want that scene cordoned off and picked over with an electron microscope. Tell them Bernard’s in charge, and if they give him any grief I’ll have them. OK?’

       13

      Alice looked back over her shoulder as I pulled into Slater Crescent. ‘Are you sure it’s OK to leave Professor Huntly there, I mean what if he upsets all the—’

      ‘He’s a grown man.’ And besides, maybe getting punched on the nose by one of the Scenes Examination Branch would take the edge off him a bit. If we were lucky.

      The Suzuki jerked and juddered as my right foot slipped off the accelerator. Bloody idiot. Oh, no I’ll drive this time. It’s been far too long. Need the practice…

      Need my sodding head examined, more like.

      Teeth gritted, I put the aching foot back down, on the brake this time. Eased Alice’s car up to the kerb. Killed the engine. Folded forward and rested my forehead on the steering wheel. Hissed out a breath.

      ‘Ash? Are you OK?’

      ‘Fine. Perfect. Never better.’ God that hurt. ‘Just … been a while.’

      I straightened up, dug a pack of paracetamol from my jacket and dry-swallowed three of them. Pulled in a few deep breaths. Then opened the driver’s door. ‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’

      She stared at me. ‘And he’s an old friend.’

      ‘It’ll be fine.’ I grabbed my cane and struggled out of the car. Closed the door.

      Slater Crescent curled away down Blackwall Hill, giving the road a decent view across the valley to the Wynd. Over there, the sandstone terraces were arrayed like soldiers on parade. Expensive houses surrounding little private parks. Picturesque and historical beneath the heavy grey sky.

      And a lot prettier than the seventies maze of cul-de-sacs and dead ends that surrounded us. Blackwall Hill: a twisting nest of grey-harled bungalows and terracotta pantiles. Gardens jealously guarded behind leylandii battlements. Knee-high wrought-iron gates with nameplates bolted to them: ‘DUNROAMIN’, ‘LINDISFARNE’, ‘SUNNYSIDE’ and half a dozen variations on ‘ROSE’, ‘FOREST’, and ‘VIEW’.

      Number thirteen – the address I’d got from the mysterious Alec – had an archway of honeysuckle wound up and over a stupid little gate, like brittle strands of beige barbed wire. The nameplate had ‘VAJRASANA’ on it, picked out in gold letters. Gravel made a twisting path through bushes and dead flowers, seedheads heavy and drooping on either side. A concrete Buddha sat beside the path, his grey skin speckled with lichen.

      A little girl knelt before him, trundling a bright yellow Tonka tipper truck back and forwards, scooping up gravel and dumping it at the Buddha’s feet. Making the beep-beep-beep noises every time the tipper reversed for another load.

      I creaked the gate open and limped in, clanging it shut behind me with my cane. Pulled on a smile. ‘Hi, is your daddy in?’

      She jumped to her feet, clutching the Tonka against her stomach. Can’t have been more than five or six, but she had a single thick eyebrow stretching across a mealie-pudding face. She smiled, showing off a hole where the two bottom middle teeth should have been. ‘Yeth.’

      ‘Can you run and get him for me?’

      A nod. ‘But you have to look after my tiger for me.’ She pointed at an empty patch of grass, then lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘He’th thcared of clownth.’

      ‘OK, if any clowns come along, I’ll keep him safe.’

      ‘Promith?’

      ‘Course I do.’

      ‘OK.’ She patted a hand up and down, in mid-air. ‘You be good Mithter Thtripey, and don’t eat the man.’ And then she was off, skipping up the path and into the house.

      I limped over and rested against the Buddha’s concrete head.

      She was back two minutes later, dragging a small middle-aged man by the hand: dumpy, central parting, chinos and a cardigan. He fiddled a pair of glasses from his pocket and slipped them on. Blinked at me. Then beamed. ‘Ah, you must be Mr Smith. How nice to see you, Mr Smith.’ He turned to the little girl. ‘Sweetie, why don’t you take Mr Stripy through to the back garden so I can talk to Mr Smith?’

      She stared at him, face hard and serious. ‘Are there any clownth?’

      ‘They all ran away when they heard Mr Smith was coming over.’