A Song for the Dying. Stuart MacBride

skull with a spanner. Why couldn’t it have been Huntly?

      The breath hissed out of me, and my chin dropped an inch.

      Probably for the best. Keep a low profile. Be a team player. At least until Mrs Kerrigan was sprawled in a lake of her own blood.

      Alice patted the seat next to her. ‘Did Bear bring you up to speed on the details?’

      ‘Who the hell is “Bear”?’

      A frown. ‘Detective Superintendent Jacobson. I thought you knew.’

      Bear? Seriously?

      Lunatics and idiots.

      I sat. ‘He showed me the deposition scene photos and a couple of statements. Said we weren’t bothering with the post-mortem and forensic results.’

      A clunk from behind the bar. ‘There we go, that should do it.’ Huntly stood, then placed a bucket underneath the middle pump. ‘Fingers crossed.’ He hauled on the handle and air hissed from the nozzle. ‘The press conference should be starting about now: the remote’s on the table if you want to do the honours?’

      I picked the thing up from the table, pointed it at the TV, and thumbed the power.

      The screen flickered, glowed blue for a second, then filled with a grim-faced woman in a tight blue suit. ‘… just as the school opened, leaving six dead and thirteen injured. Police marksmen fired on the gunman who is believed to be in a critical condition at Parkland Memorial Hospital …’

      Huntly gave another haul on the pump and water sprayed into the bucket. ‘Success. Now all we need to do is clean out the pipes and get a barrel hooked up.’

      ‘… candlelit vigil on Wednesday. Glasgow now, and the hunt is on for three men who abducted and raped paralympian Colin …’

      Alice swivelled her seat from side to side. ‘I still don’t understand why they didn’t take you with them?’

      He stiffened for a moment. Then untucked his tie. ‘Mr Henderson, there’s a very good reason why we’re not using the operation’s forensic and post-mortem results: investigative bias. It’s our job to remain objective, independent, and unsullied by operational preconceptions. I would’ve thought that was obvious.’

      I smiled at him. ‘Let me guess, you’re not allowed in front of the press, in case you come off as a pompous, arrogant, condescending arsebag?’

      ‘… are appealing for witnesses.’

      ‘There are three Major Investigation Teams attacking the Inside Man problem. One from Oldcastle Division, one from the Specialist Crime Division. And we,’ he swept a hand across the bar, indicating the mothballed pub, ‘are the Lateral Investigative and Review Unit.’

      ‘… in Oldcastle today. Ross Amey is there for us now. Ross?’

      A big man with long hair and a microphone appeared on the TV, the sign outside Oldcastle Force Headquarters just out of focus behind him in the dark. ‘Thank you, Jennifer. They call him “the Inside Man” …’

      ‘Seriously? Three separate investigations?’

      ‘Au contraire, Mr Henderson. Things have changed since you went inside to pleasure Her Majesty – there is no Oldcastle Police Force, there is only Police Scotland. Technically all the MITs are supposed to work together, but in real life Operation Tigerbalm is one big bun-fight between Oldcastle and the Specialist Crime Division to see who has the largest penis. Look on it as the joy of being all one big happy family now.’

      ‘… discovery of a woman’s body last night by ambulance services.’

      ‘And you lot?’

      ‘No, not “you lot”, Mr Henderson, “us”, “we”. You’re part of the team now.’

      ‘Whether I like it or not.’

      A lopsided shrug. Then Huntly pointed at the TV. ‘Behold: the lies begin.’

      The screen filled with a long desk. An array of officers – some in their dress uniforms, the others in suits – sat ramrod-stiff behind it. The only one with all their own hair was a woman, blonde curls raked back from her forehead, what looked like a permanent frown tattooed on her face. A caption flickered beneath her chin: ‘DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT ELIZABETH NESS, OLDCASTLE CID’.

      She cleared her throat. ‘First I have to say that our thoughts and prayers are with Claire Young’s family at this harrowing time. They’ve asked me to read you the following statement. “Claire was a sparkling person whose loss will haunt us forever …”’

      Alice wrapped her arm around herself, one hand fiddling with her hair, eyes fixed on the TV. ‘Have you worked with Detective Superintendent Ness before, I mean is she going to be someone that’s receptive to input from other—’

      ‘No idea. Must be new.’

      ‘“… ask that you allow us the time and space to grieve for our beautiful Claire …”’

      The pub’s inner door clunked open and a thickset woman in a vast padded jacket staggered in, laden down with pizza boxes. She had a woolly hat jammed down over her ears, face half-hidden by a knitted scarf. A plastic carrier-bag hung from one hand, swaying from side to side as she heeled the door shut behind her. ‘Did I miss it?’

      Huntly pulled a pinstriped jacket from the back of a chair and slipped it on, completing the suit. ‘Statement from the family.’

      Onscreen, Ness swapped one prepared statement for another. ‘Three twenty-three yesterday morning, an ambulance responded to a nine-nine-nine call near Blackwall Hill …’

      The woman in the padded jacket lurched across the room, the contents of her carrier-bag clinking against her leg. ‘It’s OK, I don’t need any help …’

      ‘Sheila, my dearest lady, allow me to assist.’ Huntly took the top box off the stack and carried it over to the bar. Popped it open. The heady scent of garlic, onions, and tomato fluttered out, swirling through the air like trapped starlings. His shoulders dipped a notch. ‘Oh. This one’s vegetarian.’ Then he shut the box again.

      ‘… pronounced dead at the scene. That’s all I’m able to say at the moment, other than investigations are ongoing with assistance from our colleagues in the Specialist Crime Division and a team of independent experts.’

      Alice reached across and slid it down the bar towards herself. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

      Sheila lowered the remaining pizza boxes onto one of the tables and hauled off her gloves. Slipped her hands in between two of the cartons. ‘God, it’s perishing out there …’ A shiver. The scarf drooped, revealing a pair of round shiny cheeks and a small button nose. Then she stuck a hand out at me. ‘Sheila Constantine, pathologist; you must be Henderson. Welcome aboard. You owe me twelve pounds sixty-three.’ She turned a scowl in Huntly’s direction. ‘Everyone owes me twelve pounds sixty-three.’

      ‘… will now take questions.’ Ness pointed at someone off camera. ‘Yes?’

      A man’s voice: ‘Are you treating this as a copycat case, or is the Inside Man back again?’

      Huntly opened the next box in the stack. ‘Are these all vegetarian? Because I specifically asked for a meat feast.’

      Sheila struggled her way out of her coat. ‘That’s enough about your private life, Bernard, we’re about to eat. And before you ask: no, I won’t take an IOU this time.’

      ‘… not willing to be drawn into speculation about who’s responsible before we’ve investigated …’

      I stuck my hand in my pocket. Looked at the boxes, then at Alice, then at the boxes again.

      A little line appeared between her eyebrows. She nodded. ‘I’ll