A Song for the Dying. Stuart MacBride

press got hold of her medical records.’

      ‘Other than being a heart-warming story of triumph over adversity, I don’t see what this has to do with me.’

      ‘You let him go: the Inside Man.’

      My back stiffened, hands curled into fists, knuckles aching. Spat the words out between gritted teeth. ‘Say that again.’

      Officer Babs shook her head, voice low and warning. ‘Easy now …’

      ‘You were the last one to see him. You chased him, and you lost him.’

      ‘I didn’t exactly have any choice.’

      The corners of Jacobson’s mouth twitched up. ‘It still eats you, doesn’t it?’

      Laura Strachan grimaced at me from the front page of the paper.

      I looked away. ‘No more than anyone else we couldn’t catch.’

      ‘He killed four women. Then Laura Strachan survives. Then Marie Jordan. And if you’d caught him when you had the chance … Well, you’re lucky he only mutilated one more woman before disappearing.’

      Yeah, Lucky was my middle name.

      Jacobson dug his hands into his armpits, rocked on his heels. ‘Ever wonder what the bastard’s been up to? Eight years and no one’s heard a peep. Where’s he been?’

      ‘Abroad, prison, or dead.’ I uncurled my fists, held them loose in my lap. The joints burned. ‘Look, are we finished? Only I’ve got things to do.’

      ‘Oh, you have no idea.’ Jacobson turned to Officer Babs. ‘I’ll take him. Get him tagged and his stuff packed up. We’ve got a car waiting outside.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘We’ve not made it official yet, but the paediatric nurse found dead yesterday had a My First Baby doll stitched into her innards. He’s back.’

      My fists curled again.

       5

      A cold wind grabbed a handful of empty crisp packets and sent them dancing across the darkened car park, pickled onion and prawn cocktail performing an eightsome reel six inches above the tarmac, before disappearing into the night.

      Jacobson led the way between rows of vehicles to a big black Range Rover with tinted windows. He opened the back door and gave a little bow. ‘Your carriage awaits.’

      The radio was playing, a BBC-style received-pronunciation voice drifting out into the cold night air. ‘… siege enters its fourth day at Iglesia de la Azohia in La Azohia, Spain. Cartagena Police confirm that one hostage has been killed …’

      I climbed inside and dumped the black-plastic bag containing pretty much everything I owned in the footwell. Paused for a quick scratch at the ankle monitor weighing down my left leg.

      ‘… by three armed men as worshippers held a candlelit vigil …’

      A uniformed PC sat behind the wheel. His eyes flicked up to the rear-view mirror, checking me out as Jacobson scrambled into the passenger seat.

      ‘… bringing the death toll to six—’

      Jacobson clicked the radio off. ‘Ash, this is Constable Cooper. He’s one of your lot. Hamish, say hello to Mr Henderson.’

      The PC turned in his seat. Thin with a long hooked nose, hair cut so short it was more like designer stubble. He nodded. ‘Sir.’

      Been a while since anyone had called me that. Even a sour-faced git like Cooper.

      Jacobson pulled on his seatbelt. ‘Right, Ash, I’ll tell you what I told Hamish when they seconded him to us. I don’t care how much history you’ve got with your Oldcastle Police buddies, you report to me, no one else. I get so much as a whiff of you blabbing to any of them, and you’re going right back where I found you. This is not a jolly, this is not an opportunity for sabotage or personal glory, this is a team effort and by Christ you will take it seriously.’ A smile. ‘Welcome to Operation Tigerbalm.’ He reached across the gap between the two front seats and thumped Cooper on the shoulder. ‘Drive. And if I’m not there for eight, you’re screwed.’

      The constable eased the Range Rover out of the prison car park and out onto the street. I swivelled around in my seat to watch the place disappear through the tinted rear windscreen. Out. Free. No more review meetings. No more random beatings.

      No more bars.

      So much for Len’s catch twenty-two.

      My hands around her throat, squeezing …

      I caught the grin: stopped it before it could spread. Settled back into my seat. ‘So, what, they’re reinstating me?’

      Jacobson gave a half-laugh half-snort. ‘With your record? No chance – there isn’t a police division in Scotland that’d touch you with a stick. You’re out because you’re useful to me. Do well, help me catch the Inside Man, and I’ll make your release permanent. But any screwing up, any dicking about, any sign that you’re not giving one hundred and ten percent, and I will drop you like a radioactive jobbie.’

      Lovely.

      He popped open the glove compartment and pulled out a manila folder. Passed it back between the seats as Cooper took us around the roundabout onto a quiet country road with streetlights at the end of it, glittering in the darkness.

      ‘Conditions of release?’

      ‘Case file on Claire Young. Read it. I want you up to speed by the time we hit Oldcastle.’

      Might as well. If playing along kept me out of prison for long enough to get my hands on Mrs Kerrigan …

      I opened the folder. Inside was a list of statements and some crime-scene photos. ‘Where’s the post-mortem report? Identification Bureau stuff – physical evidence, fingerprints, DNA, that kind of thing?’

      ‘Ah. That’s a bit …’ He made a little circling gesture with his hand. ‘Complicated. For reasons of potential investigative bias, we’re not taking access to those.’

      ‘We’re not? Why? Are we thick?’

      ‘Just read the file.’ He faced forwards again, shoogled his shoulders from side to side against the seat, then reclined it a couple of notches. ‘And do it quietly. I’ve got a press conference when we get back: one of your idiot mates in Oldcastle blabbed to the Daily Record. I need my beauty sleep.’

      The A90 rumbled beneath the Range Rover’s tyres, while Jacobson rumbled in the passenger seat, mouth hanging open, a little dribble of drool shining in the dashboard lights. PC Cooper kept his eyes front, hands at ten to two on the steering wheel. Mirror, signal, manoeuvre.

      Behind us, the bright lights of Dundee faded away into the distance.

      The crime-scene photos were all pin-sharp, caught in the flashlight glare: Claire Young lying on her back on a crumpled sheet, the sides folded in around her legs and chest. One arm was curled above her head as if she was just sleeping – but her eyes were open, staring blankly into the camera. Some swelling around the left side of her mouth. A bruise the size of a saucer spread out across her right cheek.

      The left side of the sheet was crumpled back, exposing the pale nightdress beneath. Two lines of stains marred the fabric, like a lowercase letter ‘t’. A crucifix without the Jesus. Black, fringed with scarlet and yellow. The nightdress bumped beneath the stain, swollen and distorted by what was stitched inside. A close-up of her palm had what looked like bite marks in the middle of it, an arc of dark purple that curved from the middle finger to the base of the thumb. No blood.

      I went back to the statement again.

      A woman parks her car at the edge