Читать книгу A Song for the Dying - Stuart MacBride - Страница 21

I eased Alice’s door closed and crossed the corridor to my own room. It was small, but functional, just big enough for the double bed against one wall, the chest of drawers, and wardrobe. A pair of dark-blue curtains that still had the same creases as the ones in the lounge. A cheap-looking alarm-clock radio on the floor beside the bed, glowing 00:15 at me.

My cell was bigger than this.

An old-fashioned brass key sat on top of the duvet, with a cardboard tag attached to it by a red ribbon. Spidery handwriting: ‘THOUGHT THIS MIGHT COME IN HANDY’.

Ah…

I turned. There was a lock fitted to the bedroom door, specks of sawdust dandruffing the floorboards underneath it along with a few quavers of shaved wood. The key slipped right in, and when I turned it, the bolt slid home with a clack.

After two years inside, it was strange how comforting that sound was. Especially combined with the muffled rattle of Shifty’s snores coming through the wall.

The laptop went on the bed, while I stripped, folded all my clothes, and placed them in the chest of drawers. Old habits.

I took out my shiny new mobile phone and thumbed in the number on Shifty’s Post-it note. It rang, and rang, and rang…

Crossed to the window, eased one side of the curtains open a couple of inches. Just concrete, gloom, and streetlights. Someone crept their way across the garden opposite with a torch. Good luck finding anything worth stealing around here.

Then a click, and a muzzy voice crackled from the earpiece. ‘Hello? Hello, who’s this?’

‘You Alec?’

Some rustling, a hissing noise, then a clunk. ‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’

‘I need a piece. Tomorrow. Semiauto—’

‘There must be some mistake. I offer spiritual guidance to wayward souls. Are you a wayward soul in need of guidance?’

Ah. Right. Cautious. Probably a good trait in a gun dealer. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think… I think that you’re on a dangerous path. That your life hasn’t turned out the way you hoped. That darkness surrounds you.’

Why the hell else would I need a gun? ‘So, what now?’

‘I think you should come see me. We can meditate on your predicament. Drink some herbal tea. Find a core of peace within you.’ A muffled yawn. ‘Now, do you have a pen and paper?’

I stuck Shifty’s Post-it to the windowpane. Went back to the wardrobe and pulled a pen from my jacket pocket. ‘Go.’

‘Thirteen Slater Crescent, Blackwall Hill, OC12 3PX.’

‘When?’

‘I shall be available for spiritual guidance between the hours of nine and five tomorrow. Well, I might head out to the shops around lunchtime, but other than that…’

‘OK: tomorrow.’

‘Peace be on you.’ And he was gone.

A rogue firework screamed up into the sky from a couple of streets over, booming and crackling in a baleful eye of scarlet.

Peace wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

I let the curtains fall closed, slipped in beneath the duvet and powered up the laptop. Propped it up on my chest and settled back to watch the rest of Wrapped in Darkness.

Laura Strachan picks her way along the High Street, ignoring the olde worlde charms of the surrounding buildings – now converted into charity shops, bookies, and places you could get a payday loan or pawn your jewellery. ‘What happened to me that night, and over the next couple of days … it’s slippery – difficult to hold onto. Like… Like it never really happened to me. Like it was happening to someone else, in a movie. All larger than life and shiny and fake. Does that make sense?’

Which might explain Baywatch Steve and the cheesy dialogue.

‘I wake up some mornings and I can almost taste the operating room. The disinfectant, the metal… And then it fades, and I’m left with this feeling like something’s crushing my chest.’

Then the scene shifts to the briefing room at Oldcastle Force Headquarters – the old one with the sagging ceiling tiles and sticky carpet. Before the refit. Journalists pack the seats, cameras, microphones and Dictaphones bristling towards the four men sitting behind the table at the front. Len’s at one end – bald even then – in his ancient double-breasted black suit. Next to him is the Media Liaison officer, ramrod-straight and sweating. And next to him…

Something popped deep inside my ribcage, letting out a little grunt of pain.

Dr Henry Forrester stares out of the laptop screen at me. He’s got more hair than he did at the end. More life about him. Before his cheeks sunk and the wrinkles stopped looking distinguished and started looking haggard. Before the guilt and the grief and the whisky hollowed him out.

‘Henry. You silly, silly bastard…’

The man sitting next to Henry – the last person on the table – can’t be much older than twenty-four. Slope-shouldered, a fringe of curly brown hair hanging over his eyes, a nimbus of it fluffing out around his head, coiling over the shoulders of a grey suit, shirt, and tie. Get a sensible haircut and he would be invisible.

A voice-over talks above the muted babble of questions and answers. ‘But while Laura was struggling to come to terms with the horrific events that had left her stricken with nightmares and scar tissue, the operation to catch the Inside Man faced struggles of its own.’

Cheesy, but correct.

A reporter sticks his hand up. ‘Detective Superintendent Murray, is it true you’re bringing in a psychic to help kick the investigation back to life?’

Someone else’s voice cuts in before Len can answer. ‘Think they’ll be able to contact your career?’

Laughter. Swiftly brought to a halt as Len hammers his fist down on the table. ‘Four women are dead. Three others will be scarred for life. Exactly what about that do you find funny?’

Silence.

Len jabs a finger at the crowd. ‘Any more of that and I won’t just clear the room, I’ll have you all barred. Are we clear?’

No one speaks.

The footage jumps forward, and someone else is having a go. ‘Is it true you almost caught him, but let him get away?’

Len’s face darkens. ‘No one “let him get away”. An officer was forced to abandon chase due to serious injuries sustained during the pursuit. If I see anything in print suggesting we “let the Inside Man go”, I will come down on you like the wrath of God.’

The scene cuts to wobbly mobile-phone footage of a large man slumped to his knees on a tiled floor, surrounded by a cordon of legs and mobile phones. Blood makes a red smear down the left side of his face, oozing out of gashes in his scalp and forehead, darkening his collar and suit jacket. Then a woman pushes into shot and takes his face in her hands. Lowers him down to the ground. Folds a tracksuit top and puts it under his head. Makes him comfortable.

Whoever’s doing the voice-over says something, but it’s just noise…

Did I really look that awful? No wonder Rhona wanted to call an ambulance.

I rewound a bit.

‘… down on you like the wrath of God.’

It’s not surprising I couldn’t stay upright – it looks like someone’s taken a baseball bat coated in broken glass to my head. Then Ruth Laughlin appears in her shorts and T-shirt and makes me lie down before I fall down.

Poor bloody woman. If I hadn’t let him get away…

‘Details are thin on the ground about what actually happened that day in Oldcastle, but what we do know is a high-speed chase across the city ended in a near fatal collision. Detective Inspector Ash Henderson pursued the Inside Man into the train station, but collapsed from his injuires and was rushed to Castle Hill Infirmary suffering from concussion, two cracked ribs, a broken wrist, and whiplash. The irony is that the woman seen helping him is Ruth Laughlin, who went on to become the Inside Man’s final victim.’

Because I didn’t stop him.

The mobile-phone footage is replaced by something slightly more professional with the Oldcastle Fire Brigade ident in the top-left corner. One team’s cutting the driver’s door off the battered pool car, while the other is spraying water on the burning Fiesta. ‘The driver of the unmarked car, Police Constable O’Neil, suffered a broken arm and a fractured skull.’

There’s no mention of what happened to the dog in the Fiesta’s boot.

Another jump and we’re back at the media briefing. Another question. Another angry answer from Len.

And then the voice-over oils in over the top: ‘With the investigation floundering, they went public with their psychological profile…’

The guy with the grey suit and perm looks at Henry. Henry nods.

A caption appears on the bottom of the screen: ‘DR FRED DOCHERTY – FORENSIC PSYCHOLOGIST’.

Dr Docherty clears his throat. ‘Thank you.’ He’s obviously trying to sound posh, but those two words are carved in the sandstone of a Glaswegian tenement. ‘We believe the person responsible for these crimes is in his late twenties, probably an unskilled worker who’s got difficulty holding down a job. He was very close to his mother, who’s probably died recently. His hatred of women stems from her smothering influence. He’ll be dishevelled in his appearance, and most likely has a history of mental illness, so we expect him to have been through police custody at some point in his life.’

Which didn’t exactly narrow the pool. Not in Oldcastle.

The rest of the DVD was a bit of a let-down. The police can’t catch the Inside Man, blah, blah, blah. The Crown Office refuse to release the first four victims’ bodies, so the relatives have to have a symbolic burial and wait for the investigation to be finalized.

Poor sods were probably still waiting.

Dr Docherty reappears for a follow-up segment on Laura Strachan. He’s fidgeting in a big leather armchair, eyes flicking to a spot just left of the camera, as if he’s looking for approval from whoever’s standing there. His Glaswegian burr is slightly less pronounced than it was at the press conference. He’s obviously been practising. ‘Of course, it was an intensely traumatic experience for Laura. We have weekly sessions exploring her feelings and helping her come to terms with what happened. It’s a long path to wellness, but she’s getting better.’

An off-camera voice: ‘And do you think she’ll ever be normal again?’

Dr Fred Docherty goes still in his seat. ‘Normal is a relative concept that has no value in psychology. We’re all individuals – there’s no such thing as “normal”. What we’re trying to do here is help Laura get back to a state that’s normal for her.’

‘And what about Marie Jordan?’

His fingers pick at the seam of his trousers. ‘Sadly, Marie isn’t responding quite as well. As I said, everyone’s different, we all cope differently.’

‘She’s been committed to a secure psychiatric facility, hasn’t she? She’s on suicide watch.’

‘The human mind is a complicated animal, you can’t just…’ He looks down, into his lap. Stills his hands. ‘She’s getting the care she needs. As is Ruth Laughlin.’

Cut to CCTV footage of a woman collapsing in a supermarket’s fruit-and-veg section, arms wrapped around her head, rocking back and forth while people steer their trolleys around her, not making eye contact.

Voice-over: ‘Unable to cope with the nightmares and anxiety attacks following her abduction, Ruth Laughlin had a nervous breakdown in the Castleview Asda and is currently receiving treatment at the same facility as Marie.’

And the Inside Man is still at large.

Not exactly an upbeat ending.

Welcome to the real world.