A Song for the Dying. Stuart MacBride

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СКАЧАТЬ of hours ago. I’m going to need a favour.’

      He sniffed. ‘You know I’d have done Mrs Kerrigan if I could, right?’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘Last thing I need is Andy Inglis coming after me. Specially with the Rubber Heelers on a mission. Otherwise she’d be the filling in a shallow-grave buttie …’

      I stepped out into the evening chill, taking a few lumbering steps away from the pub door. Glanced back to make sure no one was listening. ‘Tonight: you, me, gun, her. Better get some petrol and a couple of shovels too.’

      A pause. ‘Ash, you know I’d—’

      ‘You’re wimping out?’

      ‘Am I buggery. You know what Andy Inglis is going to do when he finds out you’ve topped her though, don’t you?’

      ‘He’s not going to find out.’

      ‘Oh come on. You get out of prison and the very same night she gets shot in the face? How long’s that going to take him to work out?’

      True.

      Another couple of paces, looking up at the billboard on the other side of the road with its never-to-be-built retirement home. ‘So I don’t hang around afterwards. I kill her, we burn the body, and I get out of Oldcastle. Hop a boat to Norway. You still friends with that fish guy in Fraserburgh?’

      ‘Passport up to date, is it? Cos I kinda get the feeling the Border Agency will be keeping an eye out for you.’

      A clunk behind me. I turned and there was Dr Constantine, all bundled up in her padded jacket, a cigarette clamped between her jaws. She sparked it from a lighter, then waved.

      I waved back. Pointed at the phone against my ear. Turned away. ‘What about Biro Billy?’

      A sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

      Detective Superintendent Jacobson shrugged his way out of his leather jacket. A thin dusting of white flakes clung to the shoulders and the top of his head, melting away in the warmth of the defunct pub. He hung the jacket on the back of a chair. ‘Well?’

      Huntly swept his arms out, as if he was going to hug him. ‘You were magnificent!’

      ‘Don’t push it, Bernard, you’re still in my bad books after this morning.’

      ‘Oh …’ He dropped his arms.

      ‘Any pizza left?’ Jacobson crossed to the bar, opening and closing the grease-speckled boxes. ‘Crusts, crusts, crusts …’

      Sheila pointed to the stack of chairs and tables in the corner. ‘I hid yours over there, so the human waste-disposal-unit couldn’t find it. It’ll be cold though.’

      He pulled out the box, opened it, scooped out a slice and shoved one end in his mouth. Closed his eyes and chewed. ‘Ahh … That’s better. They never put on anything decent at press conferences any more. It’s all bottled water and horrible coffee. What’s wrong with a plate of sandwiches?’

      Huntly poured red wine into a tie-polished glass. ‘Speaking of the press conference …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Was Donald there?’

      Sitting back in her seat, Sheila groaned. ‘Not this again.’

      He stiffened. ‘There’s no need to be like that.’

      She put on a posh plummy accent. ‘Was Donald there? Did he ask about me? Did he look like he’d been crying? Has he put on weight? Is he seeing someone?’

      ‘There’s no need to be homophobic.’

      ‘I’m not homophobic, I’m grown-men-acting-like-jilted-teenage-girls-ophobic. And you still owe me seventeen pounds sixty-three.’

      Jacobson took the glass of red and wolfed half of it down in one go. ‘Donald wasn’t there. Superintendent Knight’s put him in charge of finding out which of Ash’s ex-colleagues tipped off the press about the Inside Man killing Claire Young.’

      Bet that went down well. Some tosser, from another division, investigating Oldcastle CID for misconduct? They’d have closed ranks so fast you could hear the sonic boom in Dundee.

      The rest of Jacobson’s wine disappeared down his throat. He held the glass out for Huntly to refill. ‘I had a chat with a couple of guys from uniform. Seems Claire set off for work at seven fifteen on Thursday night, and never turned up. Her flatmates reported her missing Friday afternoon when she didn’t come home. The geniuses at Oldcastle Division only took it seriously when Claire’s body turned up yesterday morning.’ He took a sip, swooshing the red back and forth through his teeth, then nodded in my direction. ‘That’s going to look great when the papers find out.’

      I crossed my arms, staring at him. ‘Why me?’

      ‘Why you, what?’

      ‘If Oldcastle CID’s full of corrupt morons, why am I here?’

      He smiled. ‘Now that’s an excellent question.’

      But he didn’t bloody answer it.

       7

      We stopped off at the twenty-four hour Tesco in Logansferry, Alice scurrying away into the aisles to buy breakfast supplies while I headed for the electronics bit. One dirt-cheap mobile handset and three pay-as-you-go sim cards. All paid for out of the hundred-quid sub I’d got from Jacobson.

      On the other side of the checkouts I dumped the phone’s packaging in the bin and tore open the cardboard and plastic entombing one of the sim cards. Popped it in. Clicked the cover back on. Powered it up and punched in Shifty’s number.

      Listened to it ring as I limped out into the car park.

      The snow hadn’t come to anything more than a thin crust of ice on the windscreens and a sheen of water on the salted tarmac.

      A suspicious-sounding voice came on the line. ‘Hello? Who is this?’

      ‘How you getting on with that gun?’

      ‘God’s sake, Ash, I’m on it, OK? Give us a chance – not like I can just waltz down to the nearest ASDA and pick one up, is it?’

      ‘We’re going to need a car too. Something flammable.’

      Silence.

      ‘Shifty? Hello?’ Only just bought the damn phone and already it was—

      ‘What do you think I’ve been doing while you’ve been sodding about with your new mates? Got us a Mondeo. One careful owner, who’s got no idea it’s missing.’

      Ah … ‘Sorry. It’s …’ I rubbed a hand across my chin, making the stubble scratch. ‘Been a while, you know?’

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