A Song for the Dying. Stuart MacBride

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СКАЧАТЬ kind of way.’ He held his hands out, either side of his lap. ‘You know, childbearing hips?’

      I looked over at Babs. ‘Ever fancy a career as a healthcare professional? Bet no one would dare jump you.’

      She smiled back at me. ‘Might have to – cutbacks. They’re talking about voluntary redundancies.’

      Jacobson stood. ‘I think I’d like to see Mr Henderson’s cell now.’

      It wasn’t exactly a huge room – the set of bunk beds just fit and no more. You could reach out and touch the institution-grey walls on either side with a bit of a stretch. Small desk at the far end, a chair, a sink, and a sectioned off bit for the toilet. Officially large enough for two fully grown men to share for four years to life.

      Or one fully grown man who really didn’t like having a cellmate. Funny how they all turned out to be so accident prone. Falling down and breaking things. Arms, legs, noses, testicles …

      Officer Babs filled the doorway, arms folded, legs apart, face like a slab of granite as Jacobson stepped into the middle of the cell, hands out as if he was about to bless it.

      ‘Home sweet home.’ Then he turned and squeezed up close to the desk, leaning forward, peering at the single photograph Blu-Tacked to the wall above it: Rebecca and Katie on Aberdeen beach, grinning for the camera, the North Sea glowering in the background behind them. School jumpers on over orange swimsuits. Buckets and spades. Katie four, Rebecca nine.

      Eleven years and two lifetimes ago.

      His head dipped an inch. ‘I was sorry to hear about your daughters.’

      Yeah, everyone always is.

      ‘Can’t have been easy – having to grieve for her while you’re stuck in here. Fitted up for your brother’s shooting. Getting the crap pounded out of you on a regular basis …’

      ‘There a point to this?’

      He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a copy of the Castle News and Post. Dumped it on the bottom bunk. ‘From last week.’

      A photo filled most of the front page: a close-up of a chunky woman’s face, framed with ginger curls, a thick band of freckles across her nose and cheeks like Scottish war paint. A couple of photographers were reflected in her sunglasses, their flashes going. She had one hand up, as if she was trying to shield her face from the cameras, but hadn’t quite made it in time.

      The headline stretched above the picture in big block capitals: ‘“CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!” BABY JOY ON THE WAY FOR INSIDE MAN VICTIM’.

      Dear God, now there was a blast from the past.

      I hooked my cane onto the bunk bed’s frame and sat on the mattress. Picked up the paper.

       EXCLUSIVE

      The Inside Man’s fifth victim, Laura Strachan (37), has some wonderful news. Eight years after she became the first woman ever to survive being attacked by the twisted sicko who killed four women and mutilated three more, plucky Laura is expecting her first baby.

      Doctors thought there was no chance she’d be able to conceive after the injuries she received when the Inside Man cut her open and stitched a toy doll inside her stomach. A source at Castle Hill Infirmary said, ‘It is a miracle. There is no way she should have been able to carry a child to term. I am so pleased for her.’

      Even better, it looks like the bundle of joy will be an early Christmas present for Laura and her husband Christopher Irvine (32).

      Turn to Page 4 for full story

      I turned to page four. ‘Thought she was all broken inside.’

      ‘You were on the original investigation.’

      I skimmed the rest of the article. It was light on fact, padded out with lots of quotes from Laura Strachan’s friends and a competition to guess what the baby’s name would be. Nothing from Laura or the father-to-be. ‘They didn’t bother talking to the family?’

      Jacobson settled back against the desk. ‘Her husband lamped the photographer, then threatened to shove the camera up the reporter’s backside.’

      I folded the paper and placed it beside me. ‘Good for him.’

      ‘It took two years of corrective surgery and a monster lump of fertility treatment, but she’s seven and a bit months gone. Should be due last week of December. Some fine upstanding member of the 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 СКАЧАТЬ