Caro Ramsay - Singing to the Dead

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First published 2009

Copyright Caro Ramsay, 2009

All rights reserved

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

ISBN: 978-0-14-192135-8

PENGUIN BOOKS

Caro Ramsay was born in Glasgow and now lives in a village on the west coast of Scotland. Singing to the Dead is her second novel, following the critically acclaimed Absolution, which was shortlisted for the Crime Writers Associations New Blood Dagger for best debut of the year.

Praise for Absolution

A cracker of a debut Many shivers in store for readers, followed by a shattering climax The Times

Ramsay handles her characters with aplomb, the dialogue crackles and the search for the killer has surprising twists and turns. A most auspicious debut Observer

Undoubtedly one of the most impressive debut novels in the field in some time Barry Forshaw, Amazon

Among the years best literary thrillers Washington Post

Edgy and fast-paced, this crime thriller is a cleverly understated page-turner Deliciously dark, this well-written debut will leave you wanting more Woman

Glasgow comes alive in Caro Ramsays dark, vivid and daring thriller Val McDermid

A cracking debut [4 stars] Mirror

A very sophisticated first novel at once humane, horrifying and exciting Literary Review

A classy example of the genre London Paper

Intelligent, unpredictable and hard to put down Sainsburys Magazine

A thrilling crime read Daily Telegraph, Sydney

With her first novel, Caro Ramsay makes an impressive contribution to the growing ranks of Scottish crime writers
Shots-Mag

[Ramsay] is able to write scenes of heartbreaking tenderness nestled amid evocations of such grotesque violence that it is difficult to imagine that they can coexist as such sublime interlocking pieces of the whole Absolution marks the beginning of what certainly will be a major career
New York Sun

To Mum and Dad

Singing to the Dead is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used entirely fictitiously.

I would like to thank Jane and all the Gregory girls, and Bev and all the Penguins for their help, support and patience while I was writing this book.

Also thanks must go to Mary and Karen, who try hard to organize me and never seem discouraged by their failure. And of course thanks to all at work for the sneaky days off and, in particular, to Annette for knowing how to work a computer properly.

And to Ma, Pa, Emily and Pi.

Special thanks and acknowledgements should go to my pals in Strathclyde Police, especially Superintendent Donald McCallum, not forgetting the legal expertise of R. J. P. Kerr and my medics Dr Penelope Redding and Dr Tara Singleton.

Thanks to you all, hope you enjoy it.

Caro

He was supposed to have been at school, but his ma couldnt be bothered to walk that far. She couldnt be bothered most days now.

Shed been in such a hurry to get out the flat hed not had a chance to put his jacket on. Once hed gone back to get it and shed locked him in and left him all night. So all he had was a wee fleece from the Oxfam shop, and that was soaked through and sticking to his back.

Shite, he was cold. He was always cold.

Christmas shopping at Woolies, shed said, but she never made it further than the offie. So thered be nothing left to buy presents.

It was getting very dark now; soon theyd be turning on the big light at the end of the playground. He sat on the swing, shivering in the slow-falling sleet, not daring to touch the freezing iron chains with his bare hands. If you work a swing up high enough, his dad said, you can kick the clouds up the arse. But that was two Christmases ago; a long, long time. He was only five then. If his dad was here now hed give him a push, but he didnt know where his dad had gone to, and he was too cold to swing himself.

So Troy McEwen sat watching the lights come on one by one in the tenements, a growing patchwork of comforting brightness, and played a game with himself, betting which windowwould light up next. The playground was empty. Everyone else was somewhere warm and bright and happy.

He watched his ma wiping the rain from the bench seat, using her sleeve like a big paw. Shed a huge coat on, made from a dead sheep; shed got that at the Oxfam shop too. Now she was taking a bottle out the bag at her feet, unscrewing the cap. She always came to the same bench, her favourite place for a wee drink.

There was that old woman again, the one with the scruffy white dog. He waited to see if she had a go at his ma. It wouldnt be the first time. They hung about for a bit, the wee dog crapped on the path, then they buggered off up the road.

He wanted to see if he could give the clouds a kicking even though it was too dark to see them. So he shouted to his ma to give him a shove. But she wasnt listening. She didnt look up. She was taking another swig from the flat bottle with the stag on it.

He wanted to go home now. Maybe thered be something to eat. So he slid off the swing and went over to his ma. He tugged on the sleeve of the dead-sheep coat, and she slumped sideways, her eyes hazy, unable to focus. Pissed again. She looked older than everybody elses ma, and he didnt like the way she pulled her hair back in an elastic band. It made her look like the dead cat hed seen floating in the canal last summer. He could smell her whisky breath through the rain.

He wasnt allowed on the roundabout in the rain ever since hed fallen and broken his arm and theyd tried to take him into care again. But she wasnt watching, so hed not get a skelping. He pushed and pushed, went round once, twice, and got the wheel going really fast, all by himself.

Suddenly the floodlight came on. In the brightness he could see a syringe abandoned, close to the roundabout. Next time round, hed kick it right on to the grass