It's Christmas, and half the Partickhill police squad is down with flu. Not good timing, with a series of cyanide poisonings in the area, plus two small boys reported missing in the space of a few days. And then there's the monumental task of providing concert security for rock legend Rogan O'Neill . . .

But for Detective Inspector Colin Anderson, the nightmare is about to get terrifyingly close to home. For a third boy has now gone missing - Colin's own son, Peter.

The team race to find the boys before it is too late. But how long will it be before they realize the key is hidden in the lyrics of a rock song - 'Tambourine Girl' by Rogan O'Neill?

» Read the first pages of Singing to the Dead by downloading the Penguin Taster here

» Visit Penguin Tasters

Tuesday, 19 December 2006

He was supposed to have been at school, but his ma couldn’t be bothered to walk that far. She couldn’t be bothered most days now.

She’d been in such a hurry to get out the flat he’d not had a chance to put his jacket on. Once he’d gone back to get it and she’d 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, she’d said, but she never made it further than the offie. So there’d be nothing left to buy presents.

It was getting very dark now; soon they’d 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 he’d give him a push, but he didn’t 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 window would 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. She’d a huge coat on, made from a dead sheep; she’d 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 wouldn’t 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 wasn’t listening. She didn’t look up. She was taking another swig from the flat bottle with the stag on it.

He wanted to go home now. Maybe there’d 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 else’s ma, and he didn’t like the way she pulled her hair back in an elastic band. It made her look like the dead cat he’d seen floating in the canal last summer. He could smell her whisky breath through the rain.

He wasn’t allowed on the roundabout in the rain ever since he’d fallen and broken his arm and they’d tried to take him into care – again. But she wasn’t watching, so he’d 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, he’d kick it right on to the grass . . . But he stretched too far, his numb fingers slipped, and suddenly he was on the ground.

He lay there for a little while, whimpering, frozen hands stinging with pain. Then he rolled over and sat up wearily. In the floodlight he could see his knee skinned raw and tiny red bubbles of blood welling up. He’d ripped the knees out of his leggings. His ma would kill him

Out beyond the light it was really, really dark. His knees and hands were hurting. And he was so cold.

Then a tall shadow fell between him and the floodlight, a grown-up wearing a long black coat, carrying a newspaper packet. The salty smell of the local chippie enveloped him. ‘You’ve hurt yourself,’ a kind voice said. ‘I’ve just got some pies and chips to take home. Why don’t you come and have some?’

He sniffled and wiped his nose on his sodden sleeve. All he wanted at that moment was for somebody to pick him up, cuddle him and take him somewhere warm.

And feed him a nice hot pie. With chips.