Birthdays for the Dead (10 page)

Dickie didn’t even bother trying to smile. ‘
Dr McDonald?
’

Gaze, twiddle.

‘
Dr McDonald, do you have anything to add? Hello? … Someone give her a poke, for Christ’s sake.
’

I did and she jumped, eyes wide. ‘Aagh. What was that for?’

‘DCS Dickie wants to know if you’ve got anything to add.’

‘Oh, right, yes, well…’ She scooted her chair forwards, closer to the laptop. ‘Did Helen McMillan’s parents say anything about where she got her books from?’

On the little screen, Dickie opened his mouth, then shut it again. Frowning. ‘
Books?
’

‘Did they say where she got them, I mean did she have a rich relative who collected them, and then died and left them to Helen, or something?’

OK, Dr McDonald had been on fairly shaky mental ground to begin with, but it looked as if that bash on the head yesterday had knocked something loose.

‘
Books?
’

Weber sat back in his chair. ‘Is this really relevant to—’

‘Do you still have that Family Liaison officer at her house, because if you do, can you get him to check the books in Helen’s room? The ones on the shelf.’

The frown got deeper. ‘
Dr McDonald… Alice, I know this has all been very stressful for you, and you’re doing your best, but maybe it’d be better if we found someone more suited—
’

‘I mean when we were in her room I remember thinking it was a strange collection for a twelve-year-old girl, and I think they were first editions.’ She turned to me. ‘They were, weren’t they, you looked at them too, and—’

‘No idea. They were just books.’

‘Signed first editions. Do you have any idea how much they’re worth?
The Chamber of Secrets
is about one and a half thousand,
The Prisoner of Azkaban
: two to three thousand, depending on which version it is, and God knows what a
Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe
or the Dickens would cost.’

Dickie’s face went an alarming magenta colour, but that might have been the screen. ‘Ah… I see.’

Dr McDonald wrapped her arm back around herself again, the fingers of her other hand making tight little curls through her hair. ‘What’s a twelve-year-old girl doing with twenty or thirty thousand pounds’ worth of books?’

Chapter 12

‘If we don’t go now we’re going to be late. What if we can’t get there in time and miss the ferry, what are we going to do then, you said we had to leave at half past four!’

I pulled the next statement from the pile. ‘You moaning about it doesn’t make this go any faster. Read a magazine or something.’

The room was jammed with a dozen tatty Formica desks and towers of paperwork. Magnolia walls, carpet tiles curling at the edges and covered in suspicious stains, bulging in-and-out trays, the bitter-leather fug of BO. Someone had patched the sagging ceiling tiles with diarrhoea-brown parcel tape.

A handful of uniform had clumped in the far corner – by the kettle and fridge – hammering data into ancient beige computers, everyone else was in plainclothes.

DS Smith marched up and down, hands behind his back, playing general. ‘This simply isn’t good enough!’ He turned to face the huge whiteboard that stretched the length of the CID office. ‘Do I
really
have to tell you people how important the first twenty-four hours are in a murder enquiry?’

As if this was the first time we’d dealt with a body dumpsite.

Dr McDonald fidgeted with her leather satchel. ‘I mean it’s nearly half four now, what if we miss the ferry and have to stay in Aberdeen, what if we can’t get a hotel at short notice, I had a friend who left it too late and had to sleep in her car, I don’t want to sleep in a car, what if someone comes?’

DS Smith pulled a marker pen from his pocket and scrawled something up on the whiteboard. Strips of black electrical tape divided the surface into columns headed with things like ‘B
ODY
R
ECOVERY
’, ‘V
ICTIMOLOGY
’, ‘L
OCI
O
F
O
FFENCE
’, and ‘P
SYCHOLOGICAL
I
NDICATORS
’, with bullet points listed underneath. The new boy, making his mark. Teaching the parochial thickies how
Grampian Police
did things.

He tapped the whiteboard with a marker pen. ‘The question you need to be asking yourself is, “Where were they held prior to being buried?”’

No shit.

Rhona looked up from her computer monitor and saw me. She curled her top lip, then nodded over her shoulder at DS Smith, mouthed the word ‘wanker’ and made the accompany-ing hand gesture. Then stood and worked her way between the crowded desks, until she’d reached mine. ‘What a dickhead.’ Keeping her voice low. ‘Lording it over the rest of us like he’s God’s bloody gift.’

She settled on the edge of the desk, close enough to Dr McDonald to make the psychologist shuffle her chair back a good six inches.

‘We heard back from Tayside, Guv: the books in Helen McMillan’s bedroom are all signed first editions. Soon as he found out they were worth something, the dad checked online. The older stuff isn’t exactly mint, but all together you’re looking at about thirty-two thousand quid’s worth.’

‘Thirty-two—’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Rhona’s eyes widened, ‘just sitting there on a kid’s bookshelf.’

If she’d lived in Oldcastle, instead of Dundee, someone from CID would have lifted them by now. Like me. Thirty-two grand would make a whole load of shite go away.

Dr McDonald undid her seatbelt. ‘We’re going to be late…’

‘Not if you get your finger out.’

The house on Fletcher Road was in semi-darkness. The wind had picked up, making the oak trees groan as their bony fingers scratched at the clouds. Fairy lights twinkling. Quarter to five – plenty of time.

She pulled the woolly hat tight over her head and clambered out, scurrying across the gravel drive, the tails of her duffle coat billowing out behind her.

I waited until she was inside before digging out my phone and turning it back on again. It bleeped and chirped at me: text messages, missed calls, voicemail – all from Mrs Kerrigan. All wanting to know why I hadn’t turned up with three grand to save my kneecaps.

And I could have walked off with thirty-two thousand pounds’ worth of books…

Fuck.

I scrolled through the contacts list, looking for Henry Forrester’s number.

Thirty-two grand. What kind of man steals books from a dead girl?

Found it, pressed the button, and sat back listening to the phone ring.

Well, it wasn’t as if she was going to miss them, was it?

Not as much as I was going to miss my legs.

Click. ‘
I’m sorry: I’m not answering the phone at the moment, but if you want to leave a message … well, it’s up to you.
’

‘Henry? It’s Ash: Ash Henderson. Look, I wanted to tell you I’m going to be up in Shetland tomorrow, so do you fancy getting a drink or something? Been too long…’ I hung up.

Dr McDonald struggled her massive red suitcase out of the house and across the gravel – her rock-chick aunty following with the two smaller ones. I got out and popped the hatchback.

‘Are you
sure
we’ve got time to—’

‘I’ll only be a minute.’ I hauled the Renault up to the kerb and killed the engine. ‘We’ll be fine.’

She picked at the dashboard, staring out through the windscreen at Kingsmeath in all its grey, boxy, housing-estate glory. That prick from number fourteen had let his Alsatian loose to wander the streets again, its ribs clearly visible through its fur as it stopped beneath a streetlight to eat something from the gutter.

Dr McDonald licked her lips. ‘I don’t have to come in, do I? Only I don’t do so well with—’

‘Unfamiliar enclosed spaces: I know. Stay here. Lock the doors if you like.’ I climbed out into the cold. Soon as I closed the driver’s door she reached across and pressed down on the little locking nipple, then did the same on her side.

The Alsatian raised its head from the gutter and growled.

I stared at it. ‘Fuck – off.’

It went quiet, dropped its head, then slunk away into the darkness.

The front garden was a rectangle of paving slabs, yellowing weeds poking up through the joins, bordered by a knee-high concrete wall. I checked my watch again on the way to the front door: five to five. Fifteen minutes to pack, hour, hour and a half to Aberdeen – depending on traffic…

Going to be tight. The ferry sailed at seven whether you were on it or not.

I let myself in, snapped on the light, shut the door behind me, then stuck my head into the lounge. No sign of Parker, for once. Maybe the shiftless bastard had finally buggered off and got a job?

As if I could be that lucky.

Upstairs.

A wheelie case sat on top of the wardrobe. I took it down and chucked a few pairs of socks inside, some pants, the washing kit from the bathroom, a pair of jeans from the pile in the corner, all the Naproxen, Diclofenac, and Tramadol from the bedside cabinet, and a random dust-furred paperback from the windowsill.

Anything else? Shetland in November: jumpers. There was that cable-knit monstrosity Michelle’s mum gave me for Christmas.

It wasn’t in the chest of drawers. Where the hell did I—

A noise behind me. I froze.

‘Goin’ somewhere, like?’ A man’s voice: low-pitched, coming from the little landing at the top of the stairs.

I pulled the zip on the wheelie case, shutting everything inside. ‘Your mum never teach you to knock?’

‘’Cos it looks to me like yer plannin’ on doin’ a runner there.’

I turned, nice and slow, keeping my hands in plain sight. ‘You got a name?’

The man on the landing smiled, showing off a set of yellowed teeth. His face was lopsided, angular, lumpy and twisted; covered with pockmarks and scar tissue. He was bloody huge too. ‘Ye can call us, “Mr Pain”.’

Seriously? Mr Pain?

The corners of my mouth twitched, but I got them under control. ‘So tell me,
Mr Pain
, this a social call, or an antisocial one?’

He took one hand from behind his back. There was a two-foot length of metal pipe in it, the end swollen with washers – nuts and bolts stuck out at random angles. The modern equivalent of hammering a couple of nails into a baseball bat: a plumber’s mace.

Definitely not a social call.

‘Been a naughty boy, haven’t ye? Missed another payment.’

‘You’re wasting your time.’ I shifted my weight, moving closer to the bed. ‘Going to take me a while to get the money together.’

‘No’ my problem, is it?’ The length of pipe flashed through the air, spines quivering.

I dropped one knee, pitching sideways. Something tugged at my left shoulder, then the bedside lamp exploded into ceramic shrapnel. I snapped my foot out, but Mr Pain wasn’t there.

I hit the bed and kept going, rolling right over it as the mace whomped down on the mattress, making the springs sing. I dropped onto the floor on the other side, looked up—

The pipe whistled towards my face.

I flinched, the back of my head slamming into the wall as the mace swept past, its spines ripping the air less than an inch in front of my nose.

Jesus, the bastard was
fast
.

A backhand swing. Splinters flew from the windowsill – the mace carved straight through the wood and into the plaster where my head would’ve been if I hadn’t moved.

Fast and strong.

Another swing and the collection of paperback books burst into flight, paper wings fluttering as they spiralled to the floor.

I dived left, grabbed a handful of clothes from the pile of dirty washing in the corner and hurled it at Mr Pain. Socks and pants, a T-shirt, not exactly deadly weapons, but if they distracted the big bastard even for a couple of seconds…

The T-shirt snagged on the mace’s spines, the fabric crackling like a fire as the thing smashed down on the bed frame.

I was on my feet like a sprinter, charging straight into Mr Pain’s stomach, sending him battering back into the wardrobe. The pipe would be useless at this distance. Ha, not so clever now, was he? Dancing about at arm’s length from the bastard was going to get my head caved in, but up close? Different matter.

That was where experience trumped a big dod of metal.

I grabbed Mr Pain by the throat and slammed him back into the cracked MDF again. He stank of garlic and raw onions, breath like curdled shite. Left fist – uppercut to the floating ribs, putting my shoulder into it, driving hard, ignoring the broken-glass scream of my swollen knuckles. Once, twice, three times. The satisfying soggy-feeling as his ribs cracked and bucked. With any luck a sharp end would puncture the bastard’s lung.

A knee slammed into my thigh – probably going for the balls, but this wasn’t exactly my first bare-knuckle fight.

Mr Pain jerked his head back, then forwards. Shite. I ducked my chin into my chest and a dull thunk reverberated around my skull, a harsh ringing in the ears. The carpet lurched and buckled like the deck of a ship.

I let go of his throat, staggered back a couple of steps.

Blood bubbled from the flattened mess of Mr Pain’s nose, little scarlet droplets flying from swollen lips. ‘Fucker!’ The mace flashed up for another blow.

What the hell was he
made
of?

Sod this. I turned and ran, leaping the wheelie suitcase, out the bedroom door – pulling it shut behind me. Hauling on the handle to keep it that way.

Get to the bathroom. Rip the front panel off the bath, grab the gun… And then what? It wasn’t loaded, the bullets were in a separate box. Was it even in one bit, or did I take it apart for cleaning? Shite – I
did
. It was in half a dozen pieces, each stored in a separate zip-lock freezer bag for extra freshness.

Fuck.

OK, think, think, think, think—

BANG. The jagged end of the pipe carved through the bedroom door, chunks of fibreboard and cardboard insulation burst out into the little landing. Cheaply built shitey council houses…

I grabbed the pipe, below the nut-and-bolt spines, and yanked.

Something large and ugly slammed into the other side of the door. Then the hinges gave way, tearing out of the frame as the whole thing cracked down the middle and Mr Pain toppled out. Eyes wide. Blood dripping from his chin. Hands grabbing at thin air as he kept on going.

He blundered straight into me, shoving me back into the handrail. The wood bent, cracked, snapped with a BANG.

We clattered into the stairwell, a second of freefall and then THUD. It was like being kicked between the shoulder blades by an angry horse. All the breath rushed out of my lungs, taking a groan with it. Then I was tumbling down the stairs, arms and legs tangled with the big smelly bastard. Grunting and swearing.

CRUNCH.

The floor slammed into my chest. As if it wasn’t
already
hard enough to breathe…

Jesus, that hurt.

Get up. Get up before he starts swinging that bloody pipe again.

GET UP!

I dragged in a breath, coughed, gritted my teeth, and shoved till I was on my knees.

The hallway was a mess, the carpet littered with bits of door and snapped balusters, a smear of blood on the curling wallpaper. Mr Pain was lying on his back by the front door, groaning, his left arm twisted and bent the wrong way at the elbow.

Looked sore.

Good.

I dragged myself up the wall, swayed on the seasick carpet for two deep breaths, then staggered over and stamped on the joint.

The big man didn’t scream. He lay there, eyes wide, mouth working up and down, then grabbed the arm and clutched it to his chest. ‘Agghghhhhh…’

Served him right. He could—

The kick came from nowhere, pistoning up into my stomach, lifting me off my feet and sending me smashing back into the wall. The plasterboard cracked, a faint dusting of powdery white drifting out into the air.

My knees buckled, fire blazing through my guts as I scrabbled to stay upright.

Mr Pain grunted his way to his feet and stood there, swaying back and forwards, blood and spittle dripping from his open mouth. And then he started to laugh.