Read Birthdays for the Dead Online
Authors: Stuart MacBride
‘…and the time before that, he took a sledgehammer to Dr Forrester’s wife’s headstone. Smashed it to bits… Here we go.’ Royce pulled the Fiesta into the side of the road. Mountains surrounded a slash of water, glowing green and blue in the early morning sun. A handful of white cottages dotted the landscape, looking out across the sea loch to the village of Calders Lea. ‘That’s the cages there.’ He pointed at a collection of three wide, wheel-like things lying in the middle of the water, made from a framework of black pipes. Some sort of large floating shed was moored between them.
‘You sure Burges is there?’
A shrug. ‘It’s Wednesday, so he should be… Less he’s got a day off, or something.’
Royce drove on another couple of hundred yards, then took a narrow road on the left, down the hill towards a collection of bus-shelter-sized offshore containers in various shades of rust-flecked blue with a logo painted in white on the side – three salmon swimming in a circle around the words ‘C
ALDERS
L
EA
A
QUACULTURE
L
TD
∼ D
A
F
ASH
F
OR
D
U
!’
A wooden hut sat next to a concrete slipway that disappeared into the water. Royce parked alongside it. ‘How’s your sea legs?’
‘He going to have friends?’
‘Depends how drunk Benny got last night.’ Royce squinted, held a hand over his eyes – shading out the morning sun. ‘Talk of the devil…’
A wide boat with a small wheelhouse was
brrrrring
its way through the sapphire blue water, making for the slipway. Two minutes later it bumped against the concrete and a stick-figure of a man in blue overalls and black wellington boots hopped out, holding one end of a thick rope. His eyes were sunken and pink, underlined with heavy purple bags, a threadbare woollen hat perched on top of his head. Long arms, short legs, big ears and a wild mess of ginger hair.
Royce held up a hand. ‘Benny.’
‘Constable Clark!’ A lopsided grin and an almost impenetrable Shetland accent. ‘Whatever it was, me darlin’, I didn’t do it. Was home all night with ma sister.’
‘Yeah, I bet. You busy?’
‘Never aff o’ da go, you know?’
‘Arnold about?’
‘On da barge.’ He tilted his head to one side, contorted his eyebrows. ‘He do it again?’
‘Yeah.’
Sigh. ‘Less an dule… Give us a minute to load some feed, and I’ll give du a hurl.’ He clomped over to one of the containers and unlocked the padlock, then creaked the door open. It was stacked full of paper sacks – like the ones tatties came in. A smell, like cat biscuits, wafted out of the container.
Benny hefted a bag onto his shoulder and shuffled back to the boat, hauling up the droopy backside of his overalls. ‘Du can lend a hand if du want.’
The boat clunked against the floating platform. It was about the size of a boxing ring with a big wooden shed taking up almost all of the available surface area, barely enough room around the edge for a walkway and handrail.
Benny switched off the engine, then threw a line around a cleat in front of the shed doors, wrapping it tight. ‘I lichtit til him: leave the poor auld fart alone, but dis he listen til me? Course he doesn’t.’ Benny dragged a sack of feed from the bottom of the boat and thumped it down on the walkway. ‘Arnie? ARNIE, DU GOT VISITORS!’ Benny hefted another sack. ‘ARNIE?’
Nothing.
It was still and silent out here in the middle of the sea loch; sunlight glinted off the water all around us.
I clambered up onto the walkway. The shed door was lying wide open. A metal hopper took up nearly half of the building, attached to some sort of engine and a length of pipe that disappeared out through the wall. A small table and a couple of folding chairs. A wee diesel generator, portable TV, kettle, mugs, microwave, and other assorted bits and bobs. Not exactly luxurious. Half the shed was empty, the area fenced off with chicken wire and wooden slats, a couple of bags of fish feed stacked against the wall. The smell of cat biscuits was nearly overpowering. No sign of Burges. ‘Thought you said he was out here.’
‘He is.’ Benny dumped another sack on the walkway.
‘What, he’s invisible?’
A shrug.
I squinted out at the shining water. ‘Maybe he saw the patrol car and ran for it?’
‘Swum for it, du means.’ Another sack. ‘We’ve only got the one boat.’
The diesel generator spluttered into silence. Royce appeared at my shoulder carrying two mugs. He held one out. ‘No biscuits. But if you’re hungry there’s plenty of fish food?’
‘Arnold Burges going to be long?’
‘Depends.’ I took a sip: it was coffee, but only just.
Something broke the surface of the water – over by the furthest of the three cages. It was a bald head, the shiny pink crown surrounded by a fringe of soggy black hair. Big diving goggles, breathing apparatus for an aqualung. And then it was gone again.
I leaned against the handrail, following the trail of bubbles. ‘When Burges gets here, make yourself scarce. You and the little orang-utan.’
‘How?’ Royce pursed his lips and looked around. ‘Not exactly a lot of places to—’
‘Get in the boat, go fishing, I don’t care.’
‘Hmmm…’ A sip of coffee. ‘You’re kinda …
pushy
for a detective constable.’
Cheeky bastard. ‘I’m only asking for ten minutes. Fifteen tops.’
‘Yeah, well, you remember
I’m
the one who’s got to keep the peace here after you’ve buggered off back to the real world… Here we go.’
The bald head resurfaced a good twenty feet closer, making for the barge. Something bobbed along behind it: looked like a fluorescent orange buoy. Two minutes later, a huge man hauled himself out of the water and up onto the platform.
He’d been squeezed into a tatty old drysuit. The arms, legs and neck looked as if they’d been black once, the chest and stomach ancient yellow. Water dribbled from a bushy brown beard.
Arnold Burges.
He pulled off the diving goggles and narrowed his eyes at Royce. ‘The old bastard’s lying. I was here all night with Benny. After that frigging seal.’ He turned his back, squatted at the edge of the walkway, and reached into the water.
Royce sighed. ‘Benny’s already told us he was round his sister’s all night. How many times do we have to go over this? You’ve got to stay away from Dr Forrester.’
The big man flexed his shoulders and hauled on a length of blue plastic rope – the buoy cut through the water until it was close enough for him to grab. ‘Another seven hundred fish last night. Seven
hundred
.’ He looped the rope around a metal contraption, then cranked the handle.
‘I mean it, Arnold: leave him alone.’
A foot of black net rose from the loch, the rest of it still submerged. Silver shapes glistened inside. Burges pulled one of them out. It was a salmon, nearly as long as his arm, scales glistening pink, silver and grey, its distinctive jutting jaw hanging open. A single, ragged-edged chunk was missing from its belly. ‘See that?’
‘Arnold—’
‘One bite. Sticks his nose through the net, tears out the liver and leaves them to die. Seven hundred frigging fish in one night.’ Burges curled his top lip, then tossed the salmon into a plastic barrel, sending water splashing up the side of the shed. ‘Been picking dead fish out the cages all week.’
‘Arnold, this is Detective Constable Henderson, he wants a word.’
Burges went back to the winch, lifting more net out of the water. ‘Benny? You get that feed?’
Benny nodded towards the pile in the barge. ‘Twenty bags.’
‘That’s no bloody good, how’s twenty bags going to last us—’
‘Don’t draa doon der broos at me, Arnie Burges. A’m hed me some passengers, didn’t I?’
Draa doon der…? What the hell was that supposed to mean? It was as if he was making up words.
Benny hopped back in the boat. ‘Wis just aff to get the balance.’
I stared at Royce, jerked my head towards the shore.
A pause, then the constable nodded. Not as daft as he looked. ‘Yes, right, well, why don’t I give you a hand, Benny? Less of a job for two. This pair can stay here and … have that word.’
The boat’s engine faded to a grumble, then a whisper, then nothing.
I leaned back against the rusty metal handrail. ‘Stay the hell away from Henry Forrester.’
Burges hurled another dead fish into the barrel. ‘Fertilizer. That’s all these are good for now.’
‘It’s not his fault.’
‘Waste of good fish.’
‘Look, Mr Burges, I know you’ve been through a lot, but—’
‘You
know
what I’ve been through?’ THUMP. The next salmon didn’t go in the barrel, it battered into the wooden platform at my feet. ‘You fucking
know
?’
Yes, I fucking did.
‘It isn’t—’
‘My Lauren’s dead,
Constable
Henderson. Oh yeah, I
know
who you are. I remember you from the frigging press conferences. Calling yourself the “Party Crashers”: like this was some sort of
game
. Tell you what, how about we all throw a party, because some twisted bastard killed my Lauren?’
‘Henry Forrester did his best to—’
‘We’ll all have jelly and ice cream, because someone pulled out her teeth, cut her, tore out her fingernails, hacked off her head, and gutted her like a fish? Yeah, let’s have a frigging party!’ The big man’s face was getting darker, red spreading across his round cheeks. The veins in his neck throbbed where the skin met the drysuit’s rubber collar.
I stared out across the water. Took a deep, slow breath. At least he knew; he wasn’t waiting for the next card to turn up to find out what the bastard had done. Lauren was dead, the Birthday Boy couldn’t hurt her any more. But Rebecca…
There was something in my throat. ‘You’re not the only one who lost a daughter.’
‘She wasn’t even thirteen!’ Spittle flew from his lips, sparkling in the sunshine.
‘Then take it out on the Birthday Boy, not the poor old bastard who—’
‘If you useless wankers had done your jobs and caught him, Lauren would still be here!’ He squared his shoulders, bearded chin jutting out. ‘Two years. TWO FUCKING YEARS you had before he took her!’ Burges took a step forwards.
Here we go.
I pushed myself off the handrail, coiling my aching hands into fists. ‘You need to calm down, before you get hurt.’
‘You got any idea what it’s like? The waiting? Every birthday, waiting for the next card, waiting to see what he’s done to her?’
All the time.
I closed my eyes, counted to five. Had another go: ‘Henry Forrester tried to help you.’
Burges threw his arms wide, the drysuit creaking as it stretched. A balding bear in a rubber romper suit, beard jutting out like wire wool. ‘Why should
he
get to forget? Eh? Why should
he
get to put it all behind him? Every year we get another card. Every
frigging
year. We moved up here and he still found us! He’s out there with his camera and his knives and other people’s daughters, because you FUCKERS can’t do your—’
‘What the hell are we supposed to do: magic the bastard up out of thin air?’ Getting louder. ‘You think this is
easy
? You think you’re the only one fucking suffering? At least we’ve found Lauren’s body, at least you get to…’
Burges’s eyes went wide, mouth hanging open, face drained to a pale grey.
‘Are you OK?’
He took a step back, then thump, he was sitting on the platform’s wooden surface. Staring up at me.
‘Mr Burges?’ Shite, he was having a heart attack. ‘Mr Burges?’
‘You…’ He blinked, rubbed a huge hand across his face. Then looked out across the water, eyes glistening. ‘You found my Lauren…?’
‘No one told you?’ For fuck’s sake – surely
someone
should have told him. One of Dickie’s team, or Weber, or—
‘You little bastard…’ He scrambled to his feet, neoprene drysuit squeaking and groaning. Backed up to the open doorway. ‘You’re fucking for it now!’
Great. If I’d known I was going to be delivering the sodding death message I wouldn’t have opened with, ‘
Stay the hell away from Henry Forrester.
’
Idiots. How could they not tell him? How could they be so bloody…
Burges was back on the walkway, clutching a rifle. Big wooden stock, black metal barrel – a two-twenty-two, more than capable of blowing a massive hole in anyone daft enough to stand in front of it.
Oh. Shit.
The big man racked the bolt up and back, then forward again. Putting a bullet in the breech.
SHIT.
Where the hell was Royce? I glanced over my shoulder – the little boat was still tied up on the shore by the containers. They’d hear the shot … but by then I’d be dead.
Then
do
something. Rush him. Grab the gun. Move.
Burges raised the rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and pulled the trigger.
Too late.
Missed. The bastard missed! Everything was crystal clear, each detail rendered in glowing HD Technicolor, with Dolby surround: the slap of the water against the platform, the grain of the wood on the walkway, the flecks of rust on the handrail, the golden flash as the brass cartridge spun through the air, the ping as it bounced off the shed wall.
MOVE!
I rushed the fat bastard, head down like a battering ram.
Nothing hurt any more. Like being reborn.
I slammed into Burges’s swollen stomach, sending him crashing back into the door frame. He wasn’t just big, he was solid too – it was like rugby-tackling a sofa. The two-twenty-two went flying, clattered against the wooden platform.
‘Get off me!’
I did: coiled a fist back, ready for the fat bastard’s face, but he was faster than he looked – barging past, making for the railing where I’d been standing, feet thumping on the walkway, making it judder.
I grabbed the rifle, hauled it up and round until it was pointing right in the middle of Burges’s huge back.
He stood there, at the railing, staring out at the water.
Why didn’t he go after the gun?
I racked another bullet into the chamber.
Burges jabbed a finger at the loch. ‘There! Got you, you little shit!’
A grey shape floated past, about eight-foot from the barge – skin like freckled neoprene, a ragged scarlet hole in its side. The body rolled and twitched, one flipper making eddies in the bloody water. The thing had to be at least five feet long. Jesus…
Burges turned and grinned at me, like a crack-head with a chainsaw. ‘The boathook – give me the boathook. Quickly!’
‘On your knees. Hands behind your head.’
The boat puttered towards the platform, PC Clark in the prow – holding a coil of rope at the ready – while Benny peered out through the wheelhouse window.
The constable’s mouth worked up and down, but no sound came out, his eyes wide, staring at the thick smear of blood that went from the open shed doors to the edge of the walkway. Then he stared at me instead: sitting there on a folding chair in the sunshine, the rifle across my knees.
Finally Royce found his voice again. ‘Oh God…’
The boat bumped against the platform and he fumbled the rope around the cleat. ‘We heard a shot; where’s Arnold Burges?’ The constable scrambled onto the walkway, one hand over his mouth, staring down at the blood. ‘What did you
do
? I
told
you! What am I going… How am I supposed to explain this?’
Benny nodded. ‘Yokkit horns, did dey? What did I tell du: rile Arnie and he’s laek ta glaep du.’
Royce took a couple of deep breaths, hands fluttering at his sides. ‘Got to call it in. Get on the radio and call it in. Not your fault, Royce, nothing you could do. Oh God…’
Benny picked up a sack of fish food and thumped it down on the walkway. ‘There’s no point being aff a leg an on a leg, Royce ma darlin’, Arnie’s Arnie, du knows that.’
The constable shifted from foot to foot. ‘Oh God, we’ll have to drag the loch: what if the body drifts out to sea? They’re going to blame me!’
Arnold Burges walked out of the shed, drysuit peeled down to his waist, the arms knotted around his massive stomach. His white T-shirt was stained red across the chest, blood smeared up to his elbows. He wiped his hands on a towel. ‘You got the rest of that feed, Benny?’
‘You’re alive…’ Royce grabbed the handrail with both hands and closed his eyes, then bent forward until his forehead rested on the rusty metal. ‘Oh thank God…’
‘Where du been, Arnie? Poor Constable Clark was worried: thought du’d gien da lang gaet.’
Burges grinned. ‘I got him.’
‘No.’ Benny’s mouth fell open, showing off more fillings than teeth. ‘Du got the greedy bugger?’
A nod towards the shed. ‘Inside.’
‘Ha, ha!’ Benny did a little dance, then scampered in to see for himself.
Royce straightened up, wiped a hand across his forehead, then turned and peered into the shed. ‘Bloody hell…’
The seal’s body hung, head down, over a sheet of tarpaulin, split from tail-flippers to throat, innards piled beneath it – steaming in the chill morning air. The smell of rancid fish was strong enough to make Royce gag a little. Couldn’t blame him.
He cleared his throat. ‘You shot it…’
‘Big bastard, isn’t he?’ Burges squatted by the pile of offal and cut free a slab of purple, about the size of a large hot-water bottle. He slapped the liver onto a chopping board. ‘Guess what’s for lunch.’
‘Ha!’ Benny loped out through the doors. ‘I’ll get the beer.’
Royce stuck his chest out. ‘Arnold Burges, I’m arresting you for violation of the Marine Scotland Act, 2011, making it illegal to shoot seals without—’
‘It’s OK.’ I put a hand on the constable’s shoulder. ‘I’ve already done this bit: he’s got a licence.’
Burges pointed at an official-looking letter pinned to the shed wall, beside the feed cage. ‘We’ve tried exclusion nets, tensioners, sonic scarers and the greedy bastard kept coming. Had about three thousand fish off us.’ He squatted back down and hacked out what looked like a kidney. ‘Got what he deserved.’
Burges and I sat on the walkway with our backs against the shed, out of the wind, bathed in sunshine. The view on this side of the barge was spectacular: mountains on both sides, sweeping down to the sparkling water, islands in the middle distance like emeralds on blue silk, the Atlantic Ocean a line of hazy sapphires beyond.
A rattling whoosh came from inside – Benny and Royce tipping bags of fish feed into the metal hopper. It was warm, in the sun. And the smell of cat biscuits wasn’t that bad once you got used to it. Better than disembowelled seal at any rate.
Burges looked out at the rippling water, his eyes swollen and pink. ‘Can you believe we
actually
thought the cards would stop when we moved?’
‘I’m sorry you had to find out like this. Someone should have told you yesterday when we … identified Lauren.’
He drained his can of Stella, scrunched it in his car-crusher hand and dumped it on the wood beside him. Cracked open another one. ‘Been out here since yesterday morning, trying to catch that frigging seal…’ He bent forwards, head hanging over his gut. ‘Does Danielle know? Did someone tell her?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Can’t get a mobile signal out here. Should phone her. See if she’s OK…’
We sat in silence.
Burges knocked back a mouthful of lager. Wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘How? How does he find us? How are we supposed to…’ A sniff. Another drink. ‘Can we bury her? Our Lauren: do we get her back, can we bury her?’
‘They’ll release the remains soon as they can. You’ll get her back.’
He nodded and a tear plopped onto his bloodstained T-shirt. ‘We thought she’d run away from home. Thought we’d
done
something. Danielle still blames herself. Spent months searching every street in Edinburgh, London, Glasgow – posters in shop windows, pestering the papers to print her photo, talking to every homeless bastard and junkie we could find.’ He gave a little laugh, then bit his bottom lip. ‘Thought she’d just come back one day. Then that first card arrives: happy fucking birthday…’
‘Yeah.’ I stared out over the water. ‘My daughter, Rebecca, went missing five years ago. She was nearly thirteen… Never heard from her again.’
Burges nodded. ‘Hurts, doesn’t it? Wondering if it was your fault.’ He stared at the tin in his hand. ‘At least you still get to hope.’
No. That died four years ago with card number one.
I took another mouthful of luke-warm coffee. ‘I meant what I said: Henry Forrester did everything he could. We all did. Still are.’
The diesel generator chugged and rumbled into life, then a clunk came from inside the shed, followed by a deep rattling sound. A pipe jutted out of the shed wall, connected to a thick plastic hose that disappeared into the loch. It shivered and shook, then out in the middle of one of the salmon cages a spray of food leapt into the air, then pattered down on the water. The surface boiled with fish.
Burges finished his second can and cracked open a third. ‘She was our little girl…’
‘Henry did his best, he really did. Lauren was missing for over a year before we even found out she was a victim. Twelve months for everyone to get hazy on the details. Even the CCTV footage gets erased eventually. It’s not his fault.’
Burges rested his arms on his knees. ‘Every year we get another card, and it’s like a knife: gouging… How are we supposed to deal with that?’ He drank, chugging back at least half the can in one go. ‘Henry Forrester doesn’t deserve to forget. And neither do you.’