Birthdays for the Dead (29 page)

Chapter 36

‘I’m sorry.’ Dickie leaned on the windowsill, looking out into the rain.

The lounge stank of cannabis, cigarettes, and armpits. Noah was sobbing in the kitchen – the sound seeping through the paper-thin walls as DS Gillis tried to patch the dirty little fucker up before the ambulance got here.

Dr McDonald lowered herself onto the couch next to me, put a hand on my knee. ‘We’ll find her.’

I ran a thumb over the smartphone’s screen, bringing it back to life before it went into sleep mode. Staring into Katie’s eyes… ‘You can’t tell anyone about this.’

‘Ash, it’s not—’

‘They’ll take me off the case. You
know
that.’

Silence.

Dickie sighed. ‘Ash, we can’t. She’s still alive; it’s not her birthday till Monday, there’s still time. We need to throw everything we have at finding her.’

‘I can’t sit at home and do nothing!’

He ran a hand across his face, his back to the room. ‘We
can’t
. You could’ve killed that boy—’

‘He was screwing my twelve-year-old daughter!’

Dr McDonald squeezed my knee, brought her chin up, and stared at Dickie. ‘I was with Detective Constable Henderson the whole time. When we arrived Noah McCarthy had clearly been taking drugs. Ash asked him about Katie and McCarthy flew into a rage. He attacked me. Ash had to intervene.’

Dickie shook his head. ‘And the balcony?’

‘McCarthy was obviously confused. He ran out of the flat and tripped. Ash caught him and saved his life. He was pulling him to safety when you arrived.’

The only sound was Noah crying in the other room.

Dickie nodded. ‘Stick to your story. No deviation when Professional Standards come asking questions.’ He turned and perched a buttock on the window ledge. ‘My team’s speaking to all of Katie’s friends. Then we’ll start on her teachers and classmates.’

Katie stared at me from the phone’s screen. Pleading. Terrified.

I couldn’t look any more. ‘We pull Steven Wallace in, and we tear his house apart till we find her.’

Dickie glanced at Dr McDonald for a moment. ‘Would you excuse us, Doctor, I need to speak to DC Henderson in private.’

She gave my knee another squeeze, then left the room. Closed the door behind her.

He folded his arms. ‘We’ve got nothing on Steven Wallace; we need probable cause before we can—’

‘Fuck probable cause. He’s got Katie.’

‘Ash, I understand: you’re hurt, you’re upset, you’re—’

‘You understand? What? What
exactly
do you understand?’ On my feet now, trembling. ‘How many daughters have
you
lost to a serial killer?’

‘She’s not…’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Ash, go home: Michelle needs you. Be there for her.’

‘I’m not—’

‘And stay away from Steven Wallace, he’s … he’s not the only suspect, OK?’

I stared back. ‘Who else? Who’s a suspect?’

‘Ash, we can’t—’

‘Who’s a fucking suspect?’ I took a step closer.

‘You nearly killed Noah McCarthy. What are you going to do if I give you a list of names and addresses: go round and make them a nice cup of tea?’

‘She’s my
daughter
!’

‘Ash, we’ll find her. You have to let us do our jobs.’

Pretty much the same bollocks I’d told Lauren Burges’s dad in Shetland. The same bollocks I’d been telling myself since Rebecca’s first Birthday Boy card slithered through the letterbox four years ago.

I put Dickie’s phone down next to the heaped ashtray. ‘Right. Like you found Lauren Burges, and Amber O’Neil, and Hannah Kelly, and—’

‘We’ll
find
her.’ He ran a hand through his greying ginger hair. ‘Trust me on that, Ash. Hell or high water, we’ll find her.’

Detective Constable Gillis hauled on the handbrake and turned off the engine. The Renault groaned and pinged, rain thudding into the roof, drumming on the bonnet. ‘Pfffff…’ His breath reeked of old cigarettes. The smell got worse when he scratched at his beard. ‘No offence, but your car’s a piece of shit.’

I held out my hand. ‘Give me the keys.’

‘Dickie’s only trying to look out for you.’

A scarlet Alfa Romeo sat opposite my… Opposite Michelle’s house, the driver’s window wound down a crack, two figures inside – blurred and indistinct through the rain-spattered windscreen. Jennifer and her photographer, Frank.

The Oldcastle CID grapevine strikes again.

Looked as if none of the other media had got wind of it yet: if they had, the whole place would’ve been swarming with the bastards.

‘—have to do, OK?’

I blinked.

‘Yeah.’

Gillis dropped the keys into my open hand. ‘I mean it, anything you need – you let me know. Well … if I can.’

‘Why?’

Gillis sniffed, pursed his lips, making his moustache bristle. ‘Keep trying to imagine what it’d be like if the bastard snatched one of my kids.’ He shook his head, dirty yellow curls boun-cing around his bald patch, then pointed at the big black BMW pulling up on the other side of the road. ‘If there was
any
way Dickie could keep you on, he would. You know that, right?’

I opened the car door and climbed out into the rain.

He followed me. ‘And don’t worry about the Noah McCarthy thing: I saw you trying to save him.’

Gillis turned up his collar and hurried through the puddles to the waiting BMW. Dr McDonald peered out from the back seat, fingers spread on the window, biting her bottom lip as the car pulled away from the kerb. Down to the end of the road – the brake lights flared, then a right and they were gone.

Cold water trickled down the back of my neck as I stood there, staring after them.

It was too early to pay Steven Wallace a visit. Have to wait till it was dark and he was at home and everyone was asleep. And Dickie would have him under surveillance by now… So it wasn’t as if I could just march up to the front door and kick it in.

But what if it wasn’t him? What if Steven Wallace
didn’t
have a hidden room built into his refurbished wine cellar so he could torture twelve-year-old girls to death?

It wasn’t worth the risk.

I looked up at the house.

Dickie was right: I should go in and be with Michelle. Play the supportive ex-husband. Pretend it’ll all be OK. Sit in the dark and wait for them to find Katie’s body.

I got back in the car and pulled out my phone.

Sabir picked up on the eighth ring. ‘
Better be important, I was havin’ a crap!
’

‘I need the names and addresses of every suspect you’ve had for the last seven years.’

Silence.

‘Sabir?’

‘
Ash… I’m dead sorry about Katie. But Dickie’s been on to all of us: we can’t give you nothin’. I can’t. Look, we’re doin’ our—
’

I hung up. Tried Henry instead.

His mobile rang, and rang, and rang, then went to voicemail. ‘Henry, it’s Ash, I need you to call me back. It’s urgent.’

The windows were steaming up. I drummed my fingers on the dashboard. Waited.

Tried again. Got the same recording telling me to leave a message after the beep. Hung up.

‘Fuck!’ I slammed my palms against the steering wheel. Took a deep breath. ‘FUCK! Fucking, shit-fucking … FUCK! AAAAAAAAAGH! FUCK!’ Spittle flecked the windscreen.

My throat burned, pulse throbbing in my forehead, little sparks of light glittering behind my eyes.

A knock on the driver’s window. I looked up, but the glass was opaque with fog. I wound it down.

It was Jennifer, standing there underneath a black umbrella, all huddled up in her camel-hair coat, eyes pinched. She leaned forwards. ‘Erm… Ash, are you all right?’

‘No comment.’

She looked down for a moment. Then back again. ‘I know we… Look, it’s not important what happened between you and me, is it? What matters is Katie.’

‘I said, no comment.’

‘Ash, I want you to know the
Castle News and Post
will do everything we can to help get Katie back. You could put out a personal appeal?’ She licked her lips. ‘We could make the Birthday Boy see what kind of pain and damage he’s doing. Maybe run a photo of Katie’s room, a couple of quotes from her mother…?’

‘It’s Saturday. Her birthday’s on Monday.’ I turned the key in the ignition. ‘By the time he reads anything in your rag she’ll already be dead.’

HM Prison Glenochil – an hour and a half south of Oldcastle. A couple of rusty hatchbacks huddled in front of the bland, slab-faced reception building, but other than that the car park was empty.

I tried Henry’s number one more time: bloody voicemail again. Then called Weber instead. At least
he
was answering his phone.

‘
Hello?
’

‘It’s Ash.’

‘
Ah…’
A breath. Then a muffled, ‘
Excuse me, I have to take this…’
A clunk, some rustling, and Weber was back. ‘
Where are you?
’

‘I need the names of all the suspects Dickie’s got—’

‘
Don’t be an idiot. ACC Drummond’s crawling all over me, and that slippery shite Smith is right behind him, taking notes. I want to help, you
know
that, but they’re—
’

‘I want a couple of names, not a fucking kidney!’

‘
I know, I know.
’ Sigh. ‘
Look: where are you?
’

‘Doing what you should be doing.’ I killed the link and pocketed the phone; clambered out of the car and marched towards the prison.

‘Right, here’s the rules.’ The prison officer ran a finger along the side of his long, hooked nose, as if they were written there in Braille. ‘You do not pass the prisoner anything. You do not accept anything from him. He
will
be strip-searched at the end of your visit. You have fifteen minutes, then he’s back in his cell.’

I nodded. Placed my notebook and pen on the table in front of me.

The visiting room looked as if it’d been set out for an exam – Formica tables with a chair on either side, arranged in eight rows, spaced out just enough to afford a little privacy and give the security cameras a good line of sight.

Scuffed blue carpet tiles covered the floor, crime-scene stains marking the death of spilled coffees.

A buzz sounded, then the heavy metal door at the far end of the room swung open. Another prison officer shuffled in, stepped to one side, and there was Len.

He was about a head taller than his escort, a fringe of neatly trimmed grey hair around a big bald crown, round glasses, and a grey goatee with a handlebar moustache. He’d lost a bit of weight, broadened out a bit. Probably been spending a lot of time in the prison gym.

Len settled into the seat opposite and nodded, as if we hadn’t seen each other since the morning briefing, instead of two and a bit years. ‘Ash.’

‘Chief.’

A smile. ‘Not any more.’ His voice was deep enough to make my plastic cup of water tremble on the tabletop. ‘Or shall we play yesteryear: I’ll be Detective Superintendent Murray, and you’ll be DI Henderson?’

‘I need to know who the Birthday Boy suspects were. All of them.’

‘I’m fine, thanks. A lot better now they’ve taken the stitches out. Talk about
itchy
.’

‘Len, I’m serious.’

‘Still, ex-Constable Evans will be taking his food through a tube for the next six months, so I suppose I win.’ He took hold of the bottom of his sweatshirt. ‘Want to see the scar? It’s pretty spectacular?’

I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth. ‘He’s got Katie.’

‘Came at me in the library with a razor blade stuck in the end of a toothbrush.’ A frown. ‘Ever seen your own innards, Ash? They’re not as pretty as you might think.’

‘The Birthday Boy’s got Katie and they’re locking me out of the investigation!’

Len sighed, tilted his head to one side. ‘Two years, eight months, three weeks, and fifteen days. That’s how long I’ve been in here, and you haven’t visited once. Not until you want something.’

‘He’s got Katie…’

‘You said that already.’ He picked up my water and sipped at it. ‘I thought we were friends, Ash.’

‘He’s got my little girl.’

Len leaned back in his chair. ‘
You
got a slap on the wrists. I got eighteen years. I think I’m due a little conversation first, don’t you?’ He pursed his lips, glanced up at the ceiling. ‘Who do you fancy this afternoon: Warriors or Aberdeen?’

‘For God’s sake, Len.’ I checked the clock on the wall. ‘I’ve only got twelve minutes till they kick me out.’

‘Like I said: I’ve got eighteen years.’ He smiled.

‘Fine. Aberdeen.’

‘Really? I think we’re in with a chance this time. Bob Eason’s bought a couple of good players this season – might look like Gollum in a tracksuit, but the little sod knows his football.’

I curled my hands into fists. ‘Len, he’s going to kill her!’

‘See, that’s what I’ve been trying to figure out: why her? Why you?’ He teased the end of his goatee into a point. ‘Why target someone on the investigation? Why make it personal? It’s too risky, too flashy, like something out of a movie. Doesn’t happen in real life.’

‘I saw the birthday card. He’s got her.’

‘Hmmm…’ Silence. Then, ‘Maybe you’ve spooked him? Maybe you’ve been running your sticky fingers through his dirty laundry, and he needs you … distracted?’

‘Who was a suspect?’

‘Philip Skinner’s mum writes to me, did you know that? Every month I get this big wodge of paper through the post telling me what she’s been up to, and what’s happening on
Coronation Street
, and what her grandchildren are doing. Course she’s not
really
writing to me, she’s writing to Skinner…’

‘Len,
please
.’

He put the water down. Sighed. ‘Well, there was a sergeant with Northern Constabulary, but I think he hanged himself… Turned out he was into kiddie porn – I’m pretty sure they found the bin in his study full of crumpled up printouts of the birthday cards, covered in spunk. We thought it was part of a ring, but you know what the Tartan and Shortbread Brigade are like. Then there was that journalist with the
Aberdeen Examiner
…’ Frown. ‘Tolbert? Talbert? Talbert – but we couldn’t get anything to stick. Or Harriet Woods? She was a private investigator in Dundee. Ended up moving to Dubai.’