Birthdays for the Dead (30 page)

I scribbled names and details in my notebook.

Len sat forwards, huge hands on the tabletop. As if he was the only thing holding it down. ‘Skinner confessed: how was I supposed to know?’

‘Anyone else?’

‘The profile was a perfect fit. Henry Forrester was in on the interview, he
said
Skinner was our man.’

‘I know.’

‘Those little boys: raped and cut up into little bits…’

‘Len was there anyone else?’

He stared at the table for a while, mouth pinched, a deep crease between his eyebrows. ‘Couple of nut-jobs: Ahmed Moghadam, Danny Crawford, some woman who thought Jesus lived in her basement…’ He tapped his finger on the tabletop: tap-tap-tap, tap, tap, tap, tap-tap-tap. ‘Some nights I can still hear him screaming.’

Chapter 37

‘Get out the way!’ I jammed the mobile between my ear and shoulder and leaned on the horn again, but the prick in the Subaru refused to budge from the outside lane. ‘Come on, Henry, ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE!’

Finally the prick drifted into the other lane, and I could put my foot down again. Kidding on I didn’t see him give me the finger in my rear-view mirror.

Voicemail. ‘Henry, where the
fuck
are you? Call me back.’

I tried Rhona.

Fields ribbed with poly tunnels whipped by on either side. A green sign: A90, Dundee 9, Forfar 23, Oldcastle 34, Aberdeen 75.

‘
Guv? Jesus, I heard about Katie, are you OK?
’

‘Finally someone answers the bloody phone!’

The speedometer needle edged up to eighty-five.

‘
…I didn’t—
’

‘I need you to run some PNC checks for me, but you can’t tell anyone, OK?’ I pulled out my notebook, pinned it against the steering wheel, and flipped through the pages. Then read her the list of names Len gave me. Made her repeat them back. ‘I mean it – you tell no one about this. Not Weber, not Dickie, not even Shifty Dave.’

Nothing.

‘Rhona?’

‘
Why didn’t you call
me
first? You said no one was answering their phone, why didn’t you call me? I would’ve helped. I
always
help. I ironed your shirts!
’

As if I didn’t have enough to worry about… ‘Rhona, the Birthday Boy’s going to kill my little girl on Monday, OK? I’ve got other things on my mind.’

The needle hit ninety and my foot was flat to the floor – that was it, the Renault didn’t have any more. I tossed the notebook onto the passenger seat. Roared past an eighteen-wheeler with ‘S
COTIA
B
RAND
T
ASTY
C
HICKENS
L
TD
. T
HEY
’
RE
F
AN
-C
HICKEN
-T
ASTIC!
’ on the side.

On the other end of the phone, Rhona cleared her throat. ‘
Sorry. I didn’t mean—
’

‘It’s OK. I’m…’ Deep breath. ‘I appreciate your help. It’s … not a great day.’

PC Julie Wilson spun around on one of the swivel chairs, pointing at the ceiling tiles, long blonde hair trailing out behind her. ‘Twoooo ni-ill, twoooo ni-ill…’ She stopped. Closed her mouth. Shifted on her seat. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

The CID office was half empty. A little radio sat on the table by the kettle, crackling out the Warriors–Aberdeen match. ‘
And it’s Morrison to Chepski, Chepski to Woods…’
The roar of the crowd chanting, ‘
You’re going home in a tasty casserole…
’

Julie jumped to her feet, straightened her black T-shirt. ‘We’re all really sorry about Katie… I didn’t meant to… Will someone switch off that fucking radio?’

One of the other PCs flicked the switch.

Silence.

She stared at her feet. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

I marched through to Weber’s office.

He was sitting behind his desk, face all pinched and lined. No prizes for guessing why – ACC Drummond sat stiff-backed in one of the visitors’ chairs, DS Smith-the-Prick in the other. They both turned to stare at me.

Weber took off his glasses and polished them on a hanky. ‘How’s Michelle holding up?’

‘I…’ I hadn’t even bothered to ask, just ran off to see Len. ‘Have you hauled Steven Wallace in yet?’

‘We were talking about the candlelit vigil. Obviously we’ll add Katie to the—’

‘Have you hauled him in, or haven’t you?’

The Assistant Chief Constable brushed fluff from his trouser leg. ‘I was saddened to hear about your daughter, Constable Henderson. But I’m a little concerned about what happened with this…’ He raised an eyebrow at Smith.

‘Noah McCarthy, sir.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant. He’s made a complaint. Claims you assaulted him and tried to throw him off a fourteenth-floor balcony?’

‘Fuck him.’ I stared at Weber. ‘Steven Wallace.’

Weber sighed. ‘I’ve got every patrol car we have scouring the streets for Katie, and everyone on day shift’s—’

‘Why the hell haven’t you hauled him in?’

ACC Drummond stiffened even further. ‘Because, Constable, we don’t “haul people in” without a warrant, and we can’t get a warrant without probable cause.’

‘Dr McDonald says he fits the profile!’

‘Dr McDonald is barely out of nappies, Constable.’ Drummond stood. ‘The Procurator Fiscal needs slightly more than your little doctor’s word before we start waterboarding members of the public.’ He picked up his peaked cap and tucked it under his arm. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to brief the Chief Constable. DS Smith will be taking your statement about this morning’s unfortunate events. I expect you to give him your utmost cooperation.’

The ACC paused on his way out the door to pat me on the shoulder. ‘We’ll do everything we can to get your daughter back.’ And then he was gone.

Lucky I didn’t break every finger on his bloody hand.

Smith levered himself out of his chair. Smiled. ‘Why don’t we go somewhere a bit more comfortable?’

Interview room three smelled of feet and cabbage.

DS Smith drummed his fingers on the tabletop, marking time for the tape whining around in the recorder. ‘And that’s how Oldcastle CID likes to do business, is it? Beating the crap out of suspects?’

‘I told you what happened.
Twice
.’ I sat forwards. The chair stayed rock solid on the floor, held there with four thick bolts. Not like the seats on the other side of the table: where the police officers sat. ‘Do you need me to use smaller words, or does shagging sheep make you go deaf?’

The uniformed PC standing behind me snorted. Then tried to turn it into a cough.

Smith narrowed his eyes, lips pursed beneath that long pointy nose. ‘Are we having a problem, Constable Dawson?’

Another cough. ‘Something in my throat, sir.’

Dawson – he was on the list Sabir emailed through when we were in Shetland.

I turned in my seat. ‘It’s Tim, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Guv.’ He smiled, showing off a mouthful of squint teeth – it went with his squint nose and lopsided ears.

Smith stared at the ceiling tiles. ‘How many times…? Constable, we do
not
address detective constables as—’

‘You ran a PNC check on the Birthday Boy victims’ families, didn’t you?’

A blink. ‘Yeah. Couple of times, why?’

Smith rapped his knuckles on the chipped tabletop. ‘That’s enough,
Constable
. DC Henderson, do you have any idea how much damage you caused Noah McCarthy? He—’

‘Why did you do the search?’

‘Dunno, Guv. Think it was one of the high-heejins… Yeah, definitely – the ACC got me to do it for him.’

‘Constable! This is a serious enquiry into a complaint of police brutality, not a bloody knitting circle.’

I pulled out my phone and called Shifty Dave – he was on the list too. Asked him the same question.

‘
Fucking Drummond, wasn’t it. Starched wee bawbag never does his own dirty work. Why?
’

I hung up and tried another couple of names, while DS Smith sat bug-eyed on the other side of the table – going a lovely shade of trembling pink.

Every single one of them blamed Assistant Chief Constable Drummond.

Smith banged his hand down on the tabletop. ‘Officer Henderson, I must
insist
—’

‘Interview terminated at fifteen thirty-two.’ I slid out from my immovable chair and stood. Grabbed my jacket. ‘Thanks, Tim.’

‘Officer Henderson, this interview isn’t over till I say it’s… Officer Henderson!’

I slammed the door behind me.

‘…wait, no! He’s in a meeting, you can’t go in!’ Nicola made it halfway out of her seat before I barged through into ACC Drummond’s office. ‘Officer Henderson!’

It was huge – lined with wood panelling, lots of teak furniture, an expanse of deep-red carpet, picture windows overlooking Camburn Woods. Not a single filing cabinet or whiteboard.

Drummond stood with one hand behind his back, the other holding a large whisky, a golf-course grin frozen on his cada-verous face. ‘Is there a problem?’

Nicola stomped to a halt beside me, all rumpled cardigan and scarlet nail polish. ‘I’m sorry, sir, he barged past…’

A tall white-haired man in a dark-blue suit was lounging on Drummond’s leather sofa, legs crossed, an avuncular smile on his tanned face, a cut-crystal tumbler of whisky dangling from his fingertips. ‘Trouble in the ranks, Gary?’

Colour flushed high on Drummond’s cheekbones. ‘Peter, this is Detective Constable Henderson. Henderson, this is Lord Forsyth-Leven.’

The man unfolded himself from the sofa, put out his hand for shaking. ‘Your friendly local MSP.’ The smile faded from his face. ‘I heard about your daughter on the radio, I’m dreadfully sorry. If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to—’

‘You can bugger off.’

His eyes widened. ‘Oh…’

Nicola grabbed at my sleeve. ‘Officer Henderson, come on, we’ll get you a nice cup of—’

‘You!’ I jabbed a finger at Drummond. ‘All this time we’ve been trying to figure out how the Birthday Boy knows where to send the cards. Turns out the only place you can get all the families’ details is the Police National Computer.’

‘I’m sorry about this, Peter.’ Drummond placed his drink on a coaster, then folded his arms. ‘And?’

‘You’ve been getting everyone to do it for you, haven’t you? You get PCs and DCs and all the lower ranks to do PNC searches, because you know they won’t ask questions.’

A smile tugged at the corner of Drummond’s mouth. ‘Are you
actually
suggesting that I’m the Birthday Boy?’

Nicola tugged at my sleeve again. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Come
on
, Ash, you’re making an arse of yourself.’

‘Detective Constable Henderson, I’m hardly likely to run my own PNC searches, am I? Not when I have a station full of dogs to bark for me. For your
information
the Chief Constable and I request these details throughout the year so we can take strategic decisions about resources and deployment on the victims’ birthdays; managing the media; providing support services to the families.’ He stretched his arms out, as if he was finishing a magic trick. ‘This is how intelligence-led policing works. Would you rather we just
guessed
?’

Oh… I cleared my throat. ‘I see.’

‘Now, if you don’t mind, Nicola will see you out. And Professional Standards will be expecting you in their offices first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘Ash?’

I looked up from my cold coffee and there was Dr McDonald, standing on the other side of the pub table. She smiled, gave me a little wave, then looked around her. ‘This is … nice.’

‘No it isn’t.’

The Monk and Casket wasn’t a big place: barely enough room for five or six tables and a pair of fruit machines pinging and chattering like Technicolor magpies. Red vinyl upholstery on creaky wooden seats and rock-hard benches. The bar was nearly as sticky as the cracked linoleum floor. One door back out to the outside world, and one on the other side with a faded sign: ‘T
OILETS
, T
ELEPHONE
A
ND
F
UNCTION
S
UITE.
’

She pulled out a chair and sat. ‘DCI Weber said you’d be here.’

I held up my hand. ‘Hoy, Hairy: same again and a large white wine.’

Hairy Joe looked up from his
Daily Mirror
and grunted. About a dozen earrings clinked on either side of his broad, furry face as he cranked up the coffee machine.

There were a couple of regulars in: Weird Justin with his long black hair and scabby baseball hat; the Donahue sisters, both of them far too old to be making a living selling blowjobs in darkened doorways; and in the corner, the manky skeletal figure of Twitch and his mate, Fat Billy Partridge.

No one that would want to talk shop with a police officer. Even one like me.

Dr McDonald made scritchy Velcro noises with her Converse Hi-tops on the tacky floor. ‘Is it true you told a Member of the Scottish Parliament to bugger off, and accused ACC Drummond of being the Birthday Boy?’

I stared into the milky scum floating on top of my coffee. ‘Welcome to my world…’

She reached across the table and took my hand. ‘You did what any good father would do. Katie’s lucky: you won’t give up till you find her.’

Yeah, because I did such a great job with Rebecca.

‘Dickie won’t bring Steven Wallace in for questioning.’

‘I know.’

‘Hoy, lovebirds.’ Hairy Joe loomed over the table, mug in one hand, big glass of wine in the other. ‘You OK with Pinot Grigio, sweetheart? Only I’m all out of Sauvignon Blanc till Monday. Had a run on it during the footie. You two want to see the menu?’

‘Er … no, that’s perfect thanks.’ She took a sip. ‘Mmm…’

He shrugged and lumbered off.

I wrapped my other hand around the fresh, hot coffee. ‘What am I supposed to do now?’

‘You could go and see Michelle, I mean she’s going to be all on her own and worried and scared…?’

Sit in quiet painful silence, trying not to fight.

‘I don’t—’

My phone blared its harsh old-fashioned ring. ‘
Henry
’ flashed on the screen.

I hit the button. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘
None of your business.
’ A sniff. ‘
Come on then: all your messages say phone you back, so I’m phoning you back.
’

‘He’s got Katie. The Birthday Boy’s got her.’