Read Birthdays for the Dead Online
Authors: Stuart MacBride
Silence.
‘Henry?’
‘
What time is it? Four… I’ll be there as soon as I can. The airport’s closed with the snow, but I think the ferry’s still running.
’ Clunking noises came from the earpiece. ‘
Have you told anyone?
’
‘Michelle called the police.’
‘
Thank God for that: it’ll make things a lot easier. Get Dr McDonald to fax everything she’s got on Katie through to Lerwick police station, mark it for my attention. I’ll throw some stuff in a case.
’
‘Henry—’
‘
What does Dr McDonald say about Rebecca?
’
I turned away from the table. ‘She doesn’t know.’
‘
Ash, it doesn’t matter any more – you need to tell her. If the Birthday Boy’s got Katie, maybe Megan Taylor wasn’t number thirteen. Maybe number thirteen is Katie. It’s important.
’
‘I’m not—’
‘
Ash, they know about Katie – it’s over. Tell her.
’
The sharp smell of vinegar filled the car, the blower’s gentle roar keeping the windows from steaming up with chip-shop fug as the rain hammered down.
‘
…candlelit vigil organized for six-thirty this evening at St Jasper’s…
’
Dr McDonald frowned. ‘“St Jasper’s” is a weird name for a church, I mean there
isn’t
a Saint Jasper, I checked on the Catholic websites, what sort of city names churches after made-up saints?’
The Castle car park was empty, just us and the pay-and-display machine. There wasn’t much left of the battlements, or the keep, or the main building, but the ruins were lit up with coloured spotlights. As if that would make them look any better.
‘
…we spoke to Megan Taylor’s father earlier today.
’
From up here, on the tip of the sharp granite blade, Oldcastle was spread out like a blanket of stars. Streetlights flickered in the downpour, reflections sparkling back from the twisted black snake of Kings River.
‘
…want to ask whoever took our daughter to please give her back.
’ Bruce Taylor sounded as if he was reading it off a bit of paper, the words stilted and unnatural. ‘
Megan’s a wonderful girl who brings hope and joy to everyone that knows her…
’
Dr McDonald broke off another piece of battered fish, blew on it, then popped it in her mouth. Crunching. ‘Great batter.’ Eating by the glow of the dashboard lights.
‘Told you.’ Two fish suppers from the Blisterin’ Barnacles Chip Shop, one with a couple of pickled onions, the other with mushy peas – microwaved, and served in a Styrofoam cup with a tinfoil lid.
‘
I’m asking you as a father, please…
’
She dipped a chip into the lurid-green mush. ‘I spoke to Dickie, he’s got the whole church wired with cameras, if the Birthday Boy turns up at St Jasper’s we’ll get him on film, then Sabir’s going to run facial-pattern analysis on all the CCTV footage from the shopping centre when Megan went missing, if he shows up we’ll get him.’
‘Hmm.’ My fish tasted of cobwebs and cardboard.
‘
…as police continue to hunt for Katie Nicol, daughter of Detective Constable Ash Henderson of Oldcastle CID…
’
Even the Irn-Bru was tasteless.
‘We’ll find her, Ash, we’re closer than we’ve ever been.’
‘
Katie Nicol is the Birthday Boy’s thirteenth victim, and only the second one to receive a card the day after she was kidnapped…
’
‘Fucking moron.’ I switched off the radio. ‘It’s not a kidnap unless there’s a ransom demand. She was abducted…’ I stared at my chips, then closed the blue-and-white cardboard container and shoved it back in the plastic bag it’d come from.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to the vigil?’
A gust of wind raked the Renault’s bonnet with rain, the droplets sparking off the dirty paintwork, caught in the headlights of a hatchback as it pulled into the car park. Stopped as far away from us as possible.
‘Ash, I—’
‘Katie used to like it when I told her bedtime stories.’
‘OK…’
‘Once upon a time there was a paedophile called Philip Skinner. Philip had two kids, and a wife that loved him very much, because she didn’t know what he was up to. At that time, a dark plague fell upon the kingdom and three little boys were found in black-plastic bin-bags all over the city. They’d been raped and stabbed, then cut into fifteen pieces. Then he wrapped each individual bit in clingfilm, like he was trying to keep them fresh.’
The other car’s lights went out – its driver and passenger turned into silhouettes by the glow reflected back from the castle. They moved closer until their heads were touching.
‘The police called in a brave knight called Dr Henry Forrester, and the knight examined the chopped-up little boys and drew up a profile of the monster responsible. The police hunted high and low for someone who fit: they found Philip Skinner. Turned out Skinner had done time in a Belgian prison for aggravated assault and child porn in the Nineties. So they dragged him in for questioning.’
The napkin disintegrated as I wiped the chip grease from my hands. ‘But Philip Skinner had a good lawyer who got him out on a technicality. The brave knight was convinced Skinner was guilty and one of the policemen, a big bruiser called Detective Superintendent Len Murray, believed him.’
The other car started rocking on its springs.
‘So they recruited a young DI called Henderson, and they watched Skinner whenever they could, taking turns to keep the dirty wee bugger under surveillance. Only they couldn’t watch him all the time, and then another little boy turned up, cut into bits and wrapped in clingfilm. So they decided Philip Skinner had to be stopped…’
I took a scoof of Irn-Bru, rolling the fizzy orange chemicals around my mouth. ‘Turns out it wasn’t Skinner who’d raped and killed and dismembered the little boys, it was a young man called Denis Chakrabarti. Worked as a butcher’s assistant at the big Gardner’s supermarket in Blackwall Hill. The profile was wrong. He killed two more boys before we finally caught him.’
Dr McDonald tore off another bit of fish. ‘What happened to Philip Skinner?’
‘You were right about me: I
am
a man of violence. I’m good at it.’ I flexed my hands into fists. The knuckles grated – swollen and aching. ‘Even with the arthritis. I’ve beaten the truth out of people, intimidated, lied, stolen, taken money to look the other way, cheated on my wife…’ More Irn-Bru. ‘When Rebecca…. When she went away we did what parents do – we tramped the streets, we put up posters everywhere from Thurso to Portsmouth, posted a reward, hired private investigators, did radio appeals. Cost a fortune, more than we had, I got into debt… A
lot
of debt.’
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, watched the rain make ribbons on the windscreen. ‘Things weren’t going so well any more. I spent too much time with this journalist called Jennifer: to begin with it was about keeping Rebecca’s name in the papers, stop people forgetting, but… Someone told Michelle, and she caught us, kicked me out, got herself a live-in boyfriend who turned the house into a minefield. And that’s when they asked me to help keep an eye on Philip Skinner.’
I swigged back the last mouthful of Irn-Bru then crumpled the tin in my hand, knuckles like hot gravel. ‘Still think Katie’s lucky to have me as a dad?’
The blower grumbled, the rain thrummed on the roof.
Dr McDonald fiddled with her chips. ‘Aunty Jan isn’t really my aunt, before she was a vet she was a social worker, she looked after me when I got fostered out to this family in Dumfries. I told you my mum wasn’t the same after she got back from the hospital… She waited three weeks, then she climbed into a hot bath and slit her wrists, right the way up to the elbows.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I was six. I’d been outside playing with my best friend, Maureen, and I came in because I needed the toilet…’ A crease appeared between her eyebrows, two more slashing down from the corners of her mouth. ‘The water was so
red
; and my rubber duck was bright, bright yellow; and her skin was enamel white, like the bathtub; and I sat on the lid of the toilet and held her hand till she was gone…’
Outside the car, the wind howled.
I reached across the car and held Dr McDonald’s hand. Greasy with chip fat, and a little sticky from the Irn-Bru.
She sniffed, eyes glittering in the dashboard lights.
My phone rang again, tearing the silence into jagged shards. ‘Sodding hell…’ I pulled it out: Rhona.
‘
You OK, Guv? Smith the Prick’s storming about like someone put Tabasco on his buttplug. Word is: you called him a sheep shagger.
’
‘Not a good time, Rhona, so—’
‘
Had to wait till shift-change to do your PNC searches. Your journalist, Talbert, got bottled in a bar fight two years ago, bled out before the ambulance arrived. Harriet Woods’s private investigator licence was suspended five years ago, she moved to Dubai and got a job with a private security firm. No idea where she is now. Danny Crawford went missing from Aberdeen eighteen months ago. Ahmed Moghadam is in a secure psychiatric ward in Dundee. And Emilia Schneider’s doing eight years in Peterhead for the illegal imprisonment and torture of two Jehovah’s Witnesses.
’
‘What happened to Danny Crawford?’
‘
No idea…’
The sound of two-fingered typing. ‘
Erm… OK: reported missing by his mother; he’d been off his medication for a fortnight; threatened his parole officer with a kitchen knife; and that’s it. No sightings since he got on the train for Inverness a year and a half ago.’
So Steven Wallace was still the best bet.
‘
Guv?
’
Blink. ‘Thanks, Rhona.’
‘
Are you going to be wanting that bed tonight? You know, after the service: I’ve still got all your washing…?
’
A bed for tonight.
‘Hang on a second.’ I pressed the mute button. Turned to Dr McDonald. ‘Your aunt: she’s coming back today, isn’t she? You won’t be on your own?’
A nod.
I took the phone off mute. ‘Sounds good, Rhona.’ I smiled at my reflection in the driver’s window. ‘See you at the church?’
‘
Cool.
’
I hung up. Let the smile slide off my face.
Dr McDonald ate her fish and chips in silence as the rain battered down. She finished, sooked her fingers, wiped them on a napkin, then stuffed the empty box back in the bag with mine. ‘That was great, thanks, I mean the fish must be really fresh, good peas too, and is it OK if I borrow your phone for a minute, I need to check what time Aunty Jan’s getting back from Glasgow and mine’s got no battery left?’
I handed it over. ‘Give me the rubbish.’
She passed me the plastic bag.
I lurched out into the rain. There was a bin next to the pay-and-display machine. I ditched the remnants inside, turned up my collar, and sploshed across the car park to Shand Street – with its quaint collection of Victorian teashops, tourist tat, and high-street brands. Two doors down, past Boots and Poundgasm, was a wee off-licence.
I nipped in for a litre of gin, some tonic, two bottles of red wine, and two of white as well. Paid with cash, then headed back to the car, the booze clinking in purple plastic bags.
The other car had stopped rocking. Cigarette smoke curled out of the driver’s window.
I dodged the puddles and clambered back in behind the wheel of the Renault. Stuck the bags in behind the seats. Then pulled out one of the whites and held it out to Dr McDonald. ‘Here.’
She smiled at me. ‘You didn’t have to do that, but thanks.’ Then gave me back my phone. ‘Aunty Jan’s already home, so that’s great, except I’m going to have to explain why the back door’s all scratched.’ She cuddled the wine. ‘Do you think…’ Twiddled with her hair. ‘Do you think it was
him
?’
‘Put your seatbelt on.’ I eased the ancient Renault out of the potholed car park. ‘Sheila was right: probably just a junky. Fletcher Road’s a prime target – there isn’t a house on that whole street that’s worth less than a million and a half. And your aunt’s got the dogs, right?’
‘Who needs Dobermann pinschers when you’ve got a Staffordshire bull terrier and a wheezy Jack Russell.’ She hugged the bottle tighter. ‘I’ll be fine…’
The priest’s voice crackled out of speakers bolted to the granite walls: ‘
Let us pray.’
He held up his hands and the people around me bowed their heads.
St Jasper’s was packed, the pews overflowing, people standing in the aisles and at the back, desperate to be part of the public grieving. The church ceiling curved high overhead, grey and ribbed, like being inside a fossilized whale. Spotlights made the stained glass glow in grimy shades of red, blue, and yellow. A miserable bloody place full of fucking ghouls.
‘
Dear Lord, hear our prayer for Megan Taylor and Katie Henderson…
’
Michelle reached over and squeezed my hand, chin on her chest, eyes screwed tight shut as if God wouldn’t let us have our daughter back if He caught her peeking.
I stared straight ahead.
Dickie’s mob had done a decent job of hiding the security cameras in amongst the twiddly carvings; by the time the prayer shambled to a halt with a communal ‘Amen’ I’d only managed to spot eight of them. If the bastard was here, they’d have him on film.
The priest fiddled with the white-and-gold scarf draped around his neck, amplified voice all boom and echoes. ‘
Now we’re going to hear from some of Megan’s friends. Brianna Fowler has bravely volunteered to go first. Brianna?
’
Sitting on the other side of me, Dr McDonald tugged my sleeve as the chunky girl from the CCTV footage clambered up to the microphone. ‘Are you OK?’
‘We should be out there looking for her, not in here pissing about wasting time.’
Up on the stage, Brianna cleared her throat and got a whistle of feedback from the speakers. ‘
Megan was… Megan
is
my best friend…
’
Dr McDonald glanced back over her shoulder. ‘Sabir’s already running footage through his software: we’re not wasting time, we’re springing a trap.’ A small frown. Then she fidgeted in her seat. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to say anything?’
I clenched my jaw. ‘Trust me, none of these bastards wants to hear what I’ve got to say.’
The crowd milled out through the huge wooden church doors. Up by the lectern, Dickie shook Bruce Taylor’s hand, said something to Megan’s mother, then stalked over to where Michelle was sitting.
She hadn’t moved since the last hymn, just sat there, sobbing quietly.
Dickie stopped, clasped his hands in front of his groin, as if he was taking part in a penalty shoot out. ‘Mrs Henderson, I want you to know that my team is doing everything it can to—’
I poked him in the chest. ‘Is Steven Wallace here?’
Dickie blinked. Looked up at me. ‘Sorry?’
‘I said, is – he – here?’
A sigh. ‘We’re monitoring everyone.’
Dr McDonald tugged at my sleeve. ‘Maybe we should get Michelle out of here, go home, and get a nice cup of tea or something?’
‘Dickie: is the bastard here, or isn’t he?’
The chief superintendent ran a hand across his eyes. ‘Megan’s parents invited him. Apparently she loved the radio show, never missed it.’
I stared back towards the entrance. ‘I’ll see you outside.’
The marble floor clacked beneath my feet.
Halfway down the aisle, a baldy wee man in a corduroy jacket stood and stuck his hand out. Mr It’s-Not-Acceptable from Katie’s school. ‘Constable Henderson, on behalf of everyone at Johnston Academy I want to extend our sincere…’
I kept on walking.
Outside, the rain had turned to drizzle, flaring in the television camera lights: tossers doing pieces to camera, fake sincerity oozing from every word. ‘Sensational Steve’ Wallace was talking into a Channel 4 microphone, eyebrows pinched, nodding as whoever it was asked him a question. ‘Oh yes, there’s no doubt in my mind, we
can
get the girls back if we all pull together as a community and dig deep.’
A nod from the woman holding the microphone. ‘That’s great, we’ll probably put it out on the next bulletin. Have you signed the release forms?’
Steven Wallace looked up from the paperwork, saw me, and waved. Then marched over, still wearing his graveside face. ‘Constable Henderson, you can’t believe how sorry I was to hear about Katie. How’s your wife holding up? It must be a terrible shock.’
I stared at him. Didn’t shake the proffered hand.
‘Yes, right.’ He shifted from foot to foot. ‘Anyway, look, I thought seeing as how Megan was such a big fan of the show – well, you know I also do the
Sunday Morning Lie-In Lovefest
– how about I dedicate tomorrow’s show to her and Katie? I could play their favourite music, maybe get some of their friends to phone in…’ He licked his lips. ‘Maybe you and your wife would like to come along, around ten-ish? Say a few words to the people, make an appeal to anyone who might have seen something?’
He’ll stand in the middle and feed off the grief, knowing it was all him, he did it, he has the power of life and death…
Hit him. Grab the bastard by the throat and tear out his lying tongue, right here on the church steps. Paint the fucking world with his blood.
‘Ash?’ Dr McDonald. ‘Ash, what’s happening?’
I blinked. ‘Yes, that would be good. We’ve got to get the message out. Let the Birthday Boy know that we’re coming for him.’
Steven Wallace clapped his hands. ‘Right, it’s settled. Do you know how to get to the station, or shall I get a car to pick you up?’
I smiled at him. ‘Oh, don’t worry: I’ll find you.’
Dr McDonald stood next to me as Steven Wallace hurried off through the drizzle to a waiting taxi. ‘Ash?’
The taxi’s lights flared in the darkness as it performed an illegal U-turn and headed off down Jessop Street.
‘It’s not him. Steve Wallace isn’t the Birthday Boy.’
‘We need to—’
‘He didn’t push himself into the middle of things, he was invited. He was at that charity cancer thing when Megan Taylor was abducted. It’s not him.’
Dr McDonald shifted her red Hi-tops on the wet granite steps. ‘Are you sure?’
‘We need to look for someone else.’ Brought my chin up. ‘Katie’s still out there.’ Laying it on thick.
Dr McDonald looked up at me, little wrinkles at the sides of her eyes, lips pursed. Then she nodded. ‘I understand.’
No she didn’t. Because if she did, she would have stopped me.
Forty minutes later I pulled up outside Rhona’s place – parking down the road a bit, rather than in the designated spaces behind the building. I grabbed the purple carrier-bags from the back of the car – leaving the ones from B&Q behind – and headed on up.
She answered the door wearing jeans and an Oldcastle United sweatshirt, her hair lank and wet.
I passed over the clinking bags. ‘You’re not
still
supporting those losers, are you?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ She hefted the booze. Grinned with her big beige teeth. ‘Steak OK for tea? I got some chunky ribeyes, do some chips, bit of sweetcorn?’
Getting low on ice. I chucked a couple of cubes in then added a hefty measure of gin. Then a splash of tonic.
The kitchen door opened and Rhona came back in, a bloom of pink colouring her pale cheeks and nose. I handed the G&T to her.
‘Pfffff…’ She blinked a couple of times, then took it. Smiled. Knocked back a mouthful. ‘Ahhh… Can’t remember last time we got hammered. Can you? I can’t…’
‘Plenty more where that came from.’ I picked up my own drink and clinked it against hers. ‘Fuck the lot of them.’
‘Fuckem!’ Another swig. Then a frown. ‘Look at the time, got to get the steam on.’ Blink. ‘I mean steak. Got to get the steak on.’ The pink in her cheeks got darker.
‘Nah, plenty time…’
Two thick ribeye steaks sizzled in the hot pan, butter foaming up around the edges. The smell of caramelizing meat and roasting black pepper filled the kitchen. Two bottles of red breathed on the worktop.
Rhona leaned back against the sink, sipping her gin and tonic, smiling, eyes focused somewhere about a foot and a half in front of her face. She ran a hand through her hair, making it stick out in little tufts. ‘Can’t believe … believe we’ve spanked half a bottle of gin.’
‘Steaks’ll need to rest for five minutes.’ I tipped them onto a warm plate and poured the pan juices over the top. ‘Do you want to check on the chips?’
‘Chips? Chips, yes, chips.’ She shook her head for a moment. Smiled again, then lurched over to the oven and peered in through the glass door. ‘Yup. Those are chips all right.’
I stuck the sweetcorn in the microwave.
‘See the thing is … the thing people don’t unnerstand about you is … is you’re a
great
cop.’ She held a hand up, as if she was stopping traffic. ‘No, I mean it. You’re a great cop, and they … and they’re jealous.’ Another mouthful of wine. ‘They are, they’re
jealous
.’
I topped up her glass. ‘How’s your steak?’
‘Is … It’s great too. You’re a great cook. I … people don’t get that, but
I
do. I get it…’
‘…so I said … I said, “No, fuck you, you gap-toothed hairy wee bastard.” And he … he burst into tears!’ Rhona threw back the last mouthful of wine from her glass and grinned. ‘Right there … right there in the court.’ A frown. ‘Back inna … inna minute…’
She levered herself out of the couch and wobbled for a moment, before stomping off stiff-legged to the toilet.
I topped her up again. Then went through to the kitchen and fetched the second bottle of wine.
‘No, you gotta … you gotta listen to this: you’ll love this…’ She sat on the carpet in front of the stereo, pulling CDs out of the rack and dumping them next to her. ‘Where the buggery… Ah, ah – found it! You’ll love this…’
The second bottle was already two-thirds gone.
‘Here…’ She fumbled with the CD case, then wobbled the shiny disk into the machine, one eye squinted shut, the tip of her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth.
Music swelled from the speakers.
‘Listen … listen, no, listen you’ll love it…’ Then she started to sing.
‘
My gates are open wide,
but she stands outside,
consu-ooooooo-oo-oo-oomed by pride…
’
She should have sounded like a football crowd bellowing from the terraces, but she didn’t. Rhona’s voice was soft and lilting, perfectly in tune.
I glugged more wine into her glass.
‘No, I
mean
it!’ Rhona blinked at me, her left eye not opening all the way, held down by a droopy lid. She ran a pale tongue across her wine-stained lips. Head nodding round on a bobbling circular path. ‘You’re the … the only policeman in … in that place … worth a shit. A
shit
!’
The last of the red disappeared, except for the dribble that splashed onto her sweatshirt. ‘You’re a great … a great … an’ I love you, Ash – no I mean it! I love you…’ She threw her arms wide. ‘There … I’ve said it, I’ve said it…’
More blinking. Then she peered into her glass. ‘All gone.’ A jaw-cracking yawn full of teeth. ‘Pffffff….’ Bink. Blink. Then her eyes stayed closed, chin resting on her chest.
The wine glass wobbled in her hand, and she jerked upright – eyes wide. ‘M’wake…’
‘No you’re not.’
‘You’ve barely touched … barely touched your wine…’
‘You have it.’ I took her glass and poured mine into it. ‘Not really in the mood.’
Two more sips and her chin was on her chest again, breath slipping into a deep rhythmic drone.
That should do it.
I picked her glass out of her hand and put it on the table. ‘Come on, let’s get you to bed.’
A warm fuzzy smile spread across her face. ‘Yes please…’
Snoring rocked the walls. Rhona lay spread out like a scarecrow on top of the bedclothes – she’d managed to get the sweatshirt off, exposing a bright-red lacy bra, but the jeans had defeated her. They were bunched around her knees, socks making her feet look twice as long as they were.
I grabbed an ankle and hauled her jeans off, then fought with her pale limbs until she was under the duvet. Went off to the kitchen, came back with a basin and put it by the side of the bed, covered the carpet around it with newspaper. Then slipped out and closed the door.
Checked my watch. Ten to midnight.
Soon be time to pay Mr Steven Wallace a visit and see how sensational the little bastard felt coughing up blood.