Birthdays for the Dead (32 page)

Chapter 40

McDermid Avenue was dead. Parked cars lined the road, tarmac glistening in the streetlight. The houses lay in darkness. Ten past one, and I’d been sitting here long enough for the cold to burrow into my joints, making them ache.

The rain had given up half an hour ago, leaving everything slick and wet. Clouds scudded across the dark sky, stars twinking through the gaps.

Dickie’s surveillance team were in an unmarked VW Polo on the other side of the road, about three doors down from Steven Wallace’s house. Close enough to keep an eye on the place, far enough away to be inconspicuous. Sort of. The driver’s window was open, cigarette smoke curling out into the cold night. Might as well have stuck a big neon arrow on top of the car.

Should’ve done it properly and parked two hundred yards away, like I had.

The Polo was facing the wrong way to see me climb out into the night.

Christ it was freezing – especially without a jacket. My breath trailed behind me like a pale ghost as I went around to the boot and pulled out the bags from the DIY superstore in Shortstaine.

It’s perfectly innocent, Officer: I’m planning on doing a bit of decorating. My house was vandalized and flooded. Nothing suspicious about that, is there? What? Why don’t I have the DIY supplies I was seen purchasing at B&Q? Someone must have stolen them from my car when I left it outside Rhona’s house. It’s not the best of neighbourhoods, after all. I certainly didn’t burn them to destroy any trace evidence. And besides: I was with Rhona all night, drinking wine and putting the world to rights. Ask her if you don’t believe me.

Not exactly perfect, but it’d do.

I walked away from Steven Wallace’s house – even if the surveillance team
had
spotted me, I wasn’t going anywhere near their target. I kept walking till I reached a gap between two of the buildings. A dirt footpath led away into Cameron Park. The four surrounding streets were full of them, all sealed off with blue-and-white ‘P
OLICE
’ tape.

I ducked through onto the path. The low clouds reflected back a dim jaundiced glow, just enough light to keep me from stepping in anything as I pulled on a set of dark-grey decorator’s overalls. Would’ve gone for a white Tyvek SOC-style all-in-one suit, but it wouldn’t exactly have blended in on a dark night. Next: plastic overshoes on over my boots. I tucked my hair into a shower cap – the thin plastic kind that looked like a condom, given away free in hotel-room bathrooms – then hauled on a dark-blue woolly hat, safety goggles, and a face mask. Nitrile gloves over my leather ones.

The Scenes Examination Branch might not bother collecting DNA when a wee shite like Noah McCarthy got a beating, but by the time they found what was left of Steve Wallace… Well, that would be another matter.

I stuffed all the plastic packaging back in the bag, scrunched it up and put it in my pocket. Then walked down between the buildings, past the brick-walled back gardens, under another strand of ‘
Police
’ tape, and out into Cameron Park.

One of the SOC tents glowed in the distance, nearly obscured by bushes and trees. No chance anyone would see me. I picked my way along a track that ran along the back of the gardens – sticking close to the eight-foot-high wall – until I could see the ridiculously massive conservatory stuck onto Steve Wallace’s house.

A tall wooden gate was set into the brick, tendrils of ivy snaking around it. I tried the handle: locked. Fair enough. I scrambled over the wall and dropped down into the garden.

Silence.

For a minute I just stood there, not moving, scanning the backs of the houses for twitching curtains…

Nothing.

I started towards the conservatory and a security light seared the garden with eye-watering brightness. I kept on walking. That’s the thing about security lights – by the time the owners notice you’ve set one off, you can be right up against the house. They look out, see nothing, curse next door’s cat, and go back to bed.

Click. The garden plunged into darkness again.

No sign of an alarm box on the back of the house, but that didn’t mean the place wasn’t wired. A couple of planters sat by the conservatory double doors. I looked underneath both. No spare key. Ah well – worth a try.

One brand-new flat-head screwdriver and three sharp taps from a brand-new hammer, and the door lock was buggered enough for me to twist the mechanism. Clunk.

I opened the door and stepped inside.

No screaming alarm. No flashing lights. No irate householder.

That’d change.

‘Say cheese.’ I raised the camera, let the autofocus whirr, then pressed the button. The flash turned the wine cellar monochrome for a moment, then everything faded back into gloom.

Steven Wallace blinked at me, breath hissing through his nose, tears streaming down his cheeks, mumbling words behind the duct-tape gag.

The cellar was a good size – probably bigger than the whole ground floor of my ruined house – lined with wooden shelves, piled high with wine.

‘Where is she, Steve?’

He wriggled, but the cable-ties didn’t budge – holding him tight to the wooden dining chair, rumpling his silk pyjamas. The bruise on his cheek was beginning to darken.

I turned, ran my hands across the rack of bottles. ‘It’s here, isn’t it? Your secret torture chamber? Hidden away…’ I hauled at the shelving and bottles crashed to the flagstone floor, red white and rosé shattering, soaking Steve’s slippers.

A muffled shriek. Then nervous giggling.

‘Oh, you think this is
funny
, do you?’

He shook his head.

‘Where is she?’

More mumbling.

I yanked another set of shelves off the wall. Still no sign of a hidden door.

‘WHERE IS SHE?’

He closed his eyes and trembled. I slapped him.

‘Look at me, you little shite!’

He turned his head away, so I slapped him again.

‘LOOK AT ME!’

He did what he was told. ‘Mmmmmmphnph…’

‘You see what I’m wearing, Steve? The mask, the goggles, the outfit? They’re not so you won’t recognize me: they’re so I don’t leave any forensic evidence behind when I carve you into little fucking bits.’

I pulled a birthday card from my pocket – Rebecca, the number five scratched into the top-left corner – and held it under Steven Wallace’s nose. Let him drink it in. ‘Look familiar? Helpless, tied to a chair in a basement, gagged, terrified?’

I cleared a shelf of Rioja with a sweep of one hand, then reached into the B&Q carrier-bag.

‘You’re already dead, Steve.’ I pulled a pair of pliers out and placed them on the shelf, then a claw-hammer, braddle, Stanley knife, heavy-duty scissors, and a little blowtorch. ‘Tell me where she is and I’ll make it relatively quick.’

‘Mmmmph… MMMPHNPH!’

I smiled at him. ‘What, you think I’m going to use
these
to make you talk?’ The pliers felt nice and solid in my hand – I snapped the jaws half an inch from his left eye. ‘Where is she?’

‘Mmmmmmph! Mnnnphnmmph!’

‘WHERE IS SHE?’ A shelf full of burgundy exploded on the flagstones.

‘MMMNNNPH!’ The sharp tang of fresh urine joined the heady tannin stench of red wine.

‘She’s near, isn’t she? When you had this place renovated, you got them to put in a secret room, didn’t you? Somewhere you could take people’s daughters. Where is she?’

‘Mmmnphnnnmmmnnn…’

I grabbed a corner of the duct tape and pulled.

‘Aaaaaargh… God… I don’t … I don’t know. I don’t, I
swear
.’

I put the pliers back on the shelf. ‘Wrong answer.’

‘HELP ME! SOMEONE! PLEASE DEAR GOD HELP ME! HELP—’

I slammed my elbow into the murdering bastard’s face, catching him above the left eye. A nice solid smack. His head snapped back, thumping into the wine rack behind him, making the bottles clatter against each other. Got to hand it to Andy Inglis: when it came to beating the shit out of people, he knew his stuff.

‘Where is she?’

Steven Wallace blinked a couple of times, I grabbed his hair and forced the bastard’s head back, staring into his eyes. Dilated pupils.

‘I didn’t do it… I don’t know anything…’

‘What are you on: amphetamines, ecstasy, cocaine? Smoke a few joints before bedtime?’ The skin above his eye was already starting to swell up. ‘Nah, it’s coke, isn’t it? Nothing else is showbiz enough for a prick like you.’

I dragged him and his chair into the middle of the room. Put a foot on his chest and pushed. The chair tipped over, crashed to the floor amongst the broken bottles, pinning his arms underneath him.

A grunt.

‘Don’t go anywhere.’

I was back two minutes later with a couple of hand towels.

Only took three kicks to get the cellar door off its hinges. I carried it over to one of the wine racks and propped the top end up on the second shelf from the bottom, then hauled Wallace and his chair on top of the door – still flat on his back, feet up, head down.

‘Where is she?’

‘You can’t do this to me, I
know
people!’

‘Pliers and blowtorches are for amateurs, Steve. The field of torture has come on leaps and bounds since the Spanish Inquisition.’

I pulled one of the bottles from the rack. An ’84 Bordeaux. No idea if it was any good or not. Didn’t really matter. I smashed the neck against the wall: red splashed across the bare stone.

‘Where is she?’

‘They’re gonna find you and they’re gonna pay
you
a visit.’

‘Grow up.’

‘Gonna cut your cock off and make you eat it!’

‘You’ve got nice towels in that spare bathroom. Very soft and fluffy. Very absorbent.’ I draped one over his mouth, then upended the wine into the towel, saturating it. Then another bottle. I put my foot on his forehead, pressing down hard enough to stop him moving his head. Poured more Bordeaux over his mouth and up his nose, filling his sinuses. He shuddered in the chair, knees and shoulders jerking, making muffled screams through the sodden fabric.

I pulled the towel off his face. He spluttered and retched.

Dirty murdering little fuck.

‘Where is she?’

‘Gahhh… Jesus… SOMEBODY HELP ME!’ Eyes blinking, red wine running down his face and onto the tilted door. ‘HELP ME!’

Pliers were old hat, but waterboarding was a different matter. Thank you ACC Drummond for the suggestion.

‘Basement wine cellar, remember? No one can hear you. But that’s why you had it built, isn’t it?’

I flipped the wet towel back over his mouth, picked a ’96 pinot noir, and stood on his forehead again. ‘Where is she?’

‘Mmmmphmmnnnnphpnnnn!’

‘Glug, glug, glug.’ I emptied the contents over his face.

More struggling, more screaming.

Someone once told me that the CIA’s best covert operatives – the ones specially trained to resist torture – can put up with this for about fourteen seconds. The trachea, larynx, sinuses, and throat all fill up with liquid and the body goes apeshit. The brain’s not in control any more. Panic, gag reflex, terror. Of course the lungs are above the high-tide mark, but the body doesn’t care. Help me, I’m drowning, I’m
dying
.

I dropped the empty bottle.

Wallace’s eyes were wide open, tinged with pink and wet with red wine. His whole body shook as if he was having a fit, the wet towel sagging into his open mouth as he gasped for air that wasn’t there.

Bet no one in Guantanamo Bay got waterboarded with a ’96 Pinot Noir.

I flipped the towel away.

He kept shaking, jerking against his restraints. I tipped the chair over onto its side.

Red wine gushed out of him, a deep sucking breath, then a spray of vomit onto the broken glass. I let him heave until there was nothing left but bile.

‘You having fun yet,
Sensational
Steve? Cause you’ve got what … two, three thousand bottles down here? We can do this all night.’

‘I don’t… I don’t know where she is. I swear! If I did, I’d tell you! I don’t know: I never touched her… Please…’ He closed his eyes, banged his head against the wet door. ‘Please, I didn’t touch her…’

‘Don’t believe you.’

‘I didn’t touch her, I didn’t!’

‘Prove it: where were you Friday night?’

‘Dundee. I was in Dundee… I was in Dundee doing a leukaemia thing…’

I shoved him over onto his back again and pulled another bottle from the shelves. ‘How does a Lengs & Cooter reserve shiraz sound to you – 2001’s a good vintage to drown in, isn’t it?’ The glass neck shattered against the wall and Wallace screamed.

‘God,
please
… I was with my boyfriend! I was with my boyfriend! I was in Dundee with my boyfriend…’ Wallace screwed his eyes tight shut. ‘He’s married. I didn’t touch your daughter, I swear!’

I stuck the towel back over his mouth and rested my boot on his head. ‘Let’s double check that, shall we?’

Cue muffled screaming.

I pulled out Steven Wallace’s mobile phone, found his boyfriend’s name in the list, and pushed the button with my gloved finger.

It rang. And rang. And rang. And then a man’s voice, throaty and muzzy. ‘
What… Hello? Steve? God…
’ Rustling. The clunk of a door being shut. ‘
Jesus, Steve, it’s two in the morning: Julia was right there in bed with me… Steve? Hello?
’

I put on an English accent, hamming up the Mockney: asked him where he was last night. Told him I’d send photos to his wife if he didn’t tell the truth.

Then swore and hung up.

Looked down at Steven Wallace’s shivering sobbing body.

Ah…

I rolled up the overalls and dropped them into the flames. Held my hands out and absorbed the heat. Oldcastle Industrial Estate was a bit of a shithole, but at quarter to three on a Sunday morning it was perfect for a little tidying up. Boxy warehouses were locked away behind chain-link fences, streetlights standing guard over deserted cul-de-sacs.