Read Birthdays for the Dead Online
Authors: Stuart MacBride
The old Belbin’s cash-and-carry was boarded up, its car park littered with plastic bags, leaves, and assorted crap: the charred skeletal remains of a burnt-out Ford Fiesta; a trailer with a broken axle – the wheels sticking out at sixty degrees to the vertical; a little pile of buckled shopping trolleys, mattresses, and bin-bags.
And an oil-drum brazier.
I tossed the hammer and screwdriver in with the overalls, then dropped the woolly hat and shower cap on top. Pulled out Steven Wallace’s mobile phone and dumped that into the flames too. Watched the whole lot burn.
Katie…
No going back now.
‘And then she threw up all over Sergeant Roberts’ back, right there in the briefing room.’ Charlie wiggled his hips, twisted his shoulders from side to side, and lowered his head. ‘And it’s this for a birdie…’
Plink. The golf ball trundled across the carpet tiles, then up into the little horseshoe-shaped thing with a hole in it, sitting on the floor by the far wall. He held the putter above his head and made fake crowd noises. ‘And it’s in! The young officer from Oldcastle is
romping
home at Gleneagles today.’
He handed me the club, then settled into his office chair and ran a hand across his head, making sure the dyed brown comb-over was still in place. A splodge of what looked like brown sauce stained the breast pocket of his white shirt, black uniform jacket hanging over the back of his seat, its superintendent’s epaulettes in need of a good clean.
The horseshoe thing spat the ball out again.
Charlie stuck out a finger and traced an invisible path around the cluttered office. ‘It’s a par three with a dogleg around the wastepaper basket.’ Another mouthful of bacon buttie.
Outside the tiny office window, the station car park was nearly empty. The occasional sweep of headlights broke the gloom, illuminating a high brick wall topped with razor wire. Twenty past seven: the sun wouldn’t be up for nearly an hour yet.
I rolled the ball onto the tee – a Tennent’s Lager beer mat – and lined up the shot. Nice and casual. Nothing out of the ordinary here… ‘Well, Rhona did get a bit bladdered last night.’
‘You know I’m supposed to give you a kicking, don’t you?’
‘Yup.’
Plink. The ball rolled under the desk and bounced off the skirting board.
‘Oh, good shot. Can we take the bollocking as read, then? I really can’t be arsed, and you’re not going to give a toss anyway.’
‘Yup.’ I lined up the next shot. ‘Any progress on the door-to-doors?’
‘But come on, Ash: the Assistant Chief Constable? Could you not have picked a bigger toss-pot to accuse of being the Birthday Boy?’
Plink… The ball clanged into the wastepaper basket.
‘And telling our beloved MSP to bugger off? Really?’
‘Lucky I didn’t knee the greasy little bastard in the balls. So: door-to-doors?’
‘They not talking to you, eh? Join the club – no one tells us poor sods in Professional Standards anything. I have to guess what the soup is most days.’
‘No one likes a clype.’
Charlie checked his comb-over again. ‘Ash, I’m really sorry about Katie.’
‘I need to be in on the investigation.’
‘It’s such a horrible thing…’ Sigh.
‘I need to know what’s happening.’
‘This isn’t the movies, Ash: you can’t get twenty-four hours to crack the case – not with the media camped out on our doorstep. You should be at home with Michelle… Everyone’s doing their best.’
Plink. Bloody ball went wide, ended up in the gap between the filing cabinets and the visitor’s chair.
I tightened my grip on the club, knuckles going white. ‘So I’m out.’ Not exactly a surprise, but still… ‘He’s got my
daughter
.’
‘I know, Ash, I know.’ Charlie pulled a sheet of paper from his pending-tray and held it out. ‘I’m sorry. The ACC wants you taken off active duty for the duration of the investigation, and the Chief Constable agrees.’
‘Suspended.’
‘With pay.’
As if that bloody mattered.
He looked down at the makeshift office golf course, the piles of paperwork on his desk, the remains of his bacon buttie – everywhere but at me. ‘I’m truly sorry, Ash. But we don’t have any choice.’
The CID office printer groaned and creaked in the corner churning out reams of reports. The only other noise was the clink and thump of me hurling the contents of my desk drawers into a cardboard box.
‘Are you OK?’ Dr McDonald sidled in from the corridor outside. Her hair was different: flatter, and darker too. The usually stripy grey top had been replaced with a black long-sleeved one with a red and black striped T-shirt over the top. A cross hung around her neck on what looked like a string of rosary beads. Black jeans. But the shoes were still bright-red Converse Hi-tops, the toecaps unnaturally white. What, did she put on a new pair every morning?
I dumped a stapler and a two-hole punch in with the assorted crap. ‘Everyone fucked off soon as I produced the cardboard box.’
‘More honour among thieves than police officers?’
‘Suspended till the investigation’s over. Eight years and they’ve got nowhere. Eight
years
…’ I jammed the desk tidy in on top of all the half-used pads of Post-it notes. ‘Her birthday’s tomorrow.’
‘Maybe we don’t need a warrant to question Steven Wallace, maybe we could—’
‘I told you last night: it’s not Steven Wallace.’ A knot of black cables, attached to a variety of plugs, lurked at the back of the bottom drawer – rechargers for phones I hadn’t had for years. I packed them anyway. ‘He’s got an alibi.’
She perched herself on the edge of a desk, little red shoes dangling two feet above the carpet tiles. ‘We need to work out why he’s targeted Katie, I mean perhaps Henry was wrong and the Birthday Boy didn’t take someone else before Megan Taylor, perhaps
Katie’s
number thirteen… Unless he really did take a year off, which would make her number twelve…’ A crease formed between her eyebrows. She stared at her hands, clasped in her lap. ‘I’m sorry, I’m
trying
to help, but I know I can be a bit—’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I didn’t mean to talk about her like she was just another victim, she’s your daughter and—’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ I rammed a handful of old notebooks in on top of the cables. ‘Anything that helps get her back.’
‘OK.’ A nod. ‘Henry’s ferry got in half an hour ago – he wants to meet us at the burial … at Cameron Park.’
I stared into the box. All that time, and what did I have to show for it? No house, a shitty little Renault, and a cardboard box full of crap. ‘I’m not on the case any more.’
‘Are you going to let that stop you?’
Was I hell.
A queasy groan came from the door. ‘Never,
ever
again…’ Rhona – pale as a mealie pudding, with the skin texture to match. She leaned against the door frame. ‘I’m dying…’
‘Then go home and lie down.’ I dumped the last of my stuff in the box.
‘No chance. Katie’s birthday’s tomorrow – I’m not going anywhere till we find her.’ Rhona slumped into the nearest chair, covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh God…’
‘Anyway,’ Dr McDonald swung her little red feet, ‘we should probably get going, Henry won’t be—’
‘Hold on a minute, Princess.’ Rhona surfaced from behind her fingers. ‘What’s with the new look?’
‘Do you like it, I had a bit of an accident in the shower this morning: grabbed Aunty Jan’s hair-product stuff and it went all straight, but I think it—’
‘Yeah, and the clothes – they an accident too? You really think you can replace Katie by dying your hair and nicking her clothes?’ Rhona curled her top lip. ‘You’re fucking sick.’
I blinked. Frowned. Stared at Dr McDonald. The hair, the clothes, she did look—
‘I’m not replacing her: I’m trying to get into her head, I mean when I saw what had happened to my hair, I thought, OK, let’s go for it, sometimes it helps me piece together connections and points of contact, and don’t you think we should be doing everything we can to—’
‘God, enough!’ Rhona buried her head in her hands again. ‘Do you
never
stop talking?’
I picked up my box and headed for the door.
Dr McDonald hopped down from the desk and pattered out ahead of me. ‘I think your friend might be a little hungover.’
No wonder she came top of her class.
I slammed the CID office door behind me.
I parked the Renault on McDermid Avenue – opposite the alleyway I’d used last night to get into Cameron Park – clambered out into the gloomy twilight and marched over. Ducked under the ‘
police
’ tape. You found my DNA, Officer? Well, of course I was there: five to eight on Sunday morning, with Dr Alice McDonald. Saturday night? No, you must be thinking of someone else…
Dr McDonald padded along beside me. ‘Brrr, it’s cold, isn’t it cold, I’m cold.’
Cameron Park was a monochrome blur, disappearing into the mist. The SOC tent from last night shone like a lighthouse in the gloom. Dew dripped from jagged trees and drooping bushes. We followed the path, then cut across to the entrance.
Henry’s ancient Volvo estate was parked on the grass outside – Sheba had curled up in the back next to a suitcase and a couple of file boxes, twitching, her grey muzzle resting on her paws.
A voice behind me: ‘She’s not well…’
I turned and there was Henry.
He nodded at the steaming mug in his hand. ‘Before you ask, it’s just coffee.’
Dr McDonald stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the stubbled cheek. ‘Thanks for coming, I—’
‘We need to talk about the order of victims.’
She stepped back. Nodded. Then wrapped an arm around herself. ‘Well, it really depends on whether or not the Birthday Boy took a year off, and—’
‘He didn’t.’ Henry took a sip of coffee. The mug trembled in his hand. ‘I know for certain there was a victim five years ago, but the parents didn’t come forward.’
She stared at him, head on one side. ‘How do you know they—’
‘The father told me.’ He gazed off into the mist. ‘They don’t want to be involved.’
‘That makes Katie number thirteen, she’s the one he’s been building up to.’
‘Fuck…’ I sat on the bonnet of Henry’s car. Cold leached through my trousers.
He smiled at Dr McDonald. ‘You look frozen, Alice. Why don’t you nip in and get yourself a mug of tea? Maybe see if they’ve got a detailed map of the area while you’re there?’
She backed up a step. Looked from Henry, to me, and back again. Then nodded. ‘OK.’ Her red Hi-tops squeaked through the damp grass as she disappeared into the SOC tent.
The only sound was the diesel generators powering the spotlights inside.
‘Thanks for coming, Henry.’
‘You have to tell her.’
‘I don’t want—’
‘Ash, she needs to know. She’s not playing with a full deck and you won’t let her see all the cards.’
‘No.’
He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘I spoke to Dickie – they put you on compassionate leave. It doesn’t matter any more.’
‘It matters to me!’
‘Why? For God’s sake, Ash, you’re—’
‘Because it’s
mine
. OK? That’s why.’ I pushed away from the car, hands curled into aching fists. ‘It’s been mine for four years. Rebecca’s not public property, she’s my daughter. I’m not having bastards picking her life apart and telling me she’s
dead
…’
Henry’s voice was barely audible. ‘I’m sorry, Ash, but Rebecca—’
‘She’s not dead. Not until I get that card…’
A glow spread through the mist, peach and gold and blood red. The sun must have made it up over the hills.
I stared down at my fists. ‘And yes: I know what that sounds like. I’ve never…’ Deep breath. ‘It’s mine.’
Dr McDonald emerged from the SOC tent, something tucked under her arm and a steaming mug in both hands. ‘Ash, did you want coffee, because I’ve got you a coffee and there’s doughnuts but they look a bit stale so I didn’t bother, unless you want me to go back…?’ She handed me a mug. ‘Got the map too.’
Henry spread it out on the Volvo’s bonnet. It was fairly high detail, big enough to take in the park and the surrounding streets. Someone had marked the burial sites – a red ‘X’ for each girl recovered. ‘Right: if he cared about the bodies he’d keep them close.’
Off in the distance, the sound of a car engine and crunching gravel came through the mist. Getting louder.
She leaned on the bonnet. ‘But he doesn’t. Given the deposition sites, it looks as if he’s simply throwing them away.’
‘Exactly. So he’s not going to want to carry them too far…’ Henry produced a pencil. ‘Have you done any geographical profiling? These days it’s all computers and statistical analysis, but we used to do it with brainpower.’
A battered Astra pulled up on the other side of the SEB Transit. Dickie clambered out of the driver’s seat, a smile putting extra wrinkles in his cheeks. ‘Henry! Henry Forrester, you old sod, they said you were here, but I didn’t…’ He stared at me. ‘Ash.’
I stared back. ‘Dickie.’
Dr McDonald smiled. ‘Isn’t it great: Henry’s agreed to assist the investigation.’
Dickie didn’t even look at her. ‘Yeah, that’s great. Ash, you can’t be here.’
‘She’s my daughter.’
‘I
know
she’s… Look, you’re on compassionate leave: I promise we’ll keep you up to date, but you – can’t – be – here.’
I took a step towards him. ‘Her birthday’s tomorrow, do you
really
think I’m—’
‘Don’t make me get someone to escort you home, Ash.’ He closed his eyes, rubbed at his forehead. ‘Please.’
Sun sliced through the clouds, sparkling back from the wet streets as I creaked the Renault onto Rowan Drive. Weber must’ve pulled a few strings, because there was a police cordon cutting off the road a good hundred feet from the house, keeping the journalist scumbags at a reasonable distance. Giving Michelle some privacy.
I pulled into the kerb, behind a BBC outside broadcast van.
Should really drive down there and see how she’s coping. Give her some support. Lie to her and pretend this isn’t what happened to Rebecca…
Maybe Henry was right: maybe it didn’t matter any more. They’d booted me off the investigation anyway, who cared if everyone found out?
The steering wheel was cold in my hands, the plastic coating creaking as I squeezed.
I
cared.
Blink.
Why couldn’t it have been Steven Wallace?
Blink.
I screwed my eyes closed and squeezed the steering wheel till my arms trembled.