Birthdays for the Dead (17 page)

Cold leached into my bones, nipping my ears and nose.

Arnold Burges had a point – how
did
the Birthday Boy find them all the way up here? And how did he manage to track down Hannah Kelly’s parents even though they’d moved house again and again and again…

It was different for us – we’d stayed put. Well, Michelle had. She got the house and I got a kicking from her divorce lawyer. But all the other parents…

I gave Sabir a call and asked.

His Scouse accent was muffled, as if he had a mouthful of something. ‘
Dunno.
’

‘Oh, come on: don’t tell me you guys haven’t looked into it. Hannah Kelly’s parents couldn’t be more difficult to track down if they were in witness protection and they still get a birthday card every year. That doesn’t seem a bit suspicious to you?’

The sound of slow chewing came from the earpiece.

I waited.

‘Sabir?’

‘
Are youse finished?
’

‘I was just—’

‘
Treatin’ us like we’re a bunch of bell ends. Course we thought about it, you divvie. We gorra big list of jobs our lad could be doing that’d let him find out where the victims’ families live. Might work for the Inland Revenue, or the DMV, or maybe he’s a doctor, orra journalist, or he’s in the Post Office, or with a telecoms provider, or he’s a bizzie—
’

‘A police officer?’

‘
Maybe. Or maybe he’s someone who knows how to use the internet, you think about that? I want to find out ’bout a suspect I don’t even bother with the PNC these days, I look them up on Facebook, LinkedIn, Google Plus, electoral register… Internet’s a goldmine: everyone’s gorra digital footprint, if you know where to look.
’

Yeah, right: because Donald Kelly would be updating his status to ‘WE’VE MOVED HOUSE TO 36 DUNROSS STREET, OLDCASTLE, OC23 9WP. DON’T TELL THE BIRTHDAY BOY! LOL!!!!’

‘
Point is, if our lad’s computer savvy, it’s not gonna take him long…
’ The rattle of fat fingers on a keyboard. ‘
Ash Henderson: Forty-Two Fletcher Avenue; Royal Bank of Scotland … overdrawn by a grand and a bit; mobile number: oh seven eight four two—
’

‘OK, OK, I get the—’

‘
Divorced, two children: Rebecca… ran away when she was twelve, Katie…’
More keystrokes. ‘
Katie lives at Nineteen Rowan Drive, Blackwall Hill, Oldcastle; she goes to Johnston Academy; and is “in a relationship” with someone called Noah. Apparently it’s “complicated”, but—
’

‘Enough. I get it.’ And who the hell was Noah?

‘
How long did that take us?
’

‘Donald Kelly isn’t on Facebook.’

‘
Doesn’t have to be. If we’re all seven steps of separation from Kevin Bacon, how many steps do you think it takes to find someone posting photos to Flickr, blogging, tweeting, sticking stuff up on any one of a million social networking sites? Might never have touched a computer in your life and youse’ll still have a digital footprint.
’

Sod.

The clouds were getting darker, spreading like cancer across the pale-blue sky.

‘How’s Dundee going?’

‘
Nothing more we can do there, so we’ve all upped sticks to your neck of the woods. Helpin’ your divvie mates – see if we can narrow the search down a bit. You wanna talk to the guvnor?
’

‘Nah, I’m good.’ A tiny fleck of white drifted through the cold air, followed by a second and a third. Not really snowing, but definitely thinking about it. ‘Do me a favour: find out who’s been searching for Donald Kelly, or any of the other parents.’

‘
On the internet? I’m good, but I’m not that good.
’ More munching noises. ‘
No one’s
that
good. Youse are talkin’ about millions of servers all over the world and—
’

‘Well, can’t you… Erm…’

What? If it was impossible it was impossible. I stood, stamped my feet to get some feeling back into them. Maybe we should start small. ‘What systems
could
you do it for?’

‘
Seriously?
’

‘Just because it’s a pain in the arse, doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.’

‘
You’re the pain in the arse.
’ A sigh. ‘
I’ll see what I can do, but I’m promisin’ bugger all.
’ And he was gone.

I headed back along the harbour. The flakes were still tiny, but there were more of them – settling on the cold pavements, making it look as if they’d been dusted with icing sugar.

On the other end of the phone, DCI Weber sighed. ‘
You’re a silly bugger, Ash.
’

I pushed my empty plate away: macaroni cheese and chips – lunch of champions. ‘Thanks, Gregor, that helps.’

‘
Ash, Ash, Ash, what did I tell you about pissing off Mrs Kerrigan? It doesn’t matter if Andy Inglis likes you, she’ll still have your—
’

‘I know, OK? I know.’ I dropped a tenner on the table, drained the last of my mineral water, and pushed out onto the street. My breath plumed around my head. ‘Who told you?’

‘
They didn’t put me in charge of CID because I’m pretty. I do work things out from time to time.
’

I took a right, heading back along Main Street towards Henry’s house, one hand stuffed deep in my pocket, the other nipping in the frigid air. ‘It’s not—’

‘
Ash, we’ve talked about this: while Sergeant Smith is with us we have to be
extremely
discreet. I don’t think getting your house trashed by the local hoodlums is very discreet, do you? What if she decides to have you killed? Do you have any idea how awkward a position that would put me in?
’

‘Yeah, how thoughtless of me. What
was
I thinking?’

Wind whipped down an alley, swirling the tiny white flakes into a vortex. There was some sort of bookshop on the other side. I stopped.

‘
You know what I mean. Obviously your loss would be tragic, but it’d be the rest of us getting a screwing from Professional Standards.
’ A pause. ‘
How much do you owe?
’

There was a fluffy stuffed puffin in the window. Katie would love that. She might dress like something out of the Addams Family, but she still had every fluffy toy I’d ever bought her.

‘Got to go. Bird-related emergency.’

‘
Ash—
’

‘I’ll sort it, OK?’ Though Christ knew how…

Chapter 21

The lounge bar at the Scalloway Hotel was busy that evening. I picked my way around a clump of men in overalls, then through a swarm of girlies – dressed in pink Stetsons and ‘L’ plates – to where Henry and Dr McDonald were sitting.

Her face had developed a pale-grey tint, like unpainted wood-chip wallpaper, the bags under her eyes a greenish-purple. I put a pint glass full of milk and another of water on the table in front of her. A thin smile, then she puffed out her cheeks and gulped at the milk.

Sitting opposite, Henry took his double Grouse with a nod. ‘Sally came, so we ordered for you.’

I pulled out a chair and parked myself next to Dr McDonald. At least this way if she puked it’d be all over Henry and not me. ‘I was only gone five minutes.’

Dr McDonald wiped a hand across her mouth, then put the empty glass back on the table. ‘You’re having the lamb.’

‘OK…’ I probably would have picked that anyway, but it would have been nice to get the choice. That was the problem with psychologists: they always had to know best. ‘And did you two achieve anything today? Cirrhosis? Alcohol poisoning?’

Henry took another sip of whisky.

She picked up her water. ‘What: you don’t like lamb?’

‘Do we have a profile? Vague pointers? Something for the door-to-door teams to look out for?’

‘What’s wrong with lamb?’

‘There’s nothing…’ For God’s sake. ‘Look, do we have
any
idea what the Birthday Boy wants, or don’t we?’

She glanced across the table at Henry.

He lifted his whisky as if he was toasting her. ‘In your own time.’

Dr McDonald nodded, then toasted him back with the water. ‘There’s something deeply wrong about the way he deals with the victims: when he snatches them he should be all excited and wound up and desperate to relive the fantasy again, but he leaves them tied to a chair for two or three days until it’s their birthday, I mean I could see a couple of hours’ delayed gratification, but three days is too much.’

Deep breath. ‘Then there’s the disposal, there’s no ritual to it, no meaning, just getting rid of bodies, I wondered if there was something significant about them being naked…’

I shook my head. ‘He buries them naked because it’s a pain in the arse to dress a dead body. You should try it sometime: worse than undressing a drunk. He strips them when he tortures them, why would he want to dress them again?’

She smiled at me, as if I was a small child who’d managed to tie his own shoelaces for the first time. ‘Exactly: it’s like they don’t matter to him at all, you know I think he’d put them out for the bin men if he thought he could get away with it, they’re irrelevant.’

I settled back in my seat and raised an eyebrow at Henry.

He shook his head. ‘It’s Alice’s show.’

‘If they don’t matter, why abduct them at all?’

She opened her mouth to say something, but a large grey-haired woman got there first: ‘Two Cullen Skinks and a smoked salmon starter?’

Inside, the music swelled – the crowd joining in with the three-piece band. Guitar, violin and an accordion doing a Scottish country dance version of ‘Johnny B. Goode’, with the occasional ‘Heuch!’ thrown in for good measure.

Outside it was freezing.

I put a finger in my ear to block out the noise and hunched my back against the cold. ‘What do you mean: he’s watching you? Where?’

Michelle’s voice trembled. ‘
We’re in Tesco – the changing rooms. Ash, he’s right outside!
’

‘You’re sure?’

‘
Of course I’m bloody sure!
’ A clunk and some rustling, a pause, and then Michelle was back. ‘
He’s watching the changing rooms. What am I supposed to do? Katie’s here – we’re trying to get something nice for her party, and Ethan’s standing right outside waiting for us!
’

The wee shite. ‘OK: does the changing room have an assistant? Get them to call store security.’

Silence. Snow drifted down from the dark sky, shining in the streetlights, thick and quiet. ‘
Ash, what if he comes to the house? What if he—
’

‘I’ll sort it. Don’t worry, it’ll be—’

‘
When? When will you sort it? Tonight?
’ Her voice was getting higher, the words faster. ‘
Can you do it tonight?
’

‘I said I’ll sort it. Won’t be till tomorrow though, maybe we can—’

‘
Tomorrow? You know what Ethan’s like: if he’s—
’

‘I’m in Shetland, Michelle, I can’t click my heels together three times and magically—’

‘
You’re in Shetland?
’ A pause. ‘
I thought you said Katie stayed with you last night!
’

Bugger.

‘Yes, well … I flew up this morning. Part of the investigation.’ Silence. ‘Look, I’ll make some calls. Meantime: tell store security he’s stalking you.’

More silence. ‘
Fine.
’ And she was gone.

Bloody Ethan Baxter. Couldn’t take a bloody telling, could he?

I scrolled through my contacts list. Maybe get Shifty Dave to pay him a visit with a crowbar? … No.
That
pleasure was going to be all mine. I scrolled down and clicked another number.

It rang, and rang, and rang, and then a recorded voice came on the line: ‘
Hi, this is Rhona. Leave a message.
’ Beeeep.

‘Rhona, it’s Ash. Listen, I need you to do me a—’

‘
Hello?
’ Scrambling, clicking noises. ‘
Hello? Guv?
’ Voice a little slurred around the edges.

‘Ethan Baxter: not sure where he’s living now, but he used to have a house on Lochview Road. He’s been hassling Michelle and Katie.’

‘
Right, Jesus, OK… You want him picked up? I’ll get Norm and we’ll give him a tour of the station stairs.
’

She would too. ‘Just get someone to keep an eye on Michelle, drive by the house now and then, make sure Baxter’s behaving himself. I’ll deal with him when I get back from Shetland.’

‘
Cool. I’ll come with you and—
’

‘I don’t really think that’s a good idea, it’s—’

‘
Guv, you’ll need someone to watch your back: make sure you’re covered in case the wee shite makes a complaint, or there’s an investigation… That kind of thing.
’

A Range Rover growled past, windscreen wipers going full pelt, headlights making the snow flare brilliant white in the darkness.

‘I’ll be fine. Make sure whoever’s doing the drive-bys lets Michelle know they’re there, OK?’

‘
You can count on me, Guv: she’ll know you’re looking out for her.
’

‘And if the bastard goes anywhere near them, pick him up and stick him somewhere till I get back.’

‘
Somewhere quiet and out of the way. No witnesses. Got you.
’

‘Thanks, Rhona.’

We spent a few minutes moaning about the Warriors’ chances against Aberdeen Football Club on Saturday, what a cock Sergeant Smith was, and the weekend’s weather forecast; then she caught me up on the Cameron Park investigation. Which didn’t seem to be achieving much more than produ-cing a small rainforest’s worth of paperwork.

The band’s Jimmy-Shand-style interpretation of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ got louder for a couple of seconds, then a door clunked and Henry’s voice cut through the snow’s feathery silence. ‘Wondered where you’d got to.’

I hung up and slid the phone back into my pocket. ‘Checking in with the station.’

Henry turned up his collar and squinted out into the slow-motion blizzard. He didn’t look that great – even for someone slowly pickling themselves into oblivion. Sunken cheeks, sunken eyes, skin the colour of parchment. He sniffed. Held out his arms, voice a gravelly monotone.

‘
Then winter’s icy claws dig deep into the hearts of men

pulling forth the long dark nights, the pale bone touch of death again…
’

‘Poetry? God, you’re a cheery bastard.’

A shrug. ‘My clown suit’s been in the wash since Ellie passed.’ He wiped a finger under his nose – catching a drip. ‘You know the funny thing about Albert Pearson’s funeral? The only person I knew there was dead. What was the point? We’re all dead now, even me. I just haven’t stopped moving yet.’