Birthdays for the Dead (18 page)

Thursday 17th November

Chapter 22

The kitchen clock ticked quietly on the wall, Sheba groaned and twitched on a hairy tartan beanbag, and the muffled sound of snoring came from the master and spare bedrooms. I sat at the breakfast bar, looking out at the back garden. All the sharp edges were gone, softened by eight inches of snow, more of it drifting down from the pale sky. A puffed-up robin perched on top of the washing line, shouting territorial abuse at anyone within listening distance.

No sign of Henry or Dr McDonald, so I’d let myself in and taken over the kitchen. Flicking through the case files, brooding about Michelle, Katie, and Rebecca, listening to the clock carving the day into thin sharp slices.

And
my coffee was cold.

What to do about Ethan Baxter? The vicious little bastard never learned… Well, tomorrow morning he was going to get a telling he wouldn’t forget.

Maybe it was time for Ethan to have an accident? Drag him out into the middle of nowhere and put a bullet through his head. Put an end to his crap once and for all…

Well, it was worth thinking about.

And once I’d taken care of Ethan Baxter, there’d be Mrs Kerrigan to deal with. Four grand by lunchtime today. Even if I had four grand, which I
didn’t
, there was no way I could get it to her – not from here. Never mind the other fifteen.

Where the hell was I supposed to get
nineteen thousand
pounds from?

It was like a weight, sitting on my chest, forcing me back into the chair.

Focus on the do-able first, then worry about the rest.

Four grand by today was impossible: the ferry wouldn’t get back to Aberdeen till seven tomorrow morning. OK, I could blag a flight from Sumburgh Airport – flash my warrant card and pretend it was urgent police business – but what would be the point? Rush home so I could be in time to get my legs broken? Bugger that.

The house was a wreck, my car wasn’t worth the duct tape holding the rear bumper on, and I had nothing left to sell. Nothing: it was all gone. And shaking a few perverts and drug dealers by the ankles would only net a couple of grand tops, so how the hell was I going to get my hands on nineteen thousand pounds…?

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Ethan Baxter wasn’t exactly scraping along the poverty line, was he? No: Ethan drove a Mercedes; Ethan lived in a nice big house in Castleview; Ethan was due a battering anyway, why not throw in a bit of demanding money with menaces too?

Wasn’t as if the bastard didn’t deserve it. And I’m sure – given the choice of a shallow grave or making a
donation
– he’d jump at the chance to help out an old friend.

I’d be doing him a favour really.

Rationalization that good deserved a fresh cup of coffee.

I got as far as filling the kettle when someone banged on the front door.

‘OK, OK, I’m coming.’

More banging.

I hauled the door open.

Winter had claimed Scalloway. The rooftops were laden with thick crusts of white, the gardens nearly buried. Arnold Burges stood on the path, scuffed yellow wellingtons ankle-deep in snow, dressed in a scabby pair of orange overalls with a quilted jacket over the top and a woolly hat. His eyes were thin and dark, beard bristling.

I blocked the doorway. ‘Arnold.’

He bit his top lip, flexed his hands into fists. ‘She was alive.’ His breath hung in the cold air around his head. It stank of stale booze.

‘Did you drive here? Because—’

‘She was our little girl, and we loved her.’

‘Mr Burges, I know it’s—’

‘But Lauren’s never going to be a person in her own right, is she? She’s always going to be “Lauren Burges: the Birthday Boy’s third victim”. Like her whole childhood, all the time we had together, we were only killing time till the bastard grabbed her.’ Burges reached into his padded jacket and pulled out a red-top tabloid.

Lauren’s photo was on the front page – grinning away with a party hat perched on top of her spiky pink hair – beneath the headline, ‘B
IRTHDAY
B
OY
V
ICTIM
’
S
B
ODY
D
UG
U
P
I
N
O
LDCASTLE.
’

Bloody Oldcastle CID couldn’t keep its mouth shut if it fell in a septic tank.

‘I’m sorry. I really am.’

Burges looked away, blinking, then went back into his jacket and produced a bulging folder. He held it out. Thick snowflakes settled on the blue surface. I took it from him, put it under my arm.

‘You read that.’ He squared his shoulders, stuck his chin out. ‘You read that and you know our Lauren was
real
. She wasn’t just a frigging victim.’

‘You have to let the police do their job, Mr Burges. We’re going to find him, and we’re going to stop him. We’re going to make him pay for what he did to Lauren and… And the others.’ And no matter what else happened: he’d live to stand trial. The bastard would be hauled up in front of everyone, found guilty, and sent down for life. Six months tops, before someone carved his eyes out and cut off his balls in the prison laundry. Then we’d all throw a huge party.

Burges stared at me, then took a step back, nodding. ‘They sent someone round the house while I was at work yesterday, stuck a camera in Danielle’s face, wanted to know what it feels like to find out they’ve dug up your dead daughter…’

Before anyone official had even bothered to tell Burges and his wife that we’d found Lauren’s remains. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You should be.’ Burges turned, and lurched back down the path, scuffing his wellies through the snow. A scarred Berlingo van sat by the kerb, ‘C
ALDERS
L
EA
A
QUACULTURE
L
TD.
’ written along the side. Benny waved at me from the driver’s seat.

I waited until Burges reached the gate. ‘I meant what I said yesterday: Henry Forrester did everything he could. It’s not his fault.’

The big man paused for a moment, then clambered into the van without a word.

It slithered away from the pavement and off into the snow.

I shuffled my chair closer to the open oven door. Not the most ecologically responsible way of heating a room, but at least now the kitchen was warm enough to sit in without getting frostbite.

Sheba creaked up from her bed in the corner and collapsed beside my chair, rolled onto her side and exposed her stomach to the warmth.

‘Dear God, when did Henry last give you a
bath
?’

She sighed.

I unpacked the folder Burges had given me. It was full of reports from private investigators; interview transcripts; Freedom of Information requests; statements from Lauren’s friends and family trying to piece together the last time they’d seen her alive; photos of Lauren at the beach, parties, playing in the back garden. It painted a very different picture from the official file. That one was all about facts and evidence, this one was all about Lauren Burges.

She was like Rebecca in so many ways: a nice girl, from a nice home, who got snatched from her family and tortured to death.

‘Urgh…’ A voice from the doorway.

I turned, and there was Dr McDonald: shuffling, swollen-eyed, brown curls hanging lank and greasy around her pale face.

‘You look awful.’

She winced, held up a finger. ‘Shhhh…’

‘Hungover?’

‘If you make too much noise you’ll wake him, and then I’ll have to start drinking again, and I really don’t want to start drinking again, can we not just sit in silence for a bit and then maybe it’ll all be OK and I won’t feel like throwing myself under a bus or something?’ She lowered herself onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar, then folded over until her head rested on the working surface. ‘Urgh…’

‘Hungry?’

‘Urgh…’

‘Trust me: get something in your stomach now, before Henry wakes up and cracks open that litre of Bells.’

‘Do I have to?’ She peered at me, head still resting on the countertop. ‘OK. I’ll have eggs and toast and bacon and saus-ages and tomato and mushrooms and chips and black pudding, and—’

‘Then you should’ve stayed at the hotel last night, instead of staggering back here with Henry to polish off the Isle of Jura, shouldn’t you?’ I stood and pulled a greasy paper bag out of the bread bin. ‘Bought a couple of sausage rolls on the way over this morning. You want them warmed in the microwave, or the oven?’

‘I want to go
home
.’ Music blared out of her jeans. ‘Noooo…’ She pulled a smartphone from a pocket and jabbed a finger at the display. It kept on singing. Jab, jab, jab. Dr McDonald dumped the thing on the breakfast bar and wrapped her arms around her head. ‘Make it stop…’

I picked the phone up. A photo of Detective Chief Superintendent Dickie flashed on the screen.

I went to press the green button, but the music stopped before I got there. He’d rung off.

Then my phone started ringing: ‘DCS D
ICKIE
’. I answered it. ‘What: I’m not your first choice?’

‘
Hello? Hello, I can barely hear you…
’ A siren blared in the background, nearly drowning out everything Dickie said, even though he was almost shouting. ‘
Look, I can’t get through to Dr McDonald – can you tell her Sabir’s discovered an encrypted file on Helen McMillan’s computer. It’s a diary: we know where the signed first editions came from.
’

‘Where?’

‘
Hello? … Ash? We’re hot-footing it down to Dundee now: speciality bookshop on Forrest Park Road, near the university… Hello? … Hello? … Can’t hear a bloody—
’

And that was it: the connection was gone.

I tipped the sausage rolls out of the bag and onto a plate, stuck it in the microwave for a couple of minutes on full. Then passed on Dickie’s message while the thing groaned and buzzed.

Ding.

I clunked the plate down in front of Dr McDonald. ‘Eat.’

She hauled her head off the worktop. ‘Don’t suppose Henry’s got any brown sauce, does he?’

‘You think our bookseller could be the Birthday Boy?’ I nudged the plate. ‘Eat: before the pastry turns to linoleum.’

‘I wouldn’t have put running a specialist bookshop at the top of my list for Birthday Boy occupations. I mean how’s he going to track the families so he can deliver the card every year?’ She took a bite, then huffed and puffed with her mouth wide open. ‘Ooh: hot, hot, hot.’

‘Sabir says he could be using the internet to find them. Or maybe they all bought books from him?’

Another bite. No puffing this time. ‘Did Hannah Kelly collect rare signed first editions?’

‘No.’ And neither did Rebecca.

‘Exactly.’ Bite, chew, munch.

I put the kettle on again, gritting my teeth as the joints of my fingers grated together. Always was worse when the weather changed. The bruises across the knuckles were starting to fade to yellows and greens. I rinsed out a mug for her. ‘You said you knew I wasn’t a vegetarian because of my face and hands – when we were on the boat, you ordered that steak. And the lamb last night.’

‘The Birthday Boy doesn’t sell books, don’t get me wrong: I’ve known a few people who work in bookshops and they can be really weird, but not torture-porn weird, and that seems to be what he’s making, only not for himself to enjoy – he’s making it for someone else.’

‘What’s wrong with my hands and face?’

‘I think he’s making it for the parents. I think that’s why he’s so squeamish about the girls screaming, why he just dumps the bodies afterwards, why it takes him three days to work up the courage to torture his victims: he’s not really interested in
them
, he’s interested in their mums and dads.’

I poured hot water into the mugs. ‘“Who’s he really torturing.”’

‘Exactly.’ She crunched into the other sausage roll. ‘I know you’re not a vegetarian, because you’ve got bruises on your fists and your face, then there’s the way you talk to people – the alpha male strut – and I have the deepest respect for you as a police officer, so please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a man of violence, it …
oozes
out of your pores. That doesn’t really go with being a vegetarian.’

‘I
strut
?’ A small laugh broke free and I smiled. ‘Ever seen a G-Twenty anti-capitalist riot? Half those buggers are vegeta-blists. You wouldn’t think they’d have the energy.’

She cleared her throat. ‘Yes, well … sometimes men of violence are what’s needed.’

Twenty past ten and Henry still hadn’t surfaced, but Dr McDonald had figured out how to work the central heating and now the kitchen was positively balmy. She’d perked up a bit too – three mugs of coffee, a pair of sausage rolls, and all was right with the world.

She hunched over the laptop she’d taken out of her leather satchel. ‘He’s signing in…’

The speakers gave a jangly ringing noise, a hiss, a click, and then Sabir’s huge grey face filled the screen. He squinted, and leaned forwards. ‘
Mornin’ everyone… Bleedin’ heck: you look like crap, Doc.
’

I shifted around behind Dr McDonald, until I could see myself in the little window inset into Sabir’s video feed. ‘Any news on the bookseller?’

‘
They’ve got him in an interview room, acting all indignant and “I’ve never done nothin’ to no one”. Dozy Get.
’

I leaned in. ‘What about my searches?’

‘
Ah, right…
’ He grimaced. ‘
I might owe you a bit of an apology on that one. Went and did a search on all twelve families and four of them didn’t come up with nothin’ recent enough to find out where they were. Nowhere Joey Public gets access to. Not without some serious IT skills, anyway.
’ Sabir’s fingers clacked over the keyboard. ‘
Even then: there was bugger all on Hannah Kelly’s ma and da. So I went and did a bit of a hack on the Police National Computer – told it to gizza list of everyone who’s entered search criteria for any Birthday Boy families for the last four years.
’