Birthdays for the Dead (22 page)

I stopped. Opened my mouth. But Dr McDonald got there first.

‘That’s what I keep telling Mum, but she never believes me.’ Big grin. She swigged from the cup, then placed it on the counter. ‘Thanks, Bill, it’s been fun talking to you.’

He smiled, his chin disappearing into a roll of neck fat. ‘My pleasure, darling. Good luck with university.’ Then he dug beneath the counter and chucked something to her. ‘Gotta keep your strength up.’

Back in the car she unwrapped the muesli bar. ‘He’s nice.’

I gripped the steering wheel. ‘You’re not Katie.’

A sigh. ‘I know, but it made him happy, didn’t it, and you didn’t exactly disabuse him of the notion when you left me with him, did you, so I played along. It was your idea really.’

She had a point. The Renault’s suspension squeaked and groaned as we crossed the rutted car park. ‘How come, with me you’re this rambling gibbery wreck, but with Bill you’re like a normal person?’

‘Are you going to tell me who this Mrs Kerrigan is?’

‘No.’ I took a left onto Angus Road, heading back towards Castle Hill.

Chapter 28

‘No. No I don’t.’ The flat-faced woman with the frizzy blonde hair ushered us outside. Then peered down the stairs towards the road. Wrinkled her top lip. ‘And can you not do something about those horrible people?’ She ducked back inside and closed the door.

McDermid Avenue can’t have been much above freezing. The sky had gone the colour of charcoal, streaked with fire as the sun sank towards the hills. I stuck my hands deep into my pockets, hunched my shoulders. ‘How many’s that?’

Dr McDonald scored the woman’s name off the list, then blew a foggy breath into stripy woollen gloves. ‘Another twenty-six to go.’

Those ‘horrible people’ were parked in a collection of tatty vehicles on the other side of the street, the shiny black eyes of their cameras pointing at us. Carrion crows looking for a fresh kill. At least they’d stopped pestering us for quotes.

I followed Dr McDonald three doors down – to the next address on the list. A people-carrier moved along a couple of parking spaces.
Click. Click. Click
. ‘You’d think they’d have something better to do with their time: catching politicians shagging their mistresses, rapist footballers getting hair extensions, D-list celebrity’s secret boobs-out shame…’

Number fifty-two had a Volkswagen camper van sitting outside – gleaming paintwork, not a spot of rust, personalized number plate.

Dr McDonald marched up the stairs and rang the bell.

A man in a dark-blue anorak clambered out of the people-carrier and hurried across the road, big digital camera in one hand, some sort of Dictaphone in the other. Hairy; no chin; pointy nose. Half monkey, half rat. He locked eyes with me then froze, one foot on the pavement. Opened and shut his mouth a couple of times. A pale strip of sticking plaster crossed the bridge of his nose, a bruise leaking out from underneath. That’d be where I’d smacked him in the face with his own camera.

Frank somebody – Jennifer’s photographer. Which meant she probably wasn’t that far away. As if my luck wasn’t crap enough already.

He took a step back. ‘I…’ Cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t want to file a complaint, it was all Jennifer’s idea… I made sure they dropped the charges…’

Car doors clunked shut on the other side of the street. The murder was gathering: scenting something to feed on.

I turned and frowned up at the house. ‘Who lives here?’

Dr McDonald checked her list. ‘Steven Wallace?’

Never heard of him.

She rang the bell again, and the crows settled in a semicircle at the foot of the steps.
Click. Click. Click.

Who the hell was Steven Wallace?

She shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s not in?’

And that’s when the door opened. A slightly chubby man beamed out at us: bright-blue suit, bright-yellow shirt, blond hair jelled into spikes, a little ginger goatee, and tiny rect-angular glasses. ‘Hey, hey, hey, what’s all this then?’ Big cheesy voice, big cheesy grin.

Dr McDonald checked her list again. ‘Mr Wallace?’

He winked. ‘But you can call me Sensational Steve!’

Oh Christ… Steven Wallace, host of
Sensational Steve’s Breakfast Drive-Time Bonanza
. He was even more of a tosser in real life. Mugging it up for the cameras.

I flashed my warrant card. ‘Can we come in, please, sir?’

‘Course you can, course you can. Walk this way!’ Then he turned and hobbled off down the hall, dragging one leg behind him, one shoulder up as if he had a hunch.

Dr McDonald pursed her lips. ‘Right…’

I put a hand on the small of her back and
encouraged
her inside, then stepped in after her and slammed the door.

‘…and that’s why I think it’s so important to do as much for charity as I possibly can. I mean, you’ve got to use your celebrity as a force for good, am I right or am I right?’

The conservatory glowed like a bonfire as the sun set. It was big enough for a baby grand piano, a leather sofa with matching armchairs, coffee table, a couple of large pot plants, and Sensational Steve’s ego. He took up the entire couch on his own, arms draped along the back.

Prick.

Dr McDonald sat quietly in the other seat, batting her eyelashes at him, knees together, leaning forwards, drinking in his shite like it was nectar.

I took a sip of the weak green tea he’d served up from a china pot with his own face on it. An over-sized oil painting hung on the wall behind him – Steven Wallace posing like some eighteenth-century gentleman in front of a log fire – and a handful of teddy bears wearing ‘S
ENSATIONAL
S
TEVE
!’ T-shirts sat next to him on the couch. The piano was covered with framed photos of him grinning away with various musicians and actors. Look at me! Look how famous I am!

‘And you didn’t see anything?’

‘What?’ He blinked a couple of times. ‘Oh, yes, when the girls went missing. Well … no. Not a thing. Sorry: wish I had.’ He shuffled forwards in his seat, looked left, right, then dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Seriously, how wonderful would that be? Think of the publicity: radio personality helps police catch serial killer. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining – I’ve done four interviews this week,
two
with the BBC and one with Sky News. But actually being a witness… I’d be on every front page in the country.’

He sat back again, picked up his tea and smiled into the cup. ‘Next thing you know:
I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here!
I have the bone structure for TV, don’t you think?’

I flipped open my notebook. ‘Tell me, Mr Wallace, where were you last night?’

‘Oh, some dreary fund-raiser for Cancer Research, or something. I was your host with the most, making the toasts. You should have seen it, we did a prank call live on stage – not everyone has the chutzpah for that. You have to time it to
perfection
, pick the perfect victim, or it’s a disaster.’

‘What about the afternoon: quarter past three?’

A pause. A frown. And then he flashed his veneers at me. ‘Right, well, I was at home getting ready for the gig. I like to meditate: helps me shine.’ He stood and walked to the wall of glass, looking out over his back garden towards the ivy-covered wall at the bottom. Cameron Park lurked on the other side, shadows growing darker as the sun disappeared. Three of the SOC tents were visible through the rampant bushes and jagged trees – glowing blue in the twilight. ‘I have to admit: it’s not easy with that going on all day and night. I have to be up at four to get to the studio and rehearse the
Breakfast Drive-Time Bonanza
.’ A sniff. ‘Spotlights shining everywhere, tents, generators, it’s like a bloody circus out there.’

‘Well, on behalf of Oldcastle Police let me
formally
apologize that our investigation into the murder of ten teenaged girls is disturbing your beauty sleep.’

Silence.

Then he turned around, that cheesy grin plastered across his creosote-tanned face again. ‘Ha! Quite right. Sensational Steve’s a team player, he knows how to take one for the good guys.’ He shot me with a finger. ‘Don’t sweat it.’

Dr McDonald squirmed in her seat. ‘Your house is simply amazing, Sensational Steve, I mean it’s so great, how long have you lived here, must’ve taken
forever
to get it looking like this.’ Big acolyte eyes.

He swaggered back to the couch. ‘You’d think, but I only got my hands on it eleven years ago. It was my dear old mum’s house, and
her
dad’s before her. It’s like a family heirloom. Got a team of architects up from Edinburgh to gut the place and completely redesign it to my personal specifications.’ He pointed down. ‘Floor’s Italian marble. They wanted to use slate, but I insisted. Told them: Sensational Steve knows what he wants.’

What Sensational Steve wanted was dragging outside and being given a stiff kicking.

‘Wow.’ Dr McDonald gave a little gasp. ‘You know what would be great: a tour, would you show us round, Sensational Steve, I’d
love
that.’

‘For you, little lady, anything.’

‘And
that’s
big enough for eight people.’ He nodded at the Jacuzzi. ‘I think we’ve seen the lot now.’

Dr McDonald held up a hand and counted things off on her fingers: ‘Four bedrooms, one recording studio, one study, dining room, kitchen, conservatory, wine cellar, three bathrooms, living room…’ She scrunched her face up like a happy chipmunk. ‘It’s just the best!’

Yeah, there was
nothing
better than getting a self-important tosser to show you around his house, boasting about how expensive and exclusive everything was. Great way to spend half an hour. And listening to Dr McDonald fawning over every word made it
extra
special.

Could she lay it on any thicker if she tried?

We followed Steven Wallace through to the front hall – lined with yet more photos of himself.

He pointed at Dr McDonald. ‘Don’t move a muscle, I’ll be back in a tick.’ And then he was off up the stairs, taking them two at a time. A minute later he returned with one of those teddy bears and a glossy photograph. An eight-by-ten of his own cheesy face signed in chunky black marker. He waggled the bear. ‘I saw you admiring the Cuddle Crew when we were talking earlier. Here, you can hug him all night and think of Sensational Steve.’

Dear God, I was going to be sick.

She took the bear and the photo, bouncing on her toes as if she was about to wet herself. ‘Thanks, they’re great, I’ll treasure them forever!’ Then she leapt forwards, kissed him on the cheek, blushed, and ran out of the front door.

Steven Wallace preened himself, then turned the Colgate grin on me. ‘And if I can be of any further assistance, you let me know, OK? Sensational Steve is
always
glad to help.’

I shifted my mobile to the other ear. ‘Yes, I spoke to him. I said I would, didn’t I?’ Gravel crunched beneath my feet as I followed the path between a pair of huge rhododendrons – their seed heads like alien eyes on their dark bodies, leaves glistening sickly yellow in the sodium light.

On the other end of the phone, Michelle took a deep breath. ‘
He won’t be round again? You promise?
’

‘If he is, it’ll be the last thing he does, and he knows it.’ The path wound through Cameron Park, the edges choked with weeds. One of the SOC tents was up ahead, its walls glowing through a copse of skeletal beech trees.

‘
I don’t want him anywhere near us, Ash. I… I can’t.
’

‘He won’t be round again.’

Dr McDonald scuffed along the path behind me.

‘
Thanks…’
Michelle cleared her throat, forced a little cheer into her voice. ‘
Have you booked somewhere for Katie’s party yet?
’

‘Did she tell you she wants to go pony-trekking this year?’

‘
Have you booked somewhere?
’

‘Yes, I’ve booked somewhere. I told you last time.’ I checked my watch – still time to get something organized. ‘How many of her friends need to go play on the horsies with her? Four? Five? A dozen?’

‘
Her birthday’s on
Monday
, Ash: you need to get this sorted.
’

‘I’ll get it sorted. For God’s…’ I stopped on the path, rubbed at my eyes. ‘How did this go from, “Thank you, Ash, you’re my saviour!” to roasting my knackers over an open flame?’

Silence from the other end.

I stared up at the heavy dark-orange sky. ‘OK, OK: I’ll book it for six of them…’

More silence.

Then Dr McDonald was right at my shoulder, talking far too loud in a fake Glasgow accent. ‘’Scuse me, Constable Henderson, the guvnor wants to see youse, but.’

I looked around. There was no one there, just the two of us.

She mimed hanging up a phone, still clutching that bloody teddy bear.

‘Michelle, I’ve got to go. Work.’

‘
I… I’m sorry. I do appreciate you talking to Ethan. Thank you.
’ And then Michelle was gone.

Dr McDonald grinned. ‘Looked like you needed a get-out-of-jail-free card.’

I kept walking towards the glowing SOC tent.

‘Ash?’

Still had two days left to organize Katie’s pony-trekking and hire somewhere to corral a bunch of thirteen-year-old girls while they screeched their way through cake and ice cream. Two days and six hundred quid. How hard could it be?

Dr McDonald popped up at my shoulder again. ‘Are you not speaking to me, I mean, you barely looked at me when we were at that last house interviewing Mrs Goddard, did I do something to—’

I jumped my voice up an octave. ‘Oh, Sensational Steve, you’re so sensational, I mean really marvellous and lovely, and your house is so special, and you’re special, and I’ll treasure this moment
forever
!’

She skipped alongside, scuffing through the gravel. ‘I was pretty convincing, wasn’t I?’

‘The
key
to undercover work is subtlety. Not fannying about the place, overacting like a pantomime dame. It’s a murder enquiry, not a game.’

‘Come on, I was perfect: a devotee, a fan, an acolyte, exactly the kind of person someone like Steven Wallace loves to show off to, I mean, did you see his photo collection: there’s not a single one in the entire house that doesn’t feature him, he positively radiates an almost sociopathic selfishness, I mean look at this.’

She held out the bear with his face on its T-shirt.

‘Who has these lying around the house, and he’s got no alibi for the time Megan went missing yesterday, and he’s in the media, so while he’s an odious greasy little man he’s a local celebrity, he’s charming, he’d tell a young girl exactly what she wanted to hear: I’m famous and I can make
you
famous too. Now get in my funky VW camper van with the curtains on the windows.’