Birthdays for the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Thanks.’ One thing you can say about Anatomical Pathology Technicians: they make a decent cup of tea.

  Twining stretched out his arms, hands locked together, as if he was about to crack a safe. ‘Well, I think we can confirm that the remains belong to Lauren Burges.’

  I settled back against the working surface. ‘And it only took you two and a half hours. Dr McDonald did it in thirty-five seconds.’

  Pink bloomed on her cheeks. ‘Well, the position of the head was a bit of a giveaway, I mean there might be other victims he’s decapitated that we don’t know about. We don’t have a complete collection of birthday cards, and most haven’t got to the bit where he kills them yet…’ She cleared her throat, shuffled her feet. ‘It was an educated guess.’

  Twining brushed a hand through his floppy hair. ‘Unfortunately, I have to make my identification stand up in a court of law.’ He took his tea across to the two flip charts with Lauren Burges’s details on them, and pointed at the second-last photo in the series of birthday cards. ‘She was almost certainly dead by the time this one was taken. Difficult to tell with no internal organs left to examine, but working from the photographs I’d say heart failure triggered by blood loss and shock.’

  Maybe she was lucky – maybe she was dead when he hacked her open and pulled out her insides. Maybe Rebecca was lucky too…

  That fizzing sensation burned at the base of my throat again.

  Twining tapped the first card. ‘Given the size and colour variation of the bruises between this picture and when she was killed – I’d say Lauren was probably tortured over a period of six or seven hours. Nine at most.’

  Dr McDonald looked up at me. ‘She went missing four days before her birthday.’

  ‘Yes…’ Twining squinted at the first card again. ‘That would be consistent with her appearance in this photograph. As if she’s been living in those clothes for a couple of days.’

  Eight or nine hours screaming into a duct-tape gag while he carved names into Rebecca’s skin, burned her head with bleach, ripped out her teeth with pliers…

  I put my tea down, worked hard to keep my voice level. ‘So…’ Try again. ‘So he doesn’t kill them till it’s their actual birthday. He grabs them, he ties them to a chair and leaves them sitting there till it’s time. Waiting.’

  Dr McDonald crossed to the dissecting table, with its collection of red-brown bones. ‘Can I hold Lauren’s skull?’

  Twining shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t see why not. As long as you don’t drop it.’

  I stepped out into the corridor and let the mortuary door swing shut behind me. ‘Are you OK?’

  Dr McDonald sniffed, then rubbed a hand across her eyes. She did the same with the shiny trails beneath her nose. ‘Felt like some fresh air…’

  In a subterranean corridor, in the bowels of a hospital.

  She turned, so I couldn’t see her face. ‘Perhaps I’m allergic to formaldehyde or something.’

  Yes. That was it. ‘We’re breaking for lunch. The food’s pretty dreadful, but there’s a private canteen for senior staff Twining can sneak us into.’

  ‘Right. Great.’

  ‘That was your first post mortem, wasn’t it?’ I moved around so I could look at her… And stopped. A pair of eyes glittered in the shadow of a missing bulb about thirty feet away. The Rat Catcher was back: just standing there, watching Dr McDonald.

  ‘Poor Lauren… He makes you sit there till it’s your birthday, three days tied to a chair, waiting for the pain to begin, can you imagine how lonely, how terrified you’d be, and she was only twelve…’ A sniff, and another wipe. ‘Well, thirteen, at the end.’

  Of course I could. Every bloody day.

  The Rat Catcher was like a statue. Standing. Watching. Staring. Not moving.

  I took a couple of steps towards her, put a bit of gravel into my voice. ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’

  Dr McDonald flinched, then turned to see who I was shouting at.

  The Rat Catcher didn’t even flinch.

  ‘Go on, fuck off!’

  Nothing.

  And then, finally, she turned and walked away, no rush, her trolley squeaking and groaning in the darkness. A sudden flare of light as she passed beneath a working bulb, her greying hair glowed around her head like a grubby halo. And then she was gone.

  ‘Freak.’ I put a hand on Dr McDonald’s shoulder. ‘You sure you’re OK?’

  A small nod. ‘Sorry.’ She wiped her eyes again. ‘Just being stupid.’

  ‘If we’re going to make the ferry we have to be out of here by about … half four? Five at the latest.’

  ‘I mean I’ve been to post mortems before, but it’s always the same: I spend so much time trying to empathize with killers… I have to stand there and pretend I’m him, imagining what it’d be like, how good it would feel to do all those horrible things.’ Another sniff. ‘And then it’s over and I can’t help…’ She stared at the ground.

  ‘You don’t have to be here for the rest of this. Go back to your aunt’s house, put your feet up. Crack open a bottle of wine. I’ll catch you up when we’re done.’

  Dr McDonald shook her head, dark brown curls bouncing around her puffy face. ‘I’m not abandoning them.’

  ‘Far as we can tell anyway.’ I sat back in the creaky plastic chair.

  Dickie’s image nodded on the laptop’s screen. ‘Fair enough. We’re packing up here tomorrow, so we should be in town mid-afternoon-ish.’

  DCI Weber drummed his fingertips on the desk. ‘You’re going to march in and take over my investigation?’

  Weber’s office was one of the nicer ones in the building – a proper corner job with big windows looking out on the boarded-up cinema opposite.

  Dr McDonald’s laptop was perched on Weber’s desk, where everyone could see the screen, and the webcam could see us. But she was gazing out of the window, one arm wrapped around her chest, the other hand fiddling with her hair.

  Dickie sighed. ‘Don’t be like that Gregor, you know how this works. I’m carrying the can for everything the Birthday Boy does, whether I like it or not.’ He frowned. ‘Did I tell you about my ulcer?’

  ‘I don’t care about your ulcer, I’ve got—’

  ‘How about this: if we get anything, you sit next to me at the press conference. We both make the announcement: you get half the credit, twelve-year-old girls get to grow up without some sick bastard torturing them to death, and I get to retire and put the whole bloody mess behind me.’

  Weber took off his glasses and polished them on his hanky. ‘Well, in the interests of interagency cooperation, I suppose we could come to some operational understanding.’

  Dickie didn’t even bother trying to smile. ‘Dr McDonald?’

  Gaze, twiddle.

  ‘Dr McDonald, do you have anything to add? Hello? … Someone give her a poke, for Christ’s sake.’

  I did and she jumped, eyes wide. ‘Aagh. What was that for?’

  ‘DCS Dickie wants to know if you’ve got anything to add.’

  ‘Oh, right, yes, well…’ She scooted her chair forwards, closer to the laptop. ‘Did Helen McMillan’s parents say anything about where she got her books from?’

  On the little screen, Dickie opened his mouth, then shut it again. Frowning. ‘Books?’

  ‘Did they say where she got them, I mean did she have a rich relative who collected them, and then died and left them to Helen, or something?’

  OK, Dr McDonald had been on fairly shaky mental ground to begin with, but it looked as if that bash on the head yesterday had knocked something loose.

  ‘Books?’

  Weber sat back in his chair. ‘Is this really relevant to—’

  ‘Do you still have that Family Liaison officer at her house, because if you do, can you get him to check the books in Helen’s room? The ones on the shelf.’

  The frown got deeper. ‘Dr McDonald… Alice, I know this has all been very st
ressful for you, and you’re doing your best, but maybe it’d be better if we found someone more suited—’

  ‘I mean when we were in her room I remember thinking it was a strange collection for a twelve-year-old girl, and I think they were first editions.’ She turned to me. ‘They were, weren’t they, you looked at them too, and—’

  ‘No idea. They were just books.’

  ‘Signed first editions. Do you have any idea how much they’re worth? The Chamber of Secrets is about one and a half thousand, The Prisoner of Azkaban: two to three thousand, depending on which version it is, and God knows what a Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe or the Dickens would cost.’

  Dickie’s face went an alarming magenta colour, but that might have been the screen. ‘Ah… I see.’

  Dr McDonald wrapped her arm back around herself again, the fingers of her other hand making tight little curls through her hair. ‘What’s a twelve-year-old girl doing with twenty or thirty thousand pounds’ worth of books?’

  Chapter 12

  ‘If we don’t go now we’re going to be late. What if we can’t get there in time and miss the ferry, what are we going to do then, you said we had to leave at half past four!’

  I pulled the next statement from the pile. ‘You moaning about it doesn’t make this go any faster. Read a magazine or something.’

  The room was jammed with a dozen tatty Formica desks and towers of paperwork. Magnolia walls, carpet tiles curling at the edges and covered in suspicious stains, bulging in-and-out trays, the bitter-leather fug of BO. Someone had patched the sagging ceiling tiles with diarrhoea-brown parcel tape.

  A handful of uniform had clumped in the far corner – by the kettle and fridge – hammering data into ancient beige computers, everyone else was in plainclothes.

  DS Smith marched up and down, hands behind his back, playing general. ‘This simply isn’t good enough!’ He turned to face the huge whiteboard that stretched the length of the CID office. ‘Do I really have to tell you people how important the first twenty-four hours are in a murder enquiry?’

  As if this was the first time we’d dealt with a body dumpsite.

  Dr McDonald fidgeted with her leather satchel. ‘I mean it’s nearly half four now, what if we miss the ferry and have to stay in Aberdeen, what if we can’t get a hotel at short notice, I had a friend who left it too late and had to sleep in her car, I don’t want to sleep in a car, what if someone comes?’

  DS Smith pulled a marker pen from his pocket and scrawled something up on the whiteboard. Strips of black electrical tape divided the surface into columns headed with things like ‘BODY RECOVERY’, ‘VICTIMOLOGY’, ‘LOCI OF OFFENCE’, and ‘PSYCHOLOGICAL INDICATORS’, with bullet points listed underneath. The new boy, making his mark. Teaching the parochial thickies how Grampian Police did things.

  He tapped the whiteboard with a marker pen. ‘The question you need to be asking yourself is, “Where were they held prior to being buried?”’

  No shit.

  Rhona looked up from her computer monitor and saw me. She curled her top lip, then nodded over her shoulder at DS Smith, mouthed the word ‘wanker’ and made the accompany-ing hand gesture. Then stood and worked her way between the crowded desks, until she’d reached mine. ‘What a dickhead.’ Keeping her voice low. ‘Lording it over the rest of us like he’s God’s bloody gift.’

  She settled on the edge of the desk, close enough to Dr McDonald to make the psychologist shuffle her chair back a good six inches.

  ‘We heard back from Tayside, Guv: the books in Helen McMillan’s bedroom are all signed first editions. Soon as he found out they were worth something, the dad checked online. The older stuff isn’t exactly mint, but all together you’re looking at about thirty-two thousand quid’s worth.’

  ‘Thirty-two—’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Rhona’s eyes widened, ‘just sitting there on a kid’s bookshelf.’

  If she’d lived in Oldcastle, instead of Dundee, someone from CID would have lifted them by now. Like me. Thirty-two grand would make a whole load of shite go away.

  Dr McDonald undid her seatbelt. ‘We’re going to be late…’

  ‘Not if you get your finger out.’

  The house on Fletcher Road was in semi-darkness. The wind had picked up, making the oak trees groan as their bony fingers scratched at the clouds. Fairy lights twinkling. Quarter to five – plenty of time.

  She pulled the woolly hat tight over her head and clambered out, scurrying across the gravel drive, the tails of her duffle coat billowing out behind her.

  I waited until she was inside before digging out my phone and turning it back on again. It bleeped and chirped at me: text messages, missed calls, voicemail – all from Mrs Kerrigan. All wanting to know why I hadn’t turned up with three grand to save my kneecaps.

  And I could have walked off with thirty-two thousand pounds’ worth of books…

  Fuck.

  I scrolled through the contacts list, looking for Henry Forrester’s number.

  Thirty-two grand. What kind of man steals books from a dead girl?

  Found it, pressed the button, and sat back listening to the phone ring.

  Well, it wasn’t as if she was going to miss them, was it?

  Not as much as I was going to miss my legs.

  Click. ‘I’m sorry: I’m not answering the phone at the moment, but if you want to leave a message … well, it’s up to you.’

  ‘Henry? It’s Ash: Ash Henderson. Look, I wanted to tell you I’m going to be up in Shetland tomorrow, so do you fancy getting a drink or something? Been too long…’ I hung up.

  Dr McDonald struggled her massive red suitcase out of the house and across the gravel – her rock-chick aunty following with the two smaller ones. I got out and popped the hatchback.

  ‘Are you sure we’ve got time to—’

  ‘I’ll only be a minute.’ I hauled the Renault up to the kerb and killed the engine. ‘We’ll be fine.’

  She picked at the dashboard, staring out through the windscreen at Kingsmeath in all its grey, boxy, housing-estate glory. That prick from number fourteen had let his Alsatian loose to wander the streets again, its ribs clearly visible through its fur as it stopped beneath a streetlight to eat something from the gutter.

  Dr McDonald licked her lips. ‘I don’t have to come in, do I? Only I don’t do so well with—’

  ‘Unfamiliar enclosed spaces: I know. Stay here. Lock the doors if you like.’ I climbed out into the cold. Soon as I closed the driver’s door she reached across and pressed down on the little locking nipple, then did the same on her side.

  The Alsatian raised its head from the gutter and growled.

  I stared at it. ‘Fuck – off.’

  It went quiet, dropped its head, then slunk away into the darkness.

  The front garden was a rectangle of paving slabs, yellowing weeds poking up through the joins, bordered by a knee-high concrete wall. I checked my watch again on the way to the front door: five to five. Fifteen minutes to pack, hour, hour and a half to Aberdeen – depending on traffic…

  Going to be tight. The ferry sailed at seven whether you were on it or not.

  I let myself in, snapped on the light, shut the door behind me, then stuck my head into the lounge. No sign of Parker, for once. Maybe the shiftless bastard had finally buggered off and got a job?

  As if I could be that lucky.

  Upstairs.

  A wheelie case sat on top of the wardrobe. I took it down and chucked a few pairs of socks inside, some pants, the washing kit from the bathroom, a pair of jeans from the pile in the corner, all the Naproxen, Diclofenac, and Tramadol from the bedside cabinet, and a random dust-furred paperback from the windowsill.

  Anything else? Shetland in November: jumpers. There was that cable-knit monstrosity Michelle’s mum gave me for Christmas.

  It wasn’t in the chest of drawers. Where the hell did I—

  A noise behind me. I froze.
<
br />   ‘Goin’ somewhere, like?’ A man’s voice: low-pitched, coming from the little landing at the top of the stairs.

  I pulled the zip on the wheelie case, shutting everything inside. ‘Your mum never teach you to knock?’

  ‘’Cos it looks to me like yer plannin’ on doin’ a runner there.’

  I turned, nice and slow, keeping my hands in plain sight. ‘You got a name?’

  The man on the landing smiled, showing off a set of yellowed teeth. His face was lopsided, angular, lumpy and twisted; covered with pockmarks and scar tissue. He was bloody huge too. ‘Ye can call us, “Mr Pain”.’

  Seriously? Mr Pain?

  The corners of my mouth twitched, but I got them under control. ‘So tell me, Mr Pain, this a social call, or an antisocial one?’

  He took one hand from behind his back. There was a two-foot length of metal pipe in it, the end swollen with washers – nuts and bolts stuck out at random angles. The modern equivalent of hammering a couple of nails into a baseball bat: a plumber’s mace.

  Definitely not a social call.

  ‘Been a naughty boy, haven’t ye? Missed another payment.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time.’ I shifted my weight, moving closer to the bed. ‘Going to take me a while to get the money together.’

  ‘No’ my problem, is it?’ The length of pipe flashed through the air, spines quivering.

  I dropped one knee, pitching sideways. Something tugged at my left shoulder, then the bedside lamp exploded into ceramic shrapnel. I snapped my foot out, but Mr Pain wasn’t there.

  I hit the bed and kept going, rolling right over it as the mace whomped down on the mattress, making the springs sing. I dropped onto the floor on the other side, looked up—

  The pipe whistled towards my face.

  I flinched, the back of my head slamming into the wall as the mace swept past, its spines ripping the air less than an inch in front of my nose.

  Jesus, the bastard was fast.

  A backhand swing. Splinters flew from the windowsill – the mace carved straight through the wood and into the plaster where my head would’ve been if I hadn’t moved.

  Fast and strong.

  Another swing and the collection of paperback books burst into flight, paper wings fluttering as they spiralled to the floor.