Snow drifted down outside my hotel-room window, shining as it passed through the streetlights. Henry’s dent-covered Volvo estate sat by the kerb, the word ‘WANKER’ scratched in big letters along the side, engine running, exhaust curling out into the darkness. I wrapped Rebecca’s cigar box in two T-shirts and that ugly jumper Michelle’s mum gave me, wedging socks and pants and jeans in around it. Keeping it safe. Then went through to the en-suite for my toilet bag.
My mobile rang, echoing back from the pristine tiles: Dickie again.
I jammed the thing between my ear and shoulder. ‘Let me guess, she’s not answering her phone.’ Gathered up my things: toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, shaving foam…
‘Sometimes it’s better to talk to the monkey than the organ grinder.’
‘Cheeky bastard.’ Pills, pills, more pills…
‘We’ve got a confession out of the bookshop owner.’
I stopped. Stared in the mirror, pulse thumping in my ears. After all this time… ‘He’s the Birthday Boy.’
‘No, he’s not. I couldn’t be that bloody lucky. But he does have a collection of explicit videos of him sexually abusing Helen McMillan. She was only twelve…’ Dickie made a sort of rubbery flapping sound with his lips, like an underwater sigh. ‘Apparently they had an arrangement – she’d do whatever he wanted, on camera, as long as he paid her in signed first editions. Told him she was going to sell them when she was eighteen so she could afford to go to Edinburgh University. Study law.’
I closed my eyes, leant on the sink, breathed again. It wasn’t him… The Birthday Boy was still out there. I stuffed the Naproxen in the toilet bag.
‘That’s very … pragmatic for a twelve-year-old.’ I nicked the complimentary soap, shower cap, cotton buds, then the little bottles of body lotion and conditioner. Zipped the toilet bag shut.
‘When I was twelve I got a paper round. What the hell happened to Scotland?’
‘Same thing that happened everywhere else.’
A car horn blared outside. I peered through the window. Dr McDonald was in the passenger seat of Henry’s Volvo, staring up at me, pointing at her watch and grimacing, even though we still had a whole hour to catch the ferry.
I dumped the bag in the suitcase and took one last tour through the chest of drawers, wardrobe, and bedside cabinet: making sure I hadn’t missed anything.
‘You remember when this used to be a good job? Something you could be proud of?’
‘No.’ The only thing left was the Gideon Bible, and let’s face it: it was far too late for that. I zipped the wheelie case shut and hauled it off the bed onto the floor.
‘Me neither.’ Another rubbery sigh. ‘Right, I’d better go – have to inform Helen McMillan’s parents that she was being sexually abused for two years. Two years getting molested by a greasy old man, then the Birthday Boy grabs her… What sort of a life is that?’
Snow battered down from a dark sky, a billowing curtain of white and grey that hid half of Lerwick as we stood in the forward bar of the MV Hjaltland.
The deck beneath my feet throbbed and purred, the streetlights sliding past as we headed out towards the harbour exit.
Dr McDonald appeared beside me, holding a glass of something that fizzed and frothed. She knocked it back, shuddered, then topped the glass up with bottled water. ‘Thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘Introducing me to Henry, I mean he’s a committed alcoholic, and he’s got some very hidebound ideas about psychological indicators, but he really cares, even after all this time.’ She swirled the liquid in the glass, making a vortex of little white flecks, then swigged the lot down. ‘But if I never have to look another whisky in the eye I’ll be very, very happy.’
‘Can you catch him?’
She tilted her head to one side, eyes fixed on the ferry’s starboard windows. Lerwick was a little knot of yellow and white lights, twinkling through the snow, getting smaller all the time. ‘Do you want to hear the profile?’
‘Thought you called it “behavioural evidence analysis” these days.’
‘He’s a white male, mid to late forties – which is pretty unusual, normally they’re in their early twenties – he lives on his own or with an elderly relative, someone housebound who can’t see what he’s up to, he drives a large car or van, something he can transport his victims in, and he probably works in the media.’ Another mouthful of water. ‘Nothing that high-profile, just enough to make him look showbiz to a twelve-year-old girl. Make her think he can take her places, make her famous…’ A shrug. ‘Or he might be a bricklayer from Falkirk: it’s not an exact science.’
Lerwick disappeared into the blizzard as the ferry began to pitch and yaw. ‘Should narrow the field.’
‘I’ll put it into proper, woolly, percentage-based, science-speak before I present it. We can’t say outright “this what you’re looking for”, because … well … you know.’
My phone vibrated in my pocket – another text message. I pulled it out and pressed the button. Unknown number:
We’re coming to get you.
Join the queue.
Friday 18th November
Chapter 24
‘…for the next couple of days as that cold front sweeps down across the north-east of Scotland, bringing snow and sleet with it. Steve?’
‘Thanks, Davie. You’re listening to Sensational Steve’s Breakfast Drive-Time Bonanza, and we’ll be back with another bonkers wind-up call right after these words from our sponsors.’ Grating honk, cheesy trombone noise, and then the adverts.
‘Have you had an accident in the last five years, and it wasn’t your fault?…’
I turned the rusty Renault onto Lochview Road, the steering wheel juddering on full lock. A screeching noise came from somewhere inside, even though I can’t have been doing more than five miles an hour.
Lochview Road wasn’t bad – a tree-lined street of sandstone buildings, iron railings, bay windows, Mercs and Beamers parked outside. Small front gardens with a flight of steps up to the front doors. Classy. The kind of place that hid behind the curtains when Jehovah’s Witnesses came round, instead of telling them to fuck off.
‘…think I’m crazy, but there’s an additional twenty percent off this weekend when you buy a new sofa!’
Ethan’s house was down at the far end. I parked as close as I could. Checked my watch: five past eight. Should have got here twenty minutes ago, but the Renault wasn’t exactly in rally-fit condition. And having to drop Dr McDonald off at her aunt’s place hadn’t helped.
With any luck Ethan would still be bumbling about inside: where’s my keys, is the toast burnt; have I got everything; don’t want to be late for work; hurry, scurry, hippity hop. Not quite as good as three in the morning for catching someone off guard, but it would have to do.
‘…and nothing to pay for eight months! That’s right, nothing to pay—’
I killed the engine and climbed out of the car.
Wind ripped through the street, shivering the trees’ naked branches, slamming into my chest like a cold fist. I gritted my teeth, stuck my hands in my pockets, and marched down the road towards Ethan’s house.
There was a clunk behind me and Rhona’s voice cut through the groaning wind. ‘Guv?’
Shite.
I stopped, turned, the tails of my jacket flapping around my waist. ‘Thought I told you—’
‘Don’t worry.’ She didn’t even bother trying to cover her mouth, just yawned like a hippo, showing off those large beige teeth. ‘He got home at half seven yesterday evening: hasn’t moved since.’
‘You’ve been here all night?’
‘Said I’d keep an eye on things for you, didn’t I?’ She produced a pair of black leather gloves from her pocket and pulled them on. ‘Besides, you’re going to need someone to hold him down.’
I closed my eyes, rubbed at my forehead. ‘Rhona, you can’t—’
‘What, he’s going to o
pen the door for you? Guv, soon as he sees you through the peephole he’ll barricade himself in and call the cops. You need a nice approachable female face to put him at his ease, make sure the place is wide open for you.’
She had a point. ‘Well…’
‘And anyway, I read the wee bugger’s file. He deserves whatever he’s got coming.’
A smile pulled at my cheeks. ‘OK, you’re in.’
Rhona grinned back at me. ‘You ready?’
She rang the doorbell again, leaning on it for a good five or six seconds – long enough to be really annoying. Then turned and gave me the thumbs up.
I ducked back down behind the silver Mercedes parked outside the house – kidding on I was tying my shoelace, in case any nosey neighbour was looking.
Clunk.
Rhona put on her official police officer voice: ‘Mr Baxter?’
A man’s voice, slightly bunged up and jowly. ‘Look, is this important, because—’
‘Mr Ethan Baxter? Oldcastle Police, can I come in, please?’
‘I haven’t got time for— Hey, stop pushing! You can’t—’
Clunk.
I popped my head over the bonnet. The front door was closed, no sign of a struggle. Say what you like about Rhona, she did a good forced entry. I pulled on my own leather gloves, then strolled around the car, up the stairs and in through the front door. Closed it behind me, shutting out the groaning wind.
The hall was full of polished wood and things in frames.
Muffled struggling noises came from the other side of a half-glazed door at the end of the hall. It opened on a huge kitchen – the kind with a range cooker, prints of farmyard animals, and a wall packed with cookery books.
Ethan was sitting in a wooden dining chair, gagged with a tea towel, his hands cuffed behind his back. Soon as I walked in his eyes went huge above that squint nose of his. ‘Mmmmmmmmph. Mmmmmmphngn mmmphn!’
He’d let himself go: chubby cheeks flushed and shiny, a pot belly hanging over the waistband of his suit trousers. His hairline was quite a bit higher too, but for some reason he’d decided that the best way to compensate was to grow it long. Not a good look on an overweight, middle-aged man.
Rhona stood with her back against the range, smiling. ‘Nice house, eh, Guv? These architect bastards must be raking it in.’
I settled into the seat on the other side of the table. Flexed my black-leather fingers. Stared.
He blinked a couple of times, then looked away.
Silence: I let it thicken.
‘Mmphhmnnngh…’
‘You’ve been a naughty boy again, haven’t you, Ethan?’
He kept his eyes on the kitchen floor.
‘You were in Tesco on Wednesday night, the big one in Logansferry: clothes department, remember?’
A pause … then he nodded.
I leaned forwards. Up close he smelled of aftershave and old garlic. ‘Michelle was there too.’
His eyes widened. ‘Mmmmmph! Mmmmnnghph!’
‘She says you were watching her. Says she was in the changing rooms with Katie and when they came out, there was good old Ethan Baxter: lurking.’
‘Mmmphnnghmm…’
Rhona whistled. ‘They hand out restraining orders for a reason, Baxter. Did you really think you could sneak up on a woman you beat the shit out of for six months, and she’s not gonna recognize you? You’re even thicker than you look.’
‘Mmmgn mnnnph!’
I gave him a big theatrical sigh. ‘Ethan, Ethan, Ethan… Rhona’s right: you’re not a very quick learner, are you? Thought you’d actually got it last time, but obviously I was wrong. You need a refresher.’
He clamped his eyes shut, head bowed, shoulders shivering.
She leant over and spoke straight into his ear. ‘Nah: I know what he needs, he needs taking out and—’
‘Rhona, do me a favour and go keep an eye on the road. Don’t want someone popping past unannounced, disturbing Ethan from his lesson.’
‘You sure I shouldn’t—’
‘Now, Rhona.’
She pursed her lips for a moment, then nodded and wandered out, hands in her pockets, whistling a jaunty tune.
I stood, closed the kitchen door, then went around all the units, opening the drawers and rummaging about inside. Tea towels. Coasters and mats. Assorted bits and bobs. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, Ethan. Very swish.’ Cutlery… I pulled out a steak knife and a fork. Next drawer: cooking implements. Helped myself to a heavy wooden rolling pin. There was a little blowtorch in the last drawer, perfect for making crème brûlée.
‘Ever heard of DIY Dave? Killed about eight people so far. Tortures them.’ I arranged everything on the table in front of Ethan. ‘We call him “DIY” because he never brings anything to the scene, just uses whatever his victims have lying about the house.’
I picked up the steak knife and stabbed it into the table top; when I let go it stayed upright, quivering.
‘Mmmmmmphmmmph!’
‘Yeah, thought you’d say that.’ I took out my own set of handcuffs: shiny stainless-steel hoops with a rigid plastic handhold in the middle. I fastened Ethan’s right arm to the chair, then unlocked Rhona’s cuffs on one side, so they dangled from his left wrist.
I grabbed the rigid plastic bar and hauled his arm up onto the table.
‘Mmmmmph nnnph!’ His fingers spidered on the wooden surface, as if his hand was trying to get away. Which wasn’t a bad idea.
The rolling pin was nice and weighty. I tapped it against his wrist. ‘You’re a southpaw, that right, Ethan? A lefty?’
‘Mmmnngh…’ His eyes darted from the rolling pin to me then back again. Little drops of sweat beaded his forehead, making it shine. The smell of old garlic got stronger.
‘So, when you’re fantasizing about how you used to beat up my wife, this is the hand you wank with.’ I raised the rolling pin. ‘What did I tell you last time?’
He stared up at me, eyes glistening with tears. ‘Mmmn gnndnnn nnnnngh mnnngnnng!’
I slammed the pin down on the back of his hand. The jolt radiated all the way up my arm to my shoulder. The bang echoed around the kitchen.
A small pause.
Then Ethan screamed behind the gag, jerking back and forwards in the chair – unable to go anywhere.
Didn’t blame him: must have broken a few bones.
‘You promised last time, didn’t you? You promised me you’d never go anywhere near Michelle and Katie again.’ Another go with the rolling pin.
Another scream.
‘Curl your fingers up. Now.’
‘Mmmmmph! Mmmmmph!’
‘CURL YOUR FUCKING FINGERS!’
His hand trembled, the fingers fluttering and twitching, then he dragged them into a loose fist.
‘Bastards like you are all the same: you think women are gagging for it, don’t you? Think you can do whatever you like and it’s OK, because you’re so big and special. Think they’ll love you for it. Right?’
I smashed the rolling pin down on his raised knuckles, hard enough to knock the fork and blowtorch off the table.
‘MMMMMMMMMMPHNNNN!’ Tears streamed down his face. The scuffing sound of feet scrabbling on the tiled floor. ‘MMMMMMMMMMPHNNNN!’
‘You know what, Ethan? Looks to me like you’re gagging for it.’ One more go, putting my weight behind it.
‘MMMMMMMMMMPHNNNN!’
I dropped the rolling pin, let it clatter on the table top. His hand was already starting to swell, the skin a deep angry red, blood oozing out from what was left of his knuckles.
‘Mmmmmmmmmmnnnph… Mmmmmmmmmmnnnph…’ Head back, eyes screwed shut, tears running down the sides of his face, breath whistling through his broken nose.
I let go of the handcuffs, and he curled his shattered hand against his chest, rocking back and forwards.
I filled the kettle and put it on the range to boil. Waited for Ethan to stop sobbing.
<
br /> ‘Michelle’s still got the scars, did you know that?’ Three mugs from the cupboard, one tea, two coffees. Boiling water made a plume of steam in each. ‘I saw the photos in the case file. What was it, a cigar? Too big to be a cigarette.’
‘Mmmnnph…’ Voice small and low, as if he wasn’t really trying any more.
‘The only reason you’re not mouldering away in a shallow grave right now is Michelle begged me not to do it. Can you imagine that? Didn’t want your blood on her hands, even after everything you’d done.’ The fridge was one of those fancy American double-door ones – I sloshed milk in the tea and one of the coffees.
‘I wanted to carve you up like a Sunday roast. I mean, it was bad enough you moved into my fucking house, you had to pull that shit too? And I don’t give a toss who your dad is: if I thought you’d laid a hand on Katie, all the begging in the world wouldn’t save you. Understand?’
I pulled out the chair opposite and sat back down. Two coffees, one tea. I lined them up on the table, not bothering with coasters. Knew Ethan wouldn’t mind.
‘You’re going to give me your car, Ethan. You’re going to tell me where the registration documents are, and you’re going to sign the Merc over. Then you’re going to tell me where you keep your cash. You’ve got cash here, don’t you Ethan?’
He slumped forwards in the chair, folded around his hand. ‘Mmnnnph…’
‘Yeah, I’ll bet you do. Jewellery too. You’re going to throw that in too, and you’re going to be grateful I took it off your hands. Well … hand.’
Ethan’s eyes narrowed above the gag, pink flushing his cheeks.
‘And in case you’re thinking, “Why should I give this bastard anything? Why shouldn’t I call the police?”’ I reached into my jacket and pulled out the gun. Surprisingly heavy for something so small. Only took a couple of minutes to put it back together last night. ‘Doesn’t look like much does it?’
The hissing sound stopped – he was holding his breath.
I hauled back the slide, racking a round into the chamber. Click, clack.
Ethan’s eyes went very wide.
‘Beretta ninety-two G. It’s French.’ I pointed it at his face. ‘You want to see how it works?’
Birthdays for the Dead Page 19
