Birthdays for the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Great. A day dicking about outside in the cold. ‘Are you sure someone else wouldn’t be—’

  ‘Absolutely positive. Dr McDonald tells me you’re the man for the job, and apparently everyone else scares her, so…’

  She coughed. ‘I’m standing right here.’

  Weber patted me on the shoulder. ‘Off you go.’

  The patrol car dropped us off on Lochview Road. Down at the far end of the street, Ethan’s house was all lit up. Must have decided not to take his shattered hand into work today. Couldn’t blame him.

  I unlocked the rusty Renault and climbed in. Put on my seatbelt. Sighed. After driving his nearly new Merc it really wasn’t the same.

  Dr McDonald got into the passenger seat. She reeked of extra-strong mints and stale booze, a happy-hour sweat shining on her forehead and top lip as the alcohol oozed out of her.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Henry phoned at nine this morning, wanting to go over the profile again before I presented it. I’m really glad he’s decided to help out, but I can’t do this any more.’ She leaned forwards until her head rested on the dusty dashboard. ‘Urgh…’

  A taxi pulled up outside Ethan’s house. Beeped its horn twice.

  Sod it, why not? ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ I climbed out and marched down the street.

  Ethan’s front door opened and there he was, his left arm encased in plaster from the tips of his fingers all the way to the elbow. He turned on the top step and fumbled with his keys, then stomped down the stairs and froze – staring at me. ‘I didn’t do anything! I was up at the hospital: I haven’t been anywhere near them!’

  Good. I unfolded the ticket from Little Mike’s Pawn Shop. Held it out.

  Ethan flinched back.

  ‘It’s the receipt for your things. Pawnbroker’s name and address is on there. You can redeem them.’

  He picked at the cast on his smashed hand. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you know what’ll happen if you fuck with my family again. I’ve won. Don’t need to rub your nose in it.’

  Ethan didn’t move.

  I pinned the ticket under the windscreen wiper of a Porsche parked at the kerb. ‘Your car’s at K&B Motors in Cowskillin. Probably haven’t sold it on yet.’ I turned and walked back towards the Renault. ‘Do yourself a favour and think about leaving town. Next time you don’t get another chance.’

  I climbed in behind the wheel again.

  He was still standing there, staring after me. Then he crept over to the Porsche, grabbed the pawn ticket, and got in the taxi.

  As it drove past he kept his gaze fixed out the other window.

  Maybe this time the little shite would take a telling.

  Dr McDonald hadn’t moved since I’d left – head resting on the dashboard, arms dangling by her sides. ‘Urgh…’

  ‘You ready?’

  ‘Can you go really fast and crash into something, please?’

  I eased out of the parking space, bearings making that wonky squealing noise every time I put the wheel on full lock. ‘Get your seatbelt on.’

  ‘I want to curl up and die…’

  ‘You’re the one who wanted to go traipsing round town in the cold. Now get your bloody seatbelt on.’

  Groan. She did, then slumped back in her seat as if someone had removed all her bones. ‘He keeps making me drink whisky, I don’t even like whisky…’

  ‘You’re a grown-up. If you don’t like it, don’t drink it.’ Elegant Georgian houses slid past as we headed for Dundas Bridge.

  ‘But then he won’t like me, and he won’t help me, and—’

  ‘Henry was on the phone. You could’ve been drinking camomile tea: how would he know?’

  She put her hands over her face. ‘He’d know.’

  ‘You can’t let people pressure you into doing things, just so they’ll like you. It…’ For fuck’s sake, it was like talking to an eight-year-old. Not my responsibility – if she wanted to rot her liver with Henry it was her problem, not mine.

  Dundas Bridge stretched over Kings River in a gentle arc of white-painted steel held up by two sets of pylons and thick black suspension cables.

  Dr McDonald grabbed the dashboard. ‘Pull over.’

  ‘What? Did you see something—’

  ‘Oh God, pull over, pull over right now!’

  I stomped on the brakes and she fumbled open the passenger door, then retched. And heaved. Her back hunched and convulsed, arse rising out of the seat with each contraction.

  Then she sagged, one hand holding on to the door handle as she spat into the gutter. ‘Urgh…’

  ‘You sure you want to go door-to-door?’

  ‘Urgh, bile…’

  ‘What did I tell you about not having breakfast?’

  More spitting. Then she hauled herself back into the car. ‘Had a big fry-up on the boat. Stayed down till about half eight.’

  I pulled out again, taking us up onto the bridge. The Kings River was a gunmetal ribbon below us. ‘Do you really need a lecture about matching drink for drink with an alcoholic?’

  ‘I don’t feel well…’

  There’s a bloody shock.

  The granite blade of Castle Hill loomed above us, like the bow of a submarine breaching through the valley floor, casting everything around it into shadow. On the other side of the bridge, I took a left, skirting the twisted cobbled streets and heading for the post-war beige-and-grey sprawl of Cowskillin.

  ‘Where are we—’

  ‘I’m not letting you interview anyone like that: you’ll scare the serial killers.’ Up ahead the City Stadium dominated the surrounding housing estate like a big metal BDSM mistress. ‘Trust me, I know what’ll sort you out.’

  The Renault bumped over the rutted dirt of the parking lot. About half a dozen morons were marching in a little circle outside the main entrance to the Westing, each one carrying placards with things like ‘GAMBLING IS SATAN’S PATH!’, ‘HE THAT HASTETH TO BE RICH HATH AN EVIL EYE!’, and ‘JESUS WILL SAVE US FROM OUR SINS!!!’ Breath streaming out behind them.

  From the front, the Westing had all the bland grey-and-blue-painted-corrugated-iron charm of a cash-and-carry on a rundown industrial estate. Six-foot-high plastic letters were mounted above a little recessed opening: ‘The Westing’, and the silhouette of a sprinting greyhound, bordered with blue and red neon. As if anyone didn’t know what this place was. Or who owned it.

  I parked next to a dented minibus with ‘PaedoPopeMobile’ in spray-paint graffiti along the side, then climbed out into the cold afternoon.

  The greyhound track sat on the edge of a sprawling Fifties housing development. A couple of pubs lurked on the other side of the road along with a minicab office, and a newsagents, the shiny modern bulk of the City Stadium looming in the background.

  A stray beam of sunshine carved its way through the heavy clouds, glittering off Bad Bill’s Burger Bar – a jury-rigged Transit van that scented the air with the dark, savoury smell of frying onions and mystery meat.

  The man himself lounged in a folding chair in front of the van, sunbathing and smoking a cigarette and scratching himself. His pale hairy stomach bulged out between a pair of fraying jeans and a pink short-sleeved shirt. Arms thick as cabers, tattoos snaking about beneath the fur.

  He looked around, squinted at me, then jerked his chin in the air, setting everything wobbling. Nodded towards his van. He pinged his cigarette butt off into the shadows, levered himself out of the chair, stomped to the back doors, and clambered inside. The Transit rocked on its springs.

  Dr McDonald shifted her feet. ‘Are you … it’s not exactly the most hygienic-looking of places. I’m sure it’s got its own rustic charm, but I can’t… Ash?’

  I was already walking.

  ‘Great, now I get alcohol poisoning and food poisoning.’

  By the time we’d reached the serving hatch Bill was tying an apron around his swollen middle, the rumble of a
kettle filling the van’s interior with steam. A radio burbled out mass-produced plastic pop, fighting against the hiss and crackle of onions on a flat greasy griddle.

  ‘You believe these pricks?’ Bill jerked a thumb at the protesters. ‘Like that’s going to make a pube’s worth of difference.’

  I sniffed at the menu chalked up on the side of the van – where the paint was matt, like a blackboard. ‘Two teas: white, sausage buttie, and a hangover special.’

  Dr McDonald tugged at my sleeve. ‘But I don’t—’

  ‘Like I said: trust me.’

  Bill took the stainless-steel lid off a deep-fat fryer and dumped six sausages into the hot oil. A handful of streaky bacon rashers went in after them, popping and crackling. He scratched himself with a pair of tongs. ‘These religious types get right on my moobs.’

  The song faded out on an autotuned harmony. ‘And we’ll be playing the other three semi-finalists’ songs after the break, but first here’s Doug with the news and weather. What do you think, Doug, who you backing?’

  ‘Sophie for Britain’s Next Big Star, definitely, Mike. Anyway, here’s the headlines at half-past twelve this morning. The head of Oldcastle City Council says he won’t be resigning after allegations surfaced earlier this week…’

  The little circle of protesters started singing: a ragged sound that favoured volume over talent. ‘ROCK OF AGES, CLEFT FOR ME, LET ME HIDE MYSELF IN THEE!’ Pumping their placards up and down like the world’s dreariest merry-go-round.

  ‘Holier-than-thou bawbags.’ Bill curled his lip. ‘People go to the Westing, they’re no’ looking for spiritual awakening, are they?’ He produced two floury white rolls from beneath the counter, tore them open, and slathered both sides with butter. ‘Nah, folks are looking for a wee thrill. Want to escape the grinding shite of the old day-to-day.’

  ‘BE OF SIN THE DOUBLE CURE, SAVE FROM WRATH AND MAKE ME PURE!’

  ‘…unavailable for comment. Oldcastle Police have refused to confirm or deny that local girl Megan Taylor – missing since last night – has been snatched by the serial killer known as “The Birthday Boy”. We spoke to Assistant Chief Constable Gary Drummond…’

  So much for the ‘you’re all mute’ talk.

  Bill oiled the griddle and cracked two eggs onto it. ‘I heard he eats their livers, like that bloke in the films.’ Another scratch. ‘Got a special on muesli bars, if you’re interested?’

  ACC Drummond sounded as if he’d trod in something. ‘…pointless media speculation isn’t helping. We’re taking Megan’s disappearance very seriously, but that does not automatically mean she’s been abducted…’

  ‘COULD MY ZEAL NO RESPITE KNOW, COULD MY TEARS FOREVER FLOW!’

  I looked back towards the Westing. There was a light on in the little row of windows, two floors up. ‘Mrs Kerrigan about?’

  ‘Got a job lot off this Dutch bloke. No fucker wants them.’ Styrofoam cups, teabags, water from the steaming kettle. ‘Do us a favour, eh? Steer clear of Mrs Kerrigan.’ Milk – sploshed in straight from the carton, turning the contents anaemic beige, the teabags bobbing about like little brown islands. ‘There you go, Katie…’ He handed one of the polystyrene cups to Dr McDonald. ‘Haven’t seen you for years: how’s your mum keeping?’

  ‘Actually, I’m not—’

  ‘Red or brown?’

  ‘Er … tomato?’

  I helped myself to the other tea. ‘Is she here or not?’

  ‘…assure the public, we will catch him.’

  ‘And we’ll be keeping you updated on that story as it develops. Sport now, and Oldcastle Warriors are at home to Aberdeen in the third round of the Scottish Cup tomorrow…’

  ‘NOTHING IN MY HAND I BRING, SIMPLY TO THE CROSS I CLING!’

  A good squirt of red on one roll, then Bill hauled the wire basket out of the fryer. ‘Come on, Ash, your luck’s for shite, I wouldn’t want—’

  ‘Every bastard thinks they’re my mother…’ I fished the teabag out of my cup and dumped it on the hard-packed mud. Splatch.

  ‘Just saying.’ He stuck one fried egg on the sauce-covered roll, then arranged three sausages on it, added the bacon, and topped it with the second egg. Another squirt of tomato sauce, then Bill squeezed the lid back on. ‘Don’t want to see you go the same way as your old boss.’ He wrapped the buttie in a paper napkin and stuck it in front of Dr McDonald. ‘There you go, Katie darling, get that down you and you’ll feel much better.’

  ‘Ah, right, erm, great, thanks…’ She stared at the thing. Took a deep breath, then bit into it, crunching and chewing, bright-yellow yolk dripping down her chin.

  ‘WHILE I DRAW THIS FLEETING BREATH, WHEN MINE EYES SHALL CLOSE IN DEATH!’

  ‘…struggling to avoid relegation for the second year in a row, and with Hallet still off with a groin injury, chances are: that’s set to continue…’

  Bill piled the remaining sausages on the other roll, and passed it to me. ‘Speaking of Len: you ever see him these days?’

  I added a liberal squeeze of brown sauce. ‘What do I owe you?’

  ‘On the house, like the advice.’

  ‘Thanks.’ The deep-fried sausages were napalm-hot, but tasty. I pointed at Dr McDonald, talking with my mouth full. ‘Do me a favour and look after this one for a couple of minutes?’

  ‘…and if you’re heading out this afternoon, make sure you wrap up – temperatures are set to plummet as low pressure settles in…’

  ‘Deal.’

  She shuffled her feet, red sauce and egg all over her chin and cheeks. ‘Who’s Mrs Kerrigan, why do you have to see her, is she some sort of—’

  ‘Don’t wander off or speak to strangers. I won’t be long.’ I turned and walked towards the Westing.

  ‘ROCK OF AGES, CLEFT FOR ME, LET ME HIDE MYSELF IN THEE!’

  Bill’s voice boomed out across the car park. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’

  Chapter 27

  The little recess in the front of the Westing hid a set of turnstiles and a gloomy tunnel. A hairy golem was perched behind a waist-high partition, locked away behind a metal grille. She looked up from her Twilight novel as I knocked on her cage. Neither of her thick eyebrows moved.

  ‘Morning, Arabella, I need to see Mrs Kerrigan.’

  She sniffed, marked her place in the book with a callused thumb. ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Mmph.’ She picked up a mobile phone and jabbed at the buttons in silence. Thirty seconds later it buzzed and chirruped on the countertop. Arabella squinted at it, then grunted and flicked a switch. The turnstile clunked, the bars dipping a couple of centimetres. She went back to her book.

  I pushed through into a long dark corridor with a little square of daylight at the end.

  A soft, Irish voice broke through the gloom. ‘Detective Constable Henderson?’

  I froze, balled my hands into fists. ‘Mrs Kerrigan.’

  A light clicked on above a featureless doorway and there she was: black suit with a red silk shirt, golden crucifix resting in the wrinkled crease of her freckled cleavage. Her greying hair was piled up in a loose bun, curls escaping its grasp, waving in the breeze. Mrs Kerrigan smiled, baring sharp little teeth. ‘Mr Inglis would like a word with yez.’

  Click and the light went off again.

  Here it comes…

  I reached into my inside pocket…

  But no one jumped out at me. Instead, Mrs Kerrigan closed the door and marched away down the tunnel towards the Westing’s interior. The whub-wheek of her wellington boots echoed off the concrete walls. ‘If ye’d like to follow me?’

  OK…

  I closed the distance, keeping my hand inside my jacket – feeling the comforting weight of the Beretta. March right up to her, stick the gun in her ear and Artex the corridor with her brains. But then I’d have to go back and do the same to Arabella: get rid of the witness.

  And as I didn’t have a silencer, everyone i
n the car park would have to go – they’d seen me walk in here. I’d have to shoot Dr McDonald too.

  For some reason that wasn’t quite as appealing as it would’ve been a couple of days ago.

  The tunnel opened out at the foot of the new stands – a sweeping block of concrete steps broken up into sections by lines of white railings. All the tout booths were shuttered, and an old man with a broom was waging war against drifts of damp ticket stubs. It didn’t look as if he was winning.

  The Westing’s track was a flat-sided oval of sandy brown, with a big swathe of grass in the middle. Crumbling wooden stands wrapped around the rest of the course, gaping holes in their corrugated metal roofs, chains blocking them off from the main building.

  Andy Inglis’s Range Rover was parked in the middle of the grass, glistening deep-blue in the low sunlight.

  I stopped. ‘You sent someone round to my house.’

  Mrs Kerrigan walked on a couple of steps, then turned, smiled. ‘And let me guess, yez are wantin’ to apologize for lettin’ yer foul mouth run away with yez on the phone the other night?’

  ‘You sent someone round to cripple me.’

  ‘Did I now?’

  ‘You wrecked my house.’

  ‘There’s a reason a man pays his debts, Constable Henderson.’

  ‘You got Joseph and Francis to beat the crap out of Susanne.’

  ‘A man pays his debts so he can keep himself and his loved ones free from reprisals.’

  I pulled my hand from my jacket.

  Her eyes darted down to what I was holding, then back up again. She licked her lips. ‘That what I think it is?’

  I gave her the envelope. ‘Fifteen grand. You’ll get the other four in a couple of weeks.’

  She ripped it open and flicked through the bills. Two and a half thousand from Little Mike’s pawn shop, twelve from flogging Ethan’s Mercedes, and five hundred from the grand and a bit he’d had hidden under the desk in his study. Leaving six hundred for me. Enough to pay for Katie’s birthday party, pony trekking, and a nice present.

  Mrs Kerrigan stuffed the notes back into the envelope, then the envelope into her pocket. ‘You mean the other six.’