Birthdays for the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Detective Constable Gillis hauled on the handbrake and turned off the engine. The Renault groaned and pinged, rain thudding into the roof, drumming on the bonnet. ‘Pfffff…’ His breath reeked of old cigarettes. The smell got worse when he scratched at his beard. ‘No offence, but your car’s a piece of shit.’

  I held out my hand. ‘Give me the keys.’

  ‘Dickie’s only trying to look out for you.’

  A scarlet Alfa Romeo sat opposite my… Opposite Michelle’s house, the driver’s window wound down a crack, two figures inside – blurred and indistinct through the rain-spattered windscreen. Jennifer and her photographer, Frank.

  The Oldcastle CID grapevine strikes again.

  Looked as if none of the other media had got wind of it yet: if they had, the whole place would’ve been swarming with the bastards.

  ‘—have to do, OK?’

  I blinked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Gillis dropped the keys into my open hand. ‘I mean it, anything you need – you let me know. Well … if I can.’

  ‘Why?’

  Gillis sniffed, pursed his lips, making his moustache bristle. ‘Keep trying to imagine what it’d be like if the bastard snatched one of my kids.’ He shook his head, dirty yellow curls boun-cing around his bald patch, then pointed at the big black BMW pulling up on the other side of the road. ‘If there was any way Dickie could keep you on, he would. You know that, right?’

  I opened the car door and climbed out into the rain.

  He followed me. ‘And don’t worry about the Noah McCarthy thing: I saw you trying to save him.’

  Gillis turned up his collar and hurried through the puddles to the waiting BMW. Dr McDonald peered out from the back seat, fingers spread on the window, biting her bottom lip as the car pulled away from the kerb. Down to the end of the road – the brake lights flared, then a right and they were gone.

  Cold water trickled down the back of my neck as I stood there, staring after them.

  It was too early to pay Steven Wallace a visit. Have to wait till it was dark and he was at home and everyone was asleep. And Dickie would have him under surveillance by now… So it wasn’t as if I could just march up to the front door and kick it in.

  But what if it wasn’t him? What if Steven Wallace didn’t have a hidden room built into his refurbished wine cellar so he could torture twelve-year-old girls to death?

  It wasn’t worth the risk.

  I looked up at the house.

  Dickie was right: I should go in and be with Michelle. Play the supportive ex-husband. Pretend it’ll all be OK. Sit in the dark and wait for them to find Katie’s body.

  I got back in the car and pulled out my phone.

  Sabir picked up on the eighth ring. ‘Better be important, I was havin’ a crap!’

  ‘I need the names and addresses of every suspect you’ve had for the last seven years.’

  Silence.

  ‘Sabir?’

  ‘Ash… I’m dead sorry about Katie. But Dickie’s been on to all of us: we can’t give you nothin’. I can’t. Look, we’re doin’ our—’

  I hung up. Tried Henry instead.

  His mobile rang, and rang, and rang, then went to voicemail. ‘Henry, it’s Ash, I need you to call me back. It’s urgent.’

  The windows were steaming up. I drummed my fingers on the dashboard. Waited.

  Tried again. Got the same recording telling me to leave a message after the beep. Hung up.

  ‘Fuck!’ I slammed my palms against the steering wheel. Took a deep breath. ‘FUCK! Fucking, shit-fucking … FUCK! AAAAAAAAAGH! FUCK!’ Spittle flecked the windscreen.

  My throat burned, pulse throbbing in my forehead, little sparks of light glittering behind my eyes.

  A knock on the driver’s window. I looked up, but the glass was opaque with fog. I wound it down.

  It was Jennifer, standing there underneath a black umbrella, all huddled up in her camel-hair coat, eyes pinched. She leaned forwards. ‘Erm… Ash, are you all right?’

  ‘No comment.’

  She looked down for a moment. Then back again. ‘I know we… Look, it’s not important what happened between you and me, is it? What matters is Katie.’

  ‘I said, no comment.’

  ‘Ash, I want you to know the Castle News and Post will do everything we can to help get Katie back. You could put out a personal appeal?’ She licked her lips. ‘We could make the Birthday Boy see what kind of pain and damage he’s doing. Maybe run a photo of Katie’s room, a couple of quotes from her mother…?’

  ‘It’s Saturday. Her birthday’s on Monday.’ I turned the key in the ignition. ‘By the time he reads anything in your rag she’ll already be dead.’

  HM Prison Glenochil – an hour and a half south of Oldcastle. A couple of rusty hatchbacks huddled in front of the bland, slab-faced reception building, but other than that the car park was empty.

  I tried Henry’s number one more time: bloody voicemail again. Then called Weber instead. At least he was answering his phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Ash.’

  ‘Ah…’ A breath. Then a muffled, ‘Excuse me, I have to take this…’ A clunk, some rustling, and Weber was back. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I need the names of all the suspects Dickie’s got—’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot. ACC Drummond’s crawling all over me, and that slippery shite Smith is right behind him, taking notes. I want to help, you know that, but they’re—’

  ‘I want a couple of names, not a fucking kidney!’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Sigh. ‘Look: where are you?’

  ‘Doing what you should be doing.’ I killed the link and pocketed the phone; clambered out of the car and marched towards the prison.

  ‘Right, here’s the rules.’ The prison officer ran a finger along the side of his long, hooked nose, as if they were written there in Braille. ‘You do not pass the prisoner anything. You do not accept anything from him. He will be strip-searched at the end of your visit. You have fifteen minutes, then he’s back in his cell.’

  I nodded. Placed my notebook and pen on the table in front of me.

  The visiting room looked as if it’d been set out for an exam – Formica tables with a chair on either side, arranged in eight rows, spaced out just enough to afford a little privacy and give the security cameras a good line of sight.

  Scuffed blue carpet tiles covered the floor, crime-scene stains marking the death of spilled coffees.

  A buzz sounded, then the heavy metal door at the far end of the room swung open. Another prison officer shuffled in, stepped to one side, and there was Len.

  He was about a head taller than his escort, a fringe of neatly trimmed grey hair around a big bald crown, round glasses, and a grey goatee with a handlebar moustache. He’d lost a bit of weight, broadened out a bit. Probably been spending a lot of time in the prison gym.

  Len settled into the seat opposite and nodded, as if we hadn’t seen each other since the morning briefing, instead of two and a bit years. ‘Ash.’

  ‘Chief.’

  A smile. ‘Not any more.’ His voice was deep enough to make my plastic cup of water tremble on the tabletop. ‘Or shall we play yesteryear: I’ll be Detective Superintendent Murray, and you’ll be DI Henderson?’

  ‘I need to know who the Birthday Boy suspects were. All of them.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. A lot better now they’ve taken the stitches out. Talk about itchy.’

  ‘Len, I’m serious.’

  ‘Still, ex-Constable Evans will be taking his food through a tube for the next six months, so I suppose I win.’ He took hold of the bottom of his sweatshirt. ‘Want to see the scar? It’s pretty spectacular?’

  I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth. ‘He’s got Katie.’

  ‘Came at me in the library with a razor blade stuck in the end of a toothbrush.’ A frown. ‘Ever seen your own innards, Ash? They’re not as pretty
as you might think.’

  ‘The Birthday Boy’s got Katie and they’re locking me out of the investigation!’

  Len sighed, tilted his head to one side. ‘Two years, eight months, three weeks, and fifteen days. That’s how long I’ve been in here, and you haven’t visited once. Not until you want something.’

  ‘He’s got Katie…’

  ‘You said that already.’ He picked up my water and sipped at it. ‘I thought we were friends, Ash.’

  ‘He’s got my little girl.’

  Len leaned back in his chair. ‘You got a slap on the wrists. I got eighteen years. I think I’m due a little conversation first, don’t you?’ He pursed his lips, glanced up at the ceiling. ‘Who do you fancy this afternoon: Warriors or Aberdeen?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Len.’ I checked the clock on the wall. ‘I’ve only got twelve minutes till they kick me out.’

  ‘Like I said: I’ve got eighteen years.’ He smiled.

  ‘Fine. Aberdeen.’

  ‘Really? I think we’re in with a chance this time. Bob Eason’s bought a couple of good players this season – might look like Gollum in a tracksuit, but the little sod knows his football.’

  I curled my hands into fists. ‘Len, he’s going to kill her!’

  ‘See, that’s what I’ve been trying to figure out: why her? Why you?’ He teased the end of his goatee into a point. ‘Why target someone on the investigation? Why make it personal? It’s too risky, too flashy, like something out of a movie. Doesn’t happen in real life.’

  ‘I saw the birthday card. He’s got her.’

  ‘Hmmm…’ Silence. Then, ‘Maybe you’ve spooked him? Maybe you’ve been running your sticky fingers through his dirty laundry, and he needs you … distracted?’

  ‘Who was a suspect?’

  ‘Philip Skinner’s mum writes to me, did you know that? Every month I get this big wodge of paper through the post telling me what she’s been up to, and what’s happening on Coronation Street, and what her grandchildren are doing. Course she’s not really writing to me, she’s writing to Skinner…’

  ‘Len, please.’

  He put the water down. Sighed. ‘Well, there was a sergeant with Northern Constabulary, but I think he hanged himself… Turned out he was into kiddie porn – I’m pretty sure they found the bin in his study full of crumpled up printouts of the birthday cards, covered in spunk. We thought it was part of a ring, but you know what the Tartan and Shortbread Brigade are like. Then there was that journalist with the Aberdeen Examiner…’ Frown. ‘Tolbert? Talbert? Talbert – but we couldn’t get anything to stick. Or Harriet Woods? She was a private investigator in Dundee. Ended up moving to Dubai.’

  I scribbled names and details in my notebook.

  Len sat forwards, huge hands on the tabletop. As if he was the only thing holding it down. ‘Skinner confessed: how was I supposed to know?’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘The profile was a perfect fit. Henry Forrester was in on the interview, he said Skinner was our man.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Those little boys: raped and cut up into little bits…’

  ‘Len was there anyone else?’

  He stared at the table for a while, mouth pinched, a deep crease between his eyebrows. ‘Couple of nut-jobs: Ahmed Moghadam, Danny Crawford, some woman who thought Jesus lived in her basement…’ He tapped his finger on the tabletop: tap-tap-tap, tap, tap, tap, tap-tap-tap. ‘Some nights I can still hear him screaming.’

  Chapter 37

  ‘Get out the way!’ I jammed the mobile between my ear and shoulder and leaned on the horn again, but the prick in the Subaru refused to budge from the outside lane. ‘Come on, Henry, ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE!’

  Finally the prick drifted into the other lane, and I could put my foot down again. Kidding on I didn’t see him give me the finger in my rear-view mirror.

  Voicemail. ‘Henry, where the fuck are you? Call me back.’

  I tried Rhona.

  Fields ribbed with poly tunnels whipped by on either side. A green sign: A90, Dundee 9, Forfar 23, Oldcastle 34, Aberdeen 75.

  ‘Guv? Jesus, I heard about Katie, are you OK?’

  ‘Finally someone answers the bloody phone!’

  The speedometer needle edged up to eighty-five.

  ‘…I didn’t—’

  ‘I need you to run some PNC checks for me, but you can’t tell anyone, OK?’ I pulled out my notebook, pinned it against the steering wheel, and flipped through the pages. Then read her the list of names Len gave me. Made her repeat them back. ‘I mean it – you tell no one about this. Not Weber, not Dickie, not even Shifty Dave.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Rhona?’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me first? You said no one was answering their phone, why didn’t you call me? I would’ve helped. I always help. I ironed your shirts!’

  As if I didn’t have enough to worry about… ‘Rhona, the Birthday Boy’s going to kill my little girl on Monday, OK? I’ve got other things on my mind.’

  The needle hit ninety and my foot was flat to the floor – that was it, the Renault didn’t have any more. I tossed the notebook onto the passenger seat. Roared past an eighteen-wheeler with ‘SCOTIABRAND TASTY CHICKENS LTD. THEY’RE FAN-CHICKEN-TASTIC!’ on the side.

  On the other end of the phone, Rhona cleared her throat. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘It’s OK. I’m…’ Deep breath. ‘I appreciate your help. It’s … not a great day.’

  PC Julie Wilson spun around on one of the swivel chairs, pointing at the ceiling tiles, long blonde hair trailing out behind her. ‘Twoooo ni-ill, twoooo ni-ill…’ She stopped. Closed her mouth. Shifted on her seat. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

  The CID office was half empty. A little radio sat on the table by the kettle, crackling out the Warriors–Aberdeen match. ‘And it’s Morrison to Chepski, Chepski to Woods…’ The roar of the crowd chanting, ‘You’re going home in a tasty casserole…’

  Julie jumped to her feet, straightened her black T-shirt. ‘We’re all really sorry about Katie… I didn’t meant to… Will someone switch off that fucking radio?’

  One of the other PCs flicked the switch.

  Silence.

  She stared at her feet. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

  I marched through to Weber’s office.

  He was sitting behind his desk, face all pinched and lined. No prizes for guessing why – ACC Drummond sat stiff-backed in one of the visitors’ chairs, DS Smith-the-Prick in the other. They both turned to stare at me.

  Weber took off his glasses and polished them on a hanky. ‘How’s Michelle holding up?’

  ‘I…’ I hadn’t even bothered to ask, just ran off to see Len. ‘Have you hauled Steven Wallace in yet?’

  ‘We were talking about the candlelit vigil. Obviously we’ll add Katie to the—’

  ‘Have you hauled him in, or haven’t you?’

  The Assistant Chief Constable brushed fluff from his trouser leg. ‘I was saddened to hear about your daughter, Constable Henderson. But I’m a little concerned about what happened with this…’ He raised an eyebrow at Smith.

  ‘Noah McCarthy, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. He’s made a complaint. Claims you assaulted him and tried to throw him off a fourteenth-floor balcony?’

  ‘Fuck him.’ I stared at Weber. ‘Steven Wallace.’

  Weber sighed. ‘I’ve got every patrol car we have scouring the streets for Katie, and everyone on day shift’s—’

  ‘Why the hell haven’t you hauled him in?’

  ACC Drummond stiffened even further. ‘Because, Constable, we don’t “haul people in” without a warrant, and we can’t get a warrant without probable cause.’

  ‘Dr McDonald says he fits the profile!’

  ‘Dr McDonald is barely out of nappies, Constable.’ Drummond stood. ‘The Procurator Fiscal needs slightly more than your little doctor’s word before we start waterboarding
members of the public.’ He picked up his peaked cap and tucked it under his arm. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to brief the Chief Constable. DS Smith will be taking your statement about this morning’s unfortunate events. I expect you to give him your utmost cooperation.’

  The ACC paused on his way out the door to pat me on the shoulder. ‘We’ll do everything we can to get your daughter back.’ And then he was gone.

  Lucky I didn’t break every finger on his bloody hand.

  Smith levered himself out of his chair. Smiled. ‘Why don’t we go somewhere a bit more comfortable?’

  Interview room three smelled of feet and cabbage.

  DS Smith drummed his fingers on the tabletop, marking time for the tape whining around in the recorder. ‘And that’s how Oldcastle CID likes to do business, is it? Beating the crap out of suspects?’

  ‘I told you what happened. Twice.’ I sat forwards. The chair stayed rock solid on the floor, held there with four thick bolts. Not like the seats on the other side of the table: where the police officers sat. ‘Do you need me to use smaller words, or does shagging sheep make you go deaf?’

  The uniformed PC standing behind me snorted. Then tried to turn it into a cough.

  Smith narrowed his eyes, lips pursed beneath that long pointy nose. ‘Are we having a problem, Constable Dawson?’

  Another cough. ‘Something in my throat, sir.’

  Dawson – he was on the list Sabir emailed through when we were in Shetland.

  I turned in my seat. ‘It’s Tim, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Guv.’ He smiled, showing off a mouthful of squint teeth – it went with his squint nose and lopsided ears.

  Smith stared at the ceiling tiles. ‘How many times…? Constable, we do not address detective constables as—’

  ‘You ran a PNC check on the Birthday Boy victims’ families, didn’t you?’

  A blink. ‘Yeah. Couple of times, why?’

  Smith rapped his knuckles on the chipped tabletop. ‘That’s enough, Constable. DC Henderson, do you have any idea how much damage you caused Noah McCarthy? He—’

  ‘Why did you do the search?’

  ‘Dunno, Guv. Think it was one of the high-heejins… Yeah, definitely – the ACC got me to do it for him.’