Birthdays for the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  I dodged the puddles and clambered back in behind the wheel of the Renault. Stuck the bags in behind the seats. Then pulled out one of the whites and held it out to Dr McDonald. ‘Here.’

  She smiled at me. ‘You didn’t have to do that, but thanks.’ Then gave me back my phone. ‘Aunty Jan’s already home, so that’s great, except I’m going to have to explain why the back door’s all scratched.’ She cuddled the wine. ‘Do you think…’ Twiddled with her hair. ‘Do you think it was him?’

  ‘Put your seatbelt on.’ I eased the ancient Renault out of the potholed car park. ‘Sheila was right: probably just a junky. Fletcher Road’s a prime target – there isn’t a house on that whole street that’s worth less than a million and a half. And your aunt’s got the dogs, right?’

  ‘Who needs Dobermann pinschers when you’ve got a Staffordshire bull terrier and a wheezy Jack Russell.’ She hugged the bottle tighter. ‘I’ll be fine…’

  Chapter 39

  The priest’s voice crackled out of speakers bolted to the granite walls: ‘Let us pray.’ He held up his hands and the people around me bowed their heads.

  St Jasper’s was packed, the pews overflowing, people standing in the aisles and at the back, desperate to be part of the public grieving. The church ceiling curved high overhead, grey and ribbed, like being inside a fossilized whale. Spotlights made the stained glass glow in grimy shades of red, blue, and yellow. A miserable bloody place full of fucking ghouls.

  ‘Dear Lord, hear our prayer for Megan Taylor and Katie Henderson…’

  Michelle reached over and squeezed my hand, chin on her chest, eyes screwed tight shut as if God wouldn’t let us have our daughter back if He caught her peeking.

  I stared straight ahead.

  Dickie’s mob had done a decent job of hiding the security cameras in amongst the twiddly carvings; by the time the prayer shambled to a halt with a communal ‘Amen’ I’d only managed to spot eight of them. If the bastard was here, they’d have him on film.

  The priest fiddled with the white-and-gold scarf draped around his neck, amplified voice all boom and echoes. ‘Now we’re going to hear from some of Megan’s friends. Brianna Fowler has bravely volunteered to go first. Brianna?’

  Sitting on the other side of me, Dr McDonald tugged my sleeve as the chunky girl from the CCTV footage clambered up to the microphone. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘We should be out there looking for her, not in here pissing about wasting time.’

  Up on the stage, Brianna cleared her throat and got a whistle of feedback from the speakers. ‘Megan was… Megan is my best friend…’

  Dr McDonald glanced back over her shoulder. ‘Sabir’s already running footage through his software: we’re not wasting time, we’re springing a trap.’ A small frown. Then she fidgeted in her seat. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to say anything?’

  I clenched my jaw. ‘Trust me, none of these bastards wants to hear what I’ve got to say.’

  The crowd milled out through the huge wooden church doors. Up by the lectern, Dickie shook Bruce Taylor’s hand, said something to Megan’s mother, then stalked over to where Michelle was sitting.

  She hadn’t moved since the last hymn, just sat there, sobbing quietly.

  Dickie stopped, clasped his hands in front of his groin, as if he was taking part in a penalty shoot out. ‘Mrs Henderson, I want you to know that my team is doing everything it can to—’

  I poked him in the chest. ‘Is Steven Wallace here?’

  Dickie blinked. Looked up at me. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said, is – he – here?’

  A sigh. ‘We’re monitoring everyone.’

  Dr McDonald tugged at my sleeve. ‘Maybe we should get Michelle out of here, go home, and get a nice cup of tea or something?’

  ‘Dickie: is the bastard here, or isn’t he?’

  The chief superintendent ran a hand across his eyes. ‘Megan’s parents invited him. Apparently she loved the radio show, never missed it.’

  I stared back towards the entrance. ‘I’ll see you outside.’

  The marble floor clacked beneath my feet.

  Halfway down the aisle, a baldy wee man in a corduroy jacket stood and stuck his hand out. Mr It’s-Not-Acceptable from Katie’s school. ‘Constable Henderson, on behalf of everyone at Johnston Academy I want to extend our sincere…’

  I kept on walking.

  Outside, the rain had turned to drizzle, flaring in the tele­vision camera lights: tossers doing pieces to camera, fake sincerity oozing from every word. ‘Sensational Steve’ Wallace was talking into a Channel 4 microphone, eyebrows pinched, nodding as whoever it was asked him a question. ‘Oh yes, there’s no doubt in my mind, we can get the girls back if we all pull together as a community and dig deep.’

  A nod from the woman holding the microphone. ‘That’s great, we’ll probably put it out on the next bulletin. Have you signed the release forms?’

  Steven Wallace looked up from the paperwork, saw me, and waved. Then marched over, still wearing his graveside face. ‘Constable Henderson, you can’t believe how sorry I was to hear about Katie. How’s your wife holding up? It must be a terrible shock.’

  I stared at him. Didn’t shake the proffered hand.

  ‘Yes, right.’ He shifted from foot to foot. ‘Anyway, look, I thought seeing as how Megan was such a big fan of the show – well, you know I also do the Sunday Morning Lie-In Lovefest – how about I dedicate tomorrow’s show to her and Katie? I could play their favourite music, maybe get some of their friends to phone in…’ He licked his lips. ‘Maybe you and your wife would like to come along, around ten-ish? Say a few words to the people, make an appeal to anyone who might have seen something?’

  He’ll stand in the middle and feed off the grief, knowing it was all him, he did it, he has the power of life and death…

  Hit him. Grab the bastard by the throat and tear out his lying tongue, right here on the church steps. Paint the fucking world with his blood.

  ‘Ash?’ Dr McDonald. ‘Ash, what’s happening?’

  I blinked. ‘Yes, that would be good. We’ve got to get the message out. Let the Birthday Boy know that we’re coming for him.’

  Steven Wallace clapped his hands. ‘Right, it’s settled. Do you know how to get to the station, or shall I get a car to pick you up?’

  I smiled at him. ‘Oh, don’t worry: I’ll find you.’

  Dr McDonald stood next to me as Steven Wallace hurried off through the drizzle to a waiting taxi. ‘Ash?’

  The taxi’s lights flared in the darkness as it performed an illegal U-turn and headed off down Jessop Street.

  ‘It’s not him. Steve Wallace isn’t the Birthday Boy.’

  ‘We need to—’

  ‘He didn’t push himself into the middle of things, he was invited. He was at that charity cancer thing when Megan Taylor was abducted. It’s not him.’

  Dr McDonald shifted her red Hi-tops on the wet granite steps. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘We need to look for someone else.’ Brought my chin up. ‘Katie’s still out there.’ Laying it on thick.

  Dr McDonald looked up at me, little wrinkles at the sides of her eyes, lips pursed. Then she nodded. ‘I understand.’

  No she didn’t. Because if she did, she would have stopped me.

  Forty minutes later I pulled up outside Rhona’s place – parking down the road a bit, rather than in the designated spaces behind the building. I grabbed the purple carrier-bags from the back of the car – leaving the ones from B&Q behind – and headed on up.

  She answered the door wearing jeans and an Oldcastle United sweatshirt, her hair lank and wet.

  I passed over the clinking bags. ‘You’re not still supporting those losers, are you?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ She hefted the booze. Grinned with her big beige teeth. ‘Steak OK for tea? I got some chunky ribeyes, do some chips, bit of sweetcorn?’

  Getting low on ice. I chucked a couple
of cubes in then added a hefty measure of gin. Then a splash of tonic.

  The kitchen door opened and Rhona came back in, a bloom of pink colouring her pale cheeks and nose. I handed the G&T to her.

  ‘Pfffff…’ She blinked a couple of times, then took it. Smiled. Knocked back a mouthful. ‘Ahhh… Can’t remember last time we got hammered. Can you? I can’t…’

  ‘Plenty more where that came from.’ I picked up my own drink and clinked it against hers. ‘Fuck the lot of them.’

  ‘Fuckem!’ Another swig. Then a frown. ‘Look at the time, got to get the steam on.’ Blink. ‘I mean steak. Got to get the steak on.’ The pink in her cheeks got darker.

  ‘Nah, plenty time…’

  Two thick ribeye steaks sizzled in the hot pan, butter foaming up around the edges. The smell of caramelizing meat and roasting black pepper filled the kitchen. Two bottles of red breathed on the worktop.

  Rhona leaned back against the sink, sipping her gin and tonic, smiling, eyes focused somewhere about a foot and a half in front of her face. She ran a hand through her hair, making it stick out in little tufts. ‘Can’t believe … believe we’ve spanked half a bottle of gin.’

  ‘Steaks’ll need to rest for five minutes.’ I tipped them onto a warm plate and poured the pan juices over the top. ‘Do you want to check on the chips?’

  ‘Chips? Chips, yes, chips.’ She shook her head for a moment. Smiled again, then lurched over to the oven and peered in through the glass door. ‘Yup. Those are chips all right.’

  I stuck the sweetcorn in the microwave.

  ‘See the thing is … the thing people don’t unnerstand about you is … is you’re a great cop.’ She held a hand up, as if she was stopping traffic. ‘No, I mean it. You’re a great cop, and they … and they’re jealous.’ Another mouthful of wine. ‘They are, they’re jealous.’

  I topped up her glass. ‘How’s your steak?’

  ‘Is … It’s great too. You’re a great cook. I … people don’t get that, but I do. I get it…’

  ‘…so I said … I said, “No, fuck you, you gap-toothed hairy wee bastard.” And he … he burst into tears!’ Rhona threw back the last mouthful of wine from her glass and grinned. ‘Right there … right there in the court.’ A frown. ‘Back inna … inna minute…’

  She levered herself out of the couch and wobbled for a moment, before stomping off stiff-legged to the toilet.

  I topped her up again. Then went through to the kitchen and fetched the second bottle of wine.

  ‘No, you gotta … you gotta listen to this: you’ll love this…’ She sat on the carpet in front of the stereo, pulling CDs out of the rack and dumping them next to her. ‘Where the buggery… Ah, ah – found it! You’ll love this…’

  The second bottle was already two-thirds gone.

  ‘Here…’ She fumbled with the CD case, then wobbled the shiny disk into the machine, one eye squinted shut, the tip of her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth.

  Music swelled from the speakers.

  ‘Listen … listen, no, listen you’ll love it…’ Then she started to sing.

  ‘My gates are open wide,

  but she stands outside,

  consu-ooooooo-oo-oo-oomed by pride…’

  She should have sounded like a football crowd bellowing from the terraces, but she didn’t. Rhona’s voice was soft and lilting, perfectly in tune.

  I glugged more wine into her glass.

  ‘No, I mean it!’ Rhona blinked at me, her left eye not opening all the way, held down by a droopy lid. She ran a pale tongue across her wine-stained lips. Head nodding round on a bobbling circular path. ‘You’re the … the only policeman in … in that place … worth a shit. A shit!’

  The last of the red disappeared, except for the dribble that splashed onto her sweatshirt. ‘You’re a great … a great … an’ I love you, Ash – no I mean it! I love you…’ She threw her arms wide. ‘There … I’ve said it, I’ve said it…’

  More blinking. Then she peered into her glass. ‘All gone.’ A jaw-cracking yawn full of teeth. ‘Pffffff….’ Bink. Blink. Then her eyes stayed closed, chin resting on her chest.

  The wine glass wobbled in her hand, and she jerked upright – eyes wide. ‘M’wake…’

  ‘No you’re not.’

  ‘You’ve barely touched … barely touched your wine…’

  ‘You have it.’ I took her glass and poured mine into it. ‘Not really in the mood.’

  Two more sips and her chin was on her chest again, breath slipping into a deep rhythmic drone.

  That should do it.

  I picked her glass out of her hand and put it on the table. ‘Come on, let’s get you to bed.’

  A warm fuzzy smile spread across her face. ‘Yes please…’

  Snoring rocked the walls. Rhona lay spread out like a scarecrow on top of the bedclothes – she’d managed to get the sweatshirt off, exposing a bright-red lacy bra, but the jeans had defeated her. They were bunched around her knees, socks making her feet look twice as long as they were.

  I grabbed an ankle and hauled her jeans off, then fought with her pale limbs until she was under the duvet. Went off to the kitchen, came back with a basin and put it by the side of the bed, covered the carpet around it with newspaper. Then slipped out and closed the door.

  Checked my watch. Ten to midnight.

  Soon be time to pay Mr Steven Wallace a visit and see how sensational the little bastard felt coughing up blood.

  Chapter 40

  McDermid Avenue was dead. Parked cars lined the road, tarmac glistening in the streetlight. The houses lay in darkness. Ten past one, and I’d been sitting here long enough for the cold to burrow into my joints, making them ache.

  The rain had given up half an hour ago, leaving everything slick and wet. Clouds scudded across the dark sky, stars twinking through the gaps.

  Dickie’s surveillance team were in an unmarked VW Polo on the other side of the road, about three doors down from Steven Wallace’s house. Close enough to keep an eye on the place, far enough away to be inconspicuous. Sort of. The driver’s window was open, cigarette smoke curling out into the cold night. Might as well have stuck a big neon arrow on top of the car.

  Should’ve done it properly and parked two hundred yards away, like I had.

  The Polo was facing the wrong way to see me climb out into the night.

  Christ it was freezing – especially without a jacket. My breath trailed behind me like a pale ghost as I went around to the boot and pulled out the bags from the DIY superstore in Shortstaine.

  It’s perfectly innocent, Officer: I’m planning on doing a bit of decorating. My house was vandalized and flooded. Nothing suspicious about that, is there? What? Why don’t I have the DIY supplies I was seen purchasing at B&Q? Someone must have stolen them from my car when I left it outside Rhona’s house. It’s not the best of neighbourhoods, after all. I certainly didn’t burn them to destroy any trace evidence. And besides: I was with Rhona all night, drinking wine and putting the world to rights. Ask her if you don’t believe me.

  Not exactly perfect, but it’d do.

  I walked away from Steven Wallace’s house – even if the surveillance team had spotted me, I wasn’t going anywhere near their target. I kept walking till I reached a gap between two of the buildings. A dirt footpath led away into Cameron Park. The four surrounding streets were full of them, all sealed off with blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape.

  I ducked through onto the path. The low clouds reflected back a dim jaundiced glow, just enough light to keep me from stepping in anything as I pulled on a set of dark-grey decorator’s overalls. Would’ve gone for a white Tyvek SOC-style all-in-one suit, but it wouldn’t exactly have blended in on a dark night. Next: plastic overshoes on over my boots. I tucked my hair into a shower cap – the thin plastic kind that looked like a condom, given away free in hotel-room bathrooms – then hauled on a dark-blue woolly hat, safety goggles, and a face mas
k. Nitrile gloves over my leather ones.

  The Scenes Examination Branch might not bother collecting DNA when a wee shite like Noah McCarthy got a beating, but by the time they found what was left of Steve Wallace… Well, that would be another matter.

  I stuffed all the plastic packaging back in the bag, scrunched it up and put it in my pocket. Then walked down between the buildings, past the brick-walled back gardens, under another strand of ‘Police’ tape, and out into Cameron Park.

  One of the SOC tents glowed in the distance, nearly obscured by bushes and trees. No chance anyone would see me. I picked my way along a track that ran along the back of the gardens – sticking close to the eight-foot-high wall – until I could see the ridiculously massive conservatory stuck onto Steve Wallace’s house.

  A tall wooden gate was set into the brick, tendrils of ivy snaking around it. I tried the handle: locked. Fair enough. I scrambled over the wall and dropped down into the garden.

  Silence.

  For a minute I just stood there, not moving, scanning the backs of the houses for twitching curtains…

  Nothing.

  I started towards the conservatory and a security light seared the garden with eye-watering brightness. I kept on walking. That’s the thing about security lights – by the time the owners notice you’ve set one off, you can be right up against the house. They look out, see nothing, curse next door’s cat, and go back to bed.

  Click. The garden plunged into darkness again.

  No sign of an alarm box on the back of the house, but that didn’t mean the place wasn’t wired. A couple of planters sat by the conservatory double doors. I looked underneath both. No spare key. Ah well – worth a try.

  One brand-new flat-head screwdriver and three sharp taps from a brand-new hammer, and the door lock was buggered enough for me to twist the mechanism. Clunk.

  I opened the door and stepped inside.

  No screaming alarm. No flashing lights. No irate householder.

  That’d change.

  ‘Say cheese.’ I raised the camera, let the autofocus whirr, then pressed the button. The flash turned the wine cellar monochrome for a moment, then everything faded back into gloom.

  Steven Wallace blinked at me, breath hissing through his nose, tears streaming down his cheeks, mumbling words behind the duct-tape gag.