Birthdays for the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

‘You shouldn’t…’ She flexed her fingers around the steering wheel. ‘Ash, it’s poison.’

  ‘It works. I tried Diclofenac and Tramadol: barely made a dent in it. We have to stop…’

  Alice licked her lips. ‘Can you hold out till Dundee?’

  Burning petrol surged up my leg, blue-tinged fire that crackled and fizzed, eating away the muscles and charring the bone beneath.

  ‘Ash?’

  I screwed my eyes tight shut. Gritted my teeth. Nodded. ‘Dundee.’

  ‘Need to stop for petrol soon anyway.’

  Warmth spread out from the middle of my chest, forcing the shredding blades down into my leg, then my shin, then my foot… then gone. The car’s headrest was like a warm lap beneath my head.

  A cool hand on my brow, stroked the pain away.

  ‘You’re burning up.’

  ‘Mmmm…’ I let go of the syringe – the other half of this morning’s wrapper – let it fall to the grimy carpet.

  ‘Do you want a sandwich, or I bought some crisps?’

  ‘M’not hungry.’

  ‘Ash, you have to eat something, and you have to drink lots of fluids, and you can’t keep doing this, we have to go to hospital.’

  ‘Need Henry…’

  She bit her bottom lip. Sat back in her seat. Looked down at her lap. ‘He’s not answering his phone.’

  The engine purred into life, and we were moving again, falling through the snow, fat white flakes like starbursts in the cold morning light.

  There was an egg sandwich in my lap. I stared at it, but it didn’t do anything. ‘Rebecca liked egg sandwiches. She had this … this imaginary friend when she was wee, she said he was a cereal killer. Every time we found all the Sugar Puffs gone, it would be Naughty Nigel’s fault. Wasn’t so keen on Bran Flakes though.’ I rested my cheek against the passenger window, cool and smooth. ‘It’s been… such a long time.’

  ‘I’m sorry she ran away.’

  ‘She didn’t run away. He took her.’

  The Kingsway was busy, cars and buses carving their way across Dundee’s back, avoiding its vital organs. Off to the right, the retail park where the Party Crashers had camped out on the fifth floor of a chain hotel drifted by at fifty miles an hour. Only a week ago, but it might as well have been months.

  I cradled the egg sandwich against my chest like a baby. ‘We didn’t know what happened to her… Michelle still doesn’t. One day Rebecca was there, and we were planning this big party, and the next she was gone. No note, no word. I got the first card on Rebecca’s fourteenth birthday. Happy birthday! The number one scratched into the top corner, so I’d know there’d be more to come.’

  The heroin tingled in my fingers and toes, as if they were going to break free and fly away. ‘I keep them all in this cigar box Rebecca gave me for Christmas when she was six. Don’t know where she found it, but she painted it and covered it in sequins and glitter… And that’s where I hide them.’

  ‘But why didn’t you—’

  ‘They would’ve taken me off the case. I’d have to sit on my arse and watch them screw it all up. Never told anyone, not even Michelle. At least this way she gets to hope.’

  ‘Ash, she needs to know or she can’t move on, she—’

  ‘Sometimes it’s better not to know.’ A shrug. ‘Doesn’t matter anyway: they found Rebecca yesterday, remember? The extra body in the park, with all the others. My little girl in a hole in the ground, her bones stained the colour of old blood.’

  ‘Oh, Ash.’ Alice squeezed my arm. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Me too.’ I turned back to the window. Stared out at the snow. ‘He won’t use Cameron Park any more, not now we’ve crawled all over it… We’ll never find Katie’s body.’

  Everything was getting heavier, gravity hauling my body down into the seat. Pulling my eyelids shut. So difficult to move.

  ‘Ash?’

  Should’ve taken another one of Dawson’s stolen amphetamines.

  ‘Leave me alone…’ Cold wrapped its arms around me and heaved. Dragged me out into the snow. I looked up into a grey sky turned almost white. Soft icy kisses on my cheeks.

  A face peered down at me. A woman’s voice. ‘I don’t like this. Alice: he needs to go to the hospital.’

  ‘Please, Aunty Jan, we have to.’ Alice stroked my forehead. ‘He needs me.’

  ‘I must be mad…’ A big, heavy sigh. ‘All right, all right: grab his feet. But if he dies, you’re the one explaining it to the police, understand?’

  ‘Thanks, Aunty Jan.’

  I blinked up at a white ceiling; kitchen cabinets lurked around the edges; the sound of a kettle boiling. I was … inside… How did I get inside? Got to get up and find Katie.

  ‘Will you bloody hold him still! This is hard enough as it is.’

  Something heavy on my arms and legs.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Christ, what a mess…’

  Someone was kicking me in the head. I peeled an eye open, but the bastard was invisible.

  Up above me the ceiling was dappled with animal-shaped shadows, slowly rotating around a hazy sun. My mouth was two sizes too small for my head, the inside of my cheeks lined with sandpaper, tongue forced inside a cage of teeth. Something sticky on my face.

  I put a hand up to scratch it away, but someone caught my wrist.

  ‘No.’ Alice pushed my arm back down by my side. ‘How are you feeling?’

  Like I’d been hit by one of those tankers they used to empty septic tanks. ‘Thirsty.’

  ‘Here.’ She pressed a bottle to my lips and I drank, gulping it down, getting half of it all over my chin and neck. Not caring.

  ‘Aunty Jan fixed you up.’

  A face loomed over me – the same one from the kitchen. Bobbed hair jelled into spikes on one side, a face pinched around narrowed eyes. ‘Lucky you didn’t lose that foot. What were you thinking?’

  ‘Told you she’s a great vet.’

  I held out a hand and Alice hauled me up till I was sitting in a single bed. My stomach lurched. I gritted my teeth, swallowed hard. Held onto the mattress in case it soared away. Looked down.

  My right foot was encased in professional-looking bandages, wrapped so tightly I couldn’t feel a thing.

  Alice’s aunt folded her arms. ‘I’ve done a nerve block – lidocaine, epinephrine, and a corticosteroid. The whole thing will be numb below the knee, but that doesn’t mean you can go out and run a marathon. The bullet sheared through your second metatarsal, right now the only thing holding your toe on is skin and some stitches. You’ll need a bone graft.’ A nod. ‘Keep that foot elevated or you’re going to end up with an oedema, septicaemia, and probably gangrene. That sound like fun to you?’

  Didn’t hurt at all. ‘You’re a genius.’ I swung my legs out of bed and the room whooshed around my head, doing a lap of honour. ‘Christ…’

  ‘You need to rest. And shower. You absolutely reek.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood, you need to—’

  ‘What’s the bloody time?’

  Silence.

  Then Alice held up her watch. ‘Two o’clock.’

  Three hours.

  Chapter 46

  The Snooze-U-Like Inn on Martyr Road was a Rubik’s cube, where all the sides were the same colour: grey. Henry’s ancient Volvo estate was the only thing in the car park until Alice slid the Renault in next to it.

  She looked up at the bland frontage with its little square windows. Snow drifted down from the gunmetal sky. ‘Still nothing?’

  I fidgeted with the collar on my borrowed shirt. Everything Alice’s uncle owned was just a bit too big, but at least it didn’t stink of blood and sweat and vomit. ‘Come on, Henry, answer the bloody phone…’ It rang through to voicemail again. I hung up.

  She hopped out of the car, breath pluming around her head. ‘I’ll go get him.’

  Five minutes later
and there was still no sign of her.

  I climbed out into the cold.

  It took me a dozen steps to get used to the cane Alice’s aunt Jan had lent me – leaning on the polished mahogany handle every time my right foot touched the ground, lurching from side to side as I hobbled towards the hotel entrance.

  The nerve block was great – couldn’t feel a thing.

  I pushed through into the reception area. Scuffed carpet tiles, faded wallpaper, dusty plastic pot plants, and a bored-looking man behind the desk.

  The receptionist glanced up from his copy of the Daily Mail. ‘You got a reservation?’

  Fucking thousands of them. ‘Henry Forrester: where is he?’

  ‘Room seventeen, first floor.’ Mr Daily Mail pointed towards a set of double doors. ‘Lift’s out of order.’

  Brilliant, more stairs.

  I puffed and panted up to the first floor, paused for a second to catch my breath, then limped into a dingy corridor. A door at the far end lay open, the number 17 picked out in brass on the scuffed brown paint, a ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ hanging from the handle.

  Television noises oozed out into the hall – some snooty woman’s voice banging on about the interest rates.

  They were watching the bloody news, as if we had all the time in the world. As if he wasn’t going to kill my little girl at five.

  For fuck’s sake.

  I lurched down the corridor. ‘Henry Bloody Forrester, get your lazy drunken arse downstairs, now…’

  Alice appeared in the doorway, both arms wrapped around herself, bottom lip trembling, a drip shining on the end of her nose. ‘Ash…’

  I stopped. ‘Where is he?’

  She stared at the threadbare carpet. ‘He’s gone.’ A tear sparkled in the dim light, then plopped onto the toe of her red shoes.

  ‘What do you mean, he’s…’ No. I pushed past into the room.

  Sheba was on the bed, on her side, completely still. Henry lay beside her, dressed in his funeral suit, an empty Macallan bottle at his fingertips, a clear plastic bag over his head – the sides streaked with condensation.

  He was cold to the touch, no pulse. The ancient dog was the same.

  She’s dead… It isn’t… I can’t.

  And I’d called him a useless drunken old bastard.

  Alice shuffled in behind me. ‘These were on the bedside cabinet.’ She held out a small white pill tub.

  Fluvoxamine. The antidepressant he was taking in Shetland.

  She sniffed. Cleared her throat. Rubbed a hand across her eyes. Took a big shuddering breath. ‘He left a note.’

  Sodding hell: she’d found her mother in the bath with slit wrists. And now this.

  Henry, you stupid selfish old bastard.

  ‘…thoughts and prayers are with the families at this time. Both girls’ birthdays are today and we can only imagine how their parents are feeling.’

  ‘Do you think Megan Taylor and Katie Henderson are already dead?’

  ‘Well, we have no concrete evidence that the so called “Birthday Boy” kills his victims on their—’

  I switched off the car radio. ‘Are you OK?’

  A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds, making the wet road sparkle. The streets were arranged in neatly ordered rows: old-fashioned houses with four-pane windows and gardens out the front. Beech trees in cast-iron cages dotted the pavements.

  Alice wiped at her eyes, smudging the black makeup even further. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘It’s OK to be—’

  ‘We should have called the police.’

  I softened my voice, put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Henry won’t mind waiting. We’ve only got two and a bit hours. He’d understand.’

  She sniffed, wiped her eyes again. ‘Right, yes, I’m being silly, I mean he’s already dead… We’ve got a job to do.’ A little shudder. Then she peered out through the windscreen. ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ACC Drummond’s house sat back behind a beech hedge and a small granite wall – two gateposts either side of a gravel driveway. But then the Wynd was that kind of neighbourhood.

  ‘Think about it: Drummond says he needs the families’ addresses so he can plan the work roster, but why spread the PNC searches out across so many people? Why not give the whole lot to Weber, or one of the DIs? Why divvy up the work himself? He doesn’t want anyone to know what he’s up to.’

  I opened my door.

  She put a hand on my arm. ‘Ash, you’ve been shot, you’ve been taking drugs, you’ve lost a lot of blood, and … Henry. Maybe you’re not thinking all that straight, and—’

  ‘You got any other suspects lurking up your sleeve? Drummond’s the only game in town.’ I got out, clunked the door shut, pointed at the house.

  The cane crunched on the gravel as I hobbled up the driveway, pulling on my black leather gloves. A double garage sat off to one side, no sign of any cars. Better safe than sorry: I rang the doorbell and a high-pitched trrrrrrrrring… sounded inside.

  No answer.

  Tried again.

  Still nothing.

  I looked down at my right foot, wrapped in bandages and stuffed into one of Alice’s uncle’s trainers – no chance I was kicking the door in. Besides, this was a neighbourhood watch area. Some nosy old bat in twinset-and-pearls might hear and call the police.

  Have to try around the back.

  Alice scrunched up behind me. ‘Maybe we should come back later?’

  A path led along the side of the building, to a cast-iron gate with an elaborate catch and no padlock. Looked as if Drummond needed someone to pop along and give him a talk about home security.

  I slipped through into the back garden, then closed the gate behind Alice.

  Big, lots of flowerbeds, bushes, trees, a hammock, huge greenhouse. Shadows already starting to lengthen across a neatly trimmed lawn.

  The back door was part-glazed, with some sort of utility room on the other side. I stood and stared up at the building: no sign of a burglar alarm. Nothing around the front either. Drummond really did need that talk.

  I grabbed a flowerpot and smashed one of the door’s glass panes. Reached in and unlocked the door.

  Alice shifted from foot to foot on the threshold. ‘This is now officially breaking and entering, right?’

  ‘Told you to stay in the car anyway.’

  Inside it smelled of fresh washing and oranges. The utility room opened on a large kitchen.

  She crept in behind me, voice lowered to a whisper. ‘What are we looking for?’

  Through the kitchen into a hallway with the usual assortment of jackets and keys, some shoes, a pair of long leather riding boots, a pile of mail lying on the mat. A flight of stairs heading up.

  Alice tried a door – it swung open on a living room with a couple of stripy sofas and a lot of wood panelling. ‘Is he married? Because if he’s married he’s not likely to keep Katie here, is he, what if his wife found out, it’d—’

  ‘Why aren’t you wearing gloves?’

  Her eyes went wide, then she grimaced. ‘Sorry.’ She wriggled her hand into the sleeve of her long-sleeved top and wiped the door handle. ‘I’ve never done this before.’

  Really?

  We tried all the other doors on the ground floor: garage, dining room, reception room, one bathroom, one toilet. Stairs led up to the upper floor.

  Bollocks.

  Had to take them one at a time, one hand leaning on the walking stick, the other on the handrail. One of the doors up there was ajar. I raised the stick, placed the rubber-tipped end against the door, and pushed.

  It opened on a study lined with bookshelves and framed photographs. A desk sat opposite the door, a laptop and flat-screen monitor on top, an office chair, computer tower unit and a half-height filing cabinet underneath.

  Alice slipped through into the room. ‘Maybe we can find out if he’s got another house, or a lock-up or something?’ She tucked her hands into her
sleeves again and pulled at one of the filing drawers. Locked. ‘Oh…’

  ‘Try the computers.’ I went back onto the landing and checked the other rooms. No sign of Katie. According to my watch, it had just gone three: two hours left.

  Back in the study, Alice was perched on the edge of Drummond’s executive leather chair, mobile phone clamped to her ear. The flat-screen monitor in front of her displayed the Windows log-in screen. ‘Uh-huh… No I tried that… OK, hold on…’ She dragged around her satchel, pulled out her laptop and stuck it on the desk. Pressed the power button. ‘Yes, it’s booting up now.’

  ‘No joy?’

  She jerked around, one hand on her chest. ‘Don’t sneak up on me like that! You know I’m nervous enough as it…’ A frown. She shifted her grip on the phone. ‘No, not you, Sabir, it’s … my aunt. Right, my machine’s ready.’ Alice poked at the keyboard.

  I took a tour of the bookshelves. A large SLR digital camera sat between a set of P.D. James novels and a copy of Sexual Homicide: Patterns and Motives. I took the camera down and played with the switches until the thing beeped and the screen on the back lit up.

  ‘Uh-huh… That’s it downloaded. Connecting it with the USB cable… OK, here we go.’ She drummed her fingers on the desk. ‘It’s running.’

  Looked as if Drummond had a thing for photographing people walking their dogs. I flicked through them. Kings Park, Montgomery Park, Camburn Woods.

  ‘We’re in! Sabir – you’re a genius…’ Alice grinned. The flat-screen monitor changed to an almost empty desktop with icons along the bottom. ‘No, I don’t know how Aunty Jan managed to forget her log-in details… Yes, I’ll make sure she writes them down this time, thanks, Sabir.’

  Alice hung up and went to work with the computer mouse, clicking on things – filling the screen with folders and documents.

  I kept going through the photos. More dog walkers: Moncuir Woods, the Bellows.

  What if Drummond wasn’t the Birthday Boy? What if he was just like Steven Wallace?

  Two hours left; it had to be him. Because if it wasn’t, Katie was dead.

  Alice cleared her throat. ‘Ash…?’

  A woman walking a Dalmatian through the rain, her yellow umbrella glowing like a slice of the sun. Next photo…

  ‘Ash?’