Birthdays for the dead

Chapter 21

The lounge bar at the Scalloway Hotel was busy that evening. I picked my way around a clump of men in overalls, then through a swarm of girlies dressed in pink Stetsons and L plates to where Henry and Dr McDonald were sitting.

Her face had developed a pale-grey tint, like unpainted wood-chip wallpaper, the bags under her eyes a greenish-purple. I put a pint glass full of milk and another of water on the table in front of her. A thin smile, then she puffed out her cheeks and gulped at the milk.

Sitting opposite, Henry took his double Grouse with a nod.

Sally came, so we ordered for you.

I pulled out a chair and parked myself next to Dr McDonald. At least this way if she puked it d be all over Henry and not me.

I was only gone five minutes.

Dr McDonald wiped a hand across her mouth, then put the empty glass back on the table. You re having the lamb.

OK I probably would have picked that anyway, but it would have been nice to get the choice. That was the problem with psychologists: they always had to know best. And did you two achieve anything today? Cirrhosis? Alcohol poisoning?

Henry took another sip of whisky.

She picked up her water. What: you don t like lamb?

Do we have a profile? Vague pointers? Something for the door-to-door teams to look out for?

What s wrong with lamb?

There s nothing For God s sake. Look, do we have any idea what the Birthday Boy wants, or don t we?

She glanced across the table at Henry.

He lifted his whisky as if he was toasting her. In your own time.

Dr McDonald nodded, then toasted him back with the water. There s something deeply wrong about the way he deals with the victims: when he snatches them he should be all excited and wound up and desperate to relive the fantasy again, but he leaves them tied to a chair for two or three days until it s their birthday, I mean I could see a couple of hours delayed gratification, but three days is too much.

Deep breath. Then there s the disposal, there s no ritual to it, no meaning, just getting rid of bodies, I wondered if there was something significant about them being naked

I shook my head. He buries them naked because it s a pain in the arse to dress a dead body. You should try it sometime: worse than undressing a drunk. He strips them when he tortures them, why would he want to dress them again?

She smiled at me, as if I was a small child who d managed to tie his own shoelaces for the first time. Exactly: it s like they don t matter to him at all, you know I think he d put them out for the bin men if he thought he could get away with it, they re irrelevant.

I settled back in my seat and raised an eyebrow at Henry.

He shook his head. It s Alice s show.

If they don t matter, why abduct them at all?

She opened her mouth to say something, but a large grey-haired woman got there first: Two Cullen Skinks and a smoked salmon starter?

Inside, the music swelled the crowd joining in with the three-piece band. Guitar, violin and an accordion doing a Scottish country dance version of Johnny B. Goode, with the occasional Heuch! thrown in for good measure.

Outside it was freezing.

I put a finger in my ear to block out the noise and hunched my back against the cold. What do you mean: he s watching you? Where?

Michelle s voice trembled. We re in Tesco the changing rooms. Ash, he s right outside!

You re sure?

Of course I m bloody sure! A clunk and some rustling, a pause, and then Michelle was back. He s watching the changing rooms. What am I supposed to do? Katie s here we re trying to get something nice for her party, and Ethan s standing right outside waiting for us!

The wee shite. OK: does the changing room have an assistant? Get them to call store security.

Silence. Snow drifted down from the dark sky, shining in the streetlights, thick and quiet. Ash, what if he comes to the house? What if he

I ll sort it. Don t worry, it ll be

When? When will you sort it? Tonight? Her voice was getting higher, the words faster. Can you do it tonight?

I said I ll sort it. Won t be till tomorrow though, maybe we can

Tomorrow? You know what Ethan s like: if he s

I m in Shetland, Michelle, I can t click my heels together three times and magically

You re in Shetland? A pause. I thought you said Katie stayed with you last night!

Bugger.

Yes, well I flew up this morning. Part of the investigation. Silence. Look, I ll make some calls. Meantime: tell store security he s stalking you.

More silence. Fine. And she was gone.

Bloody Ethan Baxter. Couldn t take a bloody telling, could he?

I scrolled through my contacts list. Maybe get Shifty Dave to pay him a visit with a crowbar? No. That pleasure was going to be all mine. I scrolled down and clicked another number.

It rang, and rang, and rang, and then a recorded voice came on the line: Hi, this is Rhona. Leave a message. Beeeep.

Rhona, it s Ash. Listen, I need you to do me a

Hello? Scrambling, clicking noises. Hello? Guv? Voice a little slurred around the edges.

Ethan Baxter: not sure where he s living now, but he used to have a house on Lochview Road. He s been hassling Michelle and Katie.

Right, Jesus, OK You want him picked up? I ll get Norm and we ll give him a tour of the station stairs.

She would too. Just get someone to keep an eye on Michelle, drive by the house now and then, make sure Baxter s behaving himself. I ll deal with him when I get back from Shetland.

Cool. I ll come with you and

I don t really think that s a good idea, it s

Guv, you ll need someone to watch your back: make sure you re covered in case the wee shite makes a complaint, or there s an investigation That kind of thing.

A Range Rover growled past, windscreen wipers going full pelt, headlights making the snow flare brilliant white in the darkness.

I ll be fine. Make sure whoever s doing the drive-bys lets Michelle know they re there, OK?

You can count on me, Guv: she ll know you re looking out for her.

And if the bastard goes anywhere near them, pick him up and stick him somewhere till I get back.

Somewhere quiet and out of the way. No witnesses. Got you.

Thanks, Rhona.

We spent a few minutes moaning about the Warriors chances against Aberdeen Football Club on Saturday, what a cock Sergeant Smith was, and the weekend s weather forecast; then she caught me up on the Cameron Park investigation. Which didn t seem to be achieving much more than produ-cing a small rainforest s worth of paperwork.

The band s Jimmy-Shand-style interpretation of Smells Like Teen Spirit got louder for a couple of seconds, then a door clunked and Henry s voice cut through the snow s feathery silence. Wondered where you d got to.

I hung up and slid the phone back into my pocket. Checking in with the station.

Henry turned up his collar and squinted out into the slow-motion blizzard. He didn t look that great even for someone slowly pickling themselves into oblivion. Sunken cheeks, sunken eyes, skin the colour of parchment. He sniffed. Held out his arms, voice a gravelly monotone.

Then winter s icy claws dig deep into the hearts of men pulling forth the long dark nights, the pale bone touch of death again

Poetry? God, you re a cheery bastard.

A shrug. My clown suit s been in the wash since Ellie passed. He wiped a finger under his nose catching a drip. You know the funny thing about Albert Pearson s funeral? The only person I knew there was dead. What was the point? We re all dead now, even me. I just haven t stopped moving yet.

Thursday 17th November