Birthdays for the dead

Chapter 26

I d expected a motivational speech to be a bit less of a rant. The Assistant Chief Constable paced up and down at the front of the crowded briefing room a thin man with a hunched-over walk, wearing dress-uniform black. And while we re on the subject of unprofessional conduct, I clearly need to spell this out again: you will not speak to the media! He stopped, turned, and glared out at the crowded room. Never. Not so much as a word. As far as those bastards are concerned, you are bloody mute!

No one said anything.

Do you understand me, ladies and gentlemen? M U

T E. The ACC straightened up for a moment, before hunching over again and stalking from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Weber shook his head, then stood, held up his hands for silence.

Now that you re all feeling perky and loved, it s update time. We ve discovered a fifth body at the dump site, Matt and his team are recovering it at the moment, no ID as yet.

Please don t be Rebecca, please don t be Rebecca

Slightly more pressing: Dickie s team of Party Crashers have a system they use to identify possible Birthday Boy victims. Most of the time they re simply runaways who turn up eventually, but other times

Sabir heaved himself out of a small plastic chair and lumbered to the projection screen. He pointed something at the back of the room and a mosaic of girls faces appeared on the screen. We re tracking nineteen girls this year, all gone missin three or four days before their thirteenth birthday. They re all up and down the country, but we got a new one last night. He pointed the thing again and the screen changed to a head-and-shoulders shot of a young girl trying desperately to look older. Far too much makeup, broad face stretched wider by a smile that looked practised, hair the colour of wet straw scraped back from her face in a Kingsmeath facelift.

Sabir nodded at the screen. Megan Taylor: she ll be thirteen on Monday. Bunked off school on Thursday to hang about the shops with her mates. They say she was acting all secret-like, you know, thought she was going to meet someone special. We ve got her on CCTV at the Templers Vale shoppin centre at three-fifteen yesterday afternoon, after that nothin.

He pointed the remote again and Megan s face was replaced by grainy security camera footage with a timestamp flickering away in the bottom right-hand corner. Six kids, none of them wearing school uniforms, all of them with backpacks.

Two girls were sitting on the edge of a large square planter at the centre of the group. One was a bit on the chunky side with a low-cut top, the other was Megan. She was smoking a cigarette: making a big production of it, as if she was in a film. Look at me: look how sophisticated and grown up I am. Slurping at a large wax-paper cup of something fizzy from a fast-food outlet probably the KFC on the ground floor working the straw like a pro.

The big girl stomped away, out of the picture.

Then the group froze, looked left.

A wee man in a security guard s uniform appeared onscreen, pointing his finger as if it was a gun.

Megan took one last draw on her cigarette, dropped it, then ground the butt out with her trainer. She stood, said something. Her mates all laughed.

Mr Security Guard marched closer.

She flipped the drink at him. The wax-paper cup spun through the air then exploded on the marble floor ice and fizzy sugared water going everywhere.

He danced back a couple of steps, and she was off, running and laughing, giving him the finger as she disappeared off screen.

Nice girl. Her mum and dad must be so proud.

The picture froze, then jumped back to Megan s face.

Sabir sniffed. Course, we don t really know if she s a victim yet. Won t get confirmation one way or the other till the parents gerra birthday card next year. But given you lot ve found all them bodies, and she s gone missin from Oldcastle, chances are? A shrug. And then he sat down again.

Thank you, Constable. Weber picked up a clipboard from the nearest desk and flicked through the attached sheets.

In light of this I m pulling Gilbert, McTavish, and Urpeth off the door-to-doors: you re seconded to DCS Dickie s task force, try not to embarrass anyone. DI Morrow will hand out the rest of the assignments.

Shifty Dave went through the list, rearranging the teams while I scanned the room. Dr McDonald was sitting at the back, on her own. She was even paler than yesterday, face glistening, hair lank, bags under her eyes, glasses in one hand as she rubbed at her forehead. She d seemed fine when I d dropped her off this morning

She put her glasses back on, glanced up, saw me watching her, and pulled on a thin smile. Gave a little wave.

When Shifty had finished dishing out the crap, everyone stood and shuffled towards the exit. I went to join them, but DCI Weber got to me first.

Ash He looked around, then dropped his voice to a whisper. Have you sorted your problem with Mrs Kerrigan yet?

Give me a chance: only been back a couple of hours.

Look, if you need a hand I know someone who s in the market for a little after-hours security no questions asked and Dr McDonald! Weber threw his arms open. How are you feeling? Any better?

She was standing right behind me.

Pink rushed up her cheeks. I m so sorry about earlier, I didn t mean to, and certainly not in your office, I m really, really, really sorry.

Don t worry about it, you re not the first person to lose their breakfast in my office, you probably won t be the last either. And if you leave the windows open for a couple of hours the smell soon goes away.

She nodded and stared at her feet. Sorry.

Anyway, Ash: have a think and let me know if you want that guy s number, OK? In the meantime Weber flipped through his clipboard again. I ve got you down to accompany Dr McDonald today. She wants to do some follow-ups on the door-to-doors.

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 amp;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!