Birthdays for the dead

Chapter 33

PC Sheila Caldwell rolled the dusting brush back and forward over the back door, the bristles barely touching the gouged wood, leaving a layer of powdery white. She was getting it all over her black fleece too and the matching fluorescent-yellow POLICE waistcoat, and black bobble hat. She turned and peered at me through a haze of dust. Not looking good, Guv

The security light clicked off again. I waved my arm across the sensor s path. Crack we were bathed in a searing white glow. Shame it wasn t as warm as it was bright. Bloody freezing out here.

The wood around the lock was gouged and scratched, the damaged wood clean and raw against the blue paint.

I looked up at the house. Light glowed from a window up near the top of the building, a face peering out through the glass.

Rhona shuffled through the bushes, one hand deep in her pocket, the other clutching a huge torch, breath trailing out behind her like a steam train. Long gone. Think they came in over the back wall. Ground s frozen solid: no footprints, but there s some broken branches and stuff. She sniffed, wiped her hand across her top lip. Your psychologist come out yet?

Nope.

Rhona puffed out her cheeks, then slid the torch beam up the wall until it spotlit the study window Dr McDonald ducked away from the glass. Her highness is a bit nervous isn t she?

Be fair: someone did try to jimmy the back door open with a screwdriver.

And the first thing she does is call her knight in shining armour. Not nine-nine-nine or anything sensible like that. Another sniff. I d have gone out and kicked his arse for him.

Sheila straightened up, then slipped the cover back over her brush. Sorry, Guv. There s nothing here. Little sod must ve worn gloves. She popped the brush into the SOC kit box. Probably just a junkie a pro would ve brought a crowbar or a claw-hammer. Screwdriver s great for chibbing your scumbag mates, but not so good for getting through a Yale lock.

Rhona squinted at the powder-covered door. You made a right dog s breakfast of that.

Bite me. Every SEB bugger s off digging up skeletons. Sheila wiped a hand across her face, making a clean patch in the dust. Think you can do better?

Rhona gave a lopsided shrug. A monkey could do better.

Oh, ha, ha. It s cold, I ve been on since seven this morning, and I m not in the bloody mood.

I held up a hand. All right, that s enough. No fighting.

They scowled at each other.

God help us. Sheila: do me a favour and make sure a car cruises by every hour or so, OK?

Yes, Guv.

I left her to pack up, and followed Rhona back around to the front of the house, torchlight picking a path through the darkness.

More sniffing. You don t think it s a junkie, do you?

Depends where Sensational Steve Wallace was tonight.

The front door opened as we got there. Dr McDonald stood on the threshold, one arm wrapped around herself, pressing Wilberforce the stuffed puffin to her chest, the other hand fiddling with her hair.

Is he gone?

Rhona took out her notebook. You see someone?

A nod, sending brown curls bouncing. It was dark: I didn t see his face, but he was wearing a thick coat and a woolly hat, and what if he comes back?

Patrol car ll swing past through the night. Now, if there s nothing

Ash, will you stay, please, I mean there s plenty of spare rooms and I really don t want to be stuck here on my own if he comes back, Aunty Jan s got the dogs with her and what if it wasn t a burglar, what if it was someone after me?

Rhona squared her shoulders. Think you re really special, don t you?

I m only

You think the Birthday Boy s after you, cos Rhona put on a big theatrical voice. You re the only one who can stop him! A snort.

Seriously?

It s not

That kinda thing only happens in the movies, Princess. Serial killers don t stalk the investigating team, they stay the hell away from the police.

Dr McDonald took a step back. Oh Bit her bottom lip. Looked away.

All right, Rhona, that s enough. Not her fault she s scared.

Oh, come on, for all we know she s making it all up to get attention. Could ve scratched the back door herself, and the description s not exactly

I said that s enough.

Dr McDonald gave the puffin a squeeze. Please, Ash?

Come on, Guv, I m just saying: it wasn t the Birthday

Please?

I lay flat on the bed, in the dark, in an unfamiliar room, watching a sliver of light sweep across the ceiling headlights on a car outside, going by.

All this time with nothing and then Steven Wallace comes along. Let it be him. Let the bastard be the one.

I ran my fingers over the surface of the small velvet box Little Mike gave me. Rough in one direction, smooth in the other, a sunken line where the lid and the base fitted together.

Let Steven Wallace be the fucker that killed Rebecca.

Four years of looking, and lying, and waiting. Four years of everything broken. Four years praying for a chance to catch the bastard: to be there when he confessed, to watch him go down for the rest of his miserable life. To tell Rebecca that I got him

A knock on the door.

Ash?

I stuck the box under my pillow. Hello?

The door opened. A silhouette in flannel jammies stood in the hall outside, head shrouded in curls. I wanted She cleared her throat. Thank you for staying.

Try and get some sleep, OK?

You re a great dad. She closed the door, leaving me alone in the darkness again.

I wrapped my hand around his throat and squeezed.

Saturday 19th November