Birthdays for the dead

Chapter 42

and that was that was Coldplay and

Fix You. A cough rattled out of the car radio. Sorry folks, had a bit of a rough one last night. A shuddering sigh. Right, OK: you re listening to Sensational Steve s Sunday Morning Lie-In Lovefest and and now here s another of Megan Taylor s favourite songs

The fields and little towns raced by as I hammered down the M74 accelerator flat to the Renault s filthy carpet, phone to my ear, swearing as the other end rang and rang and rang. Then put me through to voicemail again.

Henry, for fuck s sake: answer your bloody phone!

I hung up and tried again, for the fourth time in twenty miles.

Lockerbie was a blur in the rear-view mirror when I finally gave up on Henry and tried Dr McDonald instead. She picked up first time.

Ash, are you OK, I mean I know you re not OK, with everything happening and now you can t be on the team and I m we re worried about you.

When does he kill them?

On their birthdays, is there

No: does he kill them in the morning, in the evening, lunchtime, when?

I don t It s hard to tell, there s nothing in the photographs to give us time of day, it s all indoors under artificial light, so

If you were him, when would you do it?

I swung over into the outside lane and roared past a coach full of ugly children.

I don t think that s a healthy thing to focus on, if we

When does he kill them?

A sigh. It s impossible to tell, I mean I think it s important to kill them on their actual birthday, and Professor Twining said it took Lauren six or seven hours to die, so he can t have started later than six o clock I think he works, so he can t start torturing them before he goes off in the morning in case something happens and they die while he s not there, so it s after work.

That means we ve got till five o clock tomorrow. I checked my watch. Thirty hours till he Till Katie.

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

What?

Or he might have taken Monday as a holiday so he can spend the whole day on

Don t, OK? Just don t. I scowled at the dual carriageway. Is Henry there?

He s with the SEB search team, he worked up probable deposition sites for the other victims from the map, he s very good, Ash, I mean he s scarily good.

One step closer to them finding Rebecca

Call me soon as he gets back.

Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?

I hate these things Henry cleared his throat. You re sure no one can hear us?

Henry it stinks in here.

Sheba can t help that. Wind the window down if it bothers you that much.

Nearly a quarter-tank of petrol left, still a bit to go before I had to stop. Will you two shut up? There s another victim.

What?

A couple of months ago, a girl in Bath: the family got a card but they hushed it up.

Someone whistled.

Dr McDonald: You know what this means, it means Katie s not number thirteen, she s number fourteen.

A pause.

Henry s voice was barely audible over the engine s roar. I was wrong. A deep breath. I was wrong, Ash. He s not been building up to his thirteenth victim. It s not going to stop

Ash, if Katie s number fourteen then he s escalating: one a year for seven years, then two the next year, another two last year, and now three, that means there s going to be more of them, soon.

He s escalating

How does that help us find Katie?

Dr McDonald got even faster than usual. Ash, he can t keep this up, he s operating at full stretch, running from victim to victim, and we should issue a statement telling everyone who s got a daughter coming up to her thirteenth birthday to keep her under lock and key.

There ll be a panic.

What else can we do, Henry, he s one step away from going on a spree, we can t not tell people, what if it was your daughter?

Hrrmph. My daughter can t wait for me to drop dead so she and her husband can get their hands on my money. Apparently I m a selfish old man drinking her inheritance A sniff. I m sorry, Ash. I got it wrong.

A fluorescent-yellow speed camera wheeched by, the flash going off as I overtook a mini. The victim s boyfriend said he saw the Birthday Boy.

Dr McDonald sounded as if she was bouncing up and down in her seat. Ash, that s great, we ll get Dickie onto Avon and Somerset Police, get them to take a description and

No: no police. The boyfriend wouldn t talk to them anyway. I m on my way there now.

But

No police! I hung up and jammed the phone back into my pocket.

One hundred and seventy miles to go.

I clambered out of the car, groaned, then tried to rub some life back into my spine. Twenty past three. Seven hours from Oldcastle all the way to Bath. Got pulled over outside Carlisle for doing ninety, but once they d checked my warrant card, that was it: I m sorry to hear about your daughter. Do you want us to escort you down the road a bit, blues-and-twos all the way?

They had to give up at junction 37, but at least it was something.

Of course, I could have flown into Bristol and saved myself three hours, but airport security tended to get a bit twitchy when you tried to take a gun onboard.

I pulled out my notebook and double-checked the address I d got from Andy Inglis. This was it: number twenty-six, a third of the way along a narrow street of terraced houses. Green and brown streaks made dirty shadows under the guttering. Dirty, rust-coloured pantiles, small gardens, the pavements solid with down-at-heel Hondas, Fords, and Citro ns.

Not the fanciest bit of Bath by a long shot.

I squeezed the Renault in behind a van and climbed out into the afternoon. It was a damn sight warmer down here than back home, and it wasn t raining either.

The wooden gate creaked as I pushed through into the garden. Football blared out from a TV somewhere inside: the crowd roaring, the commentator sounding as if he was about to wet himself with excitement.

I rang the bell.

A muffled voice: OK, OK, I m coming Jesus Couldn t wait till half-time, could you. A little man with a big nose and curly hair opened the door. He wasn t smiling. Better not be one of them bloody born-again tossers.

I stared at him.

He fidgeted with the buttons on his polo shirt. What?

You didn t go to the police.

He shuffled an inch backwards, licked his lips, started to ease the door shut. I didn t. I said I wouldn t and I didn t He looked down to where my foot was jammed in the door, stopping it going any further. Honestly: we didn t say anything.

I took out my warrant card and held it up for him. Why?

His mouth fell open, and then he sniffed. I m very busy, so if you ll excuse me

A woman s voice came from the hall behind him. Ron? Is it Mrs Mahajan? I ve got her casserole dish.

Ron glanced back into the house. I ll take care of it, you go back to the kitchen.

Ron?

I said I d take care of it! He squared his shoulders, still peering around the door. You ve got no right coming round here, harassing us. Nothing happened, I ve got nothing to say, now go away.

The bastard got your daughter, didn t he: the Birthday Boy?

His jaw clenched. Nothing happened, now please

I know how you feel.

He slammed a fist into his own chest. You know nothing about how I feel.

He took my daughter.

Ron? What s going on?

I dug back into my wallet and came out with a photo Katie dressed in funeral black with a huge smile on her face. Heading off to see Green Day at the Aberdeen Exhibition and Conference Centre. Her first big gig. She went missing Friday night. We got the card on Saturday.

He blushed, then lowered his head. Stared at his shoes. I m sorry, but I don t know what you re talking about. Now you have to go.

I reached in, took a handful of his shirt, and pulled, banging his forehead off the door. Pin back your lugs, you little shite: he s got my daughter, her birthday s tomorrow, and I will tear your fucking head off if I think it s going to help me find her. Are we crystal clear on that?

Ron?

They made me promise

We sat in the lounge while Ellie Chadwick poured tea from a red teapot. She was a slight woman in a pair of bright green jeans and a pink fluffy jumper. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, the fringe spirit-level straight; wearing enough makeup to get a job on the counter at Debenhams. Couldn t have been a day over thirty.

Ron sat on the other side of the coffee table, scowling at a slice of Battenberg. We promised.

She put down the teapot and picked up the photo of Katie. You promised, Ronald Chadwick, not me. Ellie traced Katie s hair with a finger. Your daughter s pretty.

She s a pain in the arse but she s mine.

Our Brenda was the same. Always getting into trouble. Ellie turned, opened a drawer in the TV unit and pulled out a small photo album. Flipped to a page near the end, then placed it on the table in front of me. A young girl with glasses, and hair like her mum s, grinned up at me from a funfair somewhere the carousel horses out of focus behind her. She had one arm around a thin boy with floppy blond hair and a big gap between his front teeth.

I pointed at the picture. This the boyfriend?

Dawson Whitaker. He lives over in Newbridge it s probably the poshest bit of Bath, you should see the houses To start with we thought she d done really well for herself, his family s loaded, but

Ellie, that s enough! Ron banged his hand on the table, making the crockery rattle.

Oh shut it, Ron. Christ You re just like my mother.

You got any idea what that bastard ll do to us if he hears we ve been talking to the cops?

I don t care, Ron, OK? I m sick of it: I m sick of being scared all the time. I m sick of hiding Brenda s pictures and pretending she doesn t exist. She was our daughter. Ellie took the album back, then slipped the funfair photo out from behind the clear plastic sheeting and handed it to me. She disappeared four days before her birthday. Then that card arrived, and it was exactly like the ones in the papers

Ron scowled. Ellie, I m warning you

She took a deep breath. That s what he does, isn t it? He tortures them, and he kills them, then he sends you these sick birthday cards.

Have you still got it?

Ron snorted. Have we still got it?

Ellie shook her head. Dawson s dad took the card when he came over. The only time we ve ever met him. He said if we told anyone about what happened, if we got the police involved, someone would burn our house down with us in it.

Ron picked the marzipan off his Battenberg. Don t forget the rape first, that s the best fucking bit.

He was only trying to scare us.

He did a bloody good job then, didn t he? He s a drug dealer, Ellie, he kills people all the time. It s what they do. Ron wadded his marzipan into a ragged ball. I don t want to be raped

The school was a fancy collection of sandstone buildings on the southern outskirts of Bath, with a coat of arms mounted above the gates and a lodge house. Windows like a cathedral, crenellations, and ten or twelve acres of sweeping parkland, all hidden behind an eight-foot-high wall. Very imposing. Very exclusive. And very expensive.

Dawson Whitaker s dad must have been shifting a hell of a lot of drugs.

I parked my crappy Renault behind a line of Range Rovers and BMW four-by-fours, none of which looked as if they d ever seen so much as a muddy puddle. A rugby pitch was laid out in the grounds, and a group of about thirty kids sprinted up and down, passing the ball back and forth every time a bloke in a black tracksuit blew his whistle.

My phone rang. I pulled it out and read the screen: Parker. I pressed the button. This important?

Silence from the other end. Then, Embers Fuck man, I just heard. You OK?

What do you think?

Shite Anything I can do? You want me to go see Michelle, or something?

Maybe someone should. She doesn t like you, Parker.

Aye, I know, but she s family. Katie s family. Can t sit on my arse and do nothing.

It s not

I ll get her flowers or something, yeah? A pause. I m really sorry.

A woman appeared at my shoulder, wearing a dark trouser suit with the school crest on the breast pocket, silver hair immaculately coiffured. Think we re going to win next week, don t you?

I hung up on Parker, put the phone back in my pocket.

Which one s Dawson Whitaker?

A little frown. I m sorry, I don t think we ve met. Are you a parent?

Until five o clock tomorrow. I pulled out my warrant card.

I need to speak to Dawson.

Ah, I see Is he?

No: potential witness.

Well, in that case I m sure Mr Atkinson will be happy for you to have a word. Do follow me.

Down the hill and across to the pitch. The massive white H of the goal posts glowed like honey in the setting sun, the sky a deep and crystal blue.

The whistle blared and the kids changed direction again, getting slower. The guy in the tracksuit made a megaphone with his hands.

Come on, pick up your feet! Five more! Jenkins, don t cuddle it: it s a rugby ball, not your teddy bear!

This close it was easy to pick out Brenda Chadwick s boyfriend: still skinny; still with floppy blond hair; mouth hanging open, showing off the gap between his front teeth.

One second, please. My guide walked over to the man with the whistle. Talked to him in a low voice, pointing back at me.

He shrugged, then gave an extra long blast on the whistle. Phweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Whitaker, over here, at the double! The rest of you: laps!

Dawson trotted over, all elbows and knees, a rugby ball tucked under his arm. Sir? Posh-boy accent, his voice doing that uncomfortable teeter between a wee kid s and a proper grown-up s.

The children thundered past, puffing and panting and groaning. Off in the middle distance, Mr Atkinson and the woman in the trouser suit shared a joke. Giving us a little privacy.

Dawson shrugged, an exaggerated gesture that seemed to haul his arms up at the elbows. I don t know. It all happened really quickly, we d been arguing she wanted to go to the new Disney film on the Wednesday for her birthday, I d got tickets to an Ingmar Bergman retrospective at the Watershed. It was nothing serious. I mean the relationship and the argument.

Relationship? He was thirteen; since when did thirteen-year-old boys call it a relationship? But you saw him, right? The man who took her?

It was only ever a casual thing, but she got a bit clingy. Truth be told, I was going to break it off after her birthday. Didn t want to spoil the day.

Yes, because nothing said HAPPY BIRTHDAY! like an evening watching Swedish existential cinema.

I pulled out the photo of Katie. She s my daughter.

He raised an eyebrow. Very gothic.

The Birthday Boy s got her and he s going to kill her tomorrow. Did you see him?

Dawson closed his mouth, looked away over my shoulder. My father doesn t like me talking to police officers. You shouldn t have come here.

He s going to kill her.

I m sorry. I really, genuinely am. A small shake of the head.

And then a hand landed on my shoulder. Big hairy one, attached to a mountain of muscle in an expensive-looking suit. Sunglasses, bullet-shaped head with a crew-cut and a diamond earring. This bloke botherin you, Dawson?

Genuinely sorry. The kid backed away a couple of steps. I have to get back to practice. He turned and jogged away on an intercept course with the rest of the team.

I curled my hands into fists. Move your paw, or I ll break every finger on it.

You hear that, Ed? Haggis here s gonna break my fingers for me.

A rumble, like a bear in an echo chamber. Don t think so. Ed stepped in close. His face was a knot of scar tissue tied around a boxer s nose, hair greying at the temples.

Shit two of them. What was the point of taking the gun all the way to Bath and leaving it in the bloody car?

Up above, the sky turned the colour of blood, shadows stretching across the playing field like claws.

One last try at being civilized before the violence started.

I just want to know what the boy saw, that s all. I don t give a toss about your boss.

A third voice. Yeah, well, he gives a toss about you.

They frogmarched me across the car park to a Range Rover with blacked-out windows.

I tried a couple of steps towards my manky Renault. Need to get something from the car.

Don t be fuckin stupid, Haggis. The one with the hairy hands plipped open the Range Rover s locks. Now, you gettin in nice and quiet, or do we have to traumatize the little kiddies by stompin on your head?

I don t

Either way, you re gettin in the car.

Chin up, head high. I climbed into the back of the Range Rover. Hairy Hands got in behind the wheel. His mates piled into the back, one on either side of me. The throat-catching reek of aftershave was almost overwhelming.

The car drifted out through the gates, onto the main road.

Where are we going?

Shut it, Haggis. You talk when I tell you to, understand?

Five minutes later we were parked on a tree-lined country lane surrounded by scrubby green-and-brown fields. Not a single house to be seen.

Hairy Hands turned in his seat, and looked me up and down. Smiled.

Ed?

A fist slammed into my stomach, fast, hard, sending shockwaves of fire rippling through me. I folded forwards, the air hissing from my lungs as the ache spread. Couldn t breathe in again. Should ve been ready for it God

Search him.

Hands fumbled through my pockets.

Ow

Ho, ho, what we got here then?

Warrant card: our jock really is a cop. Fuck me, thought you bastards would be smarter than that.

Nice chunk of cash in here too. What s that look like to you: four hunnerd? Five?

Finally, air rushed back into my lungs.

Hairy Hands pocketed my wallet. You re well off your patch, Haggis. Hasslin Mr Whitaker s son, pokin your nose into stuff what doesn t concern you, causin trouble. Not very bright, are you?

A gurgly laugh from Ed. Not very bright.

Yeah, they were probably right.