Birthdays for the dead

Chapter 39

The priest s voice crackled out of speakers bolted to the granite walls: Let us pray. He held up his hands and the people around me bowed their heads.

St Jasper s was packed, the pews overflowing, people standing in the aisles and at the back, desperate to be part of the public grieving. The church ceiling curved high overhead, grey and ribbed, like being inside a fossilized whale. Spotlights made the stained glass glow in grimy shades of red, blue, and yellow. A miserable bloody place full of fucking ghouls.

Dear Lord, hear our prayer for Megan Taylor and Katie Henderson

Michelle reached over and squeezed my hand, chin on her chest, eyes screwed tight shut as if God wouldn t let us have our daughter back if He caught her peeking.

I stared straight ahead.

Dickie s mob had done a decent job of hiding the security cameras in amongst the twiddly carvings; by the time the prayer shambled to a halt with a communal Amen I d only managed to spot eight of them. If the bastard was here, they d have him on film.

The priest fiddled with the white-and-gold scarf draped around his neck, amplified voice all boom and echoes. Now we re going to hear from some of Megan s friends. Brianna Fowler has bravely volunteered to go first. Brianna?

Sitting on the other side of me, Dr McDonald tugged my sleeve as the chunky girl from the CCTV footage clambered up to the microphone.

Are you OK?

We should be out there looking for her, not in here pissing about wasting time.

Up on the stage, Brianna cleared her throat and got a whistle of feedback from the speakers. Megan was Megan is my best friend

Dr McDonald glanced back over her shoulder. Sabir s already running footage through his software: we re not wasting time, we re springing a trap. A small frown. Then she fidgeted in her seat. Are you sure you don t want to say anything?

I clenched my jaw. Trust me, none of these bastards wants to hear what I ve got to say.

The crowd milled out through the huge wooden church doors. Up by the lectern, Dickie shook Bruce Taylor s hand, said something to Megan s mother, then stalked over to where Michelle was sitting.

She hadn t moved since the last hymn, just sat there, sobbing quietly.

Dickie stopped, clasped his hands in front of his groin, as if he was taking part in a penalty shoot out. Mrs Henderson, I want you to know that my team is doing everything it can to

I poked him in the chest. Is Steven Wallace here?

Dickie blinked. Looked up at me. Sorry?

I said, is he here?

A sigh. We re monitoring everyone.

Dr McDonald tugged at my sleeve. Maybe we should get Michelle out of here, go home, and get a nice cup of tea or something?

Dickie: is the bastard here, or isn t he?

The chief superintendent ran a hand across his eyes. Megan s parents invited him. Apparently she loved the radio show, never missed it.

I stared back towards the entrance. I ll see you outside.

The marble floor clacked beneath my feet.

Halfway down the aisle, a baldy wee man in a corduroy jacket stood and stuck his hand out. Mr It s-Not-Acceptable from Katie s school. Constable Henderson, on behalf of everyone at Johnston Academy I want to extend our sincere

I kept on walking.

Outside, the rain had turned to drizzle, flaring in the television camera lights: tossers doing pieces to camera, fake sincerity oozing from every word. Sensational Steve Wallace was talking into a Channel 4 microphone, eyebrows pinched, nodding as whoever it was asked him a question. Oh yes, there s no doubt in my mind, we can get the girls back if we all pull together as a community and dig deep.

A nod from the woman holding the microphone. That s great, we ll probably put it out on the next bulletin. Have you signed the release forms?

Steven Wallace looked up from the paperwork, saw me, and waved. Then marched over, still wearing his graveside face. Constable Henderson, you can t believe how sorry I was to hear about Katie. How s your wife holding up? It must be a terrible shock.

I stared at him. Didn t shake the proffered hand.

Yes, right. He shifted from foot to foot.

Anyway, look, I thought seeing as how Megan was such a big fan of the show well, you know I also do the Sunday Morning Lie-In Lovefest how about I dedicate tomorrow s show to her and Katie? I could play their favourite music, maybe get some of their friends to phone in He licked his lips.

Maybe you and your wife would like to come along, around ten-ish? Say a few words to the people, make an appeal to anyone who might have seen something?

He ll stand in the middle and feed off the grief, knowing it was all him, he did it, he has the power of life and death

Hit him. Grab the bastard by the throat and tear out his lying tongue, right here on the church steps. Paint the fucking world with his blood.

Ash? Dr McDonald. Ash, what s happening?

I blinked. Yes, that would be good. We ve got to get the message out. Let the Birthday Boy know that we re coming for him.

Steven Wallace clapped his hands. Right, it s settled. Do you know how to get to the station, or shall I get a car to pick you up?

I smiled at him. Oh, don t worry: I ll find you.

Dr McDonald stood next to me as Steven Wallace hurried off through the drizzle to a waiting taxi. Ash?

The taxi s lights flared in the darkness as it performed an illegal U-turn and headed off down Jessop Street.

It s not him. Steve Wallace isn t the Birthday Boy.

We need to

He didn t push himself into the middle of things, he was invited. He was at that charity cancer thing when Megan Taylor was abducted. It s not him.

Dr McDonald shifted her red Hi-tops on the wet granite steps.

Are you sure?

We need to look for someone else. Brought my chin up. Katie s still out there. Laying it on thick.

Dr McDonald looked up at me, little wrinkles at the sides of her eyes, lips pursed. Then she nodded. I understand.

No she didn t. Because if she did, she would have stopped me.

Forty minutes later I pulled up outside Rhona s place parking down the road a bit, rather than in the designated spaces behind the building. I grabbed the purple carrier-bags from the back of the car leaving the ones from B amp;Q behind and headed on up.

She answered the door wearing jeans and an Oldcastle United sweatshirt, her hair lank and wet.

I passed over the clinking bags. You re not still supporting those losers, are you?

Yeah, yeah. She hefted the booze. Grinned with her big beige teeth. Steak OK for tea? I got some chunky ribeyes, do some chips, bit of sweetcorn?

Getting low on ice. I chucked a couple of cubes in then added a hefty measure of gin. Then a splash of tonic.

The kitchen door opened and Rhona came back in, a bloom of pink colouring her pale cheeks and nose. I handed the G amp;T to her.

Pfffff She blinked a couple of times, then took it. Smiled. Knocked back a mouthful. Ahhh Can t remember last time we got hammered. Can you? I can t

Plenty more where that came from. I picked up my own drink and clinked it against hers. Fuck the lot of them.

Fuckem! Another swig. Then a frown. Look at the time, got to get the steam on. Blink. I mean steak. Got to get the steak on. The pink in her cheeks got darker.

Nah, plenty time

Two thick ribeye steaks sizzled in the hot pan, butter foaming up around the edges. The smell of caramelizing meat and roasting black pepper filled the kitchen. Two bottles of red breathed on the worktop.

Rhona leaned back against the sink, sipping her gin and tonic, smiling, eyes focused somewhere about a foot and a half in front of her face. She ran a hand through her hair, making it stick out in little tufts. Can t believe believe we ve spanked half a bottle of gin.

Steaks ll need to rest for five minutes. I tipped them onto a warm plate and poured the pan juices over the top. Do you want to check on the chips?

Chips? Chips, yes, chips. She shook her head for a moment. Smiled again, then lurched over to the oven and peered in through the glass door. Yup. Those are chips all right.

I stuck the sweetcorn in the microwave.

See the thing is the thing people don t unnerstand about you is is you re a great cop. She held a hand up, as if she was stopping traffic.

No, I mean it. You re a great cop, and they and they re jealous. Another mouthful of wine.

They are, they re jealous.

I topped up her glass. How s your steak?

Is It s great too. You re a great cook. I people don t get that, but I do. I get it so I said I said, No, fuck you, you gap-toothed hairy wee bastard. And he he burst into tears! Rhona threw back the last mouthful of wine from her glass and grinned. Right there right there in the court. A frown. Back inna inna minute

She levered herself out of the couch and wobbled for a moment, before stomping off stiff-legged to the toilet.

I topped her up again. Then went through to the kitchen and fetched the second bottle of wine.

No, you gotta you gotta listen to this: you ll love this She sat on the carpet in front of the stereo, pulling CDs out of the rack and dumping them next to her. Where the buggery Ah, ah found it! You ll love this

The second bottle was already two-thirds gone.

Here She fumbled with the CD case, then wobbled the shiny disk into the machine, one eye squinted shut, the tip of her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth.

Music swelled from the speakers.

Listen listen, no, listen you ll love it Then she started to sing.

My gates are open wide, but she stands outside, consu-ooooooo-oo-oo-oomed by pride

She should have sounded like a football crowd bellowing from the terraces, but she didn t. Rhona s voice was soft and lilting, perfectly in tune.

I glugged more wine into her glass.

No, I mean it! Rhona blinked at me, her left eye not opening all the way, held down by a droopy lid. She ran a pale tongue across her wine-stained lips. Head nodding round on a bobbling circular path. You re the the only policeman in in that place worth a shit. A shit!

The last of the red disappeared, except for the dribble that splashed onto her sweatshirt. You re a great a great an I love you, Ash no I mean it! I love you She threw her arms wide. There

I ve said it, I ve said it

More blinking. Then she peered into her glass. All gone. A jaw-cracking yawn full of teeth. Pffffff. Bink. Blink. Then her eyes stayed closed, chin resting on her chest.

The wine glass wobbled in her hand, and she jerked upright eyes wide. M wake

No you re not.

You ve barely touched barely touched your wine

You have it. I took her glass and poured mine into it. Not really in the mood.

Two more sips and her chin was on her chest again, breath slipping into a deep rhythmic drone.

That should do it.

I picked her glass out of her hand and put it on the table.

Come on, let s get you to bed.

A warm fuzzy smile spread across her face. Yes please

Snoring rocked the walls. Rhona lay spread out like a scarecrow on top of the bedclothes she d managed to get the sweatshirt off, exposing a bright-red lacy bra, but the jeans had defeated her. They were bunched around her knees, socks making her feet look twice as long as they were.

I grabbed an ankle and hauled her jeans off, then fought with her pale limbs until she was under the duvet. Went off to the kitchen, came back with a basin and put it by the side of the bed, covered the carpet around it with newspaper. Then slipped out and closed the door.

Checked my watch. Ten to midnight.

Soon be time to pay Mr Steven Wallace a visit and see how sensational the little bastard felt coughing up blood.