Birthdays for the Dead (20 page)

Chapter 25

I parked Ethan’s Mercedes behind a grey-and-yellow Transit van with the Oldcastle City Council logo on the side. The back doors were secured with welded metal straps and a big brass padlock: not taking any chances in Kingsmeath.

I climbed out and plipped the Merc’s locks. I wasn’t taking any chances either.

My place had always looked like every other shitty council house on the street – harled walls streaked with dirt, ancient single-glazing with wasp-eaten wooden frames, grass growing in the guttering, but now that all the windows were boarded up too it actually managed to lower the tone. In
Kingsmeath
.

The council had replaced the front door with a slab of solid chipboard. A wee man in orange overalls was nailing a notice to it. ‘WARNING: T
HESE
P
REMISES
A
RE
C
ONSIDERED
D
ANGEROUS
A
ND
U
NFIT
F
OR
H
UMAN
H
ABITATION
. A
UTHORISED
P
ERSONNEL
O
NLY.
’ The sound of his hammer echoed around the street.

He bashed in the last nail, took a step back to admire his handiwork, then turned and squealed. ‘Fuck’s sake…’ A hand on his chest, breathing hard. ‘Scared the crap out of me.’

I flashed my warrant card. ‘I need in.’

‘Nah, sorry, mate – she’s all locked up till they can get a renovation crew down here. Besides: place is a shitehole, you don’t want in there, trust us.’ He picked up his toolkit and hobbled back to the van, unlocked the driver’s door and climbed inside. Wound down his window. ‘You can give the Housing Department a bell if you like, see if they’ll let you in?’

He gave me a smile, a wave, then gunned the engine and drove off.

Officious little prick.

The new front door was hefty, solid. Looked like a Yale deadbolt set into it.

I took two steps back then slammed my foot into the wood beside the lock. CRACK. The sound of squealing wood. One more for luck… BOOM, the whole thing burst inwards in a shower of splinters.

Gloom and darkness inside. They hadn’t just boarded up the windows around the front: they’d done the back too. I reached for the switch, flicked it on. Then off. Then on again. Nothing. They’d killed the power.

I pulled the torch from my pocket and swung the beam across the hallway.

‘Holy shite…’

Shifty Dave hadn’t been exaggerating. The whole place reeked of mould and damp, the wallpaper peeling off the grey plaster. The ceiling sagged like a pregnant cat’s stomach. Both doors off the hallway were hanging off their hinges.

I went through into the kitchen. The linoleum curled under my feet. Whoever it was had ripped the doors off the units, hauled out the drawers; cutlery and tins and jars lay amongst the debris of shrapnelled plates, glittering in the torchlight.

A big patch of the ceiling had caved in, the support beams for the floor above exposed like skeletal ribs, chunks of swollen plasterboard piled up in the sink.

Lounge: the sofa torn up, everything else trashed.

Upstairs, the bathroom was a disaster area – broken toilet, sink stuffed with towels, a pile of sodden clothes and blankets shoved to one side in the bath. Medicine cabinet looked as if it had exploded.

Bedroom: every drawer pulled out, wardrobe tipped over onto the bed, mattress slashed. All the paperbacks from the windowsill were bloated on the damp carpet. Clothes everywhere.

Spare room.

Fuck…

All the cardboard boxes were torn open, their contents strewn around the room. Everything Michelle had hurled out of the bedroom window when she found out about me and Jennifer – everything I hadn’t sold or pawned – was sodden and broken.

The carpet squelched as I bent down and picked up a little wooden plaque with a tiny gold-coloured truncheon mounted on it. Someone had stamped on it, breaking the plastic shape in two – the dirty imprint of the boot clearly visible on the wood.

There was no way this could have been Mr Pain. OK,
maybe
he could have hauled himself through the house smashing things, but it’s pretty difficult to stamp on something when you’ve only got one working leg. I dropped the plaque. It hit the soggy carpet sending up a little splash.

It was all ruined. All of it. Books, newspaper clippings – the announcement of Rebecca’s birth, the article on her when she won silver at the Oldcastle Highland Games when she was six, the little piece about Katie and some other kids appearing in the school panto… Nothing more than grimy papier-mâché.

The council were right:
not fit for human habitation
.

The fat man behind the counter smiled. White shirt fraying at the cuffs, maroon waistcoat stained with dollops of brown and red, small round glasses, comb-over greased flat across a wide shiny scalp. ‘Ah, Mr Henderson, and what brings you to my emporium of delight this fine day?’

Little Mike’s Pawnshop smelled of dust and mildew, with a lingering undercurrent of stale cigar smoke. The walls were lined with shelves packed with other people’s possessions: everything from electric guitars to vacuum cleaners, with a line of washing machines and flat-screen TVs down the middle. The counter was glass-fronted, full of rings and watches that sparkled in the dim lighting.

An old-fashioned glory hole in both senses of the word: it was full of random crap, and you knew you were going to get screwed.

I dumped the Waitrose carrier-bag on the countertop. ‘How much?’

He shook his head. ‘And there was me thinking you’d come in to redeem one of your priceless family heirlooms.’

‘How much?’

A sigh. He reached into the bag and pulled out Ethan’s watches, rings, necklaces, and a couple of iPods. ‘Ah… Not your usual items, Mr Henderson…’ He wiped his chubby fingers on his waistcoat. ‘Tell me, how warm
are
these? Will one of your colleagues be paying me a visit in the not too distant future, miraculously find these items, and infer some wrongdoing on my part?’

‘They’re not hot. I just don’t need them any more.’

‘You don’t need a steel Rolex?’

‘How much?’

‘“How much”, “How much”, like a broken record.’ He pulled out a jeweller’s eyeglass and popped it in, scrunching his face around it as he peered at each item in turn.

‘Well?’

‘Patience is a virtue, Mr Henderson.’ More scrunching and peering.

I settled against the counter, looking down at the array of engagement rings. Big sparkly ones, little sparkly ones, all with a price tag attached. Probably came from Argos. All those hopes and dreams for the future, ruined and up for sale in a manky little shop in a manky little shopping centre, in manky old Kingsmeath.

Mike settled back in his creaky chair. ‘Two thousand.’

‘Four.’

‘Two.’

‘… Three and a half.’

‘Mr Henderson, much though I trust you
implicitly
, I have my reputation to consider. My livelihood depends on my clients seeing me as an honest and upright man. These items make me nervous.’

‘Three then. The Rolex is worth that on its own.’

He puffed out his cheeks and frowned up at the ceiling. ‘Two and a half, and that’s my final offer. But I’m not a heartless man, Mr Henderson…’ He swivelled his seat around and hunched over, muttering to himself. Click, click, click, click, whirrrrrrrrr – an old-fashioned safe tumbler being spun back and forth – then a clunk, and then more muttering.

When Mike turned back he was holding a wad of notes and a small purple velvet box. He counted out two thousand five hundred pounds in twenties on the countertop, then placed the little box carefully on top of it. ‘With my compliments.’

I parked Ethan’s Merc in the ‘R
ESIDENTS
O
NLY
’ section. Be a shame to sell it. Been years since I’d driven something that wasn’t falling apart… But needs must.

I popped the boot and hauled out the three heavy black plastic bin-bags. My fingers ached as I carried them to the building’s entrance. Before the development boom in Logansferry it was a warehouse for machine parts. Now it was luxury apartments with onsite shopping.

Through the double doors and out of the rain. The atrium was big enough to boast its own patch of manicured woodland, yellow-brick trails winding across it, surrounded by empty shopping units with dusty ‘To Let!’ signs in the windows. Half the apartments were still up for sale too: ‘F
REE
C
ARPETS
A
ND
W
HITE
G
OODS
!’, ‘£20,000 O
FF
Y
OUR
N
EW
H
OME
!’, ‘P
ART
E
XCHANGE
A
VAILABLE!
’

My phone rang. I let it.

Dumped the bin-bags on the floor of the lift, then pressed the button for the fourth floor.

No reply, so I rang the bell again. Checked my watch: coming up to twenty past ten. She’d be awake by now,
surely
. A muffled rattle and a clunk.

‘Who is it?’ A woman’s voice, slightly high-pitched, trembling.

‘Kimberly? It’s Ash.’

Pause. Some mumbling.

‘Go away.’

‘No.’

Another pause. More mumbling.

‘She doesn’t want to see you.’

‘Kimberly, stop dicking about and open the door, OK? I’m having a crappy day already, I don’t need this.’

A clunk, then the door swung open, and there was Susanne in a pink fluffy dressing gown, one hand on her hip, the other waving a finger in my face. ‘You’ve got a lot of bloody nerve!’ She was wearing sunglasses, a stain of purple and blue spreading out from behind the dark lenses. Another bruise on her chin, lips swollen and cracked on one side.

I dropped my bin-bags. ‘What happened?’

‘What happened?
You
happened.’ The finger stopped wagging and started poking. ‘You and your bloody debts!’

I stared at her. ‘Who was it?’

‘I don’t know. Some ugly little troll and his big ginger sidekick. They said I had to give you a message.’

‘Did the wee one sound like he’d swallowed a dictionary?’ Joseph and Francis. ‘I’ll bloody kill him.’

Susanne hauled open the front of her dressing gown. Bruises covered most of her stomach, disappearing into her fleecy pyjama bottoms and crop top. ‘How am I supposed to dance like this?’

I curled my hands into fists. ‘What was the message?’

She howched and spat in my face, then slammed the door in it too. Her voice boomed from inside. ‘And you’re fucking dumped!’

‘And you’re
sure
we can’t put you in a new car today?’ The salesman pulled on a shark’s tooth smile. It went with the shiny grey suit.

‘Positive.’ I pocketed the envelope with the cash in it and walked off the car lot, taking my heavy bin-bags with me.

Rhona leaned back against the bonnet of her Vauxhall, waiting for me. ‘You want to throw those in the boot?’

She popped it open and I dumped the bags inside.

‘Let me guess – body parts?’

‘Sodden clothes. Everything else in the house is ruined.’

‘Ooh.’ She clunked the boot shut again. ‘Susanne not wash them for you?’

‘We’re not… No.’

Rhona sucked her teeth for a moment, then got in behind the wheel. ‘Meh, you were always too good for her. That mean you’ve got nowhere to crash tonight?’

Well, there was no way I’d be going back home. ‘Yeah.’

She started the engine as I climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Then you’re staying at mine. I’ve got the spare room, and we can chuck your stuff through the washing machine. You like cats, right?’

My phone went again – DCI Weber.

‘
Where are you?
’

‘Out and about. You?’

‘
In the office, where
you
should be. The ACC’s giving some sort of motivational speech at half past and I want you here.
’

K&B Motors disappeared in the rear-view mirror. ‘I don’t need motivated.’

‘
Tough. We’ve lost another girl.
’

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&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 ‘G
AMBLING
I
S
S
ATAN
’
S
P
ATH!
’, ‘H
E
T
HAT
H
ASTETH
T
O
B
E
R
ICH
H
ATH
A
N
E
VIL
E
YE!
’, and ‘JESUS W
ILL
S
AVE
U
S
F
ROM
O
UR
S
INS
!!!’ 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.