Birthdays for the Dead (6 page)

Chapter 7

Douglas Kelly peered around the door. His cheekbones stuck out more than they used to, so did his forehead, nose, and chin, as if he were slowly disappearing from the inside out. His freckled scalp stood out through a crown of thin grey hair. Wasn’t even forty yet, and he already looked the other side of sixty.

It was a nice house, about a third of the way down a small Georgian terrace – one of four that enclosed a little private park. But where the one behind McDermid Avenue was sprawling and overgrown, this one was trimmed and tidy, closed off from the road by a set of four-foot-high railings. Nice neighbourhood too: mullioned windows, no litter, every car an Audi, a Porsche, or a Range Rover.

Couldn’t have been further from my crappy little Kingsmeath council house if it was in Australia.

Douglas Kelly blinked at me.

I stood on the top step, hands behind my back. ‘Douglas, can we come in, please?’

He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, as if he was tasting the air, then turned and stalked back into the house. Not so much as a word.

We followed him into the lounge.

Douglas slumped into the leather couch and reached for a china mug. He peered up at the carriage clock ticking away on the mantelpiece, the noise jarring in the cluttered room. Cardboard boxes made a cubist city on the polished floorboards, each one printed with a red squirrel in dungarees, carrying a huge acorn: ‘S
AMMY
’
S
M
IDNIGHT
F
LIT
∼ Y
OU
’
D
B
E
NUTS T
O
T
RUST
A
NYONE
E
LSE
!!!’

A standard lamp cast a yellow glow in the gloomy room.

I licked my lips. Took a deep breath. ‘Douglas, you’ll have seen—’ My phone rang. ‘Fuck…’ I dragged the thing from my pocket, dropped it, grabbed it before it hit the deck. A name sat in the middle of the screen: ‘
Kerrigan, Mrs
’. No thanks. I switched the phone off, then stuck it back in my pocket again. ‘Sorry.’

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

A car drove by on the street outside.

Try again: ‘Douglas, it’s—’

‘I’m sorry about the mess. We should really get round to unpacking, but…’ He blinked, biting his bottom lip, deep breaths hissing in through his nose. His pale blue eyes shimmered. He scrubbed a hand across them. Stared down into his tea. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been…’

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

‘Douglas, we’ve found—’

‘All these years you’ve come out and sat with us: every sixteenth of September, even when Angela had her breakdown… You didn’t have to do that.’

‘Douglas, I’m so sorry, we—’

‘Don’t say it.
Please
.’ The china mug trembled in his hands. ‘Please…’

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Dr McDonald picked her way between the boxes, squatted down in front of Douglas Kelly and put a hand on his knee. Just like she’d done with Helen McMillan’s parents. ‘It’s OK. You can let go.’

‘It’s…’ Douglas screwed his eyes closed, biting his lips.

‘It happened a long, long time ago. She’s not suffering any more, he can’t hurt her. It’s over.’

‘Who…’ A tear ran down the side of his nose. ‘Who…’ When he opened his eyes they were pink and swollen. Lips quivering.

‘It’s OK, Douglas, it’s OK. It’s over. She’s—’

Douglas Kelly slammed the mug into Dr McDonald’s face. It shattered, shards of delicate white bursting open in slow motion like a flower blooming, tea spraying out. She grunted, toppled backwards, glasses clattering into the fireplace. He let go of the remaining bits of mug and clenched his hand into a fist – launched himself off the couch, swinging for her.

I dipped my knees and lunged. And then everything snapped back to normal speed.

Slam: I barrelled into his side, pinning him against the couch as he struggled and kicked and screamed.

‘WHO THE
FUCK
ARE YOU?’

I grabbed his arm – twisted it around behind his back. ‘Calm down!’

‘IT’S NOT OK! IT’LL NEVER BE OK!’

His leg jerked out, and Dr McDonald grunted again.

‘DOUGLAS: CALM DOWN!’ I twisted harder, shoving his face into the leather upholstery and keeping it there. ‘Come on, stop it…’

He bucked, and writhed, and swore, and after what seemed like hours, finally went slack. Shoulders quivering, sobbing.

Dr McDonald huddled by the fireplace, staring at the palm of her left hand. Scarlet trickled down her pale face from a gash in her eyebrow. ‘I’m bleeding…’

I let go of Douglas and backed away from the couch. He didn’t even move, just lay there crying, so I helped Dr McDonald to her feet.

She wobbled in her bright-red Converse Hi-tops. ‘I’m
bleeding
…’ She frowned. ‘Where’s my glasses?’

I picked them out of the fireplace and handed them to her. One leg was bent and twisted.

On the couch, Douglas drew his knees up to his chest, curling into a ball, arms wrapped around his head. ‘Hannah…’ He rocked back and forth. ‘Oh, thank God, it’s
over
…’

‘Ow…’ Dr McDonald held onto the wall outside with one hand, the other clutching a wad of bloodstained kitchen paper against her eyebrow.

The rain was on again. Getting darker too. The Dickensian streetlights flickered on as the gloom tripped their automatic sensors.

‘He’s not normally like that.’ I looked back towards the house, where Douglas Kelly was finally getting to mourn his daughter. He was wrong though – it wasn’t over. Because next year, on the sixteenth of September, another homemade birthday card would slither through his mailbox and bring it all back again. And the year after that, and the one after that too… ‘Sure you don’t want some painkillers?’

‘Can we just get to the hospital, please?’

High overhead, a plane roared across the dark-grey sky, navigation lights blinking red and green. Lucky bastards getting away from… Shite.

On the other side of the road a woman leaned against the park railings, the smoke from her cigarette curling around beneath the dome of her black umbrella: long camel-hair coat and black suit, auburn hair tied back in a ponytail. Thin rectangular glasses. Jennifer.

Shite and buggery.

I dug out the car keys and slipped them into Dr McDonald’s hand. ‘Why don’t you go wait for me in the car. I’ll only be a minute.’

‘But I don’t—’

‘Two minutes tops.’ I put a hand in the small of her back and steered her down the stairs, onto the pavement, then gave her a nudge in the direction of my decrepit Renault. She stumbled a bit, but kept on going.

Jennifer dropped the cigarette, ground it out with a black high-heeled boot, then crossed the road, hands in her pockets. Smiled like the sun coming out. ‘Ash: long time, no see. You’re looking…’ A pause as she frowned up at my face, and then the smile was back. ‘Good.’ Lying cow. ‘How’ve you been?’

I nodded. ‘Jennifer.’

She stepped closer so the umbrella covered us both. Rain pattered on the black fabric. Up close, she smelled musky and peppery with a hint of lemon – probably something French and expensive. ‘It’s been too long.’ She wrinkled her upturned little nose. Crow’s feet spread out from the corners of her eyes. They were new. ‘I’ve been thinking about you.’

‘Forget it.’

‘Oh, come on: lunch, my treat. Well, technically it’s on Uncle Rupert, but what’s the point of having an expense account if you can’t treat an old flame now and then?’ She nodded towards Dr McDonald – staring out at us through the Renault’s windscreen. ‘You can bring Katie, if you like? She’s gotten
big
, hasn’t she?’ Jennifer slipped her arm through mine. ‘
Actually
… might be better if you gave her a couple of quid to go to the pictures, then it’d be just you and me. Like old times.’

I stopped, pulled my arm away from her. ‘How did you find him?’

Jennifer’s eyes flicked towards a scarlet Alfa Romeo parked opposite Douglas Kelly’s house. The driver’s window was down, a telephoto lens poked out into the cold morning. Staring straight at me.

She brushed something off my shoulder. ‘You used to love that little bistro on Castle Hill, remember?’

‘How – did – you – find – him?’

She shrugged, pursed those perfect lips of hers. ‘All that digging in Cameron Park… You found Hannah’s body, didn’t you? That’s why you’re here.’

‘He’s ex-directory, the house isn’t even in his name… What did you do, follow me?’

A pout. ‘Ash, I’m hurt. But it’s OK: if you don’t want to speak to me, I can go ring the bell and ask him. “How does it feel to finally get your daughter back?” The public
love
that kind of thing.’

I leaned in close. ‘Pin back your pretty little lugs, Jennifer. If you so much as
breathe
in Douglas Kelly’s direction—’

‘What? You’ll put me over your knee and give me a good spanking?’ She ran her hand down my chest. ‘Have you still got those handcuffs?’

I stepped back. Glowering. ‘Leave him alone.’

‘I’ll do that
thing
you like…?’ She closed the gap, pressing her breasts against me, looking up into my eyes. ‘And after – if I’ve been a
very
good girl – you can give me a wee exclusive on the Birthday Boy, off the record. You know you want to…’

‘Want to?’ I pushed her away. ‘There’s not enough Dettol in the world.’

Streetlight glinted off the camera lens.
Click, click, click
. Photos for the late edition.

‘Oh, come on, Ash. You knew what you were getting into. We’re both adults.’

Click, click, click.

She licked her lips. ‘It
is
her, isn’t it? Hannah Kelly. And you’ve got other bodies too.’

Click, click, click.

‘Go away, Jennifer.’

‘You’ve found the Birthday Boy’s body dump. Who is he? You’ve got DNA or something, don’t you? If you know who he is, you have to tell me.’

Click, click, click.

‘We’re pursuing several lines of investigation.’ I stepped off the kerb and marched towards the Alfa Romeo. Rain soaked into my hair.

The sound of high-heeled boots clattered along behind me. ‘Who else have you found? I want an exclusive, Ash. You
owe
me!’

‘Owe you?’ I kept going. ‘For
what
, Jennifer? What do I fucking owe you?’

Click, click…
The photographer looked up from his viewfinder. Too slow. I smacked the flat of my hand against the end of the lens, driving the whole camera into the hairy little shit’s face. Crack – his head jerked back, a bead of scarlet glistening in one nostril. Weak chin, pointy nose, hairy hands, hairy head. Like someone had cross-bred a rat with a chimp and given it a top-of-the-range Canon digital camera.

‘Frank!’

‘Gagh…’ Frank blinked, hairy paws smearing red across his face.

I grabbed the lens and pulled; the camera strap yanked his head forwards, clunking it into the window frame. I twisted the Canon through ninety degrees – turning the strap into a noose. Pulled harder. Knuckles like burning gravel, fingers aching.

‘Ash! Don’t be a dick, let him go!’

Frank gurgled.

Another twist and there it was – a small hatch marked ‘SD Card’, set into the camera body. I flipped it open, pushed on the plastic edge, and the SD card popped up. About the same size as the end of my thumb, but rectangular, with one corner cut off. I gritted my teeth and pulled it out. Stuck it in my pocket. Let go.

‘Gaahhhhh…’ Frank scrabbled away, clambering over the gearstick and the handbrake, camera clunking against the steering wheel.

Jennifer grabbed my sleeve. ‘What’s
wrong
with you?’

I jerked my arm away, leaned on the window ledge and glared inside. The car smelled of stale digestive biscuits, cigar-ettes, and cold coffee. ‘Listen up, you little fuck: I see you anywhere near here again, I see you
at all
, I’m going to turn that telephoto lens of yours into an endoscope. Understand?’

Frank just coughed and spluttered.

‘Ash!’ She grabbed me again.

I spun around and shoved. Jennifer staggered back against a Porsche – the car alarm blared, the lights flashing on and off. ‘Get this into your thick little skull: it’s over. I don’t owe you a damn thing.’

Her eyes were two cold slits, wrinkles creasing either side of her narrowed lips. Teeth bared. ‘Who the
hell
do you think you are?’ She spat at me: a gobbet of frothy white that spattered against my chest.

I turned and walked away.

‘This
isn’t
over, Ash, you hear me? This isn’t over!’

Chapter 8

I pulled the curtain back. ‘Feeling any better?’

Dr McDonald perched on the edge of a hospital gurney, her left eye partially closed, a square of white wadding taped to her forehead and cheek. ‘No.’

‘Doctor says it could’ve been a lot worse. Just superficial really.’

She scowled at me. ‘It’s sore.’

‘I offered you painkillers.’

‘I’m not taking pills from a man I barely know, I mean they could be anything: roofies, GHB, Rohypnol, Ketamine—’

‘Roofies and Rohypnol are the same thing. And trust me: you’re not my type.’

Her bottom lip protruded a little, then she sniffed and hopped down from the gurney. ‘The body deposition sites were stupid, I don’t mean the park: the park isn’t stupid, but burying a dead body there
is
. Only a set number of people have easy access, and what if someone looks out of their window and sees you with your shovel and a big black-plastic bundle. Who’s Jennifer?’

None of your sodding business, that’s who.

I dropped my vending-machine coffee in the bin. ‘Far as we can tell, Cameron Park’s been a wilderness for the last twelve years. Council cut the maintenance budget, told the residents it was their responsibility, so it all went feral.’ The sounds of an afternoon in A&E echoed through the corridors – muffled swearing, a young man sobbing, some drunken singing. ‘Door-to-doors spoke to an old biddie been living there for sixty years. She says people dump their garden waste in the park all the time.’

‘Well, that’s not very public spirited of them…’ Dr McDonald frowned down at the floor. A series of lines were painted on the cracked linoleum: yellow, blue, red, purple, white, and black. She placed one foot on the black line, then the other, both arms held out sideways as if she was walking on a tightrope. Teetering along.

I pointed in the opposite direction. ‘Exit’s that way.’

She kept going. ‘This goes to the morgue, doesn’t it?’

‘No, it goes to the mortuary. You watch too much American TV.’

‘Sounds a lot more genteel, doesn’t it: “mortuary”, a morgue is full of serial-killer victims, a mortuary is somewhere you go to see Great Aunty Morag who’s passed away at the ripe old age of ninety-two.’

‘You’re still going the wrong way.’

‘Follow the little black line.’ She grabbed my arm and gave a skip. ‘Like Dorothy in the
Wizard of Oz
.’

Around the corner and deeper into the hospital. The paintwork was cracked and grubby, the gurney bumpers scuffed and dented, the floor patched with strips of silver duct tape. Paintings broke up the magnolia monotony, landscapes and portraits mostly, all done by school children.

Dr McDonald didn’t even look at them. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Veeeber – that’s German, isn’t it, but shouldn’t the pronunciation be “Veber”, or “Veyber”, I mean I’m sure he knows how to pronounce his own name, but—’

‘Weber will let Smith get comfortable saying “Veeber” for a couple of weeks, then change the pronunciation on him. Give him a hard time for getting it wrong, and go right back to the start.’ I smiled. ‘I’ve seen Weber keep it up for
months
. Be surprised how quickly little things like that can break somebody.’

She shrugged. ‘Seems a bit cruel…’

‘Serves him right: he’s a prick.’

We walked along in silence for a while, enjoying the twin reeks of disinfectant and stewed cauliflower.

Dr McDonald stopped. ‘There’s something significant about the deposition site – not only
where
it is but the nature of the burials themselves. I mean did you see Lauren Burges’s body? He didn’t even bother to put her head back in the right place, just wrapped the whole lot up, dragged it out to the middle of the park and dumped it in a shallow grave.’

A voice behind us: ‘Beep, beep!’

We flattened to the wall, and a hospital bed trundled past, pushed by a balding porter with a squint smile. A pair of chunky nurses brought up the rear, gossiping about some doctor caught taking a female patient’s temperature the naughty way. The guy in the bed looked as if he’d been hollowed out, leaving waxy skin draped over a framework of brittle bones, wheezing into an oxygen mask.

‘Don’t you think that’s strange?’ As soon as they were past, Dr McDonald hopped back onto the black line. ‘I’d expect someone like the Birthday Boy would want to keep them as trophies, Fred and Rosemary West only started burying their victims in the garden when they ran out of room in the house, they wanted to keep them near, but the Birthday Boy dumps them like a wheelbarrow full of lawn clippings.’

‘Well, maybe he’s—’ My phone rang. I dug the thing out and checked the display: ‘M
ICHELLE
’. Arseholes… I grimaced at Dr McDonald. ‘I’ll catch up.’

She shrugged and wobbled away, through a set of double doors, still following the black line.

I hit the button. ‘Michelle.’

Twice in one day.

Lucky me.

‘
I saw you on the news.’
Her voice was even more clipped than usual. ‘
I thought Susanne was a blonde, have you traded her in for someone younger already? Is this one a stripper too?
’

‘I told you: Susanne isn’t a stripper, she’s a dancer.’

‘
She dances round a pole: it’s the same thing.
’

‘Bye, Michelle.’

But before I could hang up: ‘
We need to talk about Katie.
’

Oh God. ‘What’s she done now?’

‘
Why do you
always
have to think the worst?
’

‘Because you only ever call when you want someone to read her the riot act.’

A grey-haired woman in a flowery nightie shuffled down the corridor, wheeling a drip-on-a-stand along beside her.

‘
That’s not…
’ A pause – about long enough for someone to count to ten – and when Michelle came back, her voice was groaning with forced cheer. ‘
So, how are you settling in?
’

The old dear scuffed past, glowering at me. ‘You’re no’ allowed on your mobile phone!’

‘Police business.’

She flipped me the Vs, then wandered off. ‘No’ supposed to be on your phone in a hospital…’

‘
Ash? I said how—
’

‘It’s been three years, Michelle: think it’s maybe time to stop asking?’

‘
I was only—
’

‘It’s a shitty little council house in Kingsmeath: the drains stink; someone keeps flicking dog shit into my back garden, which is a jungle, by the way; and that useless bastard Parker is still crashing on my couch. I’m settling in just
great
.’

Silence from the other end of the phone.

Typical. She started it, but I was the one who ended up in trouble. ‘Sorry, it’s… Didn’t mean to snap.’ I cleared my throat. ‘How’s your dad?’

‘
I thought we weren’t going to do this any more.
’

‘I said, I’m sorry, OK?’ Every damn time. ‘So, Katie: can I speak to her?’

‘
It’s twenty to four on a Monday afternoon: what do you think?
’

‘Don’t tell me she’s—’

‘
Yes, she’s at school.
’

‘Who died?’

‘
She wants to go to France for a month.
’

Frown. ‘What?’

‘
I said she wants—
’

‘How can she go to France for a month?’ I took two steps across the corridor, turned, and paced back the other way, the phone clenched in my fist. ‘What about school? She’s barely there as it is! For God’s sake, Michelle, why do I always have to be the bad cop? Why can’t—’

‘
It’s the school
doing
it: an exchange thing – staying with a French family in Toulouse. They think it’ll be good for her. Help her focus.
’ And the clipped voice was back. ‘
I thought you’d be more supportive.
’

‘They want to pack her off for a month, where we can’t keep an eye on her, and you’re OK with this?’

‘
I…
’ A sigh. ‘
We’ve tried everything else, Ash. You know what she’s like.
’

I ground my fingertips into gritty eyes. It didn’t really help. ‘She’s not a bad kid, Michelle.’

‘
Oh for God’s sake: grow up, Ash. She’s not your sweet little girl any more. Not since Rebecca abandoned us.
’

Because that’s when everything went wrong.

I pushed through a set of double doors, into a quiet corridor. Dr McDonald stood at the far end, leaning on a radiator and staring out of the window. Outside, two wings of Castle Hill Infirmary formed a six-storey canyon of dirty concrete. The sky was a violent splash of blood and fire, low clouds catching the light of the dying sun. But Dr McDonald wasn’t looking up, she was looking down, into the darkness.

She pressed the fingertips of her left hand against the wadding on her face. ‘Did you know that Oldcastle has one of the highest instances of mental health problems in the whole UK, even more than London … well, on a percentage basis. Fifteen confirmed serial killers in the last thirty years.
Fifteen
, and that’s just the ones we’ve heard of. A lot of people blame inbreeding, but it’s probably because of the chlorine factories, I mean inbreeding isn’t rampant here, is it?’

She’d obviously never been to Kingsmeath. ‘I’ll introduce you to Shifty Dave Morrow, if you like. He’s got webbed toes.’

‘Do you remember anything odd about the books Helen McMillan had in her bedroom?’

‘Harry Potter, vampire love stories, stuff like that? Katie’s got Stephen King and Dean Koontz and Clive Barker, so my idea of what’s normal for a twelve-year-old might be a bit off.’

‘Kind of ironic, don’t you think, I mean there’s Oldcastle churning out all that chlorine gas to help with the war effort: everyone thinks they’re helping win World War One and all the time the factories are dumping tons of mercury into the environment, guaranteeing generations and generations of mental illness…’ She stood on her tiptoes, cupped her hands against the glass, and stuck her head in the makeshift porthole.

I joined her, peering down into the depths.

A pair of headlights swept the road at the bottom of the concrete canyon, followed by a silver Mercedes van. The words, ‘
McCrae And McCrae, Funeral Services
’ were printed along the side. It slowed to a crawl below the window, then disappeared down a ramp into the hospital basement.

Dr McDonald shifted her feet, Hi-Tops squeaking on the linoleum. ‘Is that her, do you think: Lauren Burges?’

I checked my watch. ‘Might be.’ Assuming Matt got her out of the ground before the forensic archaeologist returned from lunch.

‘By 1916 Oldcastle was producing more chlorine than anywhere else in Europe, and now there isn’t a single factory left.’ She backed away from the window. ‘When will they do the autopsy?’

‘Post mortem. Not “autopsy”.’

She started to sing: a little girly voice, not much more than a whisper.

‘
I say morgue, you say mor-tu-ary.

You say post mortem, I say au-topsy…
’

She backed away from the window and followed the black line to where it disappeared under the dented metal doors of a lift. A sign next to it was marked, ‘A
UTHORISED
P
ERSONNEL
O
NLY
, N
O
P
ATIENTS
O
R
V
ISITORS
’.

‘Tomorrow morning. Professor Twining always starts at nine, on the dot.’

Dr McDonald prodded at the wadding on her head again. ‘You know there’s probably enough mercury left in the soil around here to keep driving people loopy right into the next millennium?’

‘Look on the bright side,’ I turned and walked back towards the exit, ‘at least you and I will never be out of a job.’

‘Thanks.’ Dr McDonald clunked the car door closed, then turned and limped across the gravel driveway to a house that had to be worth
millions
. Like everything else on Fletcher Road it was a big Victorian home, complete with turrets, set in a large garden and shut off from the outside world behind eight-foot-high walls.

Strings of white lights glowed in the naked branches of ancient oak trees – this wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood where you put up neon reindeer and inflatable Santas.

I popped open the Renault’s hatchback and hauled out her luggage – two bright-red suitcases, one huge, one medium-sized. Their wheels dragged and growled through the damp gravel, resisting all the way.

A woman was standing under the portico, mid-to-late-forties, bathed in the light from a pair of carriage lanterns. Her bobbed blonde hair was jelled into spikes on one side, but not on the other; a diamond stud glinted in her nose; ripped blue jeans and a leather waistcoat – no shirt. As if she was auditioning for a heavy metal video. She’d gone the whole hog and got tattoos to go with the outfit – some sort of floral thing poking out over one shoulder; swallow on one foot, anchor on the other.

She flicked the ash off her cigarette and sipped clear liquid from a crystal tumbler full of ice. Didn’t sound local, more like something off
The Archers
: ‘All right, Alice love?’ She opened her arms and gave Dr McDonald a hug, then stepped back and frowned. ‘Here, what have you done to your head? Is it sore? Looks sore. You come inside and get yourself a drink. Got a nice bottle o’ Belvedere in the freezer and some tonic.’

An elderly Jack Russell wheezed out through the open front door, and Dr McDonald beamed. ‘Where’s Uncle Phil?’

‘Taking Ellie and Colin to see that boy band, Mr Bones, in Glasgow. Still … no accounting for taste I suppose.’ She took another puff, stared at me through a cloud of smoke for a moment, then back to Dr McDonald: ‘He the knobber smacked you one? Want me to set the dogs on him?’