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: ‘MICHELLE’. 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, ‘AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY, NO PATIENTS OR VISITORS’.
‘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 wi
th 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?’
‘Don’t be silly. Jessie would have his throat out.’ She smiled down at the geriatric terrier. ‘Wouldn’t you, Jessie?’
The dog didn’t really sit, it was more like its back end collapsed – puff, pant, tongue lolling out the side of its mouth.
Dr McDonald swept a hand out towards me, as if she was introducing a magic trick. ‘Aunty Jan, this is Detective Constable Ash Henderson. Aunty Jan’s a vet.’
Aunty Jan sniffed. ‘You her bit of rough then? Kinda old for our Alice, aren’t you?’
Cheeky cow.
‘Dr McDonald’s assisting us on a case.’
‘Hmm…’ Another stare, this one accompanied by a swig of whatever was in the glass. Then she stuck out her hand. ‘Janice Russell. We’re getting a Chinese for tea; bet you’re partial to a bit of chicken chow mein, big lad like you.’
And pass up the chance to get the hell away from Dr McFruitLoop?
I pulled on a pained smile. ‘I’d love to, but I’ve got a ton of paperwork to catch up on.’
And more importantly: an appointment with a lap-dancing bar.
Chapter 9
Whatever song was pounding through the place faded out and there was silence.
A mirror stretched the length of the bar – behind the optics and bottles of whisky. I watched the reflection of a chunky blonde scoop up her cowgirl costume and bra, then wobble off the stage in too-high heels, biting her bottom lip, cheeks streaked with mascara tears. An Aberdeen accent crackled out of the speakers. ‘That wis Tina. Big round of applause fir Tina! Come on, big round of applause…’ Nothing. ‘Next we’ve got a real treat for you: Naughty Nikita the Polish Princess!’
The music cranked up again.
That was the trouble with early evening slots at the Silver Lady: the handful of after-work-let’s-go-to-a-titty-bar-isn’t-that-cool-and-or-ironic? brigade weren’t worth putting on the best talent for. So management put on newbies like Tina – out of her clothes and out of her depth, trying to prove she had what it takes to keep the punters aroused and drinking.
A lanky bloke in a black waistcoat and bow tie sidled up behind the bar, wiping the wooden surface with a cloth. He smiled. ‘Another?’ Enough gel in his hair to keep him looking like a prick, even in a force ten gale.
‘Thanks, Steve.’
He was back a minute later with a fresh glass of sparkling mineral water. The ice cubes clinked as I raised it to my lips.
Steve leaned on the bar. ‘Hear your brother got him a spanking from three of Big Johnny Simpson’s boys last night.’
I put it down again. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘Seriously: chattin’ up Big Johnny’s sister? Like that was ever gonnae end well.’
But then Parker never was the brightest.
Steve glanced up and down the bar. Inched closer, voice barely audible over the thumping music. ‘I heard you waded in and battered the crap out them. All three of them.’ He licked his lips. ‘It true you’re gettin’ back in the game?’ Steve threw a couple of messy punches in the air. ‘Man, I’d love to see that – Ash Henderson, Comeback King of the Bare-Knuckle Ring! How legendary would that be?’
I took a sip. ‘Someone’s been pulling your leg.’
‘Oh…’ His face fell, and so did his shoulders. Then he snapped on a grin as a chubby man in a wrinkled grey suit with matching comb-over lurched up to the bar. ‘Same again, sir?’
A booming laugh. ‘She’s after champagne, Steveyboy. Mak’ it a bottle, eh? And none of your foreign pish – French. And twa glasses.’
‘Coming right up, sir.’
Mr Champagne shuffled his feet, shoogling his bum in time to the music. ‘Do you no’ love this place?’ A network of parallel brown streaks scarred his trouser leg from knee to groin. Skidmarks, the sign of a classy lap dance.
A hand landed on my shoulder. ‘What’s this I hear about you getting back in the bare-knuckle game?’
I didn’t look around. ‘Evening, Shifty.’
In the mirror, DI Shifty Dave Morrow gave me a wink. His neck had disappeared years ago taking his hair with it. He wrapped an arm around Mr Champagne. ‘Do’s a favour and bugger off before I twat you one, eh?’
The dance came to a sudden stop and Mr Champagne stood there with his mouth open for a moment, then shuffled down to the other end of the bar.
Shifty Dave levered his huge arse up on the stool next to me. ‘How’s the titties? Anyone good been on yet?’
‘The new girl, Tina, fell off again.’
‘Oooooh…’ He pursed his lips, pulling in a whistling breath. ‘How many times?’
‘Twice.’
A nod. ‘Well, at least it’s an improvement on last night.’ He unbuttoned his suit jacket, showing off a straining blue shirt and a spatter-stained tie. ‘Any chance of a drink here, I’m parched.’
Right on cue, Steve the barman reappeared with an ice bucket. An open bottle of Moët & Chandon stuck out of the top.
Oldest trick in the book. Management buys one case of the stuff, drinks it, then fills the empty bottles with the cheapest supermarket sparkling wine they can find. All the girls are told: some punter wants to buy you a drink? Got to be champagne. So the punter buys the ‘champagne’. Then the staff collect the empties, fill them with Asda’s discount cava, and round we go again. The Happy Hedgehog in Cowskillin doesn’t even bother with the cheap fizzy – they get a crate of bargain-basement Liebfraumilch and stick it through a SodaStream.
Shifty watched Mr Champagne hand over a credit card. ‘Look at this tosser.’ Not bothering to keep his voice down. ‘Buying fizzy plonk ’cos he thinks it’ll impress the halfwits he works with if he can clamber inside some stripper’s G-string. Like that’s ever going to happen.’ A little louder: ‘You’re fucking dreaming!’
The wee man in the rumpled grey suit took his bottle of expensive cava and marched back to his booth, head held high. Noble in the face of rudeness. With someone else’s skidmarks on his trousers.
I took another sip of sparkling water. ‘Any idea where I can get somewhere to hold a kid’s birthday party?’
Shifty licked his lips as Steve pulled a pint of Tennent’s. ‘Could do it here? There’s that function suite upstairs. Sure Dillon would give yo
u a decent rate.’
Up on stage, a woman with space-hopper breasts twirled herself around a shiny pole, dark hair trailing behind her like a banner.
Yeah, maybe not.
Steve plonked the pint down in front of Shifty. ‘Don’t pick on the punters – it screws up my tips.’
‘Cheers, Steve.’ Shifty didn’t even bother pretending to get his wallet out any more. On the house was on the house. He resurfaced after downing half the glass in one. ‘Ahhhh…’ A small belch. ‘Shitter of a day, Ash, complete shitter. You’d think that wanker Smith was the Chief Bloody Constable, way he’s ordering everyone about. Only a DS, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Word is he’s PSD from Aberdeen.’
Shifty’s whole face pinched in around his bared teeth. ‘Rubber-heeling little bastard.’ The rest of his pint disappeared, then he held out the glass. ‘Put another one in there, Steve.’
Steve did as he was told, then wandered off to serve someone else.
This time Shifty savoured it. ‘You really fighting again? Seriously, with your hands?’
‘I’m not – it’s all bollocks.’ I went back to my water. ‘You get anything from the door-to-doors?’
‘Early days yet. Got a team pulling an all-nighter down the Land Registry, finding out who owned what house when the poor cows went missing. No point interviewing buggers who only moved in a couple years ago, is it?’
I shrugged. Up on the glittering stage, Naughty Nikita ground her way along the floor.
‘How far back you going?’
‘Nine years: when Amber O’Neil got snatched…’ He frowned at me. ‘What’s that look for?’
‘Did you know Oldcastle produced more chlorine gas for World War One than anywhere else in the UK?’
‘Come on – surely nine years is enough.’
‘Apparently the ground’s all contaminated with mercury, that’s why we get so many nutters.’
‘We’re talking about three hundred houses here.’
‘That prick Forbes sacks the place, the wanker Montrose burns it down, and the arch fucker Huntly—’
Birthdays for the Dead Page 7