Dr McDonald stopped and stared back at me, shifting from foot to foot. ‘Come on, going to be late, going to be late…’ All she needed were big floppy ears and a pocket-watch.
Should have taken a Tramadol when I’d had the chance.
‘What did you say to him? Archie, the security guy?’
She marched off. ‘Top of my class, remember?’
How come her luggage behaved itself? She had twice as much as I did.
The gangway came to an abrupt end at the ferry’s hull. A pair of thick metal doors lay wide open. Inside, the ship’s reception area looked like a hotel lobby – lined in polished wood with chrome handrails, a big shiny desk, some sort of leaping salmon sculpture, and a pair of stairs leading up to the next deck.
A grey-haired woman in a black waistcoat raised a radio handset to her lips. ‘Right, that’s them onboard, close the outer doors.’
A clang and a clunk as the doors swung shut, then the deck beneath my feet started to vibrate – a deep rumbling that worked its way up through my knees until it made my lungs tremble.
The woman came forward and held out a hand for Dr McDonald. ‘Archie told me all about it. Anything we can do to help, you let me know.’ Was that a tear in her eye?
‘Thanks, I really appreciate it.’
Bizarre.
I limped over to the reception desk, trundling the Buckaroo suitcase behind me. ‘You’ve got a reservation for McDonald, and Henderson?’
The man poked at a keyboard. ‘Let’s see…’ He looked up and nodded, his mouth pinched together, lips slightly puckered. ‘Ah, here we go. Your cabin is down there on the left, and you’ve got a restaurant booking for half seven.’
‘Thanks.’ I took the little white tickets. Frowned. ‘What about the other cabin?’
‘Other cabin?’ He went back to the hidden keyboard. ‘Nope: just the one, and we’re fully booked. Are you two not…’ He tilted his head to one side.
‘Oh for… Perfect.’ Sod it. Too tired and sore to care. ‘Thanks.’
I slumped along the corridor to the left of the reception desk, found cabin 16A and slid the paper ticket into the hotel-style lock.
The door opened on a small beige cabin with two single beds facing each other; a walled-off section – that would be the toilet – a space for hanging coats; somewhere to make tea and coffee; and a porthole. The lights of Aberdeen harbour slid past, massive orange supply boats, mud tanks, cranes, pipes, containers.
I dumped my wheelie case in the middle of the little room and collapsed onto one of the bunks. Groaned. And then my phone rang. ‘Go away.’
It went through to voicemail.
Everything. Hurt.
I lay on my back staring up at the ceiling tiles. Get up and take a pill… Sod that, it meant moving. I pulled out the phone, ignored the ‘missed call’ icon, and picked a number from the address book instead.
It was answered on the fifth ring. ‘DI Morrow.’ Shifty Dave’s voice was barely audible over the sounds of a crowded pub.
‘Thought you guys had a murder enquiry to run?’
Pause. ‘Ash…’
‘I need a favour.’
Nothing but the burble of bandits and general pub hubbub. Then a clunk, and a sort of roaring whoosh. Drunken singing. A car horn. ‘Look … about last night with Andrew, I—’
‘Does Charlie know?’
‘Of course Charlie doesn’t know! What am I supposed to tell her, “Hey, darling, how was your day? Oh, by the way, I’m a big poof now; what’s for dinner?” How’s that going to go down?’
Like a bouncer in an alleyway. ‘So don’t tell her.’
‘You can’t say anything, OK? If this gets out I’m—’
‘Oh, like I give a toss. My big brother Brett’s getting married next month, to an electrical engineer called Gareth.’ I closed my eyes, ran a hand across them, trying to scrub away the headache. ‘Now shut up – I need a favour.’
‘You’re not going to tell anyone?’
‘I need you to go round to my place and … tidy up a little.’
A pause. On the other end of the phone someone was singing in the background, an ambulance siren getting closer. ‘Why? What did you do?’
‘Had an uninvited visitor.’
‘I see.’ A deep breath. ‘Is he…?’
‘No. He wasn’t looking very well when I left, but he’ll live.’ And they could probably save his leg.
A long, hissing sigh. ‘OK, OK, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thanks, Dave.’
‘And you promise you won’t tell anyone?’
‘Bye, Dave.’ I hung up. According to the phone’s screen there were another two missed calls waiting for me. Well they could go on waiting.
The cabin rocked from left to right. Must be leaving the harbour, giving up its protective arms for the North Sea’s cold embrace. Then the room started going forward and backwards as well. Pitch and yaw getting stronger the further out we got, the ship’s engines getting deeper.
Kind of comforting…
I closed my eyes. Let it wash over me. Yawned.
Could drift off for a—
Three loud knocks at the door. ‘Hello? Ash? Constable Henderson? Hello? It’s me, Alice…’ Dr McDonald. Wonderful. ‘Hello? Are you in there?’
I gritted my teeth, rolled off the bunk up to my feet, and stood there like a dose of brewer’s droop – back bent, arms dangling.
‘Hello?’ Knock, knock, knock.
I opened the door.
She was standing in the narrow corridor, both arms wrapped around herself, eyes darting from side to side. ‘They said there’s been a mistake with the cabins, the team admin officer only booked the one, and the other cabins are all full, and obviously we can’t share a cabin. It wouldn’t be right: we work together, and you’re a man and I’m a woman and what if something happened, it wouldn’t—’
‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ I slouched back to the rumpled bunk and collapsed face-down onto it. ‘Ow…’ It was like being battered all over again.
‘But we can’t share a cabin it’s ridiculous, I mean it’s—’
‘Trust me,’ words muffled by the pillow, ‘you’re not that irresistible.’
There was a pause, then the creak of someone sitting on the other bed. ‘Can’t you sleep somewhere else?’
‘I think I might be able to control my sexual ardour if… buggering hell.’ Bloody phone was ringing again. I fumbled it out, stuck it against my ear. ‘What?’
An Irish accent, female, clipped. ‘Officer Henderson, have yez forgotten yer manners along with everythin’ else?’
‘Mrs Kerrigan.’ As if today couldn’t have got any worse.
‘They’ve got these seats upstairs you can recline almost all the way, I’m sure they’re comfortable, you could get one of those—’
‘I’ve got a message for yez, Officer Henderson—’
‘Oh, I got your bloody message all right. Well, you know what: I know where you live too.’
‘—and you can probably hire one for a couple of pounds—’
‘Yez’ve got a hard neck, talkin’ to me like—’
‘You tried to have me crippled! You really think I’m going to let that go?’
‘—I can’t sleep in the open, surrounded by strange people, anything could happen, I mean I couldn’t sleep at all, it would be—’
‘Where’s our money, Officer Henderson? We had a deal.’
‘You should’ve thought of that before you sent “Mr Pain” to my house.’ My knuckles ached, the phone’s casing creaked in my fist. ‘Deal’s off. I so much as see one of your dogs near me, I’m coming after you, understand?’
There was silence on the other end of the line.
‘—and what would happen then, it would be horrible, I can’t have people watching me sleep, Richard has to go into the spare room when he stays over—’
‘Listen up, ye little boll
ox, if ye ever eat the head off me again I’ll feckin’ come round meself, understand? Then we’ll see how gobby ye are. Deal’s not off till I say so: four grand by Thursday lunch.’ And then she hung up.
‘—it’s not that I don’t value you as a colleague, obviously I do, but I really don’t think we should be sleeping in the same room—’
Oh fuck… I dumped the phone on the bed and folded my arms over my head. Fuck. Fuck. Shitting fuck. Why? Why couldn’t I keep my big gob shut? Threatening Andy Inglis’s right-hand woman, what a great idea that was. No way that was going to come back and bite me on the balls. Fuck…
‘—I mean we only met yesterday… Ash? Hello?’
I rolled over onto my side: it hurt slightly less than being hit by a car. ‘I’m going to have a shower. You can stay and watch if you like, but I wouldn’t recommend it.’
The ferry thrummed and throbbed beneath my feet, rocking and rolling as I hauled myself upstairs to the main deck level – all pale wooden floors and shiny chrome. A shop, two bars, a cinema, lifeboats… Who could ask for more? It was busy: families; groups of friends; couples; people on their own; what looked like a rugby team, wearing matching red tops, downing pints of lager and singing some sort of folk song.
‘Roond da boat da tide-lumps makkin,
Sunlicht trowe da cloods is brakkin.’
A wall-mounted TV played the news, but no one was watching it.
I stopped for a minute. On screen was a shot of Oldcastle Police Headquarters in all its mouldy Victorian glory. A woman with wind-blown hair and a blue umbrella stood in front of the entrance, talking at the camera. It was impossible to make out what she was saying over the singing, but the ticker along the bottom of the screen read, ‘Serial Killer – Bodies Found – Oldcastle Police Confirm Remains Are “Birthday Boy” Victims.’
‘We maan geng whaar fish is takkin,
Rowin Foula doon…’
The picture jumped to ACC Drummond at some sort of media briefing. Busy grabbing the credit before Dickie’s team of Party Crashers turned up tomorrow.
The ferry had two eating areas: a canteen at the back of the ship, and a fancy sit-down place with tablecloths and wine – closed off from the common areas with a glass wall. So the people outside could see what a good time the people inside were having.
I hauled the door open and joined the chosen few. There were only half a dozen tables, and they were all taken. Dr McDonald had the one in the far corner, sitting with her back to the wall hunched over a menu.
I wandered over and pulled out the chair opposite. ‘Our Assistant Chief Constable’s on the telly right now, marking his territory before Dickie turns up.’
She didn’t look up. Sulking.
A man appeared, carrying a tray. ‘The large Glenmorangie?’
Dr McDonald stuck up her hand. ‘Mine. And can I get a bottle of the Pinot Grigio too.’
‘Of course. Sir?’
I turned in my seat… Grimaced as burning needles jabbed up and down my back and stomach. ‘Sparkling mineral water: big bottle.’
‘Are you ready to order, or would you like a couple more minutes?’
Dr McDonald snapped her menu shut. ‘I’ll have the herring followed by the pork and black pudding.’
‘Excellent choice; sir?’
‘Er… Can you give me a minute, I—’
‘He’ll have the smoked salmon, and the fillet steak: rare.’ She threw back her whisky and dumped the empty glass on the table. Shuddered. ‘And I’ll have another one of these.’
‘Coming right up.’ The waiter put the tumbler on his tray, collected the menus and melted away.
As soon as he was gone, Dr McDonald picked her satchel up from the floor and took out a red plastic folder. She laid the contents out on the table: copies of every card Hannah Kelly’s parents had received from the Birthday Boy.
‘You sure you should be doing that in here?’
‘That’s why I’m sitting in the corner. No one can see over my shoulder.’ She arranged them in chronological order, oldest top left, newest bottom right. Then wrapped one arm around herself, the other hand fiddling with her hair as she stared. ‘Everything he does has a meaning, we just don’t know what it is yet. He dyed Hannah’s hair – right here in card number three – he didn’t do that with Amber O’Neil. He’s turning Hannah into someone else, it’s all about projection…’
‘Didn’t think you were a whisky drinker.’
‘And in number seven he shaves it all off, everything, even the eyebrows, he’s not punishing her, he’s punishing whoever it is she represents…’
Dr McDonald stared and twiddled, and stared some more.
‘How do you know I’m not a vegetarian?’
‘Hmm?’
‘You ordered me a steak, how do you know I’m not—’
‘Your hands.’
I held them up. They looked like hands. Bruised and swollen around the knuckles, but other than that…? ‘How can you—’
‘He doesn’t have a physical type: the girls are all different shapes and sizes, straight hair, curly, long hair, short hair; blonde, brunette, ginger – I suppose it doesn’t really matter if he’s going to dye it anyway; some are pretty, some not so pretty, he doesn’t really see them, he sees what he wants them to be…’ Dr McDonald unfurled her napkin and draped it over the table, covering the cards. Then smiled – the waiter was back.
‘Large Glenmorangie?’
Chapter 15
She spanked the second whisky down in one, screwed up her face and stuck out her elbows, hissed a juddery breath.
I sat back, helped myself to some fizzy water. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re not a drinker?’
‘Would you call the Birthday Boy normal, because I wouldn’t, but I have to try to think like him if I’m going to figure out what he wants, and what he needs, and why torturing young girls makes sense to him, and that’s a bit of a stretch, because he’s not normal and I am.’ She put the glass back on the table. ‘Luckily alcohol’s a great depressor of inhibitions.’
‘You’re normal?’ I could feel the smile spreading. ‘You sure?’
Pink rushed up her cheeks and she broke eye contact, staring down at the photos of Hannah Kelly instead. ‘He’s been active for ten years, he abducts one girl a year for the first six – except for one twelve-month gap – then three years ago he takes two victims within three weeks, then the same again last year—’
‘You really think you’re normal?’
‘—and by now he’s probably abducted another two.’ She glugged Pinot Grigio into her wine glass, then gulped down a mouthful. ‘That brings his total to twelve girls, snatched just before their thirteenth birthday, next one will be number thirteen… Thirteen thirteen-year-olds: that might be significant …’ Another swig. ‘Or it might not, I mean there was always going to come a time when he’d have killed thirteen girls, as long as he keeps doing what he’s doing and we keep not catching him, eventually he’s going to have nineteen victims, then twenty-one, then…’
The bread rolls were warm, I slathered one with butter. ‘Unless he’s escalating. Last year it was two victims, but this year it might be three, or four. Maybe he’ll go on a spree – wind up dead in a ditch with a shotgun in his mouth?’
Dr McDonald rubbed a hand up and down the sleeve of her stripy top. ‘The number is definitely significant, you don’t randomly pick a girl’s thirteenth birthday as the trigger-point for your abduction and torture fantasies for no reason, something must have happened to him when he was thirteen…’ This time, when she picked up the wine glass she drained it.
‘You’re going to be sick, you know that, don’t you?’
She peered at the bottle, licked her lips, then filled the glass up again. ‘Why isn’t it working?’
‘Oh … give it time.’
A lump of marinated herring wobbled on the end of her fork. ‘Or perhaps whatever happened … happened when someon
e else was thirteen and he was mush younger, which is more likely, I mean to develop a pathology like this you need to be in the early stages of sexual development, when your sense of right an’ wrong an’ good an’ bad an’ normal annn’ weird are still … still mall … malleable—’ The last word rumbled out on a belch that wafted alcohol and vinegared fish across the table. ‘Ooh, pardon.’ She reached for the wine and topped her glass up again. There wasn’t much left in the bottle. Her cheeks were a rosy pink, and so was the point of her chin.
I picked at my smoked salmon. ‘You might want to think about pacing yourself.’
‘I think … I think we’re looking for someone who was traumatized by a thirteen … thirteen-year-old-girl.’ Dr McDonald closed one eye and glugged Shiraz into my glass. Almost all of it went in, the rest making blood spatters on the white tablecloth. ‘Then again, who hasssn’t been traumatized by a thirteen-year-old girl at some … at some point. There was this horrible cow at Gordons called Clarissa an’ she used to say horridible things behind my back.’
I pushed the glass away. ‘Let me guess: you stood up to her, she realized she was just as scared as you, and you became bestest friends.’
‘No, she … she beat the crap out of me behind the bins at break time.’ Dr McDonald skewered a lump of black pudding with her fork, held it up and squinted at it. ‘Perhaps she sexually abused him, or he wan … he wanted her to and she wouldn’t but … but he loved her and it was all doomed… Doooooomed. You’re not dringing your wine, why are you not … dringing your wine?’
‘Yeah, sorry about that.’ I took my card out of the chip-and-pin thing, then dug out a twenty and handed it over too. A pretty generous tip, but then again, given the way Dr McDonald had behaved…
She was slumped forwards in her seat, arms folded in her Orkney fudge cheesecake, head on her arms, brown curly hair dangling in a puddle of spilled brandy. Singing quietly to herself.
That was the trouble with psychologists – too much time spent grubbing about in the minds of nutters, rapists, killers, and paedophiles, tended to rub the ‘sane’ off a bit.
Birthdays for the Dead Page 12