Birthdays for the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Benny nodded. ‘Yokkit horns, did dey? What did I tell du: rile Arnie and he’s laek ta glaep du.’

  Royce took a couple of deep breaths, hands fluttering at his sides. ‘Got to call it in. Get on the radio and call it in. Not your fault, Royce, nothing you could do. Oh God…’

  Benny picked up a sack of fish food and thumped it down on the walkway. ‘There’s no point being aff a leg an on a leg, Royce ma darlin’, Arnie’s Arnie, du knows that.’

  The constable shifted from foot to foot. ‘Oh God, we’ll have to drag the loch: what if the body drifts out to sea? They’re going to blame me!’

  Arnold Burges walked out of the shed, drysuit peeled down to his waist, the arms knotted around his massive stomach. His white T-shirt was stained red across the chest, blood smeared up to his elbows. He wiped his hands on a towel. ‘You got the rest of that feed, Benny?’

  ‘You’re alive…’ Royce grabbed the handrail with both hands and closed his eyes, then bent forward until his forehead rested on the rusty metal. ‘Oh thank God…’

  ‘Where du been, Arnie? Poor Constable Clark was worried: thought du’d gien da lang gaet.’

  Burges grinned. ‘I got him.’

  ‘No.’ Benny’s mouth fell open, showing off more fillings than teeth. ‘Du got the greedy bugger?’

  A nod towards the shed. ‘Inside.’

  ‘Ha, ha!’ Benny did a little dance, then scampered in to see for himself.

  Royce straightened up, wiped a hand across his forehead, then turned and peered into the shed. ‘Bloody hell…’

  The seal’s body hung, head down, over a sheet of tarpaulin, split from tail-flippers to throat, innards piled beneath it – steaming in the chill morning air. The smell of rancid fish was strong enough to make Royce gag a little. Couldn’t blame him.

  He cleared his throat. ‘You shot it…’

  ‘Big bastard, isn’t he?’ Burges squatted by the pile of offal and cut free a slab of purple, about the size of a large hot-water bottle. He slapped the liver onto a chopping board. ‘Guess what’s for lunch.’

  ‘Ha!’ Benny loped out through the doors. ‘I’ll get the beer.’

  Royce stuck his chest out. ‘Arnold Burges, I’m arresting you for violation of the Marine Scotland Act, 2011, making it illegal to shoot seals without—’

  ‘It’s OK.’ I put a hand on the constable’s shoulder. ‘I’ve already done this bit: he’s got a licence.’

  Burges pointed at an official-looking letter pinned to the shed wall, beside the feed cage. ‘We’ve tried exclusion nets, tensioners, sonic scarers and the greedy bastard kept coming. Had about three thousand fish off us.’ He squatted back down and hacked out what looked like a kidney. ‘Got what he deserved.’

  Burges and I sat on the walkway with our backs against the shed, out of the wind, bathed in sunshine. The view on this side of the barge was spectacular: mountains on both sides, sweeping down to the sparkling water, islands in the middle distance like emeralds on blue silk, the Atlantic Ocean a line of hazy sapphires beyond.

  A rattling whoosh came from inside – Benny and Royce tipping bags of fish feed into the metal hopper. It was warm, in the sun. And the smell of cat biscuits wasn’t that bad once you got used to it. Better than disembowelled seal at any rate.

  Burges looked out at the rippling water, his eyes swollen and pink. ‘Can you believe we actually thought the cards would stop when we moved?’

  ‘I’m sorry you had to find out like this. Someone should have told you yesterday when we … identified Lauren.’

  He drained his can of Stella, scrunched it in his car-crusher hand and dumped it on the wood beside him. Cracked open another one. ‘Been out here since yesterday morning, trying to catch that frigging seal…’ He bent forwards, head hanging over his gut. ‘Does Danielle know? Did someone tell her?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Can’t get a mobile signal out here. Should phone her. See if she’s OK…’

  We sat in silence.

  Burges knocked back a mouthful of lager. Wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘How? How does he find us? How are we supposed to…’ A sniff. Another drink. ‘Can we bury her? Our Lauren: do we get her back, can we bury her?’

  ‘They’ll release the remains soon as they can. You’ll get her back.’

  He nodded and a tear plopped onto his bloodstained T-shirt. ‘We thought she’d run away from home. Thought we’d done something. Danielle still blames herself. Spent months searching every street in Edinburgh, London, Glasgow – posters in shop windows, pestering the papers to print her photo, talking to every homeless bastard and junkie we could find.’ He gave a little laugh, then bit his bottom lip. ‘Thought she’d just come back one day. Then that first card arrives: happy fucking birthday…’

  ‘Yeah.’ I stared out over the water. ‘My daughter, Rebecca, went missing five years ago. She was nearly thirteen… Never heard from her again.’

  Burges nodded. ‘Hurts, doesn’t it? Wondering if it was your fault.’ He stared at the tin in his hand. ‘At least you still get to hope.’

  No. That died four years ago with card number one.

  I took another mouthful of luke-warm coffee. ‘I meant what I said: Henry Forrester did everything he could. We all did. Still are.’

  The diesel generator chugged and rumbled into life, then a clunk came from inside the shed, followed by a deep rattling sound. A pipe jutted out of the shed wall, connected to a thick plastic hose that disappeared into the loch. It shivered and shook, then out in the middle of one of the salmon cages a spray of food leapt into the air, then pattered down on the water. The surface boiled with fish.

  Burges finished his second can and cracked open a third. ‘She was our little girl…’

  ‘Henry did his best, he really did. Lauren was missing for over a year before we even found out she was a victim. Twelve months for everyone to get hazy on the details. Even the CCTV footage gets erased eventually. It’s not his fault.’

  Burges rested his arms on his knees. ‘Every year we get another card, and it’s like a knife: gouging… How are we supposed to deal with that?’ He drank, chugging back at least half the can in one go. ‘Henry Forrester doesn’t deserve to forget. And neither do you.’

  Chapter 20

  A dirty blue van sat outside Henry’s house, the legend ‘DAVIE’S DA JOINER!’ painted down the side in Gothic script. A little man was hammering a large sheet of plywood over the lounge window, whistling as he battered in the nails.

  I let myself in, not bothering to wave goodbye to Royce, and followed the sound of voices into the kitchen.

  Henry leaned back on his stool, sleeves rolled up, one hand resting on top of his little pot belly, the other wrapped around a tumbler. Sheba wheezed and twitched on the floor by the oven, dreaming old dog dreams.

  Dr McDonald was hunched over her glass, elbows on the table, fingers drumming a random beat on the wooden surface, curls hiding her face. Her glasses were sitting beside an open bottle of Isle of Jura, the lenses almost opaque with fingerprints. ‘I think … I think Amber O’Neil’s the moss important, he picked … picked her because she looked like Her, I mean whoever it was hurted him … have … have you ever been hurted by a thirteen-year-old girl?’ Then a belch. ‘Oops…’

  Henry took a sip and smacked his lips. ‘Yes, but have you considered the possibility that she was a cipher?’

  ‘Ooh.’ McDonald’s head snapped up. ‘I han … han thought of that, a cipher…’ A little crease formed between her eyebrows. ‘Nah, that makes no … makes no senses… Why would she be a cipher?’ A laugh. ‘You’re silly.’

  I closed the door. ‘See the two of you are getting along.’

  Henry pointed at the bottle. ‘It’s hard to say no to a lady who brings a single malt for an old man.’ Then a small frown. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Anyone want tea?’

  ‘I don … I don think she’s a cipher, I think … I t
hink she’s a massage…’

  I filled the kettle and stuck it on to boil. ‘No more whisky for you.’

  ‘Nooo!’ Dr McDonald grabbed her tumbler and clutched it to her chest; Isle of Jura sloshed onto the stripy top. ‘You know what I … what I wonner, Henry, I wonner…’ One eyebrow dipped. ‘I wonner… Em…’

  ‘Who’s he really torturing?’ Wild guess, but it was what she’d written on the mirror above the sink in the cabin’s toilet.

  Dr McDonald banged a hand on the table top and looked at me as if I’d invented bacon. ‘God, that’s … that’s brilliant, who’s he really torchering, that’s right … that’s … you’re a genius … isn’t … isn’t he a genius, Henry?’

  The four mugs from this morning sat on the working surface, their bottoms crusted and stained with brown. I rinsed one out under the hot tap.

  ‘Oh, our friend Ash is a man of many talents.’ Henry put his glass down on the table. ‘You went to see him, didn’t you? Burges. That’s where you’ve been.’

  ‘No, he’s a genius … I mean, Ash, Ash, Henry tol … tol me all bout you and what … what…?’ She downed a gulp of whisky. ‘Who’s he really torchering? Is … is not juss the girls, is it, he’s torchering the parents too, torchering them for years an years an years an years.’

  ‘We identified Arnold Burges’s daughter’s remains yesterday.’ Teabag in the mug, followed by boiling water. ‘Someone had to tell him.’

  ‘I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Ash.’

  ‘Yeah, because you’re doing such a great job of sorting him out on your own.’

  ‘You’re not a genius, you’re an idiot.’

  ‘Prhaps … prhaps thass the point, I mean, is … is horrible for the girls, but … but prhaps they’re the means to … to the ends, an that … that’s why he keeps them gagged while he … while he does it?’

  I fished the bag out with a spoon and dumped it in the sink. ‘I’m not the piss-head sitting in a freezing house with shattered windows and dog shit on the carpet, drinking myself to death.’

  Henry poured himself another measure of whisky. ‘Do I look pished to you?’

  No he didn’t. He looked more sober than he had when we’d arrived. And the ‘caffeine’ tremors seemed to have vanished as well.

  ‘He doesn’t … doesn’t want to hear them scream cos … because he’s not innit for … for their pain, he wans … he wans the parents to feel it, ooh I needa pee…’ Dr McDonald lurched up from the table and grabbed the working surface. ‘Oops… Floor’s all … slippy … like Switzerland…’

  The teaspoon rattled against the stainless-steel draining board. I sploshed some milk into the mug. ‘What, I’m not supposed to worry about you now? Thought we were friends.’

  ‘I don’t want you interfering.’

  Interfering? For God’s sake. ‘He took a sledgehammer to Ellie’s headstone!’

  ‘Back inna … inna bit, you got any crisps, I like crisps…’ And she was gone, leaving the door open behind her. ‘Crisps, crisps, crisps, crisps, crisps…’

  Henry drank, rolling the whisky around his mouth. ‘Arnold Burges is entitled to feel bitter. I screwed up the profile, if I’d been a better psychologist his daughter would still be alive.’ He stared at his gnarled hands, the skin peppered with liver spots. ‘And Rebecca would be too.’

  Maybe he was right.

  There was a little patio in the top corner of the garden: a suntrap with a wooden table and some folding chairs, looking out over the harbour, the mountains, the boats, and the sea. Good view. Certainly a hell of a lot better than the one from my kitchen window.

  I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the messages, deleting all the ones where Michelle ranted and raved about what a thoughtless prick I was. OK, so she could be a pain in the arse, but that didn’t mean it was OK for Katie to lie to her. Even if Michelle was being unreasonable.

  Mind you, Ashley’s dad did sound like a bit of a tosser…

  A grunt from the bottom of the garden. It was Henry, labouring his way up the weed-strewn path to the patio, puffing and panting all the way. Sheba wobbled along behind him, tongue lolling out.

  Henry collapsed into one of the folding chairs. ‘She’s stopped throwing up.’

  ‘You OK?’

  He shrugged, then clunked the bottle of whisky down on the table, followed by a single tumbler. ‘When did you stop drinking?’

  ‘Pills. Unlike you I actually read the instructions.’

  ‘She’s curled up on the kitchen worktop, snoring like a drain and making the most appalling smells.’

  ‘That’s what you get for leading her astray.’

  ‘True.’ He poured himself a stiff measure. The Isle of Jura was about halfway done already, and it was barely noon. ‘Just because I don’t want you interfering with Arnold Burges, doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see you. And I’m sorry I didn’t call. The funeral was on Monday and I—’

  ‘It’s OK. It doesn’t matter.’

  He wrapped his hands around the tumbler. ‘You got another card.’

  ‘Number five.’

  A nod. ‘Ash, if you tell Dickie, or Weber, or McDonald, they can—’

  ‘Shouldn’t even have told you.’

  He fiddled with the glass, not looking at me. ‘No, probably not.’

  Because if I hadn’t, Philip Skinner might still be alive. And Detective Superintendent Len Murray wouldn’t be serving eighteen years in Glenochil Prison.

  ‘Do you know what Dickie and his Party Crashers have achieved in the four years since you quit? Sod all. If we hadn’t found Helen Kelly’s remains they’d still be poking about in Dundee, waiting for the next girl to go missing. They’re treading water, Henry, and he’s still out there.’

  Henry took a sip, pursed his lips. The stubble on his chin glowed in the sunlight. ‘I’ll help Dr McDonald with her “behavioural evidence analysis”, try and stop her from making the same mistakes I did, but there’s one condition: it’s all off the record. Unofficial. You keep me out of the investigation.’

  ‘Deal.’

  Sheba gave up halfway up the path and groaned down onto her side in the middle of a sunny patch.

  ‘And I’m not coming back to Oldcastle with you. If I help, it’s got to be from here.’

  ‘Oh… Well, maybe we can—’

  My phone buzzed on the tabletop, skittering as the ringing got louder. DC Massie’s name flashed on the screen. I picked it up and jabbed the button. ‘Rhona.’

  A pause. Then, ‘Oh thank God, you’re OK… You are OK, aren’t you? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours.’

  ‘Of course, I’m OK. Why wouldn’t I be?’ Pause. ‘Look, Rhona, is this important, only I’m in the middle of something.’

  Silence.

  ‘Rhona?’

  ‘I… I wanted to check you were OK. No one knew where you were, and your house was trashed, and the Fire Brigade said it was—’

  ‘Fire brigade?’ I nearly dropped the phone. What the hell were the Fire Brigade… Bloody Shifty Dave: I asked him to tidy up, not burn the place down!

  Henry sat forward in his seat. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘I was worried when you didn’t call me back, so I went by your house this morning and there was a fire engine sitting outside, and council vans, and the bastards wouldn’t let me in, but there was water everywhere and the whole place was trashed. I mean completely fucked. And no one knew where you were…’

  ‘What the hell did you do to my fucking house?’

  A large woman with a pushchair full of screaming toddler gave me the evil eye, then hurried past. Well, screw her. How would she like it if someone set fire to her bloody house?

  Main Street was relatively busy for a small town on the east coast of Shetland. Parked cars lined one side of the road outside the Scalloway Meat Company shop, its frontage plastered with signs about ‘Fancy Goods, Toys, and Souvenirs’. The flat-fro
nted houses opposite were painted in various pastel shades. All very quaint.

  Shifty Dave Morrow grumbled on the other end of the phone. ‘You’re bloody welcome. You any idea what kind of mess that big bastard made in my car?’

  ‘Dave, I swear to God—’

  ‘I didn’t do anything to it, OK? The place was like that when I got there. And you could’ve bloody warned me! Water pishing down the stairs, the walls, all the furniture wrecked, ceiling caving in… How was I supposed to tidy that up? What am I, Kim and fucking Aggie?’

  Water?

  Main Street ended at a little make-believe roundabout. I took a right, into a car park overlooking the harbour.

  ‘The house wasn’t wrecked when I left it! Well, maybe the hall and the stairs, but that’s it. So don’t—’

  ‘Nah: whole place was smashed up. Don’t know how your visitor managed it with his ankle fucked like that, but your house was a bombsite when I got there.’ A sniff, then a honking snork as Shifty blew his nose. ‘He got a bit rowdy: had to hit him with a spade a couple of times. Dumped him outside A&E, so he’s either OK by now, or he’s dead.’

  ‘How could he… My sodding house?’ A pair of seagulls stopped pecking at a fishing net draped over a couple of bin-bags, and stared at me, heads tilted on one side. I aimed a kick in their direction. ‘And you can fuck off as well!’

  They scrambled into the air, screeching abuse.

  ‘Should be thanking me: put my back out, dragging that big bastard in from the garden. Bloody suit’s ruined. And he puked in the boot.’

  I slumped back against a big Toyota flatbed. It was stacked with creels, the smell of stale fish and seaweed wafting out into the cold air. ‘Is the whole place really wrecked?’

  ‘Total bombsite. … Hold on.’ Muffled crunches came from the phone, as if Shifty had stuck a hand over the mouthpiece. Then he was back. ‘Got to go: three-line-whip briefing in the canteen. Party Crashers have turned up and the ACC’s going mental.’ The connection went dead. He’d hung up.