I jammed the phone in my pocket, then let my head fall back until it clunked against the truck’s roof and stared up at the gathering clouds. ‘It was my house…’
Even if it was a shithole.
The seagulls were back, swooping and jeering around a fishing boat as it chugged into harbour. Must be nice to be a seagull. You eat, you sleep, you shag, and if you’re having a bad day you can shite on everyone from a great height. Doesn’t even have to be a bad day, you can do it just for fun.
I leaned against the low stone wall and scowled out at the birds.
The whole house: wrecked.
How the hell could Mr Pain wreck the place on one leg? What did he do – hop from room to room, smashing things like a demented Heather Mills?
Maybe it was local neds…? Then again, maybe not. After the last thieving git got out of Castle Hill Infirmary the little sods tended to steer clear of my place.
Unless Shifty Dave Morrow was a lying fat bastard and he was the one who’d trashed my house? But why go to all that effort? Not as if I couldn’t tell his wife about him and Andrew the Barman…
Definitely getting colder.
Let’s be honest: it was probably more of Mrs Kerrigan’s goons, sent to teach me a lesson after I threatened to come after her. What a great idea that had been. Really smooth.
I stuck my hands in my pockets and did the grand tour of Scalloway: all the way back down Main Street, past the various boathouses and halls and shortbread-box terraces, until the buildings ran out and I was walking along with water on one side and a scrubby hill on the other.
Two rows of small boats were tied to a floating walkway about twenty yards from shore. Someone had hauled an upturned fibreglass dinghy onto the grass at the side of the road – I perched on the edge. Looked out across the glittering water to the grey-green hills speckled with tiny white houses.
Cold leached into my bones, nipping my ears and nose.
Arnold Burges had a point – how did the Birthday Boy find them all the way up here? And how did he manage to track down Hannah Kelly’s parents even though they’d moved house again and again and again…
It was different for us – we’d stayed put. Well, Michelle had. She got the house and I got a kicking from her divorce lawyer. But all the other parents…
I gave Sabir a call and asked.
His Scouse accent was muffled, as if he had a mouthful of something. ‘Dunno.’
‘Oh, come on: don’t tell me you guys haven’t looked into it. Hannah Kelly’s parents couldn’t be more difficult to track down if they were in witness protection and they still get a birthday card every year. That doesn’t seem a bit suspicious to you?’
The sound of slow chewing came from the earpiece.
I waited.
‘Sabir?’
‘Are youse finished?’
‘I was just—’
‘Treatin’ us like we’re a bunch of bell ends. Course we thought about it, you divvie. We gorra big list of jobs our lad could be doing that’d let him find out where the victims’ families live. Might work for the Inland Revenue, or the DMV, or maybe he’s a doctor, orra journalist, or he’s in the Post Office, or with a telecoms provider, or he’s a bizzie—’
‘A police officer?’
‘Maybe. Or maybe he’s someone who knows how to use the internet, you think about that? I want to find out ’bout a suspect I don’t even bother with the PNC these days, I look them up on Facebook, LinkedIn, Google Plus, electoral register… Internet’s a goldmine: everyone’s gorra digital footprint, if you know where to look.’
Yeah, right: because Donald Kelly would be updating his status to ‘WE’VE MOVED HOUSE TO 36 DUNROSS STREET, OLDCASTLE, OC23 9WP. DON’T TELL THE BIRTHDAY BOY! LOL!!!!’
‘Point is, if our lad’s computer savvy, it’s not gonna take him long…’ The rattle of fat fingers on a keyboard. ‘Ash Henderson: Forty-Two Fletcher Avenue; Royal Bank of Scotland … overdrawn by a grand and a bit; mobile number: oh seven eight four two—’
‘OK, OK, I get the—’
‘Divorced, two children: Rebecca… ran away when she was twelve, Katie…’ More keystrokes. ‘Katie lives at Nineteen Rowan Drive, Blackwall Hill, Oldcastle; she goes to Johnston Academy; and is “in a relationship” with someone called Noah. Apparently it’s “complicated”, but—’
‘Enough. I get it.’ And who the hell was Noah?
‘How long did that take us?’
‘Donald Kelly isn’t on Facebook.’
‘Doesn’t have to be. If we’re all seven steps of separation from Kevin Bacon, how many steps do you think it takes to find someone posting photos to Flickr, blogging, tweeting, sticking stuff up on any one of a million social networking sites? Might never have touched a computer in your life and youse’ll still have a digital footprint.’
Sod.
The clouds were getting darker, spreading like cancer across the pale-blue sky.
‘How’s Dundee going?’
‘Nothing more we can do there, so we’ve all upped sticks to your neck of the woods. Helpin’ your divvie mates – see if we can narrow the search down a bit. You wanna talk to the guvnor?’
‘Nah, I’m good.’ A tiny fleck of white drifted through the cold air, followed by a second and a third. Not really snowing, but definitely thinking about it. ‘Do me a favour: find out who’s been searching for Donald Kelly, or any of the other parents.’
‘On the internet? I’m good, but I’m not that good.’ More munching noises. ‘No one’s that good. Youse are talkin’ about millions of servers all over the world and—’
‘Well, can’t you… Erm…’
What? If it was impossible it was impossible. I stood, stamped my feet to get some feeling back into them. Maybe we should start small. ‘What systems could you do it for?’
‘Seriously?’
‘Just because it’s a pain in the arse, doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.’
‘You’re the pain in the arse.’ A sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do, but I’m promisin’ bugger all.’ And he was gone.
I headed back along the harbour. The flakes were still tiny, but there were more of them – settling on the cold pavements, making it look as if they’d been dusted with icing sugar.
On the other end of the phone, DCI Weber sighed. ‘You’re a silly bugger, Ash.’
I pushed my empty plate away: macaroni cheese and chips – lunch of champions. ‘Thanks, Gregor, that helps.’
‘Ash, Ash, Ash, what did I tell you about pissing off Mrs Kerrigan? It doesn’t matter if Andy Inglis likes you, she’ll still have your—’
‘I know, OK? I know.’ I dropped a tenner on the table, drained the last of my mineral water, and pushed out onto the street. My breath plumed around my head. ‘Who told you?’
‘They didn’t put me in charge of CID because I’m pretty. I do work things out from time to time.’
I took a right, heading back along Main Street towards Henry’s house, one hand stuffed deep in my pocket, the other nipping in the frigid air. ‘It’s not—’
‘Ash, we’ve talked about this: while Sergeant Smith is with us we have to be extremely discreet. I don’t think getting your house trashed by the local hoodlums is very discreet, do you? What if she decides to have you killed? Do you have any idea how awkward a position that would put me in?’
‘Yeah, how thoughtless of me. What was I thinking?’
Wind whipped down an alley, swirling the tiny white flakes into a vortex. There was some sort of bookshop on the other side. I stopped.
‘You know what I mean. Obviously your loss would be tragic, but it’d be the rest of us getting a screwing from Professional Standards.’ A pause. ‘How much do you owe?’
There was a fluffy stuffed puffin in the window. Katie would love that. She might dress like something out of the Addams Family, but she still had every fluffy toy I’d ever bought her.
‘Got to go. Bird-related emergency.’
‘Ash—’
‘I’ll sort it, OK?’ Though Christ knew how…
Chapter 21
The lounge bar at the Scalloway Hotel was busy that evening. I picked my way around a clump of men in overalls, then through a swarm of girlies – dressed in pink Stetsons and ‘L’ plates – to where Henry and Dr McDonald were sitting.
Her face had developed a pale-grey tint, like unpainted wood-chip wallpaper, the bags under her eyes a greenish-purple. I put a pint glass full of milk and another of water on the table in front of her. A thin smile, then she puffed out her cheeks and gulped at the milk.
Sitting opposite, Henry took his double Grouse with a nod. ‘Sally came, so we ordered for you.’
I pulled out a chair and parked myself next to Dr McDonald. At least this way if she puked it’d be all over Henry and not me. ‘I was only gone five minutes.’
Dr McDonald wiped a hand across her mouth, then put the empty glass back on the table. ‘You’re having the lamb.’
‘OK…’ I probably would have picked that anyway, but it would have been nice to get the choice. That was the problem with psychologists: they always had to know best. ‘And did you two achieve anything today? Cirrhosis? Alcohol poisoning?’
Henry took another sip of whisky.
She picked up her water. ‘What: you don’t like lamb?’
‘Do we have a profile? Vague pointers? Something for the door-to-door teams to look out for?’
‘What’s wrong with lamb?’
‘There’s nothing…’ For God’s sake. ‘Look, do we have any idea what the Birthday Boy wants, or don’t we?’
She glanced across the table at Henry.
He lifted his whisky as if he was toasting her. ‘In your own time.’
Dr McDonald nodded, then toasted him back with the water. ‘There’s something deeply wrong about the way he deals with the victims: when he snatches them he should be all excited and wound up and desperate to relive the fantasy again, but he leaves them tied to a chair for two or three days until it’s their birthday, I mean I could see a couple of hours’ delayed gratification, but three days is too much.’
Deep breath. ‘Then there’s the disposal, there’s no ritual to it, no meaning, just getting rid of bodies, I wondered if there was something significant about them being naked…’
I shook my head. ‘He buries them naked because it’s a pain in the arse to dress a dead body. You should try it sometime: worse than undressing a drunk. He strips them when he tortures them, why would he want to dress them again?’
She smiled at me, as if I was a small child who’d managed to tie his own shoelaces for the first time. ‘Exactly: it’s like they don’t matter to him at all, you know I think he’d put them out for the bin men if he thought he could get away with it, they’re irrelevant.’
I settled back in my seat and raised an eyebrow at Henry.
He shook his head. ‘It’s Alice’s show.’
‘If they don’t matter, why abduct them at all?’
She opened her mouth to say something, but a large grey-haired woman got there first: ‘Two Cullen Skinks and a smoked salmon starter?’
Inside, the music swelled – the crowd joining in with the three-piece band. Guitar, violin and an accordion doing a Scottish country dance version of ‘Johnny B. Goode’, with the occasional ‘Heuch!’ thrown in for good measure.
Outside it was freezing.
I put a finger in my ear to block out the noise and hunched my back against the cold. ‘What do you mean: he’s watching you? Where?’
Michelle’s voice trembled. ‘We’re in Tesco – the changing rooms. Ash, he’s right outside!’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m bloody sure!’ A clunk and some rustling, a pause, and then Michelle was back. ‘He’s watching the changing rooms. What am I supposed to do? Katie’s here – we’re trying to get something nice for her party, and Ethan’s standing right outside waiting for us!’
The wee shite. ‘OK: does the changing room have an assistant? Get them to call store security.’
Silence. Snow drifted down from the dark sky, shining in the streetlights, thick and quiet. ‘Ash, what if he comes to the house? What if he—’
‘I’ll sort it. Don’t worry, it’ll be—’
‘When? When will you sort it? Tonight?’ Her voice was getting higher, the words faster. ‘Can you do it tonight?’
‘I said I’ll sort it. Won’t be till tomorrow though, maybe we can—’
‘Tomorrow? You know what Ethan’s like: if he’s—’
‘I’m in Shetland, Michelle, I can’t click my heels together three times and magically—’
‘You’re in Shetland?’ A pause. ‘I thought you said Katie stayed with you last night!’
Bugger.
‘Yes, well … I flew up this morning. Part of the investigation.’ Silence. ‘Look, I’ll make some calls. Meantime: tell store security he’s stalking you.’
More silence. ‘Fine.’ And she was gone.
Bloody Ethan Baxter. Couldn’t take a bloody telling, could he?
I scrolled through my contacts list. Maybe get Shifty Dave to pay him a visit with a crowbar? … No. That pleasure was going to be all mine. I scrolled down and clicked another number.
It rang, and rang, and rang, and then a recorded voice came on the line: ‘Hi, this is Rhona. Leave a message.’ Beeeep.
‘Rhona, it’s Ash. Listen, I need you to do me a—’
‘Hello?’ Scrambling, clicking noises. ‘Hello? Guv?’ Voice a little slurred around the edges.
‘Ethan Baxter: not sure where he’s living now, but he used to have a house on Lochview Road. He’s been hassling Michelle and Katie.’
‘Right, Jesus, OK… You want him picked up? I’ll get Norm and we’ll give him a tour of the station stairs.’
She would too. ‘Just get someone to keep an eye on Michelle, drive by the house now and then, make sure Baxter’s behaving himself. I’ll deal with him when I get back from Shetland.’
‘Cool. I’ll come with you and—’
‘I don’t really think that’s a good idea, it’s—’
‘Guv, you’ll need someone to watch your back: make sure you’re covered in case the wee shite makes a complaint, or there’s an investigation… That kind of thing.’
A Range Rover growled past, windscreen wipers going full pelt, headlights making the snow flare brilliant white in the darkness.
‘I’ll be fine. Make sure whoever’s doing the drive-bys lets Michelle know they’re there, OK?’
‘You can count on me, Guv: she’ll know you’re looking out for her.’
‘And if the bastard goes anywhere near them, pick him up and stick him somewhere till I get back.’
‘Somewhere quiet and out of the way. No witnesses. Got you.’
‘Thanks, Rhona.’
We spent a few minutes moaning about the Warriors’ chances against Aberdeen Football Club on Saturday, what a cock Sergeant Smith was, and the weekend’s weather forecast; then she caught me up on the Cameron Park investigation. Which didn’t seem to be achieving much more than produ-cing a small rainforest’s worth of paperwork.
The band’s Jimmy-Shand-style interpretation of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ got louder for a couple of seconds, then a door clunked and Henry’s voice cut through the snow’s feathery silence. ‘Wondered where you’d got to.’
I hung up and slid the phone back into my pocket. ‘Checking in with the station.’
Henry turned up his collar and squinted out into the slow-motion blizzard. He didn’t look that great – even for someone slowly pickling themselves into oblivion. Sunken cheeks, sunken eyes, skin the colour of parchment. He sniffed. Held out his arms, voice a gravelly monotone.
‘Then winter’s icy claws dig deep into the hearts of men
pulling forth the long dark nights, the pale bone touch of death again…’
<
br /> ‘Poetry? God, you’re a cheery bastard.’
A shrug. ‘My clown suit’s been in the wash since Ellie passed.’ He wiped a finger under his nose – catching a drip. ‘You know the funny thing about Albert Pearson’s funeral? The only person I knew there was dead. What was the point? We’re all dead now, even me. I just haven’t stopped moving yet.’
Thursday 17th November
Chapter 22
The kitchen clock ticked quietly on the wall, Sheba groaned and twitched on a hairy tartan beanbag, and the muffled sound of snoring came from the master and spare bedrooms. I sat at the breakfast bar, looking out at the back garden. All the sharp edges were gone, softened by eight inches of snow, more of it drifting down from the pale sky. A puffed-up robin perched on top of the washing line, shouting territorial abuse at anyone within listening distance.
No sign of Henry or Dr McDonald, so I’d let myself in and taken over the kitchen. Flicking through the case files, brooding about Michelle, Katie, and Rebecca, listening to the clock carving the day into thin sharp slices.
And my coffee was cold.
What to do about Ethan Baxter? The vicious little bastard never learned… Well, tomorrow morning he was going to get a telling he wouldn’t forget.
Maybe it was time for Ethan to have an accident? Drag him out into the middle of nowhere and put a bullet through his head. Put an end to his crap once and for all…
Well, it was worth thinking about.
And once I’d taken care of Ethan Baxter, there’d be Mrs Kerrigan to deal with. Four grand by lunchtime today. Even if I had four grand, which I didn’t, there was no way I could get it to her – not from here. Never mind the other fifteen.
Where the hell was I supposed to get nineteen thousand pounds from?
It was like a weight, sitting on my chest, forcing me back into the chair.
Focus on the do-able first, then worry about the rest.
Four grand by today was impossible: the ferry wouldn’t get back to Aberdeen till seven tomorrow morning. OK, I could blag a flight from Sumburgh Airport – flash my warrant card and pretend it was urgent police business – but what would be the point? Rush home so I could be in time to get my legs broken? Bugger that.
The house was a wreck, my car wasn’t worth the duct tape holding the rear bumper on, and I had nothing left to sell. Nothing: it was all gone. And shaking a few perverts and drug dealers by the ankles would only net a couple of grand tops, so how the hell was I going to get my hands on nineteen thousand pounds…?
Birthdays for the Dead Page 17