He squealed, wrenched the door open, threw himself inside, jammed the key in the ignition.
Too slow.
Should have locked the door first.
I dragged him out onto the road.
He tried to scramble away, shoes scuffing against the tarmac, going nowhere. ‘Please! It wasn’t me: I’m just doing my job!’
I grabbed his camera and pulled. The strap tightened around his neck.
‘What did I tell you about taking photos of me?’
‘I didn’t! I didn’t! Ulk…’ Hands flapping for the camera. ‘I can show you! Please… Let go… Please…’
I let go, and the thing thumped into his chest. A couple of deep breaths, then he turned the camera over and pressed some buttons until the display screen on the back lit up with a shot of Steven Wallace’s grinning face. The next one was the same, and the next, and the one after that. Then there were pictures of a TV crew interviewing local residents, then a bunch of head-and-shoulder photos of what looked like local residents. The standard pish the Castle News and Post liked to print alongside idiotic quotes, like: ‘“Oh, I’ve lived here a hundred and twelve years and nothing like this has ever happened before!” Agnes Dalrymple (82)’
Not a single picture of me, or Dr McDonald.
He switched the thing off and the screen went black. Then looked up at me, on his arse in the middle of the road. ‘See?’
I stuck out a hand and helped him up. ‘You OK?’
‘It’s not me you’ve got to worry about, it’s Jennifer. She’s on a bloody mission.’ He wiped the seat of his trousers. ‘Sorry about your house, by the way.’
‘She been digging into that too?’
‘Off the record? She’s digging into everything: you and Len Murray, you and Andy Inglis, you and some pole-dancer…’
Mrs Elizabeth Dubrowski – Flat 2, 48 Hill Terrace
‘I think it’s that Kevin Flemming. Thirty-four and still living at home, what kind of grown man does that?’ Mrs Dubrowski sniffed, top lip curled as if someone had farted. She’d squeezed herself into white stretch jeans and a white fluffy jumper designed for someone half her age, and size. ‘And his mum’s no better – moaning on the whole time about how her view’s been ruined. As if they built these flats to spite her. Egotistical bitch.’
‘And did you see Kevin Flemming acting suspiciously?’
Mrs Dubrowski leaned in close and enveloped me in a throat-catching reek of perfume. ‘He smokes dope. And he’s got a skateboard. Grown man of thirty-four!’
Dear Jesus…
The stick-thin teenager shrugged, then closed the door.
I slouched down the stairs and out onto the pavement. Dr McDonald trailed along behind me, yawning.
A misty drizzle made the streetlights sparkle.
I stuck my hands in my pockets. The small velvet box from Little Mike’s Pawn Shop was still there. ‘Don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough tosspots for one day.’
‘Urgh…’ Another yawn. ‘Chinese for tea, I mean if that’s OK with you, every time I stay with Aunty Jan we always have Chinese; she’s chicken chow mein mad, but it wouldn’t be Oldcastle without prawn crackers.’
It wasn’t far to the car, but my whole face ached from the cold by the time we’d clambered inside. I turned on the engine and cranked the heater up full. A whistling roar and the smell of burning dust filled the interior.
Dr McDonald’s phone blared out a familiar tune – something goth, or emo – the kind of thing Katie liked. ‘Ooh, no one ever calls me…’ She answered it. ‘Alice speaking… Uh-huh, hello, Detective Chief Superintendent, are you— … Yes… No, I don’t think— … I see.’
I stuck the headlights on and pulled away from the kerb. ‘Seatbelt.’
‘Sorry.’ She did as she was told. ‘No, not you, Detective Chief Superintendent, I was talking to Ash… Yes he is… I… Hold on.’ She held the phone against her chest. ‘It’s Detective Chief Superintendent Dickie.’
As if I hadn’t worked that out already.
‘He says Megan Taylor’s mother and father got a birthday card from the Birthday Boy this morning.’
I stared across the car. ‘She only went missing yesterday. And why’s it taken them so long to tell anyone?’
Dr McDonald grabbed the dashboard with her free hand, eyes wide. ‘Watch the road, watch the road!’ Back to the phone. ‘But she only went missing yesterday… Yes, I do… Very significant, I mean— … OK, yes, fine, we’ll be right over.’
Chapter 31
Megan’s birthday was on Monday, same as Katie’s. She was a little shorter; a little wider; with long blonde hair hauled back from her face; eyes rimmed in red; mouth open in a frozen, silent scream; wearing the same clothes she’d had on in the CCTV footage from the shopping centre. Tied to a chair in a filthy little room with a dirt floor and exposed wooden beams.
I handed the homemade birthday card – secure in its clear plastic envelope – back to Dr McDonald. ‘She isn’t gagged.’
‘He’s tired of the silence, tired of them wriggling and grunting behind the duct tape, he wants to hear Megan scream.’
The bedroom was plastered in posters – horses, boy bands, girl bands, puppies, kittens… There was barely any wallpaper left. A single bed sat beneath the window, a computer desk with a sticker-covered laptop on the other side of the room, some books, some stuffed toys, a nineteen-inch flat-screen TV mounted on the crowded wall above an Xbox, a wardrobe full of designer grunge.
The window looked out over a triangular back garden studded with tiny lights, then a fence, then a hill topped with jagged silhouettes. Moncuir Wood. You could almost believe you were living in the country, instead of a sprawling development of identical yellow-brick houses with identical orange pantile roofs and identical built-in garages too small to take a real car.
Murmured voices came through the floor beneath my feet – DCS Dickie, a Family Liaison officer, and Megan’s parents.
Dr McDonald took out her mobile and snapped a picture of the birthday card, then fiddled with the image a bit. Pressed a button. Thirty seconds later her phone rang. ‘Hello? Henry, how are you? … Yes… I know. Hold on, I’ll put you on loudspeaker…’ She did something with her phone and a tinny version of Henry’s voice crackled into the room.
‘Hello? I hate these things. Are you there? Ash?’
‘Hi, Henry.’
‘Right, the thing we have to consider is why he’s varying his pattern. What makes Megan Taylor different to all the others? Why her?’
Dr McDonald popped the phone on the bedside cabinet, then propped the birthday card up next to it, wrapped an arm around herself and fiddled with her hair. ‘She’s his twelfth victim: this is the penultimate one, he’s been building up to number thirteen all this time, Megan’s his last chance to get it right before it really matters?’
What a lovely thought – Rebecca and all those other girls were just a dress rehearsal. They didn’t mean anything.
Henry cleared his throat. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t be too hung up on numbers.’
I picked a book off the shelf, flicked through the first few pages, but it wasn’t a first edition. ‘If Megan’s number…’ I cleared my throat. ‘If she’s number twelve, who’s number eleven?’
Silence from the other end of the phone.
Henry was going to tell her, I knew it, I never should have trusted him. Should’ve kept it to myself.
A sigh came from the speaker. ‘We won’t know till next year, when the card arrives. It’s halfway through November now; he’s only taken girls twice in December; I think he’s already got one under his belt. Alice is right: he’s experimenting. That’s why she’s not gagged, and that’s why the card arrived today.’
I closed the book. ‘So, he had time to grab her, get back to his place, tie her up, take her photo, print it, make the card, and get it in the post before the last collection. What’s that: six … six-thirty tops?’
‘Perhaps—’
‘She’s on CCTV leaving the shopping centre at quarter past three. Call it fifteen minutes to abduct her, fifteen … twenty minutes to get her home… I mean it’s do-able, but it’d be tight.’
‘He’s been planning this for a while, refining his methods.’ Silence from the other end of the phone. Then, ‘And let’s suppose for a moment that Megan isn’t number twelve.’
Fuck: here we go. ‘Henry, you—’
‘We’re assuming that he didn’t take a victim five years ago, but what if he did? What if the parents haven’t come forward with the birthday card?’
Dr McDonald frowned. ‘So he wasn’t in prison that year, or abroad somewhere…’ She twiddled her hair. ‘Why wouldn’t the parents come forward?’
I licked my lips. ‘Maybe—’
‘Perhaps they died, or left the country, or … perhaps they think they’ve got good reasons for not getting the police involved. Whatever the reason, we can’t discount the possibility that Megan Taylor is his thirteenth victim: thirteen girls, killed on their thirteenth birthday. Megan’s not an experiment, she’s his masterpiece. He needs this to be perfect, because it justifies everything he’s done.’
Thank you, Henry.
It was like a valve being opened in my chest – I could breathe again. ‘You think he’s going to stop?’
Dr McDonald sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Or perhaps this is a transformative moment for him, I mean now he’s reached his target he’s realized he doesn’t have to stop, he can keep on going, getting better and better at what he does, that’s why he’s experimenting…’
‘No, it’s too significant – he’s been building towards his grand finale. When he kills Megan Taylor it’s going to be cathartic.’
She shook her head. ‘The pattern’s changed: there’s no gag, the card arrived today instead of next year, it’s more … immediate.’
I put the book back on the shelf. ‘I need to know if he’s going to stop. Is this it? Does the bastard just disappear back into the woodwork?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
‘He’s been building to—’
‘Henry, you don’t walk away from something like this, it’s an acquired taste and you’ve got it, you’re good at it, and they’re never going to catch you, it’s time for ambition and vision, time to feed on what you create…’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘Why would he give all that up?’
‘Henry?’
Silence from the phone. Then the metallic crackle of the top being screwed off a fresh bottle of whisky. ‘It’s about power… It’s always about power.’ Glugging. ‘If you’re right, he’ll be monitoring the media: getting off on the reports, the press conferences, the public displays of grief. “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair.”’
Dr McDonald stared down at her red Converse Hi-tops. ‘He’ll want to experience it in person … what if we help him, I mean, we could put on a candlelit vigil, or something?’
‘Yes: Ash, you need to set up one of those over-the-top affairs where everyone leaves teddy bears and flowers and football scarves. Somewhere big and impressive. Lots of public sackcloth and ashes. Get some cameras on the crowds, our boy won’t be able to resist.’
She nodded. ‘He’ll stand in the middle and feed off the grief, knowing it was all him, he did it, he has the power of life and death…’
I picked the birthday card off the work surface. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘We’ve got this big party organized: bright pink stretched Humvee limo, DJ, jelly and ice cream, smoked salmon and sushi – the works.’ Bruce Taylor fiddled with his tie – a black one, funereal, it went with his pallid face and bloodshot eyes. ‘Is… Are you sure this is all right, I don’t look threatening in a tie? Maybe I shouldn’t wear a tie…?’
His wife perched on the edge of a large red sofa, still as a shallow grave. As if someone had replaced her with a waxwork dummy, eyes fixed on the middle distance, a little crease between her neatly plucked eyebrows. Mouth pinched.
‘Andrea, do you think I should change?’
She didn’t even look at him.
He fiddled with his tie some more. ‘Maybe I should change…’
Dr McDonald placed a hand on his arm. ‘Wear whatever makes you comfortable. With all the cameras, and the flashguns going off, and everyone shouting questions, you don’t want to be worrying about your tie. If you don’t like the tie: screw the tie.’
A little smile twitched across his face. Then disappeared again. ‘She’s still alive.’
Dickie nodded. ‘She’s still alive. We’ll put out Megan’s picture, appeal for witnesses, ask him to let her go…’ The DCS glanced at me. Cleared his throat. ‘And we’ll let people know about the candlelit vigil tomorrow.’
DCS Dickie sucked on his cigarette, cheeks hollow, the tip glowing hot orange in the dark garden. ‘You’re sure?’
Dr McDonald shook her head. ‘We can’t be, I mean we don’t know enough about him to be one hundred percent, but I’m pretty certain he’ll want to turn up and join in all the mourning.’
‘And that helps us catch him how?’
I cupped my aching hands around the warm mug, steam curling up into my face. ‘We film everyone who turns up. We show the footage to the victims’ parents and if they recognize someone we get a warrant and drag them in for questioning.’
‘Hmmph.’ Dickie tapped his cigarette, sending a nub of grey flakes spiralling away into the darkness. ‘Someone like Steven Wallace?’
Ah… I took a sip of tea. ‘Sabir’s got a big mouth.’
‘Didn’t think you were that kind of man, Ash. Running around behind my back: thought you were better than that.’
Dr McDonald licked her lips. ‘Actually, it was my idea – I wanted him to keep it low-key, I mean we don’t want to spook Wallace if he’s a potential suspect…’
As if I needed protecting from the big scary Detective Chief Superintendent. I put on my best and-what-the-fuck-are-you-going-to-do-about-it voice: ‘It wasn’t her, it was me.’
The cigarette hissed as Dickie dragged in another lungful of smoke, staring straight ahead. ‘What’s this, “I’m Spartacus!” time? I don’t give a monkey’s arsehole who did it, you run this stuff by me first. Both of you.’
‘Sabir say if he found anything when he ratted me out?’
‘My team’s going through Megan’s friends. Sabir’s doing the CCTV walk-through at the shopping centre. Ask him yourself.’
The cameras started flashing as soon as I stepped out of the Taylors’ front door. Since we’d gone inside, someone had thrown up a cordon of police tape, keeping the press and gawkers on the pavement and out of the front garden and driveway.
The uniformed constable guarding the front door flared his nostrils. ‘Bastards got here ten minutes ago, Guv. Swear they must be bloody psychic.’
One outside broadcast van, nearly a dozen photographers, a handful of print journalists… Shite: Jennifer was standing in the middle of the pack, bundled up in her camel-hair coat, auburn curls hidden under a fur hat, speaking into a Dictaphone. Her ratty little photographer shuffled about beside her. He saw me staring at him and lowered his camera. Looked away. Not wanting another smack.
A patrol car pulled up – half on the pavement, blocking the Taylors’ driveway.
The door opened and Shifty Dave climbed out, camera flashes glinting off his bald head. Looked me up and down. ‘What you doing here? Thought your shift finished ages ago.’
I nodded towards Dr McDonald. ‘Responsible adult.’ She ducked behind me, peering around my shoulder at Shifty Dave and his cheap suit.
He sniffed. ‘Dickie still here?’
Flash. Flash. Flash.
‘Inside…’
Jennifer squeezed her way through the collected bastards of the press, making for the edge of the driveway. Bet she thought she could buttonhole me, force the issue, wind me up and get me to say
something stupid she could smear across the News and Post tomorrow. And she was probably right.
‘Dave, do me a favour?’
He pulled his neck in, making extra chins. ‘Still not got the smell out my car boot from last time.’
‘Jennifer and her monkey, I don’t want to speak to them.’
‘Aye, life’s tough.’
‘I might let something slip. Like, ooh, say: personal details about some of my esteemed colleagues’ love lives?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You bloody promised me!’
‘Then don’t be a dick.’
‘You’re the dick…’ He chewed on something for a moment, then sighed. ‘OK. But it’s your own stupid fault for screwing her in the first place.’ Shifty Dave turned, marched back down the drive and stopped right in front of Jennifer. He was easily big enough to block her view.
I grabbed Dr McDonald’s hand and dragged her to the side of the lock-block, helped her clamber over the knee-high box hedge and into the next-door neighbour’s garden while Shifty did his thing.
His voice boomed out into the cold night. ‘Well, well, well, if it’s no’ Jennifer Prentice, how they dangling?’
‘I want to speak to DC Henderson.’
‘Do you, now? Bit late to fuck up his marriage: that boat’s already sunk. Mind you, if you fancy giving mine a wee wrecking, I wouldn’t say no. Your place or mine?’
I snuck across the neighbour’s lawn, then down to the kerb, Dr McDonald sticking close behind me.
Shifty Dave’s voice took on a sing-song quality. ‘And aye, aye: who’s this? If it’s no’ Wee Hairy Frank McKenzie. Two counts drink driving, and six months for phone hacking. Surprised any paper’ll touch you since you got kicked off the News of the World. Relegated to camera boy now, are we?’
‘I’m just doing my job…’
Two more steps and we were on the road, through the parked cars, and into the rusty Renault. She started first time. Looked as if my luck was finally on the up for a change.
Chapter 32
‘Shoppers are advised that the centre will be closing in ten minutes. Please complete your purchases, have a great evening, and come back soon.’
Birthdays for the Dead Page 25