Rhona gave a lopsided shrug. ‘A monkey could do better.’
‘Oh, ha, ha. It’s cold, I’ve been on since seven this morning, and I’m not in the bloody mood.’
I held up a hand. ‘All right, that’s enough. No fighting.’
They scowled at each other.
God help us. ‘Sheila: do me a favour and make sure a car cruises by every hour or so, OK?’
‘Yes, Guv.’
I left her to pack up, and followed Rhona back around to the front of the house, torchlight picking a path through the darkness.
More sniffing. ‘You don’t think it’s a junkie, do you?’
‘Depends where Sensational Steve Wallace was tonight.’
The front door opened as we got there. Dr McDonald stood on the threshold, one arm wrapped around herself, pressing Wilberforce the stuffed puffin to her chest, the other hand fiddling with her hair. ‘Is he gone?’
Rhona took out her notebook. ‘You see someone?’
A nod, sending brown curls bouncing. ‘It was dark: I didn’t see his face, but he was wearing a thick coat and a woolly hat, and what if he comes back?’
‘Patrol car’ll swing past through the night. Now, if there’s nothing—’
‘Ash, will you stay, please, I mean there’s plenty of spare rooms and I really don’t want to be stuck here on my own if he comes back, Aunty Jan’s got the dogs with her and what if it wasn’t a burglar, what if it was … someone after me?’
Rhona squared her shoulders. ‘Think you’re really special, don’t you?’
‘I‘m only—’
‘You think the Birthday Boy’s after you, ’cos…’ Rhona put on a big theatrical voice. ‘You’re the only one who can stop him!’ A snort. ‘Seriously?’
‘It’s not—’
‘That kinda thing only happens in the movies, Princess. Serial killers don’t stalk the investigating team, they stay the hell away from the police.’
Dr McDonald took a step back. ‘Oh…’ Bit her bottom lip. Looked away.
‘All right, Rhona, that’s enough. Not her fault she’s scared.’
‘Oh, come on, for all we know she’s making it all up to get attention. Could’ve scratched the back door herself, and the description’s not exactly—’
‘I said that’s enough.’
Dr McDonald gave the puffin a squeeze. ‘Please, Ash?’
‘Come on, Guv, I’m just saying: it wasn’t the Birthday—’
‘Please?’
I lay flat on the bed, in the dark, in an unfamiliar room, watching a sliver of light sweep across the ceiling – headlights on a car outside, going by.
All this time with nothing and then Steven Wallace comes along. Let it be him. Let the bastard be the one.
I ran my fingers over the surface of the small velvet box Little Mike gave me. Rough in one direction, smooth in the other, a sunken line where the lid and the base fitted together.
Let Steven Wallace be the fucker that killed Rebecca.
Four years of looking, and lying, and waiting. Four years of everything broken. Four years praying for a chance to catch the bastard: to be there when he confessed, to watch him go down for the rest of his miserable life. To tell Rebecca that I got him…
A knock on the door.
‘Ash?’
I stuck the box under my pillow. ‘Hello?’
The door opened. A silhouette in flannel jammies stood in the hall outside, head shrouded in curls. ‘I wanted…’ She cleared her throat. ‘Thank you for staying.’
‘Try and get some sleep, OK?’
‘You’re a great dad.’ She closed the door, leaving me alone in the darkness again.
I wrapped my hand around his throat and squeezed.
Saturday 19th November
Chapter 34
The smell of sizzling bacon drifted through the house as I pulled my socks from the pile of clothes on the floor. Sniffed them. Good enough for another day. Have to pop past Rhona’s at some point and pick up clean clothes, though. Goosepimples rippled across my bare skin, still damp from the shower.
One sock on, and my phone rang: ‘MICHELLE.’
I closed my eyes, took a breath. Perfect way to start the day. I answered it anyway; tried to sound cheery. ‘Is she giving you any more—’
‘What the buggering fuck do you think you’re playing at? Raising your daughter on my own is tough enough without you undermining me every two minutes!’
I sank onto the edge of the bed and dragged out the other sock. ‘Good morning, Ash, how are you today.’
‘Don’t you bloody start with me, Ash Henderson: you know fine well Katie’s grounded. Honestly, how am I supposed to maintain any kind of discipline when you pull shit like this?’
Dr McDonald’s voice came from somewhere downstairs. ‘ASH? BREAKFAST’S NEARLY READY. DO YOU WANT TEA?’
‘I’m hanging up, Michelle.’ Pulled on the other sock.
‘That’s your bloody answer to everything, isn’t it? Run away. You can’t take Katie and not tell me!’
‘Take…? I didn’t take anyone anywhere. What the hell are you—’
‘—irresponsible arsehole. Why did I think you could change?’
‘Katie isn’t with you?’ Something curdled deep inside my stomach.
‘I don’t know why I even bother, you—’
‘Michelle! Will you shut up for two seconds. Where’s Katie?’
A pause. ‘She’s staying at your house.’
‘No she isn’t.’
‘Her note says she’s—’
‘My place is all boarded up: flooded, I’ve not been back since yesterday morning. How could you let her out of your sight?’
‘Ash?’ Something went thump on the other end of the phone. ‘Oh God, what if she’s run away? What if she’s run away like Rebecca? What if we never see our baby ever again?’
No. Not this. Not again. I swallowed. ‘You said she left a note.’
‘Oh God, Ash, what if she’s gone?’
‘The note, Michelle – what does it say?’
‘I shouted at her when I got home. What was I supposed to do, she got expelled!’
‘She’s… She’s probably just sulking: punishing us for not taking her side against the school. Katie’ll be at one of her friends’ houses.’ Please, please let her be at one of her friends’ houses. ‘Now read me the bloody note!’
‘I shouted at her…’
‘Michelle, will you calm—’
A knock. Then the door swung open, and there was Dr McDonald, standing in the hall: a blue pinny tied over her usual stripy top and jeans. Holding a cup of tea. ‘Thought you might…’ Pink rushed up her cheeks and her eyes widened. Staring at me.
Wearing nothing but a pair of socks, the phone clamped to my ear.
‘Oh.’ She spun around, facing back the way she’d come. ‘Sorry… I… Breakfast is on the table…’
I dragged my trousers on. ‘Answer the bloody phone!’
The other end rang, and rang, then: ‘Oldcastle four nine six, zero three two seven?’ A man’s voice, rough with cigarettes.
‘Is Katie there? Katie Henderson?’
The voice became sharper. ‘Who is this?’
‘Her dad. I need to speak to her, now.’ Who the hell did she think she was kidding? Pulling the same trick twice in one week, as if we were idiots.
‘You’re her dad, are you? Well done: what a sterling job you did. Last time she was here she had fifty quid out my wallet – lucky I didn’t call the police!’ It wasn’t the same Tennent’s Lager Tory I spoke to on Wednesday.
‘Where’s Ashley’s father?’
‘And another thing – if she doesn’t stay away from my daughter, I’ll—’
‘Where is he?’
‘Right here. I’m Ashley’s dad, and she’s doing a lot better at school now your sodding Katie’s not dragging her down.’
I stared at my mobil
e. ‘But … she was there Wednesday night.’
‘She’s not been near our Ashley for three months. And it’s staying that way, or so help me…’
He slammed the phone down.
Three months.
I hauled my shirt on. Dialled Katie’s mobile again. Come on. Come on…
Voicemail. Same as the last three times I’d tried. ‘Katie, it’s your dad – where the hell are you? Your mother’s worried sick!’
Struggled into my shoes, grabbed my jacket and hurried down the stairs.
Dr McDonald was waiting at the bottom, still wearing her pinny. ‘Is everything OK, only I made you an omelette, you like omelettes don’t you, it’s got ham and mushrooms in it and some cheese, and there’s bacon and orange juice and croissants…’
I kept walking, buttoning up my shirt on the way to the door. ‘I have to go.’
‘You don’t like omelettes: I knew I should’ve made pancakes, I can make pancakes, it’ll only take a minute? Ash?’
Outside, it was still dark – the sky a heavy lid of slate and dirty-orange, hanging over the city, streetlights like flickering candles buffeted in the driving rain.
Dr McDonald followed me out into the downpour, stopped beside the rusty Renault as I fought with my keys. Wringing her hands. ‘What did I do wrong?’
I yanked the car door open. ‘Katie’s missing.’
She stood there, staring at me, the rain battering the curls around her head. ‘Oh God, that’s terrible…’ She tore off her apron and chucked it over her shoulder, then sprinted back to the house. Slammed the door.
By the time I’d got the engine started she was clambering into the passenger seat. ‘You drive, I’ll call the police.’
The city flashed by the car windows: the dirty sandstone tenements of Castle Hill giving way to rows of Sixties concrete boxes. Silver and gold shimmered back from tinted glass as the sun peered through the gap between the surrounding hills and the bruised sky. Rain bounced off the bonnet, the windscreen wipers going full tilt.
‘…yes… No, you’ll have to speak up… No, no I don’t…’ Dr McDonald clutched the phone to her chest. ‘Where are we?’
‘Tell the useless bastard to get a patrol car over there now!’
Back on the phone. ‘I don’t know, coming up to a big bridge over the river… Yes. Ash says… Oh, you heard that. Right… And?’
The Renault’s back end shimmied as I hurled her around the corner and onto Epsom Road, right in front of a bus. An outraged squeal of brakes and horn. Then up onto Calderwell Bridge.
Blackwall Hill loomed before us, still wrapped in shadow.
‘He says they’re sending Bravo Three, should be there in five minutes, do you want them to start broadcasting?’
‘Yes, of course I bloody do: all the surrounding streets. I want every patrol car he’s got out looking for her.’
A pause. ‘Uh-huh… Uh-huh… He says they’re doing everything they can.’
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, overtaking a boxy little Berlingo van with ‘DREADNAUGHT BAKERY’ down the side.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck…’ A line of traffic cones cut the lane in half, sickly yellow lights flashing on top. Why couldn’t the bloody council fix the potholes at night when no one needed to use the sodding roads?
Left at the roundabout, skirting Montgomery Park – sunlight flaring on the boating lake and river beyond, then right, under the railway line and up into Blackwall Hill, the speedo hitting fifty.
Dr McDonald pointed through the windscreen. ‘There.’
A patrol car raced across the road in front of us, two junctions down, lights flashing, siren blaring.
It was sitting outside the house as I pulled into Rowan Drive, a pair of uniformed constables clambering out into the rain. I squealed the Renault to a halt and followed them up the path.
Michelle had the door open already, holding onto the frame, eyes darting up and down the street. ‘Did you find her?’ Her blonde hair was plastered flat to her head, cheeks hollow, eyes red. Fingernails chewed to ragged stumps.
One of the Uniforms took out his notebook, the rain pattering on the brim of his peaked cap. ‘If we can start by taking a few details, it— Hey!’
I shoved past. ‘Have you tried all her friends?’
Michelle blinked, then backed into the house. I followed, Tweedledum and Tweedledee bringing up the rear.
‘Have you called Katie’s friends?’
A nod. ‘Soon as I spoke to you… Oh God, Ash… Not again. I can’t take it again!’
Tweedledum took off his hat. ‘Do you have a recent picture? Any idea what she’s wearing?’
The front door clunked shut, and there was Dr McDonald. She gave me a little wave, her mouth pinched in a tight line.
I put a hand on Michelle’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be OK. It’ll be fine. We’ll find her.’
‘I don’t… It was night. I was asleep.’
Tweedledee tried a big Cheshire smile. ‘Not to worry, teenagers run off all the time. They’re usually back soon as they’re hungry…’ He licked his lips, staring at my bunched fists. Then up at his partner who was making throat-slitting gestures. ‘Ah, right… Sorry, Guv, we only… It’s what we’re supposed to say… I didn’t mean…’
Michelle stood at the kitchen sink, staring out into the back garden, shoulders slumped, a cup of tea going cold on the work surface next to her. ‘How can we be such horrible parents that both our girls run away?’
‘We’re not horrible parents.’
‘How can we not be? Rebecca walked out on us, and now Katie… What did we do wrong?’
‘Michelle, we’re going to find Katie. It’s going to be OK.’ My stomach lurched, acid burning at the base of my throat. Please let it be OK. Don’t let it be like last time.
The sound of a loudhailer blared outside – Tweedledum and Tweedledee driving slowly around the area broadcasting Katie’s name and description.
I scrubbed a hand across my face. Think. ‘And she didn’t say anything?’
‘Lots of things. None of them nice.’ Michelle’s shoulders drooped a little further. As if someone had chained another weight to her arms. ‘She used to be such a sweet girl… Bloody Rebecca! This is all her fault – she poisoned everything when she abandoned us.’ The mug crashed into the sink, sending shards of china clattering back in a spray of murky brown liquid. ‘Selfish little bitch…’
Tea dripped down the kitchen window.
I closed my eyes. Dug my hands into my pockets.
Tell her. Just come clean and tell her everything.
It wasn’t Rebecca’s fault.
My fingers traced the edges of the small velvet box. I pulled it out, opened it.
The diamond ring inside sparkled, even after all this time.
A noise behind me. Dr McDonald – her reflection distorted in the dark glass door of the microwave. She stood there for a couple of beats, then cleared her throat. ‘Is it all right if I take a look in Katie’s room, see if I can find some clue where she might have gone?’
I nodded.
A pause. Then Dr McDonald patted me on the shoulder, and backed out of the room. Her feet creaked the stairs up to the landing. The muffled clunk of a door closing.
Silence.
I brushed a bit of fluff from the box’s silk lining. ‘Do you remember the morning we got engaged?’
‘What if she doesn’t come back?’
‘You’d been throwing up in the toilets at that Wetherspoons on Beech Street, so we went to Boots and got that pregnancy test…’
‘What if she disappears like Rebecca and we never see her again?’
‘We were happy, weren’t we?’ I stood, went over to the sink. ‘It all went to shit, but we were happy.’
A smear of red was mixed in amongst the shards of broken mug. Blood dripped from the end of Michelle’s middle finger. ‘I don’t think I can go through all this again.’
&nb
sp; I put the open box on the work surface.
She stared down at it for a bit. Then picked the ring out of the box. ‘My engagement ring! Granny gave me this – it was her mum’s. I thought I’d lost it…’
‘Found it when I was clearing my stuff out of Kingsmeath. In one of the boxes. Thought you’d want it back.’
After all, what was one more lie?
Dr McDonald flinched when I knocked on Katie’s bedroom door. She shut the book in her hands and placed it on the bed beside her. Stood. ‘Sorry, I always feel guilty reading someone else’s diary…’
The room was a tip, same as always: the carpet barely visible between the discarded socks and pants and jeans and T-shirts and hooded tops. A stack of Kerrang! magazines teetered by the bed, a couple of books poking out from underneath the dirty washing. Posters on the wall of emo, goth and death-metal bands, a Disney’s Little Mermaid given the Tim Burton treatment with biro scars, sunken eyes, and gaping ribcage.
A couple of drawers on the bedside cabinet were pulled out. Stripy socks and pants with little skull-and-crossbones on them. A single training bra.
I stayed where I was. ‘She left her diary.’
‘Well, it means she’s not really planning on being gone long, I mean she wouldn’t leave that behind if she was going to run away really, and it doesn’t look like she’s taken much in the way of underwear, and there’s a toilet bag still in the wardrobe, I’m sure she’ll be back soon… Ash?’
Oh God.
Not again.
I picked my way through the debris and sank down on the edge of the bed. Stared at Disney’s Little Zombie. ‘What about the note?’
‘A bit confused, like she’s making it up as she goes along, spontaneous rather than something she’s planned and worked on, she’s sorry for being such a disappointment, it’s not her fault, ever since her sister disappeared it’s all gone wrong for her, and nobody understands, and she hates everyone, but she loves them too, and why won’t anyone listen to her side of things any more?’
Maybe Dr McDonald was right.
Rebecca never left a note…
Maybe Katie hadn’t really run away; she hadn’t been snatched; she wasn’t tied to a chair, in a basement, waiting to die. She was off sulking somewhere trying to prove a point. She’d be back any minute.
Birthdays for the Dead Page 27