‘All finished.’
He smiled. ‘All finished.’
‘Your ear looks sore.’
It looked like a chunk of chewed bacon.
I grabbed the tipped-over shelving unit and used it to pull myself up, until I was sitting with my back against the sink in the corner. Panting, sweating, every move fanning the flames. My foot throbbed and burned, my back crackled, my head filled with boiling smoke.
The Rat Catcher pointed at me. ‘He knows.’
McKenzie nodded. ‘Everyone knows, now.’
‘We should kill him. Kill him and put him in the incinerator.’
‘Fuck… Fuck the pair of you.’ I reached into my jacket… But the gun wasn’t there.
McKenzie held it up. Shook his head. ‘No.’
‘We kill him and we put him in the incinerator.’ She stood, towering over both of us.
‘Lisa, we can’t. I can’t.’ He stared at the gun in his hands. ‘We need to go away, before more people come.’
‘We can’t go away till we see to Andrea.’
‘They’ve got her. They came to the house. They’ve taken her away.’ He looked at me. ‘Haven’t you?’
I wiped the sweat out of my eyes. ‘It’s over.’
‘It’s not over.’ The Rat Catcher curled her dirty hands into fists. ‘We get her back. We get her back and we make the bitch pay for what she did to us! The blood, the screaming, the photographs. We get her back.’
‘There’s a firearms team on its way down here right now. You’re not going anywhere.’
‘We get her back and we tear her apart, just like all the others.’ She stepped forwards. ‘We kill him and we put him in the incinerator.’
I grabbed a bottle of bleach from the debris on the floor. Fumbled at the lid with my aching fingers. What stupid bastard invented child-proof caps? Come on…
She grabbed me by the throat and dragged me to my feet.
Ulk— Her hand was a noose around my neck, tightening, cutting off the air, making the blood thump in my ears. I scrabbled my hands at her creased face, pulled at her fingers. They wouldn’t budge.
The bleach bottle thunked to the floor.
A door creaked.
‘We kill him and we put him in the incinerator.’ Her breath reeked of Parma Violets.
I blinked – staring over her shoulder.
Alice stood in the middle of the room, clutching that section of pipe as if she was up to bat. ‘HEY, UGLY!’
The Rat Catcher turned, eyes narrow and dark. She opened her mouth and screamed through brown teeth, spit flying in the dim light. ‘Kill them all!’
The pipe ripped through the air, battered into the side of her head. Hair and scraps of skin flew out in a spray of blood.
Her hands went slack around my throat, then she lurched sideways a couple of steps, then crashed to the floor like a fallen tree. Twitched a few times, then lay still, stretched full length, her eyes open, blood trickling out of her nose and mouth.
Alice dropped the pipe. It rang and clanged against the concrete, echoing through the little room. ‘Is she…? I didn’t mean to… It… I didn’t have any choice…’
I limped across the cluttered floor to Frank McKenzie. Held out my hand. ‘Give me the gun.’
He didn’t even look at me. ‘It’s not Lisa’s fault. It was Andrea… It was always Andrea.’
‘Give – me – the gun.’
He held it up and stared into the barrel. Then pressed it against his temple. Closed his eyes. Hissed a breath out between his teeth, sending a shower of spittle down the front of his bloodstained shirt. Trembling. Crying.
I reached down and took the gun out of his hand.
Chapter 49
Frank McKenzie cradled his sister’s battered head in his lap, stroking her blood-soaked hair. ‘Shh… It’s all OK, it’ll all be OK.’
I slumped back against the sink. The gun felt like an anvil in my hand, pulling my arm out of its socket.
Alice shifted from foot to foot, both arms wrapped around herself. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…’
The gun weighed less in my pocket, but not much. ‘You didn’t take Katie?’
He shook his head. ‘We only ever took Andrea. All the girls were Andrea.’ A sniff, then he wiped a hand across his eyes, leaving a smear of dark red. ‘She left us. She ran away and left Lisa and me alone with him. I was five…’
‘Ash, I didn’t mean to kill her, I just wanted her to let you go.’
‘I know.’ I held my arms open and Alice shuffled forwards into them, rested her head against my shoulder and cried.
‘She was our big sister, she was supposed to protect us.’ He leaned forwards and kissed the Rat Catcher’s forehead. ‘He hit Lisa so hard… She was never the same; something came loose inside her head. She just wanted someone to love her.’
‘You killed my daughter. Her name was Rebecca. She was only twelve.’
A nod. ‘Thirteen years ago Andrea turns up in Oldcastle again. She’s pregnant. She’s got herself a husband and a new house in Shortstaine; only she’s not Andrea McKenzie any more, she’s Andrea Taylor. And Andrea Taylor’s seen Father’s obituary in the paper…’ McKenzie laughed. ‘All those years and she comes back to tell us Mother has to go in a home: we have to sell the house so she can get her share. Said the old bastard owed her for everything he did. Owed her? What about us?’
Alice gave a long shuddering breath then stepped back, scrubbed a sleeve across her face. Brought her chin up. ‘So you decided to get your own back – make her suffer for abandoning you, make her life as bad as yours. You started abducting her…’ Alice fiddled with her hair. ‘Amber O’Neil looked like her, didn’t she? Enough to make it feel right: you turned her into Andrea and punished her for abandoning you. And it felt so good you went out and did it again, only Hannah Kelly didn’t have Andrea’s hair, so you dyed it for her. Made her fit the mould. Then you did it again, and again, turning them into Andrea so you could shave their heads and burn them and carve lines into their skin, so you could torture and mutilate and—’
‘I didn’t.’ He kept his eyes on the floor. ‘I just … took the photographs. Lisa did everything. She … you saw what she’s like: she made me.’
‘And then you used the birthday cards to punish the parents. You made them wait and worry for a whole year – what did they do wrong, why did their little girl run away – and then you rubbed their noses in it: look what happened to your daughter! You turned the girls into Andrea as she was back then, when she abandoned you. Then you turned their parents into Andrea as she is now, torturing her with the birthday cards. Two for one. Practising. Building up the fantasy. Waiting until Megan was old enough to do it all for real.’
I stared at him: sitting on the floor, holding onto his dead sister. ‘Is that it, McKenzie? Is that all Rebecca was to you, a dress rehearsal?’
He shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like that, it…’ A little shrug. ‘I don’t know.’
Alice turned her back on him. ‘Henry was right: it was all about Megan Taylor. Thirteen girls killed on their thirteenth birthday.’ She nudged a fallen bottle of bleach with her toe. ‘Oh, I’m not saying they would’ve just given up – the thrill of torturing Megan and Andrea would have worn off eventually and they’d just keep on going, more girls, year after year.’
I let my head thunk back against the wall. ‘They didn’t take Katie.’
‘No.’
But I saw the card: Katie tied to a chair in the Birthday Boy’s room…
I ground the heel of my hand into my eyes. ‘Then where is she?’
‘Excellent work, Ash, excellent.’ DCI Weber rubbed his hands together. Then frowned. ‘Well, perhaps not the dead body – they’ll make us have an enquiry about that – but everything else…’ He clapped a hand down on my shoulder. ‘Are you all right? You look a bit peaky.’
The mortuary doors banged open and Alf backed into the room, ponytail swinging from side
to side as he pulled a hospital gurney after him. Lisa McKenzie lay on the shiny metal surface, glassy eyes staring blindly. He wheeled her over to one of the cutting tables. ‘You know, that has to be the shortest trip to the mortuary in existence.’
Weber checked his watch. ‘Right – press conference in half an hour, and as ACC Drummond is playing hard to get, I’m up with DCS Dickie and the Chief Constable. He wants you there to take the credit.’
I gritted my teeth, leaned on my walking stick and limped out the door. ‘Fuck him.’
Weber hurried after me. ‘Look, about Frank McKenzie’s ear—’
‘He fell down the stairs.’
‘Right, stairs, yes. Only he claims you threatened him with a gun, then shot him.’
‘He’s a psycho, ask Dr McDonald.’
The corridor was cordoned off with ‘POLICE’ tape – a group of SOC-suited figures clustered on the other side, in the gloom, waiting for the OK to get started.
Weber stopped at the mortuary door. ‘So I should tell the SEB they won’t find any gunshot residue on him or the walls or a bullet or anything?’
‘Tell them what you like.’
Alice was waiting for me at the main doors. She stared at the toes of her little red shoes. ‘Did they say anything about…’
‘They’ll have an enquiry, but you’re in the clear – you hadn’t hit her with that pipe I’d be dead by now. Probably give you a medal or something.’
She smiled, then hooked an arm through mine, doing a little hop-jump to get in step as I hobbled out into the drizzly evening. ‘Do you want me to pinch a wheelchair, I mean you’re all sweaty and it’s a big walk back to the car?’
‘Taxi.’ I pointed at the rank on the other side of the entrance.
‘This is good news, you know – that they didn’t take Katie. The obsession with killing the victims on their thirteenth birthday thing is specific to their psychosexual behaviour, whoever took Katie doesn’t have that, the fact that they aped the Birthday Boy’s modus operandi suggests they’re more interested in you than her.’
I limped across to the rank. ‘So it’s my fault.’
‘We need to work through everyone who’s got reason to hate you, does anyone have reason to…’ She coughed. ‘Yes, well, let’s make a list.’
‘I don’t need a list. I know who it is.’
Drummond’s BMW purred into the Westing’s car park. Monday wasn’t a race night, but the whole place was lit up. Alice parked by the entrance. Hauled on the handbrake. ‘Right.’
‘You’re … you’re staying … here.’ Bloody seatbelt wouldn’t unfasten, the plastic was all slippery under my fingers. Sweat trickled down my back. My right foot burned.
‘Ash, look at yourself, you can barely move.’
I blinked at her. ‘I’m fine…’
‘No, no you’re not.’ She bit her bottom lip, then reached into her leather satchel and pulled out Eugene’s pencil case. ‘Still got one wrapper left.’
Silence.
I reached for the junkie starter kit, it shook so much the zip wouldn’t work. ‘I can’t.’
Alice nodded. Took the case back, opened it up, and laid the contents out across the dashboard. Then unfolded the instructions. ‘OK…’ Deep breath. ‘If ten-year-old Neds can work it out, so can I.’
Warmth oozed through me, squeezing the pain away until there was nothing left but a vague tingle. I breathed out. Then in. Someone was singing deep inside my head.
‘Ash?’ A gentle slap on my cheek. ‘Ash, I’ve only given you a third, OK? That should be enough for an analgesic… Ash?’
I scrubbed a hand across my numb face. Rubbed some life back into my brain. ‘Right.’ The walking stick was rough beneath my fingers, the surface all scratched and dented from battering the pictures off ACC Drummond’s walls. ‘If I’m not back in—’
‘No chance.’ She clambered out into the rain, looked back at me. ‘Do you really think I’ve done all this just to sit out here in the car like a good little girl? I want to be there when you get Katie back.’
Fair enough.
It wasn’t bucketing down, but it was steady enough: droplets bouncing off the neon sign like tiny fireworks. I went around to the boot and slammed my palm on the lid. ‘Still there, Drummond?’
Some scuffing noises.
Must’ve hurt when Alice took all those speed bumps at full tilt. Good.
I limped for the entrance tunnel, Alice walking slowly beside me. ‘Should we not have handed Drummond over to Detective Chief Inspector Weber?’
‘No.’
Arabella was still in her little cage, still reading about vampires perving on teenage girls. She didn’t look up. ‘We’re closed.’
I slipped a twenty through the little slot at the bottom.
‘Still closed.’
Another twenty.
She reached over and pressed the button.
The walking stick’s thunk, thunk, thunk echoed down the tunnel. There was light at the end of it – coming from the massive spots mounted on the stadium roof, making the racetrack glow. I kept going.
Andy Inglis’s Range Rover sat in the middle of the grass, the sides smeared with mud. He stood beside it, dressed up like a country squire in tweeds and a flat cap, an elderly black Labrador at his feet. Two men trotted a pair of muscular greyhounds up and down in front of the car.
‘Put the bitch up first…’ Mr Inglis turned, saw me, and threw his arms out. Beaming. ‘Ash, you old bastardo! I hear you caught the Birthday Boy: that deserves a drink. Got a couple bottles of Veuve Clicquot in the office, eh?’
‘Where’s Mrs Kerrigan?’
‘She sort you out with the key for your new flat yet?’
One of the guys walked over to the starting gates, the greyhound loping along beside him.
Inglis pointed. ‘See that? That’s a twenty-second dog or I’m a scabby arse. She’ll—’
‘For God’s sake, Andy: is Mrs Kerrigan here or not?’
He threw back his head and roared out a laugh. ‘Caramba, you’re obsessed, aren’t you. Fine: she’s in the office. Tell her to crack open the bubbly.’
I limped up the stairs, ignoring my phone ringing in my pocket.
Alice looked back at the racing track. ‘Ash, we do have a plan, don’t we, I mean a better plan than we had at ACC Drummond’s house, we’re not going to march in and—’
‘Same plan.’ I pulled out the gun, checked the magazine. More than enough bullets to kneecap the bitch.
My phone went silent, then blared out its old-fashioned ring again.
‘There’s three people down there who’ve seen us go up to the office, if you shoot her someone’s going to notice and—’
‘She’s got Katie.’
Whoever was trying to call hung up. Then Alice’s phone started ringing instead. She pulled it out. ‘Dr McDonald? No… Is it? … Yes, we did, he was a photographer with the local paper…’ She put a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Sabir.’
The Westing’s main office had a panoramic window overlooking the track. The lights were on… And there was Mrs Kerrigan, standing in the middle of the room with her back to the door, a phone clamped to her ear.
I hobbled up the last flight of stairs, shirt sticking to my back.
Alice slowed, hanging back. ‘Did he? All thirteen of them? That’s great… No: a confession’s perfect… Uh-huh…’
The office door swung open on creaky hinges.
Mrs Kerrigan didn’t turn around. She leaned over a desk and shuffled through some sheets of paper. ‘Yez’ve got to be kiddin’. I’m lookin’ at the figures now, and there’s no way… Naw, this whole thing’s a ball of shite.’
Two hobbling steps and I was right behind her.
‘No: you listen to me, you little bollox, if I don’t see three grand by Friday, your—’
I cracked the gun off the back of her skull. She dropped the phone and grabbed the desk, knee
s buckling. So I hit her again.
Mrs Kerrigan crumpled to the carpet, both hands on her head, blinking hard, teeth bared. ‘Aya feckin’ bastard…’
I pointed the gun at her stomach. ‘You said next time I should pull the trigger.’
Alice grabbed my sleeve. ‘Ash? Sabir says DC Massie needs to speak to you.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Yer feckin’ dead is what ye are!’
‘Ash, she says it’s urgent…’ Alice held the phone up to my ear.
‘Hello?’ Rhona’s voice crackled out of the speaker. ‘Guv, we’ve got something! Someone phoned the hotline: said they saw Katie getting into a Silver Mercedes on Friday night! Didn’t get the number plate, but she was certain it was a man driving – chunky, balding at the front, long hair at the back. Dickie’s putting out an appeal for them to come forward.’
I swallowed. ‘I see.’
Mrs Kerrigan glowered up from the carpet at me. ‘I’ll hack yer balls off and shove them right up yer gobshite arse. Yer feckin’—’ Her head snapped back, blood spurting from her nose.
Alice hopped from foot to foot, clutching her right hand. ‘Ow… That always looks so much easier in films.’
Mrs Kerrigan wobbled twice, then keeled over flat on her back and stayed that way.
Oh fuck.
I stared down at her, lying there, unconscious and bleeding. That nose was definitely broken.
Oh, fuck.
Silver Mercedes; chubby; receding hairline, but long at the back. It was Ethan Baxter.
Chapter 50
The front door wasn’t even locked. I lumbered down the hall. ‘ETHAN FUCKING BAXTER!’
The silver Mercedes sat outside – rescued from K&B Motors.
‘WHERE ARE YOU, YOU LITTLE SHITE?’
The kitchen door was open. I barged in.
Ethan was sitting at the table, sobbing away to himself. The fibreglass cast on his left arm was cracked and filthy, smeared with dark-red stains. A half-empty litre of Belvedere lay on its side in front of him, next to a small white plastic tub – the kind that came with a child-proof cap and doctor’s directions printed on a sticker. Like Henry.
He looked up at me, eyes red and watery. ‘I didn’t mean to…’
‘Where is she?’
Birthdays for the Dead Page 40