Stuart MacBride - Birthdays for the dead

It

Do you have any idea how worried I was?

The morning was getting lighter, gold rippling across the water.

I don t understand what you re

You can t have Katie stay the night without telling me! I was worried sick!

Stay the night?

It I don t

You re impossible. Michelle hung up.

Stay the night? How the hell could she stay the night, I wasn t even there!

Katie s number was on speed-dial. It rang, and rang, and

Daddy, I was just thinking about you!

Your mother s been on the phone. Dealing with kids is exactly the same as dealing with criminals: never let on how much you do or don t know.

A pause. Has she? Is she OK, I was

Why does your mother think you stayed at my house last night?

Does she? Wow, how weird is that? Another pause, as if Katie was giving it some serious thought. Then she was back, every sentence sounding as if it was a question. Oh, you know what happened: she must ve misheard me? I told her I was staying with my friend Ashley and her dad? And Mum must ve thought I meant

You do know I m a police officer, right, Katie? It s my job to spot when someone s lying their arse off.

Ah Deep breath. I really was round Ashley s house, but Mum hates Ashley s parents cos they re Tories, and sometimes they let us stay up late watching horror films and drinking Red Bull and you know what Mum s like about Tories and horror films. Ashley s mum and dad were in the house the whole time, so we were always safe and looked after and it was only a little teensy-weensy white lie I didn t want Mum getting all upset.

I don t

You can ask Ashley s dad if you like? He s really nice, not as cool as you, but he s OK, and he ll tell you we did our homework first and everything! Hold on, he s right here

Some rustling, then a smoker s voice: Oldcastle accent, trying hard to sound posh. What Michelle would call a typical Tennent s Lager Tory. Hello?

You Ashley s father?

Is something wrong?

I m Katie Henderson s dad.

Ah, right, lovely kid. Good as gold last night: pizza and a Freddy Krueger marathon. Sweet.

Just wanted to check she d behaved herself. Can you put her back on?

Here we go

See, Daddy? You won t tell Mum, will you? She ll freak, you know what she s like.

So the choice was: land Katie in it, or say nothing and pretend I m a complete tosser who couldn t be arsed telling her mother she wasn t going to be home last night.

Well, it wasn t as if Michelle could actually hate me any more than she already did.

OK, but only on the condition that you re nicer to your mum. I know she can be a bit There was no way to end that sentence well. Be good, all right? For me?

I promise. The little girl voice again. Daddy, can we go pony trekking for my birthday?

Pony trekking? How the hell was I supposed to organize that?

We ll see.

Oops: got to go, Daddy, Ashley s dad s giving us a lift to school. Love you!

Be nice to your mother.

I jammed the phone in my pocket and turned back to the tiny patrol car. Dr McDonald was peering out over the top of her big red suitcase. Her glasses were on squint, it made her head look lopsided.

Why did every woman in my life have to be a card-carrying nutcase?

I got back in the car.

We stopped at the Scalloway Hotel to drop off our suitcases and check in, then it was a five-minute drive through the dark streets to a house on the outskirts of town, overlooking the bay. The garden was a mix of overgrown bushes and stunted trees, their bare branches clawing at each other, fighting for space. Moss had colonized the pantile roof, lichen speckled the walls, and both front windows were jagged holes fringed with broken glass.

PC Clark hauled on the handbrake. Not again

I climbed out into the cold morning.

A sign was bolted to the garden wall: FREIBERG TOWERS. I pushed through into the garden and marched up the path as Royce called it in.

Sarge? Lima One Six: we re out at the Forrester place Yeah, looks like Burges has been at it again.

The doorbell sounded a dismal two-tone chime from somewhere deep inside. I cupped my hands and blew into them, shifting from foot to foot. Then tried again. both windows panned in Uh-huh Uh-huh Don t know

I forced my way through the grabbing skeleton of a rose bush and peered into the lounge. A chunk of breeze block lay in the wreckage of a coffee table, carpet covered in glittering cubes of glass. Henry?

It was dark inside no sign of life. has he not called it in? Ah, OK. Well, I ve got the camera in the car anyway. You want me to dust for prints too?

I fought my way back to the front door locked then around the side of the house. The damp fingers of an ancient leylandii pawed at me as I waded through knee-high weeds to a tall wooden gate. The hinges squealed as I shouldered it open.

The back garden was a riot of thistles, docken, and grass. It followed the slope of the hill, the top corner just catching the first rays of dawn. A small pond choked with reeds, a greenhouse with no glass left in it, and an outbuilding that needed a coat of paint and a new roof.

I took the path along the back of the building to the bedroom window. Dark. Probably had the curtains drawn. The kitchen door was locked like the front one, but

Up on my tiptoes, fingers spidering along the top of the architrave. Bingo: a little ceramic puffin, the black and white paint flaking and brittle. A Yale key was wedged inside. I pulled it out and unlocked the kitchen door.

Henry? Henry, it s Ash. Ash Henderson? You in? You awake? You sober? Nothing but silence from the dead house.

Henry? You still alive, or have you pickled yourself to death, you daft old bugger?

No answer.

The kitchen was disappearing under a layer of dust. Piles of newspapers and unopened letters covered a small breakfast bar, four stools tucked beneath the worktop.

Henry?

Through into the hallway, breath streaming out in a thin grey fog. It was colder in here than outside.

Henry?

The stairs led up to a small landing, but I went for the back bedroom instead. Knocked, waited, then eased the door open. Darkness. The smell of rancid garlic and stale booze underpinned something foul and rotting. Henry?

I felt for the light switch and flicked it on.

Henry was lying on the bed, flat on his back, dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. Grey hair made a rumpled tonsure around a bald crown speckled with liver spots. His face was slack, like a sock-puppet without a hand, his features too big for that little head. A bottle of Bells lay beside one thin hand, only a third of it left.

A small plastic bottle of pills sat on the bedside cabinet.

The silly old git He d finally done it.

I stared at the ceiling for a minute, then settled down on the stool in front of the vanity unit.

So much for getting Henry s help catching the Birthday Boy: looked as if Dr McDonald was on her own

Which wasn t exactly fair. The poor old sod deserved better than this, rotting away in a cold and lonely house, until the booze, an aneurism, or hypothermia finished the job.

Let s be honest, the end probably came as a bit of a relief.

Henry, could you not have waited till

A dry squeak came from the corpse, followed by the smell of death. Or rotten eggs. Or a mouldering otter Not dead, just farting.

Agh, not you too! What was it with psychologists?

I stuck a hand over my mouth, marched over to the curtains and threw them open, then did the same with the window, letting the cold air in and the smell of whatever was festering in Henry s bum out.

Henry!

Mmmmmph Nrm slppn Pale gums in a slack mouth.

Henry, you manky-arsed bugger: up! You ve got visitors.

He cracked an eye open and blinked at the ceiling. Sodding hell His voice sounded like a handful of walnuts being slowly crushed, the Aberdeen accent twisting the vowels out of shape. Fit time is it?