Stuart MacBride - Birthdays for the dead

Something broke the surface of the water over by the furthest of the three cages. It was a bald head, the shiny pink crown surrounded by a fringe of soggy black hair. Big diving goggles, breathing apparatus for an aqualung. And then it was gone again.

I leaned against the handrail, following the trail of bubbles.

When Burges gets here, make yourself scarce. You and the little orang-utan.

How? Royce pursed his lips and looked around.

Not exactly a lot of places to

Get in the boat, go fishing, I don t care.

Hmmm A sip of coffee. You re kinda pushy for a detective constable.

Cheeky bastard. I m only asking for ten minutes. Fifteen tops.

Yeah, well, you remember I m the one who s got to keep the peace here after you ve buggered off back to the real world Here we go.

The bald head resurfaced a good twenty feet closer, making for the barge. Something bobbed along behind it: looked like a fluorescent orange buoy. Two minutes later, a huge man hauled himself out of the water and up onto the platform.

He d been squeezed into a tatty old drysuit. The arms, legs and neck looked as if they d been black once, the chest and stomach ancient yellow. Water dribbled from a bushy brown beard.

Arnold Burges.

He pulled off the diving goggles and narrowed his eyes at Royce.

The old bastard s lying. I was here all night with Benny. After that frigging seal. He turned his back, squatted at the edge of the walkway, and reached into the water.

Royce sighed. Benny s already told us he was round his sister s all night. How many times do we have to go over this? You ve got to stay away from Dr Forrester.

The big man flexed his shoulders and hauled on a length of blue plastic rope the buoy cut through the water until it was close enough for him to grab. Another seven hundred fish last night. Seven hundred. He looped the rope around a metal contraption, then cranked the handle.

I mean it, Arnold: leave him alone.

A foot of black net rose from the loch, the rest of it still submerged. Silver shapes glistened inside. Burges pulled one of them out. It was a salmon, nearly as long as his arm, scales glistening pink, silver and grey, its distinctive jutting jaw hanging open. A single, ragged-edged chunk was missing from its belly. See that?

Arnold

One bite. Sticks his nose through the net, tears out the liver and leaves them to die. Seven hundred frigging fish in one night. Burges curled his top lip, then tossed the salmon into a plastic barrel, sending water splashing up the side of the shed.

Been picking dead fish out the cages all week.

Arnold, this is Detective Constable Henderson, he wants a word.

Burges went back to the winch, lifting more net out of the water.

Benny? You get that feed?

Benny nodded towards the pile in the barge. Twenty bags.

That s no bloody good, how s twenty bags going to last us

Don t draa doon der broos at me, Arnie Burges. A m hed me some passengers, didn t I?

Draa doon der? What the hell was that supposed to mean? It was as if he was making up words.

Benny hopped back in the boat. Wis just aff to get the balance.

I stared at Royce, jerked my head towards the shore.

A pause, then the constable nodded. Not as daft as he looked.

Yes, right, well, why don t I give you a hand, Benny? Less of a job for two. This pair can stay here and have that word.

The boat s engine faded to a grumble, then a whisper, then nothing.

I leaned back against the rusty metal handrail. Stay the hell away from Henry Forrester.

Burges hurled another dead fish into the barrel. Fertilizer. That s all these are good for now.

It s not his fault.

Waste of good fish.

Look, Mr Burges, I know you ve been through a lot, but

You know what I ve been through? THUMP. The next salmon didn t go in the barrel, it battered into the wooden platform at my feet. You fucking know?

Yes, I fucking did.

It isn t

My Lauren s dead, Constable Henderson. Oh yeah, I know who you are. I remember you from the frigging press conferences. Calling yourself the Party Crashers: like this was some sort of game. Tell you what, how about we all throw a party, because some twisted bastard killed my Lauren?

Henry Forrester did his best to

We ll all have jelly and ice cream, because someone pulled out her teeth, cut her, tore out her fingernails, hacked off her head, and gutted her like a fish? Yeah, let s have a frigging party! The big man s face was getting darker, red spreading across his round cheeks. The veins in his neck throbbed where the skin met the drysuit s rubber collar.

I stared out across the water. Took a deep, slow breath. At least he knew; he wasn t waiting for the next card to turn up to find out what the bastard had done. Lauren was dead, the Birthday Boy couldn t hurt her any more. But Rebecca

There was something in my throat. You re not the only one who lost a daughter.

She wasn t even thirteen! Spittle flew from his lips, sparkling in the sunshine.

Then take it out on the Birthday Boy, not the poor old bastard who

If you useless wankers had done your jobs and caught him, Lauren would still be here! He squared his shoulders, bearded chin jutting out. Two years. TWO FUCKING YEARS you had before he took her! Burges took a step forwards.

Here we go.

I pushed myself off the handrail, coiling my aching hands into fists. You need to calm down, before you get hurt.

You got any idea what it s like? The waiting? Every birthday, waiting for the next card, waiting to see what he s done to her?

All the time.

I closed my eyes, counted to five. Had another go: Henry Forrester tried to help you.

Burges threw his arms wide, the drysuit creaking as it stretched. A balding bear in a rubber romper suit, beard jutting out like wire wool. Why should he get to forget? Eh? Why should he get to put it all behind him? Every year we get another card. Every frigging year. We moved up here and he still found us! He s out there with his camera and his knives and other people s daughters, because you FUCKERS can t do your

What the hell are we supposed to do: magic the bastard up out of thin air? Getting louder. You think this is easy? You think you re the only one fucking suffering? At least we ve found Lauren s body, at least you get to

Burges s eyes went wide, mouth hanging open, face drained to a pale grey.

Are you OK?

He took a step back, then thump, he was sitting on the platform s wooden surface. Staring up at me.

Mr Burges? Shite, he was having a heart attack.

Mr Burges?

You He blinked, rubbed a huge hand across his face. Then looked out across the water, eyes glistening. You found my Lauren?

No one told you? For fuck s sake surely someone should have told him. One of Dickie s team, or Weber, or

You little bastard He scrambled to his feet, neoprene drysuit squeaking and groaning. Backed up to the open doorway. You re fucking for it now!

Great. If I d known I was going to be delivering the sodding death message I wouldn t have opened with, Stay the hell away from Henry Forrester.

Idiots. How could they not tell him? How could they be so bloody

Burges was back on the walkway, clutching a rifle. Big wooden stock, black metal barrel a two-twenty-two, more than capable of blowing a massive hole in anyone daft enough to stand in front of it.

Oh. Shit.

The big man racked the bolt up and back, then forward again. Putting a bullet in the breech.

SHIT.

Where the hell was Royce? I glanced over my shoulder the little boat was still tied up on the shore by the containers. They d hear the shot but by then I d be dead.

Then do something. Rush him. Grab the gun. Move.

Burges raised the rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and pulled the trigger.