Stuart MacBride - Birthdays for the dead

Burges stared at me, then took a step back, nodding. They sent someone round the house while I was at work yesterday, stuck a camera in Danielle s face, wanted to know what it feels like to find out they ve dug up your dead daughter

Before anyone official had even bothered to tell Burges and his wife that we d found Lauren s remains. I m sorry.

You should be. Burges turned, and lurched back down the path, scuffing his wellies through the snow. A scarred Berlingo van sat by the kerb, CALDERS LEA AQUACULTURE LTD. written along the side. Benny waved at me from the driver s seat.

I waited until Burges reached the gate. I meant what I said yesterday: Henry Forrester did everything he could. It s not his fault.

The big man paused for a moment, then clambered into the van without a word.

It slithered away from the pavement and off into the snow.

I shuffled my chair closer to the open oven door. Not the most ecologically responsible way of heating a room, but at least now the kitchen was warm enough to sit in without getting frostbite.

Sheba creaked up from her bed in the corner and collapsed beside my chair, rolled onto her side and exposed her stomach to the warmth.

Dear God, when did Henry last give you a bath?

She sighed.

I unpacked the folder Burges had given me. It was full of reports from private investigators; interview transcripts; Freedom of Information requests; statements from Lauren s friends and family trying to piece together the last time they d seen her alive; photos of Lauren at the beach, parties, playing in the back garden. It painted a very different picture from the official file. That one was all about facts and evidence, this one was all about Lauren Burges.

She was like Rebecca in so many ways: a nice girl, from a nice home, who got snatched from her family and tortured to death.

Urgh A voice from the doorway.

I turned, and there was Dr McDonald: shuffling, swollen-eyed, brown curls hanging lank and greasy around her pale face.

You look awful.

She winced, held up a finger. Shhhh

Hungover?

If you make too much noise you ll wake him, and then I ll have to start drinking again, and I really don t want to start drinking again, can we not just sit in silence for a bit and then maybe it ll all be OK and I won t feel like throwing myself under a bus or something? She lowered herself onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar, then folded over until her head rested on the working surface. Urgh

Hungry?

Urgh

Trust me: get something in your stomach now, before Henry wakes up and cracks open that litre of Bells.

Do I have to? She peered at me, head still resting on the countertop. OK. I ll have eggs and toast and bacon and saus-ages and tomato and mushrooms and chips and black pudding, and

Then you should ve stayed at the hotel last night, instead of staggering back here with Henry to polish off the Isle of Jura, shouldn t you? I stood and pulled a greasy paper bag out of the bread bin. Bought a couple of sausage rolls on the way over this morning. You want them warmed in the microwave, or the oven?

I want to go home. Music blared out of her jeans.

Noooo She pulled a smartphone from a pocket and jabbed a finger at the display. It kept on singing. Jab, jab, jab. Dr McDonald dumped the thing on the breakfast bar and wrapped her arms around her head. Make it stop

I picked the phone up. A photo of Detective Chief Superintendent Dickie flashed on the screen.

I went to press the green button, but the music stopped before I got there. He d rung off.

Then my phone started ringing: DCS DICKIE. I answered it. What: I m not your first choice?

Hello? Hello, I can barely hear you A siren blared in the background, nearly drowning out everything Dickie said, even though he was almost shouting. Look, I can t get through to Dr McDonald can you tell her Sabir s discovered an encrypted file on Helen McMillan s computer. It s a diary: we know where the signed first editions came from.

Where?

Hello? Ash? We re hot-footing it down to Dundee now: speciality bookshop on Forrest Park Road, near the university Hello? Hello? Can t hear a bloody

And that was it: the connection was gone.

I tipped the sausage rolls out of the bag and onto a plate, stuck it in the microwave for a couple of minutes on full. Then passed on Dickie s message while the thing groaned and buzzed.

Ding.

I clunked the plate down in front of Dr McDonald. Eat.

She hauled her head off the worktop. Don t suppose Henry s got any brown sauce, does he?

You think our bookseller could be the Birthday Boy? I nudged the plate. Eat: before the pastry turns to linoleum.

I wouldn t have put running a specialist bookshop at the top of my list for Birthday Boy occupations. I mean how s he going to track the families so he can deliver the card every year? She took a bite, then huffed and puffed with her mouth wide open. Ooh: hot, hot, hot.

Sabir says he could be using the internet to find them. Or maybe they all bought books from him?

Another bite. No puffing this time. Did Hannah Kelly collect rare signed first editions?

No. And neither did Rebecca.

Exactly. Bite, chew, munch.

I put the kettle on again, gritting my teeth as the joints of my fingers grated together. Always was worse when the weather changed. The bruises across the knuckles were starting to fade to yellows and greens. I rinsed out a mug for her. You said you knew I wasn t a vegetarian because of my face and hands when we were on the boat, you ordered that steak. And the lamb last night.

The Birthday Boy doesn t sell books, don t get me wrong: I ve known a few people who work in bookshops and they can be really weird, but not torture-porn weird, and that seems to be what he s making, only not for himself to enjoy he s making it for someone else.

What s wrong with my hands and face?

I think he s making it for the parents. I think that s why he s so squeamish about the girls screaming, why he just dumps the bodies afterwards, why it takes him three days to work up the courage to torture his victims: he s not really interested in them, he s interested in their mums and dads.

I poured hot water into the mugs. Who s he really torturing.

Exactly. She crunched into the other sausage roll. I know you re not a vegetarian, because you ve got bruises on your fists and your face, then there s the way you talk to people the alpha male strut and I have the deepest respect for you as a police officer, so please don t take this the wrong way, but you re a man of violence, it oozes out of your pores. That doesn t really go with being a vegetarian.

I strut? A small laugh broke free and I smiled.

Ever seen a G-Twenty anti-capitalist riot? Half those buggers are vegeta-blists. You wouldn t think they d have the energy.

She cleared her throat. Yes, well sometimes men of violence are what s needed.

Twenty past ten and Henry still hadn t surfaced, but Dr McDonald had figured out how to work the central heating and now the kitchen was positively balmy. She d perked up a bit too three mugs of coffee, a pair of sausage rolls, and all was right with the world.

She hunched over the laptop she d taken out of her leather satchel. He s signing in

The speakers gave a jangly ringing noise, a hiss, a click, and then Sabir s huge grey face filled the screen. He squinted, and leaned forwards. Mornin everyone Bleedin heck: you look like crap, Doc.

I shifted around behind Dr McDonald, until I could see myself in the little window inset into Sabir s video feed. Any news on the bookseller?

They ve got him in an interview room, acting all indignant and I ve never done nothin to no one. Dozy Get.

I leaned in. What about my searches?

Ah, right He grimaced. I might owe you a bit of an apology on that one. Went and did a search on all twelve families and four of them didn t come up with nothin recent enough to find out where they were. Nowhere Joey Public gets access to. Not without some serious IT skills, anyway. Sabir s fingers clacked over the keyboard.