Stuart MacBride - Birthdays for the dead

Shifty Dave went through the list, rearranging the teams while I scanned the room. Dr McDonald was sitting at the back, on her own. She was even paler than yesterday, face glistening, hair lank, bags under her eyes, glasses in one hand as she rubbed at her forehead. She d seemed fine when I d dropped her off this morning

She put her glasses back on, glanced up, saw me watching her, and pulled on a thin smile. Gave a little wave.

When Shifty had finished dishing out the crap, everyone stood and shuffled towards the exit. I went to join them, but DCI Weber got to me first.

Ash He looked around, then dropped his voice to a whisper. Have you sorted your problem with Mrs Kerrigan yet?

Give me a chance: only been back a couple of hours.

Look, if you need a hand I know someone who s in the market for a little after-hours security no questions asked and Dr McDonald! Weber threw his arms open. How are you feeling? Any better?

She was standing right behind me.

Pink rushed up her cheeks. I m so sorry about earlier, I didn t mean to, and certainly not in your office, I m really, really, really sorry.

Don t worry about it, you re not the first person to lose their breakfast in my office, you probably won t be the last either. And if you leave the windows open for a couple of hours the smell soon goes away.

She nodded and stared at her feet. Sorry.

Anyway, Ash: have a think and let me know if you want that guy s number, OK? In the meantime Weber flipped through his clipboard again. I ve got you down to accompany Dr McDonald today. She wants to do some follow-ups on the door-to-doors.

Great. A day dicking about outside in the cold. Are you sure someone else wouldn t be

Absolutely positive. Dr McDonald tells me you re the man for the job, and apparently everyone else scares her, so

She coughed. I m standing right here.

Weber patted me on the shoulder. Off you go.

The patrol car dropped us off on Lochview Road. Down at the far end of the street, Ethan s house was all lit up. Must have decided not to take his shattered hand into work today. Couldn t blame him.

I unlocked the rusty Renault and climbed in. Put on my seatbelt. Sighed. After driving his nearly new Merc it really wasn t the same.

Dr McDonald got into the passenger seat. She reeked of extra-strong mints and stale booze, a happy-hour sweat shining on her forehead and top lip as the alcohol oozed out of her.

What happened to you?

Henry phoned at nine this morning, wanting to go over the profile again before I presented it. I m really glad he s decided to help out, but I can t do this any more. She leaned forwards until her head rested on the dusty dashboard. Urgh

A taxi pulled up outside Ethan s house. Beeped its horn twice.

Sod it, why not? I ll be back in a minute. I climbed out and marched down the street.

Ethan s front door opened and there he was, his left arm encased in plaster from the tips of his fingers all the way to the elbow. He turned on the top step and fumbled with his keys, then stomped down the stairs and froze staring at me. I didn t do anything! I was up at the hospital: I haven t been anywhere near them!

Good. I unfolded the ticket from Little Mike s Pawn Shop. Held it out.

Ethan flinched back.

It s the receipt for your things. Pawnbroker s name and address is on there. You can redeem them.

He picked at the cast on his smashed hand. Why?

Because you know what ll happen if you fuck with my family again. I ve won. Don t need to rub your nose in it.

Ethan didn t move.

I pinned the ticket under the windscreen wiper of a Porsche parked at the kerb. Your car s at K amp;B Motors in Cowskillin. Probably haven t sold it on yet. I turned and walked back towards the Renault. Do yourself a favour and think about leaving town. Next time you don t get another chance.

I climbed in behind the wheel again.

He was still standing there, staring after me. Then he crept over to the Porsche, grabbed the pawn ticket, and got in the taxi.

As it drove past he kept his gaze fixed out the other window.

Maybe this time the little shite would take a telling.

Dr McDonald hadn t moved since I d left head resting on the dashboard, arms dangling by her sides. Urgh

You ready?

Can you go really fast and crash into something, please?

I eased out of the parking space, bearings making that wonky squealing noise every time I put the wheel on full lock. Get your seatbelt on.

I want to curl up and die

You re the one who wanted to go traipsing round town in the cold. Now get your bloody seatbelt on.

Groan. She did, then slumped back in her seat as if someone had removed all her bones. He keeps making me drink whisky, I don t even like whisky

You re a grown-up. If you don t like it, don t drink it. Elegant Georgian houses slid past as we headed for Dundas Bridge.

But then he won t like me, and he won t help me, and

Henry was on the phone. You could ve been drinking camomile tea: how would he know?

She put her hands over her face. He d know.

You can t let people pressure you into doing things, just so they ll like you. It For fuck s sake, it was like talking to an eight-year-old. Not my responsibility if she wanted to rot her liver with Henry it was her problem, not mine.

Dundas Bridge stretched over Kings River in a gentle arc of white-painted steel held up by two sets of pylons and thick black suspension cables.

Dr McDonald grabbed the dashboard. Pull over.

What? Did you see something

Oh God, pull over, pull over right now!

I stomped on the brakes and she fumbled open the passenger door, then retched. And heaved. Her back hunched and convulsed, arse rising out of the seat with each contraction.

Then she sagged, one hand holding on to the door handle as she spat into the gutter. Urgh

You sure you want to go door-to-door?

Urgh, bile

What did I tell you about not having breakfast?

More spitting. Then she hauled herself back into the car. Had a big fry-up on the boat. Stayed down till about half eight.

I pulled out again, taking us up onto the bridge. The Kings River was a gunmetal ribbon below us. Do you really need a lecture about matching drink for drink with an alcoholic?

I don t feel well

There s a bloody shock.

The granite blade of Castle Hill loomed above us, like the bow of a submarine breaching through the valley floor, casting everything around it into shadow. On the other side of the bridge, I took a left, skirting the twisted cobbled streets and heading for the post-war beige-and-grey sprawl of Cowskillin.

Where are we

I m not letting you interview anyone like that: you ll scare the serial killers. Up ahead the City Stadium dominated the surrounding housing estate like a big metal BDSM mistress. Trust me, I know what ll sort you out.

The Renault bumped over the rutted dirt of the parking lot. About half a dozen morons were marching in a little circle outside the main entrance to the Westing, each one carrying placards

with things like GAMBLING IS SATAN S PATH! HE THAT HASTETH TO BE RICH HATH AN EVIL EYE! and JESUS WILL SAVE US FROM OUR SINS!!! Breath streaming out behind them.

From the front, the Westing had all the bland grey-and-blue-painted-corrugated-iron charm of a cash-and-carry on a rundown industrial estate. Six-foot-high plastic letters were mounted above a little recessed opening: The Westing, and the silhouette of a sprinting greyhound, bordered with blue and red neon. As if anyone didn t know what this place was. Or who owned it.

I parked next to a dented minibus with PaedoPopeMobile in spray-paint graffiti along the side, then climbed out into the cold afternoon.

The greyhound track sat on the edge of a sprawling Fifties housing development. A couple of pubs lurked on the other side of the road along with a minicab office, and a newsagents, the shiny modern bulk of the City Stadium looming in the background.