Stuart MacBride - Birthdays for the dead

Dr McDonald sat on the edge of the bed. Or perhaps this is a transformative moment for him, I mean now he s reached his target he s realized he doesn t have to stop, he can keep on going, getting better and better at what he does, that s why he s experimenting

No, it s too significant he s been building towards his grand finale. When he kills Megan Taylor it s going to be cathartic.

She shook her head. The pattern s changed: there s no gag, the card arrived today instead of next year, it s more immediate.

I put the book back on the shelf. I need to know if he s going to stop. Is this it? Does the bastard just disappear back into the woodwork?

Yes.

No.

He s been building to

Henry, you don t walk away from something like this, it s an acquired taste and you ve got it, you re good at it, and they re never going to catch you, it s time for ambition and vision, time to feed on what you create She bit her bottom lip. Why would he give all that up?

Henry?

Silence from the phone. Then the metallic crackle of the top being screwed off a fresh bottle of whisky. It s about power It s always about power. Glugging.

If you re right, he ll be monitoring the media: getting off on the reports, the press conferences, the public displays of grief. Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair.

Dr McDonald stared down at her red Converse Hi-tops. He ll want to experience it in person what if we help him, I mean, we could put on a candlelit vigil, or something?

Yes: Ash, you need to set up one of those over-the-top affairs where everyone leaves teddy bears and flowers and football scarves. Somewhere big and impressive. Lots of public sackcloth and ashes. Get some cameras on the crowds, our boy won t be able to resist.

She nodded. He ll stand in the middle and feed off the grief, knowing it was all him, he did it, he has the power of life and death

I picked the birthday card off the work surface. I ll see what I can do.

We ve got this big party organized: bright pink stretched Humvee limo, DJ, jelly and ice cream, smoked salmon and sushi the works. Bruce Taylor fiddled with his tie a black one, funereal, it went with his pallid face and bloodshot eyes. Is Are you sure this is all right, I don t look threatening in a tie? Maybe I shouldn t wear a tie?

His wife perched on the edge of a large red sofa, still as a shallow grave. As if someone had replaced her with a waxwork dummy, eyes fixed on the middle distance, a little crease between her neatly plucked eyebrows. Mouth pinched.

Andrea, do you think I should change?

She didn t even look at him.

He fiddled with his tie some more. Maybe I should change

Dr McDonald placed a hand on his arm. Wear whatever makes you comfortable. With all the cameras, and the flashguns going off, and everyone shouting questions, you don t want to be worrying about your tie. If you don t like the tie: screw the tie.

A little smile twitched across his face. Then disappeared again.

She s still alive.

Dickie nodded. She s still alive. We ll put out Megan s picture, appeal for witnesses, ask him to let her go The DCS glanced at me. Cleared his throat.

And we ll let people know about the candlelit vigil tomorrow.

DCS Dickie sucked on his cigarette, cheeks hollow, the tip glowing hot orange in the dark garden. You re sure?

Dr McDonald shook her head. We can t be, I mean we don t know enough about him to be one hundred percent, but I m pretty certain he ll want to turn up and join in all the mourning.

And that helps us catch him how?

I cupped my aching hands around the warm mug, steam curling up into my face. We film everyone who turns up. We show the footage to the victims parents and if they recognize someone we get a warrant and drag them in for questioning.

Hmmph. Dickie tapped his cigarette, sending a nub of grey flakes spiralling away into the darkness. Someone like Steven Wallace?

Ah I took a sip of tea. Sabir s got a big mouth.

Didn t think you were that kind of man, Ash. Running around behind my back: thought you were better than that.

Dr McDonald licked her lips. Actually, it was my idea

I wanted him to keep it low-key, I mean we don t want to spook Wallace if he s a potential suspect

As if I needed protecting from the big scary Detective Chief Superintendent. I put on my best and-what-the-fuck-are-you-going-to-do-about-it voice: It wasn t her, it was me.

The cigarette hissed as Dickie dragged in another lungful of smoke, staring straight ahead. What s this, I m Spartacus! time? I don t give a monkey s arsehole who did it, you run this stuff by me first. Both of you.

Sabir say if he found anything when he ratted me out?

My team s going through Megan s friends. Sabir s doing the CCTV walk-through at the shopping centre. Ask him yourself.

The cameras started flashing as soon as I stepped out of the Taylors front door. Since we d gone inside, someone had thrown up a cordon of police tape, keeping the press and gawkers on the pavement and out of the front garden and driveway.

The uniformed constable guarding the front door flared his nostrils. Bastards got here ten minutes ago, Guv. Swear they must be bloody psychic.

One outside broadcast van, nearly a dozen photographers, a handful of print journalists Shite: Jennifer was standing in the middle of the pack, bundled up in her camel-hair coat, auburn curls hidden under a fur hat, speaking into a Dictaphone. Her ratty little photographer shuffled about beside her. He saw me staring at him and lowered his camera. Looked away. Not wanting another smack.

A patrol car pulled up half on the pavement, blocking the Taylors driveway.

The door opened and Shifty Dave climbed out, camera flashes glinting off his bald head. Looked me up and down. What you doing here? Thought your shift finished ages ago.

I nodded towards Dr McDonald. Responsible adult. She ducked behind me, peering around my shoulder at Shifty Dave and his cheap suit.

He sniffed. Dickie still here?

Flash. Flash. Flash.

Inside

Jennifer squeezed her way through the collected bastards of the press, making for the edge of the driveway. Bet she thought she could buttonhole me, force the issue, wind me up and get me to say something stupid she could smear across the News and Post tomorrow. And she was probably right.

Dave, do me a favour?

He pulled his neck in, making extra chins. Still not got the smell out my car boot from last time.

Jennifer and her monkey, I don t want to speak to them.

Aye, life s tough.

I might let something slip. Like, ooh, say: personal details about some of my esteemed colleagues love lives?

His eyes narrowed. You bloody promised me!

Then don t be a dick.

You re the dick He chewed on something for a moment, then sighed. OK. But it s your own stupid fault for screwing her in the first place. Shifty Dave turned, marched back down the drive and stopped right in front of Jennifer. He was easily big enough to block her view.

I grabbed Dr McDonald s hand and dragged her to the side of the lock-block, helped her clamber over the knee-high box hedge and into the next-door neighbour s garden while Shifty did his thing.

His voice boomed out into the cold night. Well, well, well, if it s no Jennifer Prentice, how they dangling?

I want to speak to DC Henderson.

Do you, now? Bit late to fuck up his marriage: that boat s already sunk. Mind you, if you fancy giving mine a wee wrecking, I wouldn t say no. Your place or mine?

I snuck across the neighbour s lawn, then down to the kerb, Dr McDonald sticking close behind me.

Shifty Dave s voice took on a sing-song quality. And aye, aye: who s this? If it s no Wee Hairy Frank McKenzie. Two counts drink driving, and six months for phone hacking. Surprised any paper ll touch you since you got kicked off the News of the World. Relegated to camera boy now, are we?