Stuart MacBride - Birthdays for the dead

I said, no comment.

Ash, I want you to know the Castle News and Post will do everything we can to help get Katie back. You could put out a personal appeal? She licked her lips. We could make the Birthday Boy see what kind of pain and damage he s doing. Maybe run a photo of Katie s room, a couple of quotes from her mother?

It s Saturday. Her birthday s on Monday. I turned the key in the ignition. By the time he reads anything in your rag she ll already be dead.

HM Prison Glenochil an hour and a half south of Oldcastle. A couple of rusty hatchbacks huddled in front of the bland, slab-faced reception building, but other than that the car park was empty.

I tried Henry s number one more time: bloody voicemail again. Then called Weber instead. At least he was answering his phone.

Hello?

It s Ash.

Ah A breath. Then a muffled, Excuse me, I have to take this A clunk, some rustling, and Weber was back. Where are you?

I need the names of all the suspects Dickie s got

Don t be an idiot. ACC Drummond s crawling all over me, and that slippery shite Smith is right behind him, taking notes. I want to help, you know that, but they re

I want a couple of names, not a fucking kidney!

I know, I know. Sigh. Look: where are you?

Doing what you should be doing. I killed the link and pocketed the phone; clambered out of the car and marched towards the prison.

Right, here s the rules. The prison officer ran a finger along the side of his long, hooked nose, as if they were written there in Braille. You do not pass the prisoner anything. You do not accept anything from him. He will be strip-searched at the end of your visit. You have fifteen minutes, then he s back in his cell.

I nodded. Placed my notebook and pen on the table in front of me.

The visiting room looked as if it d been set out for an exam Formica tables with a chair on either side, arranged in eight rows, spaced out just enough to afford a little privacy and give the security cameras a good line of sight.

Scuffed blue carpet tiles covered the floor, crime-scene stains marking the death of spilled coffees.

A buzz sounded, then the heavy metal door at the far end of the room swung open. Another prison officer shuffled in, stepped to one side, and there was Len.

He was about a head taller than his escort, a fringe of neatly trimmed grey hair around a big bald crown, round glasses, and a grey goatee with a handlebar moustache. He d lost a bit of weight, broadened out a bit. Probably been spending a lot of time in the prison gym.

Len settled into the seat opposite and nodded, as if we hadn t seen each other since the morning briefing, instead of two and a bit years. Ash.

Chief.

A smile. Not any more. His voice was deep enough to make my plastic cup of water tremble on the tabletop. Or shall we play yesteryear: I ll be Detective Superintendent Murray, and you ll be DI Henderson?

I need to know who the Birthday Boy suspects were. All of them.

I m fine, thanks. A lot better now they ve taken the stitches out. Talk about itchy.

Len, I m serious.

Still, ex-Constable Evans will be taking his food through a tube for the next six months, so I suppose I win. He took hold of the bottom of his sweatshirt. Want to see the scar? It s pretty spectacular?

I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth. He s got Katie.

Came at me in the library with a razor blade stuck in the end of a toothbrush. A frown. Ever seen your own innards, Ash? They re not as pretty as you might think.

The Birthday Boy s got Katie and they re locking me out of the investigation!

Len sighed, tilted his head to one side. Two years, eight months, three weeks, and fifteen days. That s how long I ve been in here, and you haven t visited once. Not until you want something.

He s got Katie

You said that already. He picked up my water and sipped at it. I thought we were friends, Ash.

He s got my little girl.

Len leaned back in his chair. You got a slap on the wrists. I got eighteen years. I think I m due a little conversation first, don t you? He pursed his lips, glanced up at the ceiling. Who do you fancy this afternoon: Warriors or Aberdeen?

For God s sake, Len. I checked the clock on the wall. I ve only got twelve minutes till they kick me out.

Like I said: I ve got eighteen years. He smiled.

Fine. Aberdeen.

Really? I think we re in with a chance this time. Bob Eason s bought a couple of good players this season might look like Gollum in a tracksuit, but the little sod knows his football.

I curled my hands into fists. Len, he s going to kill her!

See, that s what I ve been trying to figure out: why her? Why you? He teased the end of his goatee into a point. Why target someone on the investigation? Why make it personal? It s too risky, too flashy, like something out of a movie. Doesn t happen in real life.

I saw the birthday card. He s got her.

Hmmm Silence. Then, Maybe you ve spooked him? Maybe you ve been running your sticky fingers through his dirty laundry, and he needs you distracted?

Who was a suspect?

Philip Skinner s mum writes to me, did you know that? Every month I get this big wodge of paper through the post telling me what she s been up to, and what s happening on Coronation Street, and what her grandchildren are doing. Course she s not really writing to me, she s writing to Skinner

Len, please.

He put the water down. Sighed. Well, there was a sergeant with Northern Constabulary, but I think he hanged himself Turned out he was into kiddie porn I m pretty sure they found the bin in his study full of crumpled up printouts of the birthday cards, covered in spunk. We thought it was part of a ring, but you know what the Tartan and Shortbread Brigade are like. Then there was that journalist with the Aberdeen Examiner Frown. Tolbert? Talbert? Talbert but we couldn t get anything to stick. Or Harriet Woods? She was a private investigator in Dundee. Ended up moving to Dubai.

I scribbled names and details in my notebook.

Len sat forwards, huge hands on the tabletop. As if he was the only thing holding it down. Skinner confessed: how was I supposed to know?

Anyone else?

The profile was a perfect fit. Henry Forrester was in on the interview, he said Skinner was our man.

I know.

Those little boys: raped and cut up into little bits

Len was there anyone else?

He stared at the table for a while, mouth pinched, a deep crease between his eyebrows. Couple of nut-jobs: Ahmed Moghadam, Danny Crawford, some woman who thought Jesus lived in her basement He tapped his finger on the tabletop: tap-tap-tap, tap, tap, tap, tap-tap-tap. Some nights I can still hear him screaming.

Get out the way! I jammed the mobile between my ear and shoulder and leaned on the horn again, but the prick in the Subaru refused to budge from the outside lane. Come on, Henry, ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE!

Finally the prick drifted into the other lane, and I could put my foot down again. Kidding on I didn t see him give me the finger in my rear-view mirror.

Voicemail. Henry, where the fuck are you? Call me back.

I tried Rhona.

Fields ribbed with poly tunnels whipped by on either side. A green sign: A90, Dundee 9, Forfar 23, Oldcastle 34, Aberdeen 75.

Guv? Jesus, I heard about Katie, are you OK?

Finally someone answers the bloody phone!

The speedometer needle edged up to eighty-five.

I didn t

I need you to run some PNC checks for me, but you can t tell anyone, OK? I pulled out my notebook, pinned it against the steering wheel, and flipped through the pages. Then read her the list of names Len gave me. Made her repeat them back. I mean it you tell no one about this. Not Weber, not Dickie, not even Shifty Dave.