Stuart MacBride - Birthdays for the dead

They are, they re jealous.

I topped up her glass. How s your steak?

Is It s great too. You re a great cook. I people don t get that, but I do. I get it so I said I said, No, fuck you, you gap-toothed hairy wee bastard. And he he burst into tears! Rhona threw back the last mouthful of wine from her glass and grinned. Right there right there in the court. A frown. Back inna inna minute

She levered herself out of the couch and wobbled for a moment, before stomping off stiff-legged to the toilet.

I topped her up again. Then went through to the kitchen and fetched the second bottle of wine.

No, you gotta you gotta listen to this: you ll love this She sat on the carpet in front of the stereo, pulling CDs out of the rack and dumping them next to her. Where the buggery Ah, ah found it! You ll love this

The second bottle was already two-thirds gone.

Here She fumbled with the CD case, then wobbled the shiny disk into the machine, one eye squinted shut, the tip of her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth.

Music swelled from the speakers.

Listen listen, no, listen you ll love it Then she started to sing.

My gates are open wide, but she stands outside, consu-ooooooo-oo-oo-oomed by pride

She should have sounded like a football crowd bellowing from the terraces, but she didn t. Rhona s voice was soft and lilting, perfectly in tune.

I glugged more wine into her glass.

No, I mean it! Rhona blinked at me, her left eye not opening all the way, held down by a droopy lid. She ran a pale tongue across her wine-stained lips. Head nodding round on a bobbling circular path. You re the the only policeman in in that place worth a shit. A shit!

The last of the red disappeared, except for the dribble that splashed onto her sweatshirt. You re a great a great an I love you, Ash no I mean it! I love you She threw her arms wide. There

I ve said it, I ve said it

More blinking. Then she peered into her glass. All gone. A jaw-cracking yawn full of teeth. Pffffff. Bink. Blink. Then her eyes stayed closed, chin resting on her chest.

The wine glass wobbled in her hand, and she jerked upright eyes wide. M wake

No you re not.

You ve barely touched barely touched your wine

You have it. I took her glass and poured mine into it. Not really in the mood.

Two more sips and her chin was on her chest again, breath slipping into a deep rhythmic drone.

That should do it.

I picked her glass out of her hand and put it on the table.

Come on, let s get you to bed.

A warm fuzzy smile spread across her face. Yes please

Snoring rocked the walls. Rhona lay spread out like a scarecrow on top of the bedclothes she d managed to get the sweatshirt off, exposing a bright-red lacy bra, but the jeans had defeated her. They were bunched around her knees, socks making her feet look twice as long as they were.

I grabbed an ankle and hauled her jeans off, then fought with her pale limbs until she was under the duvet. Went off to the kitchen, came back with a basin and put it by the side of the bed, covered the carpet around it with newspaper. Then slipped out and closed the door.

Checked my watch. Ten to midnight.

Soon be time to pay Mr Steven Wallace a visit and see how sensational the little bastard felt coughing up blood.

McDermid Avenue was dead. Parked cars lined the road, tarmac glistening in the streetlight. The houses lay in darkness. Ten past one, and I d been sitting here long enough for the cold to burrow into my joints, making them ache.

The rain had given up half an hour ago, leaving everything slick and wet. Clouds scudded across the dark sky, stars twinking through the gaps.

Dickie s surveillance team were in an unmarked VW Polo on the other side of the road, about three doors down from Steven Wallace s house. Close enough to keep an eye on the place, far enough away to be inconspicuous. Sort of. The driver s window was open, cigarette smoke curling out into the cold night. Might as well have stuck a big neon arrow on top of the car.

Should ve done it properly and parked two hundred yards away, like I had.

The Polo was facing the wrong way to see me climb out into the night.

Christ it was freezing especially without a jacket. My breath trailed behind me like a pale ghost as I went around to the boot and pulled out the bags from the DIY superstore in Shortstaine.

It s perfectly innocent, Officer: I m planning on doing a bit of decorating. My house was vandalized and flooded. Nothing suspicious about that, is there? What? Why don t I have the DIY supplies I was seen purchasing at B amp;Q? Someone must have stolen them from my car when I left it outside Rhona s house. It s not the best of neighbourhoods, after all. I certainly didn t burn them to destroy any trace evidence. And besides: I was with Rhona all night, drinking wine and putting the world to rights. Ask her if you don t believe me.

Not exactly perfect, but it d do.

I walked away from Steven Wallace s house even if the surveillance team had spotted me, I wasn t going anywhere near their target. I kept walking till I reached a gap between two of the buildings. A dirt footpath led away into Cameron Park. The four surrounding streets were full of them, all sealed off with blue-and-white POLICE tape.

I ducked through onto the path. The low clouds reflected back a dim jaundiced glow, just enough light to keep me from stepping in anything as I pulled on a set of dark-grey decorator s overalls. Would ve gone for a white Tyvek SOC-style all-in-one suit, but it wouldn t exactly have blended in on a dark night. Next: plastic overshoes on over my boots. I tucked my hair into a shower cap the thin plastic kind that looked like a condom, given away free in hotel-room bathrooms then hauled on a dark-blue woolly hat, safety goggles, and a face mask. Nitrile gloves over my leather ones.

The Scenes Examination Branch might not bother collecting DNA when a wee shite like Noah McCarthy got a beating, but by the time they found what was left of Steve Wallace Well, that would be another matter.

I stuffed all the plastic packaging back in the bag, scrunched it up and put it in my pocket. Then walked down between the buildings, past the brick-walled back gardens, under another strand of Police tape, and out into Cameron Park.

One of the SOC tents glowed in the distance, nearly obscured by bushes and trees. No chance anyone would see me. I picked my way along a track that ran along the back of the gardens sticking close to the eight-foot-high wall until I could see the ridiculously massive conservatory stuck onto Steve Wallace s house.

A tall wooden gate was set into the brick, tendrils of ivy snaking around it. I tried the handle: locked. Fair enough. I scrambled over the wall and dropped down into the garden.

Silence.

For a minute I just stood there, not moving, scanning the backs of the houses for twitching curtains

Nothing.

I started towards the conservatory and a security light seared the garden with eye-watering brightness. I kept on walking. That s the thing about security lights by the time the owners notice you ve set one off, you can be right up against the house. They look out, see nothing, curse next door s cat, and go back to bed.

Click. The garden plunged into darkness again.

No sign of an alarm box on the back of the house, but that didn t mean the place wasn t wired. A couple of planters sat by the conservatory double doors. I looked underneath both. No spare key. Ah well worth a try.

One brand-new flat-head screwdriver and three sharp taps from a brand-new hammer, and the door lock was buggered enough for me to twist the mechanism. Clunk.

I opened the door and stepped inside.

No screaming alarm. No flashing lights. No irate householder.