Stuart MacBride - Birthdays for the dead

A couple of months ago: the twelfth victim. The one before Megan Taylor.

Nothing that would help me find Katie before tomorrow. I appreciate the effort, but it s

The boyfriend said he saw the bastard.

I sat up straight. He what?

Said he was there when she was lifted. Wasn t meant to be, but he was. Saw everything.

And he didn t tell anyone? How could he not

His dad s allergic to police officers. Now: you got a pen for the address?

I pulled out my notebook. What s it going to cost?

Fuck all. Public-spirited citizen, that s me. Make sure the bastard gets what s comin to him.

and that was that was Coldplay and

Fix You. A cough rattled out of the car radio. Sorry folks, had a bit of a rough one last night. A shuddering sigh. Right, OK: you re listening to Sensational Steve s Sunday Morning Lie-In Lovefest and and now here s another of Megan Taylor s favourite songs

The fields and little towns raced by as I hammered down the M74 accelerator flat to the Renault s filthy carpet, phone to my ear, swearing as the other end rang and rang and rang. Then put me through to voicemail again.

Henry, for fuck s sake: answer your bloody phone!

I hung up and tried again, for the fourth time in twenty miles.

Lockerbie was a blur in the rear-view mirror when I finally gave up on Henry and tried Dr McDonald instead. She picked up first time.

Ash, are you OK, I mean I know you re not OK, with everything happening and now you can t be on the team and I m we re worried about you.

When does he kill them?

On their birthdays, is there

No: does he kill them in the morning, in the evening, lunchtime, when?

I don t It s hard to tell, there s nothing in the photographs to give us time of day, it s all indoors under artificial light, so

If you were him, when would you do it?

I swung over into the outside lane and roared past a coach full of ugly children.

I don t think that s a healthy thing to focus on, if we

When does he kill them?

A sigh. It s impossible to tell, I mean I think it s important to kill them on their actual birthday, and Professor Twining said it took Lauren six or seven hours to die, so he can t have started later than six o clock I think he works, so he can t start torturing them before he goes off in the morning in case something happens and they die while he s not there, so it s after work.

That means we ve got till five o clock tomorrow. I checked my watch. Thirty hours till he Till Katie.

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

What?

Or he might have taken Monday as a holiday so he can spend the whole day on

Don t, OK? Just don t. I scowled at the dual carriageway. Is Henry there?

He s with the SEB search team, he worked up probable deposition sites for the other victims from the map, he s very good, Ash, I mean he s scarily good.

One step closer to them finding Rebecca

Call me soon as he gets back.

Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?

I hate these things Henry cleared his throat. You re sure no one can hear us?

Henry it stinks in here.

Sheba can t help that. Wind the window down if it bothers you that much.

Nearly a quarter-tank of petrol left, still a bit to go before I had to stop. Will you two shut up? There s another victim.

What?

A couple of months ago, a girl in Bath: the family got a card but they hushed it up.

Someone whistled.

Dr McDonald: You know what this means, it means Katie s not number thirteen, she s number fourteen.

A pause.

Henry s voice was barely audible over the engine s roar. I was wrong. A deep breath. I was wrong, Ash. He s not been building up to his thirteenth victim. It s not going to stop

Ash, if Katie s number fourteen then he s escalating: one a year for seven years, then two the next year, another two last year, and now three, that means there s going to be more of them, soon.

He s escalating

How does that help us find Katie?

Dr McDonald got even faster than usual. Ash, he can t keep this up, he s operating at full stretch, running from victim to victim, and we should issue a statement telling everyone who s got a daughter coming up to her thirteenth birthday to keep her under lock and key.

There ll be a panic.

What else can we do, Henry, he s one step away from going on a spree, we can t not tell people, what if it was your daughter?

Hrrmph. My daughter can t wait for me to drop dead so she and her husband can get their hands on my money. Apparently I m a selfish old man drinking her inheritance A sniff. I m sorry, Ash. I got it wrong.

A fluorescent-yellow speed camera wheeched by, the flash going off as I overtook a mini. The victim s boyfriend said he saw the Birthday Boy.

Dr McDonald sounded as if she was bouncing up and down in her seat. Ash, that s great, we ll get Dickie onto Avon and Somerset Police, get them to take a description and

No: no police. The boyfriend wouldn t talk to them anyway. I m on my way there now.

But

No police! I hung up and jammed the phone back into my pocket.

One hundred and seventy miles to go.

I clambered out of the car, groaned, then tried to rub some life back into my spine. Twenty past three. Seven hours from Oldcastle all the way to Bath. Got pulled over outside Carlisle for doing ninety, but once they d checked my warrant card, that was it: I m sorry to hear about your daughter. Do you want us to escort you down the road a bit, blues-and-twos all the way?

They had to give up at junction 37, but at least it was something.

Of course, I could have flown into Bristol and saved myself three hours, but airport security tended to get a bit twitchy when you tried to take a gun onboard.

I pulled out my notebook and double-checked the address I d got from Andy Inglis. This was it: number twenty-six, a third of the way along a narrow street of terraced houses. Green and brown streaks made dirty shadows under the guttering. Dirty, rust-coloured pantiles, small gardens, the pavements solid with down-at-heel Hondas, Fords, and Citro ns.

Not the fanciest bit of Bath by a long shot.

I squeezed the Renault in behind a van and climbed out into the afternoon. It was a damn sight warmer down here than back home, and it wasn t raining either.

The wooden gate creaked as I pushed through into the garden. Football blared out from a TV somewhere inside: the crowd roaring, the commentator sounding as if he was about to wet himself with excitement.

I rang the bell.

A muffled voice: OK, OK, I m coming Jesus Couldn t wait till half-time, could you. A little man with a big nose and curly hair opened the door. He wasn t smiling. Better not be one of them bloody born-again tossers.

I stared at him.

He fidgeted with the buttons on his polo shirt. What?

You didn t go to the police.

He shuffled an inch backwards, licked his lips, started to ease the door shut. I didn t. I said I wouldn t and I didn t He looked down to where my foot was jammed in the door, stopping it going any further. Honestly: we didn t say anything.

I took out my warrant card and held it up for him. Why?

His mouth fell open, and then he sniffed. I m very busy, so if you ll excuse me

A woman s voice came from the hall behind him. Ron? Is it Mrs Mahajan? I ve got her casserole dish.

Ron glanced back into the house. I ll take care of it, you go back to the kitchen.

Ron?

I said I d take care of it! He squared his shoulders, still peering around the door. You ve got no right coming round here, harassing us. Nothing happened, I ve got nothing to say, now go away.

The bastard got your daughter, didn t he: the Birthday Boy?

His jaw clenched. Nothing happened, now please