Stuart MacBride - Birthdays for the dead

I straightened my shoulders. Michelle, why don t you go wait in the car? I ll only be a minute.

Michelle walked away, head down, chewing at her fingernails.

She gets her daughter back.

Ash Weber cleared his throat again.

I m going to need you to come down to the station with me.

Why?

Smith stuck his chest out. We ve found your brother, Parker. He was shot twice in the head.

I stared. Pins and needles spread out across my chest. He can t

We found a gun at the scene: a Bul Cherokee, nine mill very popular with the Israeli security forces.

Cold followed the pins and needles, freezing the breath in my lungs. Bul Cherokee: it was the gun from Bath, the one Terri rented out to me so Mrs Kerrigan could have her revenge. They killed Parker?

Your fingerprints are on the gun, and the bullet casings.

I ve gone and got you a present. Hope ye like it.

Oh God. You can t believe I

Ash. Weber couldn t even look at me.

Please don t make this any more difficult than it already is

Alice grabbed my hand and squeezed.

Wednesday 23rd November

The MV Hrossey eased itself into dock with one last growling roar. Then clanks and clangs reverberated around the harbour. Half past seven in the morning and the sky was a deep, dirty orange, fat flakes of snow drifting down over Holmsgarth Terminal, the lights of Lerwick twinkling in the darkness.

Arnold Burges tucked his hands into his coat pockets.

Seemed to be taking them forever to get the thing tied down and the bow open. But it was OK. He d waited seven years, another ten minutes wasn t going to kill him.

The gangway shuddered and groaned as the last section swung into place against the ferry s hull. Didn t take long before bleary-eyed passengers were shivering out into the cold morning. Some would get the bus into town, some would get lifts home, some would catch a taxi, and everyone else would head down to the car deck to collect their vehicles.

Finally: the bow creaked up in a barrage of klaxons and warning lights.

One by one the cars and lorries grumbled out into the snow, trailing plumes of exhaust fumes behind them, until the only thing left was a blue BMW.

Arnold walked into the hold, sticking to the yellow-hatched path.

He had a quick check to make sure no one was watching, then ran his fingers along the rough underside of the front wheel arch on the driver s side. A little metal rectangle about the size of a matchbox was stuck to the surface. Magnetic. He pulled it free and slid it open. There was a BMW key inside, like the text message promised.

Plip. The indicators flashed and the doors unlocked.

Took a bit of doing to get the seat adjusted so he could fit behind the wheel like a little girl had driven it last but it started with a refined purr. Nice motor, shame it d end up as a burned-out wreck, dumped in the sea off the west coast of Shetland.

The BMW slid out of the hold and onto the quay.

Fifteen minutes later he pulled into a lay-by, flanked by mountains on both sides, a grey sea loch reaching away into the distance, the faint wash of twilight just beginning to creep above the horizon. Arnold popped the boot.

Stank of shit and piss in there.

A man lay curled up on his side in the boot, hands cuffed behind his back, surrounded by shiny CDs, a laptop, and a desktop computer. Shivering.

Arnold nodded. You Drummond?

The man hissed at him from behind a duct-tape gag.

You helped the bastard who killed my Lauren. You told him where we lived A smile cracked across Arnold s face for what felt like the first time in years. I m going to enjoy this.