Birthdays for the Dead. Stuart MacBride

uniformed PC scurried out after him.

      The prick slapped the wodge of paper against the PC’s chest, then turned his back on the poor sod, leaving her in the rain while he pulled out a phone and made a call.

      She stared at the back of his head for a moment, stuck up two fingers, then stomped off down the path towards us. Muttering all the way.

      I nodded at her. ‘Julie.’

      ‘Guv.’ PC Wilson jerked her chin in my direction. Rain drummed on the rim of her bowler, a blonde ponytail drooping and damp at the back. Her eyes were two tiny slits, mouth working on something nasty. She didn’t stop. ‘I swear to God, I’m going to swing for that sheep-shagging bastard.’

      ‘The boss about?’

      She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, in the direction of the bandstand, as she passed us. ‘Comes down here acting like we all fell off the fucking Thick Wagon.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      ‘Swing for him!’

      Dr McDonald peered at me through her rain-speckled glasses. ‘Is it always like this, I mean I enjoy a bit of team-based horseplay as much as the next psychologist, but it does feel as if … Ash?’

      I set off again, making for the bandstand. It looked ancient: the woodwork crumbling and saggy – boards missing in the cladding, half the roof gone. Swirly bits of cast iron formed decorative flourishes between the bloated pillars, the metal pitted and stained with rust.

      ‘Ash?’ She was back again, doing a weird hop-skip thing until her feet were in step with mine. Left, right, left, right. ‘Is there anything I should know about before we interact with your team, I mean I’ve never met any of them and it’s going to be in an enclosed space and you know I’m not good under social pressure and you’re the only one here I know, so—’

      ‘Why don’t you let me do the talking, then? Just until you feel more comfortable joining in.’ Which would have the added bonus of shutting her up for a bit.

      The blue plastic marquee next to the bandstand was about the size of a double garage, with ‘PROPERTY OF SPSA SCENES EXAMINATION BRANCH – OLDCASTLE – TENT C’ stencilled in white along the side.

      The prick was still on the phone, wandering up and down, kicking at tufts of yellowed grass. But as we got within spitting distance he looked up, narrowed his eyes. ‘Hold on …’ He stuck the mobile against his chest. ‘Where the hell have you been? Shift started three hours ago.’

      Yeah, because God forbid he went for more than thirty seconds without making sure everyone knew what a cock he was.

      I left it a couple of beats, letting the silence get nice and uncomfortable. Then flared my nostrils, as if I could smell something shitty. ‘Dr McDonald, this is Sergeant Smith. He’s new.’

      ‘I asked you a question, Constable.’

      ‘Hmmm …’ A pair of Transit vans were parked beside the tent, a police minibus – complete with riot shielding – sitting behind them. A couple of liveried Land Rovers. No sign of a big black Porsche Cayenne. ‘Fiscal been?’

      A finger jabbed into my chest.

      ‘I don’t care how you used to do things before I got here, Constable, but right here, right now, you answer your superior officer when he asks you a question.’

      Dr McDonald cleared her throat, but kept her mouth shut. For a change.

      I stared at the finger, then up at the prick. ‘You’ve got till I count to three.’

      Smith flinched back a couple of steps. ‘Are you threatening me?’ Then he squared his shoulders, brought his chin up. ‘Are you that desperate to get hauled up on a charge, Constable?’

      I smiled. Why not? It’d be five, maybe six minutes before someone bothered to pull us apart. Probably all stand around placing bets. Fight! Fight! Fight! Five minutes: plenty of time to batter the living shite out of the stuck-up little bastard. I clenched my fists. The knuckles groaned in protest. But it’d be worth it.

      He stepped forwards—

      A voice behind me: ‘Guv?’ An Oldcastle accent that sounded as if it was being squeezed down a blocked nose: Rhona. She shuffled round, into view.

      The bags under her eyes were the only colour on her face. She had her jacket draped over one shoulder, even though it was pouring down and cold enough to make her breath steam. Ancient sweat stains had bleached her navy shirt light blue around the armpits. Straw-blonde hair pulled back in a frizzy ponytail. She curled her top lip in a sort of twitchy grimace, exposing a set of beige teeth in an expanse of pale gum. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Guv. You got a minute?’

      DS Smith hung his head, one hand massaging his temples. ‘What?’

      But Rhona wasn’t looking at him, she was looking at me. ‘The boss needs you.’

      Smith squared his shoulders. ‘I’ll be there in—’

      ‘Oh, sorry, Sergeant Smith, didn’t see you there.’ Rhona flashed her pale gums again, then pointed at me. ‘I was talking to …’

      Smith’s chin came up, grinding the words out between his teeth. ‘In a professional police force we do not refer to detective constables as “Guv”, do I make myself clear?’

      Rhona just smiled at him for a minute. Then back to me. ‘Anyway, Guv, if you can pop inside, that’d be great.’

       6

      The SOC tent trembled, rain turning the blue plastic into a million little drums. Inside it was almost loud enough to drown out the diesel generator in the corner – powering the lighting rigs spread around the scene on thick-legged tripods. The large tent had been split into three areas: the first was for suiting-up-and-signing-in, with a line of standard blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape separating it from everything else. The rest of the space was grass and weeds, with the burial site secured within a cordon of bright-yellow ‘CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS’ tape towards the back wall.

      It was an open trench, about the size of a double bed, surrounded by kneeling figures – all dressed in white over-suits – carefully trowelling mud and stones into plastic crates as the flicker and whine of the photographer’s digital camera captured everything for posterity.

      Bones poked up through the dark earth.

      Please don’t be Rebecca. Be anyone else but her …

      ‘… and gross insubordination.’ DS Smith pulled his shoulders back, nose stuck in the air, one arm out – pointing at me with a trembling finger. ‘DCI Weber, I must insist—’

      ‘Veeber, it’s pronounced, Veeber. Veeee-Ber. Sandy, we’ve been over this.’ Detective Chief Inspector Weber tugged at the ends of his stripy scarf. He must have run the clippers over himself that morning, because there was a faint dusting of short brown hairs on the shoulders of his tweed jacket – trying to hide the fact there wasn’t much left on his head. Just a fringe around the sides and a single island in the middle, surrounded by a moat of shiny skin. His beard was the same length, as if he’d started at the top of his head and forgotten to stop. He straightened a pair of black-rimmed NHS-style glasses. Then sighed. ‘Well, I suppose with any transfer there’s always going to be a period of adjustment; you’re bound to settle in sooner or later.’

      Pink bloomed on Smith’s cheekbones. ‘But, sir, I—’

      ‘No,’ DCI Weber held up a hand, ‘don’t blame yourself. I’m sure once the team gets to know you, you’ll get on like my grandmother in a bratwurst factory.’

      I tried not to smile, I really did.

      Smith folded