Birthdays for the Dead. Stuart MacBride

      She flipped me the Vs, then wandered off. ‘No’ supposed to be on your phone in a hospital …’

      ‘Ash? I said how—’

      ‘It’s been three years, Michelle: think it’s maybe time to stop asking?’

      ‘I was only—’

      ‘It’s a shitty little council house in Kingsmeath: the drains stink; someone keeps flicking dog shit into my back garden, which is a jungle, by the way; and that useless bastard Parker is still crashing on my couch. I’m settling in just great.’

      Silence from the other end of the phone.

      Typical. She started it, but I was the one who ended up in trouble. ‘Sorry, it’s … Didn’t mean to snap.’ I cleared my throat. ‘How’s your dad?’

      ‘I thought we weren’t going to do this any more.’

      ‘I said, I’m sorry, OK?’ Every damn time. ‘So, Katie: can I speak to her?’

      ‘It’s twenty to four on a Monday afternoon: what do you think?’

      ‘Don’t tell me she’s—’

      ‘Yes, she’s at school.’

      ‘Who died?’

      ‘She wants to go to France for a month.’

      Frown. ‘What?’

      ‘I said she wants—’

      ‘How can she go to France for a month?’ I took two steps across the corridor, turned, and paced back the other way, the phone clenched in my fist. ‘What about school? She’s barely there as it is! For God’s sake, Michelle, why do I always have to be the bad cop? Why can’t—’

      ‘It’s the school doing it: an exchange thing – staying with a French family in Toulouse. They think it’ll be good for her. Help her focus.’ And the clipped voice was back. ‘I thought you’d be more supportive.’

      ‘They want to pack her off for a month, where we can’t keep an eye on her, and you’re OK with this?’

      ‘I …’ A sigh. ‘We’ve tried everything else, Ash. You know what she’s like.’

      I ground my fingertips into gritty eyes. It didn’t really help. ‘She’s not a bad kid, Michelle.’

      ‘Oh for God’s sake: grow up, Ash. She’s not your sweet little girl any more. Not since Rebecca abandoned us.’

      Because that’s when everything went wrong.

      I pushed through a set of double doors, into a quiet corridor. Dr McDonald stood at the far end, leaning on a radiator and staring out of the window. Outside, two wings of Castle Hill Infirmary formed a six-storey canyon of dirty concrete. The sky was a violent splash of blood and fire, low clouds catching the light of the dying sun. But Dr McDonald wasn’t looking up, she was looking down, into the darkness.

      She pressed the fingertips of her left hand against the wadding on her face. ‘Did you know that Oldcastle has one of the highest instances of mental health problems in the whole UK, even more than London … well, on a percentage basis. Fifteen confirmed serial killers in the last thirty years. Fifteen, and that’s just the ones we’ve heard of. A lot of people blame inbreeding, but it’s probably because of the chlorine factories, I mean inbreeding isn’t rampant here, is it?’

      She’d obviously never been to Kingsmeath. ‘I’ll introduce you to Shifty Dave Morrow, if you like. He’s got webbed toes.’

      ‘Do you remember anything odd about the books Helen McMillan had in her bedroom?’

      ‘Harry Potter, vampire love stories, stuff like that? Katie’s got Stephen King and Dean Koontz and Clive Barker, so my idea of what’s normal for a twelve-year-old might be a bit off.’

      ‘Kind of ironic, don’t you think, I mean there’s Oldcastle churning out all that chlorine gas to help with the war effort: everyone thinks they’re helping win World War One and all the time the factories are dumping tons of mercury into the environment, guaranteeing generations and generations of mental illness …’ She stood on her tiptoes, cupped her hands against the glass, and stuck her head in the makeshift porthole.

      I joined her, peering down into the depths.

      A pair of headlights swept the road at the bottom of the concrete canyon, followed by a silver Mercedes van. The words, ‘McCRAE AND McCRAE, FUNERAL SERVICES’ were printed along the side. It slowed to a crawl below the window, then disappeared down a ramp into the hospital basement.

      Dr McDonald shifted her feet, Hi-tops squeaking on the linoleum. ‘Is that her, do you think: Lauren Burges?’

      I checked my watch. ‘Might be.’ Assuming Matt got her out of the ground before the forensic archaeologist returned from lunch.

      ‘By 1916 Oldcastle was producing more chlorine than anywhere else in Europe, and now there isn’t a single factory left.’ She backed away from the window. ‘When will they do the autopsy?’

      ‘Post mortem. Not “autopsy”.’

      She started to sing: a little girly voice, not much more than a whisper.

      ‘I say morgue, you say mor-tu-ary.

      You say post mortem, I say au-topsy …’

      She backed away from the window and followed the black line to where it disappeared under the dented metal doors of a lift. A sign next to it was marked, ‘AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY, NO PATIENTS OR VISITORS’.

      ‘Tomorrow morning. Professor Twining always starts at nine, on the dot.’

      Dr McDonald prodded at the wadding on her head again. ‘You know there’s probably enough mercury left in the soil around here to keep driving people loopy right into the next millennium?’

      ‘Look on the bright side,’ I turned and walked back towards the exit, ‘at least you and I will never be out of a job.’

      ‘Thanks.’ Dr McDonald clunked the car door closed, then turned and limped across the gravel driveway to a house that had to be worth millions. Like everything else on Fletcher Road it was a big Victorian home, complete with turrets, set in a large garden and shut off from the outside world behind eight-foot-high walls.

      Strings of white lights glowed in the naked branches of ancient oak trees – this wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood where you put up neon reindeer and inflatable Santas.

      I popped open the Renault’s hatchback and hauled out her luggage – two bright-red suitcases, one huge, one medium-sized. Their wheels dragged and growled through the damp gravel, resisting all the way.

      A woman was standing under the portico, mid-to-late-forties, bathed in the light from a pair of carriage lanterns. Her bobbed blonde hair was jelled into spikes on one side, but not on the other; a diamond stud glinted in her nose; ripped blue jeans and a leather waistcoat – no shirt. As if she was auditioning for a heavy metal video. She’d gone the whole hog and got tattoos to go with the outfit – some sort of floral thing poking out over one shoulder; swallow on one foot, anchor on the other.

      She flicked the ash off her cigarette and sipped clear liquid from a crystal tumbler full of ice. Didn’t sound local, more like something off The Archers: ‘All right, Alice love?’ She opened her arms and gave Dr McDonald a hug, then stepped back and frowned. ‘Here, what have you done to your head? Is it sore? Looks sore. You come inside and get yourself a drink. Got a nice bottle o’ Belvedere in the freezer and some tonic.’

      An elderly Jack Russell wheezed out through the open front door, and Dr McDonald beamed. ‘Where’s Uncle Phil?’

      ‘Taking Ellie and Colin to see that boy band, Mr Bones, in Glasgow. Still … no