Birthdays for the Dead. Stuart MacBride

smiled down at the geriatric terrier. ‘Wouldn’t you, Jessie?’

      The dog didn’t really sit, it was more like its back end collapsed – puff, pant, tongue lolling out the side of its mouth.

      Dr McDonald swept a hand out towards me, as if she was introducing a magic trick. ‘Aunty Jan, this is Detective Constable Ash Henderson. Aunty Jan’s a vet.’

      Aunty Jan sniffed. ‘You her bit of rough then? Kinda old for our Alice, aren’t you?’

      Cheeky cow.

      ‘Dr McDonald’s assisting us on a case.’

      ‘Hmm …’ Another stare, this one accompanied by a swig of whatever was in the glass. Then she stuck out her hand. ‘Janice Russell. We’re getting a Chinese for tea; bet you’re partial to a bit of chicken chow mein, big lad like you.’

      And pass up the chance to get the hell away from Dr McFruitLoop?

      I pulled on a pained smile. ‘I’d love to, but I’ve got a ton of paperwork to catch up on.’

      And more importantly: an appointment with a lap-dancing bar.

       9

      Whatever song was pounding through the place faded out and there was silence.

      A mirror stretched the length of the bar – behind the optics and bottles of whisky. I watched the reflection of a chunky blonde scoop up her cowgirl costume and bra, then wobble off the stage in too-high heels, biting her bottom lip, cheeks streaked with mascara tears. An Aberdeen accent crackled out of the speakers. ‘That wis Tina. Big round of applause fir Tina! Come on, big round of applause …’ Nothing. ‘Next we’ve got a real treat for you: Naughty Nikita the Polish Princess!’

      The music cranked up again.

      That was the trouble with early evening slots at the Silver Lady: the handful of after-work-let’s-go-to-a-titty-bar-isn’t-that-cool-and-or-ironic? brigade weren’t worth putting on the best talent for. So management put on newbies like Tina – out of her clothes and out of her depth, trying to prove she had what it takes to keep the punters aroused and drinking.

      A lanky bloke in a black waistcoat and bow tie sidled up behind the bar, wiping the wooden surface with a cloth. He smiled. ‘Another?’ Enough gel in his hair to keep him looking like a prick, even in a force ten gale.

      ‘Thanks, Steve.’

      He was back a minute later with a fresh glass of sparkling mineral water. The ice cubes clinked as I raised it to my lips.

      Steve leaned on the bar. ‘Hear your brother got him a spanking from three of Big Johnny Simpson’s boys last night.’

      I put it down again. ‘Oh yeah?’

      ‘Seriously: chattin’ up Big Johnny’s sister? Like that was ever gonnae end well.’

      But then Parker never was the brightest.

      Steve glanced up and down the bar. Inched closer, voice barely audible over the thumping music. ‘I heard you waded in and battered the crap out them. All three of them.’ He licked his lips. ‘It true you’re gettin’ back in the game?’ Steve threw a couple of messy punches in the air. ‘Man, I’d love to see that – Ash Henderson, Comeback King of the Bare-Knuckle Ring! How legendary would that be?’

      I took a sip. ‘Someone’s been pulling your leg.’

      ‘Oh …’ His face fell, and so did his shoulders. Then he snapped on a grin as a chubby man in a wrinkled grey suit with matching comb-over lurched up to the bar. ‘Same again, sir?’

      A booming laugh. ‘She’s after champagne, Steveyboy. Mak’ it a bottle, eh? And none of your foreign pish – French. And twa glasses.’

      ‘Coming right up, sir.’

      Mr Champagne shuffled his feet, shoogling his bum in time to the music. ‘Do you no’ love this place?’ A network of parallel brown streaks scarred his trouser leg from knee to groin. Skidmarks, the sign of a classy lap dance.

      A hand landed on my shoulder. ‘What’s this I hear about you getting back in the bare-knuckle game?’

      I didn’t look around. ‘Evening, Shifty.’

      In the mirror, DI Shifty Dave Morrow gave me a wink. His neck had disappeared years ago taking his hair with it. He wrapped an arm around Mr Champagne. ‘Do’s a favour and bugger off before I twat you one, eh?’

      The dance came to a sudden stop and Mr Champagne stood there with his mouth open for a moment, then shuffled down to the other end of the bar.

      Shifty Dave levered his huge arse up on the stool next to me. ‘How’s the titties? Anyone good been on yet?’

      ‘The new girl, Tina, fell off again.’

      ‘Oooooh …’ He pursed his lips, pulling in a whistling breath. ‘How many times?’

      ‘Twice.’

      A nod. ‘Well, at least it’s an improvement on last night.’ He unbuttoned his suit jacket, showing off a straining blue shirt and a spatter-stained tie. ‘Any chance of a drink here, I’m parched.’

      Right on cue, Steve the barman reappeared with an ice bucket. An open bottle of Moët & Chandon stuck out of the top.

      Oldest trick in the book. Management buys one case of the stuff, drinks it, then fills the empty bottles with the cheapest supermarket sparkling wine they can find. All the girls are told: some punter wants to buy you a drink? Got to be champagne. So the punter buys the ‘champagne’. Then the staff collect the empties, fill them with Asda’s discount cava, and round we go again. The Happy Hedgehog in Cowskillin doesn’t even bother with the cheap fizzy – they get a crate of bargain-basement Liebfraumilch and stick it through a SodaStream.

      Shifty watched Mr Champagne hand over a credit card. ‘Look at this tosser.’ Not bothering to keep his voice down. ‘Buying fizzy plonk ’cos he thinks it’ll impress the halfwits he works with if he can clamber inside some stripper’s G-string. Like that’s ever going to happen.’ A little louder: ‘You’re fucking dreaming!’

      The wee man in the rumpled grey suit took his bottle of expensive cava and marched back to his booth, head held high. Noble in the face of rudeness. With someone else’s skidmarks on his trousers.

      I took another sip of sparkling water. ‘Any idea where I can get somewhere to hold a kid’s birthday party?’

      Shifty licked his lips as Steve pulled a pint of Tennent’s. ‘Could do it here? There’s that function suite upstairs. Sure Dillon would give you a decent rate.’

      Up on stage, a woman with space-hopper breasts twirled herself around a shiny pole, dark hair trailing behind her like a banner.

      Yeah, maybe not.

      Steve plonked the pint down in front of Shifty. ‘Don’t pick on the punters – it screws up my tips.’

      ‘Cheers, Steve.’ Shifty didn’t even bother pretending to get his wallet out any more. On the house was on the house. He resurfaced after downing half the glass in one. ‘Ahhhh …’ A small belch. ‘Shitter of a day, Ash, complete shitter. You’d think that wanker Smith was the Chief Bloody Constable, way he’s ordering everyone about. Only a DS, for Christ’s sake.’

      ‘Word is he’s PSD from Aberdeen.’

      Shifty’s whole face pinched in around his bared teeth. ‘Rubber-heeling little bastard.’ The rest of his pint disappeared, then he held out the glass. ‘Put another one in there, Steve.’

      Steve did as he was told, then wandered off to serve someone else.

      This time Shifty