Birthdays for the Dead. Stuart MacBride

down the Land Registry, finding out who owned what house when the poor cows went missing. No point interviewing buggers who only moved in a couple years ago, is it?’

      I shrugged. Up on the glittering stage, Naughty Nikita ground her way along the floor.

      ‘How far back you going?’

      ‘Nine years: when Amber O’Neil got snatched …’ He frowned at me. ‘What’s that look for?’

      ‘Did you know Oldcastle produced more chlorine gas for World War One than anywhere else in the UK?’

      ‘Come on – surely nine years is enough.’

      ‘Apparently the ground’s all contaminated with mercury, that’s why we get so many nutters.’

      ‘We’re talking about three hundred houses here.’

      ‘That prick Forbes sacks the place, the wanker Montrose burns it down, and the arch fucker Huntly—’

      ‘Salts the earth, “so nane croppes shall growe on the accursd haven of evill and wicked Covenanters”, yeah: went to school, I know. So come on: Land Registry.’

      I hunkered down over my glass, resting my aching knuckles against its cool surface. ‘Remember that guy we caught three years ago: Martin Floyd? Where did he dump those prostitutes’ bodies?’

      ‘Can we not stick to the one topic for five minutes?’

      ‘He strangled them, raped them, then dumped them in Moncuir Wood. Why?’

      ‘Because he was a fucking nut-job, that’s why. Now can—’

      ‘He dumped them there, because when he was a wee boy he used to go camping in Moncuir Wood with the scouts. He knew the area.’

      ‘That thump in the head must’ve loosened your …’ Shifty stood there with his mouth hanging open.

      I took another sip of fizzy water. ‘Penny just dropped, has it?’

      ‘Eight o’clock.’

      I looked into the mirror. The place was getting busy, the after-work suits joined by stag nights and leaving dos: blokes up for a night on the batter with a little gratuitous nudity thrown in. Kicking off an evening that’d end with kebab vomit all down their front and a bollocking from the wife.

      ‘Come on, gents, let’s hear it for Naughty Nikita! Yeah, OK, whoo!’ No one joined in with the idiot on the PA system. ‘Now, the girls are going to take a little break, but we’ll be back in five minutes with the one, the only, the wonderful Kayleigh! Yeah!’

      Eight o’clock … I scanned the crowd’s reflection. Suits; stag night; that tosser ‘Sensational Steve’ off the morning drive-time show, plus hangers on; one of the council’s last remaining Liberal Democrats, sitting all on his own; a couple of local hoods sharing a joint. But no sign of anything … Fuck.

      Fuck!

      The man standing by the club’s entrance had barn-door ears, a sloping forehead, jutting chin, and a haircut so short you could see every inch of scar tissue criss-crossing his misshapen head. He couldn’t have been an inch over five-three. He ran a hand across his open mouth as he scanned the crowd. A DIY swallow tattoo perched on his wrist, blue ink spidering out into the surrounding skin.

      I hunched my shoulders up to my ears and slouched down, making myself as small as possible.

      Fuck.

      Shifty groaned. ‘Are you hiding from—’

      ‘I’m not hiding, I’m—’

      ‘Oh, you stupid prick. I told you to steer clear of—’

      ‘Shut up, OK?’ I glanced in the mirror again. ‘What’s he doing?’

      ‘Looking for someone.’

      See, that’s what happens when you have a local: people can find you. I downed the last of my water in one. The bubbles made my stomach churn. The bubbles. Nothing else.

      And then a voice came from right behind me, high-pitched and breathy. ‘Well, well, well, Detective Constable Ash Henderson, how fortuitous.’

      Too late to do a runner.

      I swivelled around on my seat, still holding the empty glass. Not the most elegant of weapons, but it would make one hell of a mess. ‘Joseph.’ I had a quick look behind him. ‘Where’s your boyfriend?’

      ‘Homophobia, Constable Henderson? I expected more from a man of your standing in the community.’ A small shake of the head. ‘If you must know, Francis is parking the BMW. But don’t worry, he’ll be joining us presently.’ Joseph pulled on a breadknife smile. ‘And Detective Inspector Morrow, how’s life treating yourself?’

      Shifty shrugged. ‘Did you know Oldcastle made heaps of poison gas for killing Nazis in World War One?’

      Joseph raised a scarred eyebrow. ‘Fascinating.’ Then back to me. ‘Constable Henderson: do you, by chance, have something for me?’

      A figure appeared at Joseph’s shoulder. Tall and broad, curly ginger hair tied back in a ponytail, broken nose, huge moustache with matching tuft below the bottom lip. He took off a pair of John Lennon sunglasses and slipped them inside his leather jacket. Small pink eyes. He gave me a stiff little nod. ‘’Spector.’

      I nodded back. ‘Francis.’

      Joseph took a pair of black leather gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. ‘Tell me, Francis, is our friend Constable Henderson on our list for today?’

      The big man produced a notebook and flicked through the pages, his forehead all creased up, tip of his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. ‘Nah.’

      ‘Oh …’ Joseph frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      Thank Christ for that.

      ‘Oh well, perhaps tomorrow.’ He winked at me. ‘It seems Lady Fortune is smiling upon you this evening, Constable Henderson. Perhaps you should consider paying off your debt to Mr Inglis, before it becomes necessary to arrange a late-night home visit from our fiscal management services?’

      Francis sniffed. ‘Our boy’s off tae the bogs.’

      A thin man with a rectangular bald-spot was lurching his way towards the toilets. The door swung shut behind him with a thump. Francis set off after him.

      Joseph stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. ‘Actually, the Nazi Party didn’t come into being until 1920, so they can’t have been the recipients of Oldcastle’s gaseous emissions … Ah. Francis has liaised with our friend. Excellent.’

      Francis hauled the balding bloke out of the toilets.

      The guy was fumbling with his trousers, still doing up his flies. ‘Please, I can explain, I didn’t think it was due till next week, I mean I’ve got the money, I never said I didn’t have the money, did I?’

      Francis dragged him past, making for the entrance.

      ‘I can get it tomorrow, when the banks open, that’ll be OK, won’t it?’ Out onto the cobbled street. ‘Really, I’ve got the money, it’s not a problem, we can—’

      The door clunked shut.

      ‘And now, the girl you’ve all been waiting for, the one, the only, the incredibly sexy: Kayleigh!’ The lights dimmed and ‘Bad to the Bone’ thumped out of the speakers. Amateur hour was over.

      Joseph flashed his teeth again. ‘Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have business to attend to. Do enjoy the show.’

      Shifty waited until Joseph joined Francis outside, before turning to stare at me. ‘How much do you owe Andy Inglis?’

      I turned back to the bar, pulse pounding