Birthdays for the Dead. Stuart MacBride

      Up on stage Kayleigh showed everyone how it was done, hanging upside down, thighs wrapped around the pole, spotlights glittering off her sequined bra.

      ‘Enough. Too much.’ I ran my tongue over the two loose molars. ‘More than I’ve got.’

      Retching noises echoed out from one of the toilet cubicles. I splashed water on my face, took a deep breath, and stared at myself in the mirror. Fucking halfwit. Another splash of water, scrubbed away with a handful of green paper towels that smelled like sour milk. It went with the rank perfume of piss-soaked floors and bitter vomit.

      I checked my watch – half ten. Susanne would do her last set soon, then we could get the hell out of here. Before Joseph and Francis came back.

      Time for some fresh air.

      The fire exit had one of those, ‘THIS DOOR IS ALARMED’, signs on it, but it was open anyway – a brick stuck in the gap to keep it that way, so the staff could nip out for a sneaky cigarette. I pushed through into a gloomy alley. The security light bolted to the wall above the loading bay didn’t come on, just fizzed and crackled, never quite getting there.

      A siren wailed in the distance, the rumble of a late-night bus, a singing drunk, two women fighting, the thump-thump-thump bassline of whatever song was playing inside. The fumbling moans of a couple going at it, hidden in the shadows of a recessed doorway on the other side of the alley.

      I took a deep breath, hauling in cold air, letting out a cloud of white.

      Should have kept on driving to Newcastle.

      More moaning from the snoggers.

      Still could. Car was parked outside the club: get in and bugger off before they dump my mangled body in a shallow grave somewhere. Like Rebecca.

      ‘Fuck …’ I scrubbed a hand over my face.

      I wasn’t going anywhere. What was the point of struggling through the last four years, only to give up and run away before we’d caught the bastard?

      I pulled out my phone and called Rhona. She picked up on the third ring. A diesel generator rumbled somewhere in the background. ‘Guv?’

      ‘Any news?’

      A yawn drowned out everything else. ‘Yeah, sorry … I was about to call you: ground-penetrating radar think they’ve got a fourth burial site. No way he’s getting away this time, right? Four bodies down, seven to go.’

      Eight. But the only people who knew that were: Henry Forrester, me, Rebecca, and the bastard who killed her.

      ‘Any ID on the other girl?’

      ‘Hold on, I’ll check …’

      From the doorway opposite came the sound of a zip being undone. A knee-trembler in the alley behind a lap-dancing bar. Talk about romantic.

      I stuck the phone against my chest. ‘Hoy, you two: get a room.’

      ‘Fuck!’ Frantic scrabbling, and one of the figures lurched out of the shadows. Andrew: the Silver Lady’s head doorman, hauling up his flies. ‘I was … We …’ He cleared his throat. Flexed his shoulders. Chin jutting out like a slab of freshly shaved granite. ‘You tell anyone about this and I’ll snap your bloody neck. Understand?’

      He grabbed a bottle from one of the recycling bins. A sharp tap against the wall turned it into a multi-bladed weapon. ‘I’m no’ kidding, you hear me? One fucking word!’ Jabbing the broken bottle in my direction. Trembling.

      I backed off a couple of steps, palms out. ‘OK, Andrew, I hear you. Our little secret.’

      He licked his lips, glanced across at the shadowy doorway, then dropped the bottle and charged through the door, back into the club.

      What the hell was that all about? Doormen got hand jobs from star-struck women every evening. Friend of mine once told me it’s the bow tie that does it: reminds the ladies of James Bond. But then he always was a bit of a prick.

      Back to the phone. ‘Rhona?’

      ‘I was about to give up on you.’ She sniffed. ‘It’s not confirmed or anything, but we think number two might be Sophie Elphinstone, went missing from Inverness four years ago.’

      ‘They doing a dental chart match?’

      A small pause. ‘Can’t. He tore all her teeth out.’ Another yawn.

      ‘Go home and get some rest. You’re no good to anyone knackered.’

      I hung up, scrolled through my contacts list, and picked the number Dickie had texted me for Dr McDonald. Listened to it ring and ring …

      On the other side of the alley, Andrew’s bit of stuff was getting restless. Feet shuffling in the darkness. Waiting for me to bugger off so she could slip back into the club unnoticed.

      Tough. She could wait.

      I let the phone ring through to voicemail, then tried again.

      ‘Mmmph? Lo?’ Not quite words, mumbled and fuzzy.

      ‘Dr McDonald, sorry to wake you, but—’

      ‘Ash … No it’s fine, I’m awake.’ A yawn. ‘Urgh … What time is it?’

      ‘We’ve found another body. Might be Sophie Elphinstone. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Sorry to bother—’

      ‘Sophie Elphinstone?’ Dr McDonald sounded a lot more awake. ‘Is she … Did he decapitate her?’

      More shuffling from the doorway opposite.

      ‘He ripped all her teeth out instead.’

      ‘Isn’t that interesting: he decapitates his third victim, Lauren Burges, but he doesn’t decapitate his second or his sixth. Hannah Kelly and Sophie Elphinstone get to keep their heads …’

      ‘Maybe he goes through phases, and—’

      ‘It’s almost as if he’s experimenting. The normal pattern is to keep doing the same thing over and over, getting better at it every time, refining it, building up the fantasy, but it’s …’ A pause. ‘It’s as if he doesn’t really like what he does – he cuts Lauren Burges’s head off, but he can’t bring himself to do it again.’ A strange clicking sound came from the earpiece, as if she was banging the phone off her teeth. ‘When they examine the remains tomorrow, we need to get them to look for patterns of wounding – map the correlation points, see what else he’s tried and discarded.’

      ‘Yeah … OK.’ I hung up, slipped the phone back into my pocket and stood there watching a rat rip a hole in a bin-bag. He doesn’t really like what he does. Bollocks – if he didn’t like it, he wouldn’t keep doing it.

      More shuffling from the other side of the alley.

      ‘Oh, grow up.’ I turned my back on them and hauled the door open. ‘I don’t care, OK? Shag who you want, where you want.’

      Whoever it was cleared their throat behind me. ‘How long have you known?’

      I stopped, one hand on the door, the music from inside getting louder. Licked my lips. Didn’t say anything.

      ‘Ash?’ Footsteps on the tarmac. ‘How long have you known?’

      I glanced over my shoulder and there he was: DI Shifty Dave Morrow, sausage fingers fidgeting with his jacket buttons.

Tuesday 15th November

       10

      ‘What?