Birthdays for the Dead. Stuart MacBride

the sleeping bag. ‘Mmmmnnnffff …’

      One eye opened. What should have been white was vivid red, the pupil dilated. ‘Mmmnnnfff?’ His mouth barely moved.

      I held out the tea towel. ‘How’s the head?’

      ‘Fmmmmmnnndfff …’

      ‘Serves you right.’ I stuck the icepack against Parker’s cheek until he took hold of it himself. ‘What did I tell you about Big Johnny Simpson’s sister? You never bloody—’ My mobile rang – a hard-edged rendition of an old-fashioned telephone. ‘God’s sake …’

      I put the mug on the floor by Parker’s head, pulled a blister pack of pills from my pocket and handed them over. ‘Tramadol. And I want you gone by the time I get back: Susanne’s coming round.’

      ‘Nnnng … fnnn brrkn …’

      ‘And would it kill you to tidy up now and then? Place is a shitehole.’ I grabbed my car keys and leather jacket. Dug the phone from my pocket. The name, ‘Michelle’, sat in the middle of the screen.

      Great.

      Because today wasn’t screwed up enough.

      I hit the green button. ‘Michelle.’

      Her Highlands-and-Islands accent was clipped and pointed. ‘Put that down!’

      ‘You phoned me!’

      ‘What? No, not you: Katie.’ A muffled pause. ‘I don’t care, put it down. You’ll be late!’ Then back to me. ‘Ash, will you please tell your daughter to stop acting like a spoiled little brat?’

      ‘Hi, Daddy.’ Katie: putting on her butter-wouldn’t-melt little-girl voice.

      I blinked. Shifted my grip on the cigar box. Tried to force a smile.

      ‘Be nice to your mother. It’s not her fault she’s a bitch in the mornings. And don’t tell her I said that!’

      ‘Bye, Daddy.’

      And Michelle was back. ‘Now get in that car, or I swear to God …’ The sound of the door clunking shut. ‘It’s Katie’s birthday next week.’

      ‘It’s Rebecca’s birthday today.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Michelle, she’s—’

      ‘I’m not talking about this, Ash. You promised to sort out the venue and—’

      ‘Five years.’

      ‘She didn’t even leave a note! What kind of ungrateful little …’ A pause, the sound of breath hissing between gritted teeth. ‘Why do we have to do this every single year? Rebecca doesn’t care, Ash: five years and not so much as a phone call. Now, have you got a venue for Katie’s party or haven’t you?’

      ‘It’s in hand, OK? All booked and paid for.’ Well, almost …

      ‘Monday, Ash: her birthday’s on Monday. A week today.’

      ‘I said it’s booked.’ I checked my watch. ‘You’re going to be late.’

      ‘Monday.’ She hung up without saying goodbye.

      I slipped the phone back in my pocket.

      Would it really be so bad to just talk about Rebecca? Remember what she was like before … Before the birthday cards started.

      Upstairs, I slipped the cigar box back in its hiding place – under a loose floorboard in the bedroom – then clumped down to the lounge and nudged the useless lump of gristle lying on the couch. ‘Two Tramadol every four hours, maximum. I come home and find your overdosed corpse mouldering on my sofa, I’ll bloody kill you.’

      ‘… sources close to the investigation confirm that Oldcastle Police have uncovered the body of a second young woman. Local news now, and Tayside Police are refusing to comment on claims that parents of missing teenager Helen McMillan have received a card from a serial killer known as “The Birthday Boy” …’

      ‘What? No, you’ll have to speak up.’ I pinned the phone between my ear and shoulder, and coaxed the ancient Renault around the roundabout. Dundee was a mass of grey, scowling beneath a clay-coloured sky. Rain spattered the windscreen, rising in twin streams of spray from the Audi in front. ‘Hello?’

      ‘Hello?’ DCI Weber was barely audible over the engine, squealing windscreen wipers, and crackly radio. ‘I said, how long?’

      ‘… where Assistant Chief Constable Eric Montgomery issued the following statement.’

      Dundee’s ACC sounded as if he had both thumbs wedged in his nostrils. ‘We want anyone who remembers seeing Helen, when she went missing in November last year, to get in touch with their nearest police station …’

      I turned the radio down to a dull buzz. ‘How should I know?’ The dual carriageway was a ribbon of red taillights, stretching all the way to the Kingsway junction. An illuminated sign flashed, ‘ROADWORKS ~ EXPECT DELAYS’. No shit. I hit the brakes. Drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Could take weeks.’

      ‘Oh for … What am I going to tell the Chief?’

      ‘The usual: we’re pursuing several lines of enquiry, and—’

      ‘Do I look like I floated up the Kings River on a mealie pudding? We need a suspect, we need a result, and we need it now. I’ve got half of Scotland’s media camped out in reception wanting a comment, and the other half laying siege to McDermid Avenue—’

      Traffic was barely moving, crawling along, then stopping, then crawling again. Why could no bastard drive any more?

      ‘—are you even listening to me?’

      ‘What?’ I blinked. ‘Yeah … not a lot we can do about it, though, is there?’ A hole opened up in the other lane, and I put my foot down, but the rusty old Renault barely noticed. Should have held out for one of the pool cars. ‘Come on you little sod …’

      A Tesco eighteen-wheeler thundered past into the gap, dirty spray turning the Renault’s windscreen opaque until the wipers scraped it into twin khaki-coloured rainbows. ‘Bastard!’

      ‘Where are you?’

      ‘Just coming into Dundee – by the Toyota garage. Traffic’s awful.’

      ‘Right, let’s try this again: remember I told you to play nice with Sergeant Smith? Well, it’s not a request any more, it’s an order. Turns out the slimy tosser was PSD in Grampian before we got him.’

      Professional Standards? Sodding hell …

      Actually, that made sense – DS Smith looked the type who’d clype on his colleagues, then get a hard-on while he stitched them up.

      The traffic lurched forwards another couple of car-lengths. ‘Why have we got him then?’

      ‘Exactly.’

      ‘Might be an idea if everyone kept their heads down for a while.’

      ‘You think?’ Silence on the other end. And then Weber was back. ‘Professional Standards. From Aberdeen.’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘Means they don’t trust us to police ourselves. Which – to be honest – is fair enough, but still, there’s the principle of the thing. We need a result, sharpish.’ A clunk and Weber was gone.

      Yeah, we’d get a result sharpish, because that’s how it worked. Didn’t matter that the official task force had been after the bastard for eight years: Weber needed a result to keep Grampian and Tayside from finding out that all the rumours about Oldcastle CID were true, so