Birthdays for the Dead. Stuart MacBride

stared at the last photograph in the set, the one that arrived two months ago on Hannah’s birthday. She was slumped in the chair, her long black hair shaved off, her scalp a mess of cuts and bruises, the word ‘Bitch’ carved into her forehead, eyes screwed shut, tears making glistening trails through the blood on her cheeks. Dickie sniffed. ‘Do you want me to tell them?’

      I sighed. Shook my head. ‘I’ll do it when I get back to Oldcastle. They know me.’

      ‘Hmm …’ A pause. ‘Speaking of which …’ Dickie nodded at the young woman in the stripy top. ‘You two met?’

      ‘Hi.’ She stopped playing with her hair. ‘Dr McDonald. Well, Alice really. I mean you can call me Alice if you like, or Dr McDonald, I suppose, or sometimes people call me “Doc”, but I don’t really like that very much, Alice is OK though …’

      ‘Ash.’ I held my hand out for shaking. She just looked at it.

      ‘Right, great, thanks for the offer, but I don’t really do physical contact with people I barely know. I mean there’s all sorts of bacterial and hygiene issues involved – are you the sort of person who washes his hands when he goes to the toilet, do you pick your nose, are you one of those men who scratch and sniff – not to mention the whole personal space thing.’

      Complete. And utter. Freakshow.

      She cleared her throat. ‘Sorry. I get a little flustered with unfamiliar social interactions, but I’m working on it, I mean I’m fine with Detective Chief Superintendent Dickie, aren’t I, Chief Superintendent, I don’t gabble with you at all, do I, tell him I don’t gabble.’

      Dickie smiled. ‘As of yesterday, Dr McDonald’s our new forensic psychologist.’

      ‘Ah.’ Set a freak to catch a freak … ‘What happened to the last one?’

      She wrapped her arm tighter around herself. ‘I really think we need to visit the burial site. The Birthday Boy didn’t pick this spot at random, he must have known it was going to be safe, that they wouldn’t be discovered for years, and if it was me killing girls and burying them I’d want to keep them close so I knew they were safe. Wouldn’t you? I mean it’s all about power and possession, isn’t it?’ Dr McDonald stared at the white toes of her red Converse Hi-tops.

      I glanced over her head at Dickie. ‘And she doesn’t talk like this when it’s just the two of you?’

      ‘Hardly ever.’ He raised his hand, as if he was about to pat her on the shoulder.

      She flinched. Backed up a step.

      Dickie sighed. ‘I’ll … em … leave you to it then.’ He put his hand in his pocket, out of harm’s way. ‘Ash? You hurrying back to Oldcastle, or have you got a minute?’

      Hurrying back? Still hadn’t decided if I was pointing the Rustmobile towards Newcastle and putting my foot down. ‘Long as you need.’

      ‘So,’ I slid the glass door shut, and leaned on the safety rail, ‘does she provide her own straitjacket, or does that come out of your budget?’

      The view from the balcony outside the meeting room was every bit as dismal as Sabir had promised: overlooking the dual carriageway and the Kingsway Retail Park. Huge glass and metal sheds bordering a lopsided triangle of parking spaces. Up above, the sky was solid grey, the light cold and thin through the pouring rain. At least it was relatively dry here – the balcony for the room above kept the worst of the weather off.

      Cigarette butts made soggy drifts in the corners, little orange cylinders swelling on the damp tiles. DS Gillis was down the other end, puffing away – the smoke clinging to his beard as if it was smouldering – grumbling into a mobile phone, pacing back and forth.

      DCS Dickie sparked up a cigarette, took a long, deep drag, then rested his elbows on the safety rail, one hand rubbing at the bags under his eyes. ‘How’s the arthritis?’

      I flexed my hands, the joints ached. ‘Been worse. How’s the ulcer?’

      ‘You know, when I took on this bloody investigation, I was untouchable. Top of my game, going places … Remember the Pearson murders?’ Another puff. ‘Now look at me.’

      ‘So what did happen to your last profiler?’

      Dickie made a gun of his thumb and forefingers, stuck it to his temple, and pulled the trigger. ‘All over a hotel bedroom in Bristol, three weeks ago.’ He glanced over his shoulder, towards the meeting room. ‘Dr McDonald might be a nut-job, but at least we won’t be sponging her brains off the walls anytime soon. Well … touch wood.’

      I turned, looking back through the glass doors. She was still standing in front of the blown-up birthday cards, fiddling with her hair. Staring up at Hannah Kelly’s bleeding body. I forced a smile into my voice, laid it on thick. ‘Not really your fault though, is it? The Birthday Boy was always going to be a bastard to catch.’

      ‘By the time we know he’s got them, it’s a year too late. The trail’s cold. No witnesses, or they can’t remember, or they make shit up because they watch too much telly and think it’s what we want to hear.’ Dickie flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette, then stared at the glowing tip. ‘I’m up for retirement in four months. Eight years working the same bloody case and not one single sodding clue … Until now.’ His eyes narrowed, wreathed in smoke. ‘Two bodies, probably more on the way. We’ll get DNA, fibres, and we’ll catch the bastard. And I’ll take my gold watch and march off home to Lossiemouth with my head held high, while the Birthday Boy rots in a shite-smeared cell for the rest of his unnatural little life.’

      ‘You coming to help with the door-to-doors?’

      A pause. ‘Any chance you could take Dr McDonald back to Oldcastle with you? Show her the body recovery site, let her get a feel for the place?’

      Yeah, because babysitting a mentally unstable psychologist was right up there on my list of life goals. ‘You’re not coming?’

      Dickie pulled a face, curling the corners of his mouth down. ‘Do you know why I’m still here, Ash? Why they didn’t boot me off the case and get someone else in?’

      ‘No other bugger wants the job?’

      A nod. ‘Career suicide. Speaking of which … I need another favour.’ He stood up straight, one hand rubbing at the small of his back. ‘Our last psychologist, Bremner, didn’t just top himself, he took his notes with him. Burned the lot in the hotel bin: disabled the smoke detector, set fire to everything, then bang.’

      I tucked my hands in my pockets. It was getting colder. ‘Always thought he was a bit of a prick.’

      ‘Managed to screw something up on the servers too. Every psychological document we had – poof, up in smoke. Sabir tried recovering the data, but Bremner cocked up so long ago all the backups were shagged too.’ Dickie took one last draw on his cigarette, then sent its glowing corpse sailing out into the rain. ‘Not wanting to speak ill of the dead, or anything, but still …’

      ‘What’s the favour?’

      ‘Well, you’re still friends with Henry, aren’t you?’

      ‘Henry who?’ Frown. ‘What, Forrester? The occasional Christmas card maybe, but I’ve not seen him for years.’

      ‘Thing is, Dr McDonald has to start again from scratch; be a big help if she could discuss the case with him. Maybe see if he’s got any of his original files?’

      ‘So give him a call. Get him to courier everything over.’

      Down the other end of the balcony, Gillis snapped his phone shut, then ground his cigarette out against the wall and let it fall to the tiles at his feet.

      Dickie stared out across the retail park. ‘She says she needs to see him. Face to face.’

      Gillis lumbered over. ‘You tell him yet?’

      ‘“Tell