Birthdays for the Dead. Stuart MacBride

You going up?’

      No, we were going to stand out here in the drizzle, bonding. I looked up at the redbrick building. ‘The McMillans in?’

      ‘Yeah. But watch yourself, they’ve got a journo up there.’ She stood to one side. ‘And we’re no’ exactly flavour of the day.’

      ‘When are we ever?’ I held the door open and ushered Dr McDonald inside.

      She just stared at me. ‘Erm …’

      ‘This was your idea, remember? I wanted to go back to Oldcastle, but no, you said—’

      ‘Can’t you go first?’

      ‘Fine.’ The stairwell smelled of musky perfume and frying onions. A collection of pot plants was expiring on the first landing, the carpet beginning to go bald at the edge of each tread. The sound of a television turned up too loud.

      My shoes scrunched on the steps, as if someone had put sand down to stop the carpet getting too slippery. The second landing was a lot like the first – more dying pot plants, a couple of plain doors painted reddish-brown, a stack of unopened Yellow Pages sitting on the windowsill still in their clear plastic wrappers.

      Dr McDonald’s voice echoed through the stairwell from somewhere below. ‘Is it safe to come up?’

      ‘Safe?’ I looked around at the mouldy pot plants. ‘No, the whole place is full of rabid Ninjas.’ Pause. ‘Of course it’s bloody safe!’ I grabbed the balustrade and hauled myself up to the top floor.

      A pair of doors led off to separate flats: a welcome mat sat outside one of them, a grubby brown rectangle on the gritty carpet. The word ‘McMILLAN’ was hand-painted in wobbly childish lettering on a wooden plaque above the bell.

      I leaned against the wall and waited.

      Three minutes later, Dr McDonald poked her head around the corner, looking up at me. ‘You don’t have to be so sarcastic, you know, it’s not like I’m trying to annoy you, I just have certain … concerns with unfamiliar enclosed spaces.’

      It was a miracle she was allowed out unsupervised.

      I knocked on the door.

      It was opened by a police officer wearing the white shirt-and-tie outfit that every beat cop had abandoned years ago in favour of Darth-Vader-black. His long nose was speckled with spider-veins, his dark eyes spaced wide on a narrow forehead. A set of silver sergeant’s bars shone on his black epaulettes as he had a good look at Dr McDonald, then turned and sniffed at me. ‘You Henderson? Let’s see some ID.’

      Officious little prick. I flashed my warrant card again. ‘You Family Liaison?’

      A nod. ‘Cool: thanks. Sorry, but the amount of bloody journos trying to wangle their way up here – kidding on they live in the flats, or they’re relatives, friends of the family …’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Parents are in the lounge with some tabloid gimp.’

      ‘How’d he get in?’

      ‘She: they invited her up. And her chequebook. Going to let her publish the birthday card.’

      ‘Oh for … That’s evidence in an ongoing investigation! Why haven’t you thrown her out? Do I really need to—’

      ‘We can’t stop the victim’s family inviting people up to their house: it’s their house.’ The FLO stuck his chest out. ‘And by the way, Detective Constable, I don’t care if you are one of Dickie’s “Party Crashers”,’ he patted himself on one shoulder, making the black epaulette with its silver bars wobble, ‘see these? These say “Sergeant”, so watch the lip. You bloody special-task-force dicks are all the same. Well, you know what: if you’re so damn special, why haven’t you caught the Birthday Boy yet? Party Crashers? You bastards couldn’t crash a wobbly shopping trolley.’

      Silence.

      I clenched my fists – the knuckles grumbled and creaked. Punch the bastard. So what if he was a sergeant: wouldn’t be the first time—

      Dr McDonald stepped into the doorway, right between us. ‘This is a pickle, isn’t it, well, not literally, that would be silly, but figuratively, I mean we’re all working towards the same ends, but we’ve got different pressures and expectations.’ She smiled up at the sergeant as he backed away. ‘Being a Family Liaison officer must be incredibly high pressure, my name’s Dr Alice McDonald, I’m a criminal psychologist, well, I don’t mean I’m a psychologist who commits crimes – that kind of thing only ever happens in the movies, and in books and things I suppose, but not in real life – is it OK if we come in?’

      And all the time the sergeant was retreating down the hallway, his eyes flicking from left to right, as if looking for somewhere safe to hide from the tsunami of crazy advancing across the beige-coloured carpet.

      His back bumped into a door. Nowhere left to run. No option but to drown … He turned and wrenched it open.

      The living room was full of shelves and units, all covered with vases, postcards, decorative glassware, stacks of envelopes, bits of polished rock … The furniture looked as if it came from Ikea, but the clutter was car-boot-sale chic. Three people: one man, two women.

      It wasn’t difficult to tell which one was the journalist – she was the middle-aged go-getter in the moderately priced suit, eyebrows furrowed, mouth set in a grim line. I feel your pain, it’s all so terrible, a tragedy … But the corners of her lips twitched, as if she was trying really hard not to grin. An exclusive like this wouldn’t come along every day.

      The sergeant stepped into the lounge and cleared his throat. ‘Ian, Jane, this is Dr McDonald, she’s a … psychologist. She wants to talk to you about … er …’ He looked back at her.

      She walked right in. ‘I’m so sorry about Helen. I know this is difficult, but I need to ask you a few questions about her – try to get a feeling for what she’s like.’

      What happened to the rambling?

      The father, Ian, scowled at Dr McDonald, his thick eyebrows drawing together like the doors on a battleship. Trackie-bottoms in Dundee United orange, a Mr Men T-shirt, close-cropped hair, arms folded across his chest.

      His wife was … huge. Not just wide, but tall: a floral-print behemoth with long brown hair and puffy pink eyes. She cleared her throat. ‘I was about to make some tea, would you—’

      ‘They’re no’ staying.’ Ian plonked down on the sofa and stared at Dr McDonald. ‘You want to know what Helen’s like? Helen’s dead. That’s what she’s like.’

      Jane tugged at a handkerchief in her lap. ‘Ian, please, we don’t know for—’

      ‘Of course she’s bloody deid.’ He jerked his chin in our direction. ‘Ask them. Go on, ask them what happened to the other poor cows.’

      She licked her lips. ‘I … I’m sorry, he’s upset, it’s been a horrible shock. And—’

      ‘They’re dead. He grabs them, he tortures them, he kills them.’ Ian twisted his hands together so tightly the fingertips turned pale. ‘End of story.’

      Dr McDonald looked at the carpet for a moment. ‘Ian, I won’t lie to you, it’s—’

      ‘Actually …’ I squeezed into the room, keeping my eyes fixed on the reporter. ‘Perhaps we could talk about this in private?’

      Ian shook his head. ‘Anything you say to us we’re gonnae tell her anyway. She’s gonnae tell the world what it’s really like, no’ that press-release pish you dole out. The truth.’

      The reporter stood, held out her hand. ‘Jean Buchanan, freelance. I want you to know that I’ve got the utmost respect for the police in this difficult—’

      ‘Mr McMillan, this is an ongoing investigation and if we’re going to catch