Birthdays for the Dead. Stuart MacBride

against his nose. A car door clunked shut behind me. Then another one. Then an English accent, all marbles and plums, at my shoulder: ‘Officer Henderson? Hello?’

      I kept walking.

      A duffle-coated woman waddled alongside, thrusting a microphone under my nose. ‘Is it true you’ve uncovered a second set of remains?’

      Someone else: ‘Have you identified the first body?’

      ‘Any comment on the new Dundee victim, Helen McMillan? Will Douglas Kelly be speaking to her parents?’

      ‘Your own daughter went missing, does that give you special insight into how the victims’ families are feeling?’

      I kept going: just three more feet till the safety of the police tape. ‘We’re pursuing several avenues of enquiry.’ Never give the bastards anything they can quote.

      A squat man barged in front, ears like knots of gristle, broken nose, little digital recorder in hand. ‘How do you respond to criticism that your botched investigation into Hannah Kelly’s abduction eight years ago left the Birthday Boy free to kill— Hey!’

      I shoved him to one side and ducked under the cordon, holding it up so Dr McDonald could follow. PC Duguid leaned back against the bonnet of the patrol car, grinning. Gave a wee salute. ‘Morning, Guv. Like the bruises: very fashionable.’

      ‘You tipped the bastards off, didn’t you?’

      The grin grew wider, pulling his chubby cheeks with it. ‘Bottle of Macallan, Guv. What’s a boy to do?’

      I marched past, didn’t give him the satisfaction. Or a knee in the balls.

      Dr McDonald trotted up beside me. ‘Did he really tip off those reporters for a bottle of whisky, what kind of police officer takes bribes like that, I mean it’s not right, is it, we should report him …’

      Yeah, see how much good that’d do.

      A dirt track led away from the road, grass growing down the middle, disappearing into the gap between two sandstone buildings.

      Cameron Park must have been impressive once – back when this was an exclusive neighbourhood. A manicured landscape of oak, elder and ash; rhododendron bushes with their gleaming leaves; beds of flowers and shrubs; a duck pond; and a bandstand with a paved area around it for dancing … Now it was a rest home for weeds and litter. A shopping trolley stuck out of the long grass, nose up, one wheel missing, empty crisp packets caught in its metal grille. The rhododendrons were huge sprawling masses, their leaves trembling in the rain, the ground beneath them thick with shadow.

      Three blue plastic marquees had been erected in the undergrowth, one – the largest – next to a dirty-yellow digger and a long trench gouged through a barbwire patch of brambles. The second was beside the crumbling bandstand, the third just visible behind one of those massive rhododendrons.

      Flickering light came from inside two of the tents – crime scene photography casting the silhouettes of kneeling figures against the plastic walls.

      A voice boomed through the rain: ‘I don’t care – get it bloody sorted!’

      Dr McDonald flinched.

      A prick in a grey Markie’s suit with matching overcoat marched out of the tent by the bandstand, carrying a brolly and a stack of forms. High forehead, close-cropped hair like a Kiwi fruit, long nose, not much going on in the chin department. ‘Amateurs …’

      A uniformed PC scurried out after him.

      The prick slapped the wodge of paper against the PC’s chest, then turned his back on the poor sod, leaving her in the rain while he pulled out a phone and made a call.

      She stared at the back of his head for a moment, stuck up two fingers, then stomped off down the path towards us. Muttering all the way.

      I nodded at her. ‘Julie.’

      ‘Guv.’ PC Wilson jerked her chin in my direction. Rain drummed on the rim of her bowler, a blonde ponytail drooping and damp at the back. Her eyes were two tiny slits, mouth working on something nasty. She didn’t stop. ‘I swear to God, I’m going to swing for that sheep-shagging bastard.’

      ‘The boss about?’

      She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, in the direction of the bandstand, as she passed us. ‘Comes down here acting like we all fell off the fucking Thick Wagon.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      ‘Swing for him!’

      Dr McDonald peered at me through her rain-speckled glasses. ‘Is it always like this, I mean I enjoy a bit of team-based horseplay as much as the next psychologist, but it does feel as if … Ash?’

      I set off again, making for the bandstand. It looked ancient: the woodwork crumbling and saggy – boards missing in the cladding, half the roof gone. Swirly bits of cast iron formed decorative flourishes between the bloated pillars, the metal pitted and stained with rust.

      ‘Ash?’ She was back again, doing a weird hop-skip thing until her feet were in step with mine. Left, right, left, right. ‘Is there anything I should know about before we interact with your team, I mean I’ve never met any of them and it’s going to be in an enclosed space and you know I’m not good under social pressure and you’re the only one here I know, so—’

      ‘Why don’t you let me do the talking, then? Just until you feel more comfortable joining in.’ Which would have the added bonus of shutting her up for a bit.

      The blue plastic marquee next to the bandstand was about the size of a double garage, with ‘PROPERTY OF SPSA SCENES EXAMINATION BRANCH – OLDCASTLE – TENT C’ stencilled in white along the side.

      The prick was still on the phone, wandering up and down, kicking at tufts of yellowed grass. But as we got within spitting distance he looked up, narrowed his eyes. ‘Hold on …’ He stuck the mobile against his chest. ‘Where the hell have you been? Shift started three hours ago.’

      Yeah, because God forbid he went for more than thirty seconds without making sure everyone knew what a cock he was.

      I left it a couple of beats, letting the silence get nice and uncomfortable. Then flared my nostrils, as if I could smell something shitty. ‘Dr McDonald, this is Sergeant Smith. He’s new.’

      ‘I asked you a question, Constable.’

      ‘Hmmm …’ A pair of Transit vans were parked beside the tent, a police minibus – complete with riot shielding – sitting behind them. A couple of liveried Land Rovers. No sign of a big black Porsche Cayenne. ‘Fiscal been?’

      A finger jabbed into my chest.

      ‘I don’t care how you used to do things before I got here, Constable, but right here, right now, you answer your superior officer when he asks you a question.’

      Dr McDonald cleared her throat, but kept her mouth shut. For a change.

      I stared at the finger, then up at the prick. ‘You’ve got till I count to three.’

      Smith flinched back a couple of steps. ‘Are you threatening me?’ Then he squared his shoulders, brought his chin up. ‘Are you that desperate to get hauled up on a charge, Constable?’

      I smiled. Why not? It’d be five, maybe six minutes before someone bothered to pull us apart. Probably all stand around placing bets. Fight! Fight! Fight! Five minutes: plenty of time to batter the living shite out of the stuck-up little bastard. I clenched my fists. The knuckles groaned in protest. But it’d be worth it.

      He stepped forwards—

      A voice behind me: ‘Guv?’ An Oldcastle accent that sounded as if it was being squeezed down a blocked nose: Rhona. She shuffled round, into view.

      The bags under her eyes were the only colour on her face. She had her jacket draped over one shoulder, even though it was pouring down and cold enough to