Birthdays for the Dead. Stuart MacBride

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 him” what?’

      A smile cracked the space between the cigarette-stained moustache and bristling beard. ‘Shetland. You’re taking the Doc up to see your old mate, Forrester.’

      I pulled my shoulders back, chin up. ‘Take her yourself. You’re the one looks like a bloody Viking.’

      ‘The old git doesn’t want anything to do with the case. We need his help. You’re his friend. Go up there and talk him round.’

      Dickie sighed. ‘Come on, Ash, you know what Henry’s like: once he digs his heels in …’

      I scowled at them. ‘Shetland?’

      Gillis squinted back. ‘You don’t want to help us catch the bastard? Really? What kind of cop are you?’

      ‘It’s only a couple of days, Ash: three or four tops. I’ll square it with your boss.’

      Dr McDonald wasn’t the only mental one. ‘I’m not going to Shetland! We just turned up two bodies and—’

      ‘It’s going to be nothing but hanging around waiting for lab reports in Oldcastle now anyway. That and processing three hundred door-to-doors.’ Dickie nodded towards the meeting room, where Dr McDonald was gazing up at the birthday cards. ‘When we catch the Birthday Boy we’ll need her up to speed for the interviews. I want a full confession, in stone, not something he can wriggle out of in court six months later thanks to some slimy defence lawyer.’

      ‘I’m not your bloody childminder! Get someone else to—’

      ‘Ash, please.’

      I stared out into the rain … Four days about as far away from Oldcastle as it was possible to get and still be in the UK. Four days where Mrs Kerrigan’s thugs couldn’t find me. And maybe, once Henry had seen how much of a disaster Dickie’s new criminal psychologist was, he’d drag his wrinkly arse out of retirement and help me catch the bastard who’d murdered Rebecca. Four days to convince the old sod that four years in Shetland was penance enough for what happened to Philip Skinner. It was time to get back to work.

      I nodded. ‘OK. Flying from Aberdeen or Edinburgh?’

      Gillis’s smile grew wider. ‘Funny you should ask that …’

       4

      ‘Can you slow down, please?’ Dr McDonald tightened her grip on the grab handle above the passenger door, knuckles white. Eyes screwed tightly shut.

      I changed down, burying the accelerator pedal into the Renault’s carpet. Yes, it was childish, but she’d started it. Outside the car windows, a residential road blurred past, skeletal trees raking the grey sky. Drizzle misted the glass. ‘Thought you were supposed to be a psychologist.’

      ‘I am, and it’s not my fault air travel terrifies me, I know it might seem illogical, statistically you’re more likely to be killed by an electric toaster than die in a plane crash in the UK – that’s why I never make toast – but I can’t …’ She gave a little squeal as I swung the car around onto Strathmore Avenue. ‘Please! Can you slow—’

      ‘You’ve no idea how fast we’re going: you’ve got your eyes closed.’

      ‘I can feel it!’

      My phone rang. ‘Hold on …’ I pulled the thing from my pocket and thumbed the green button. ‘What?’

      A man’s voice: ‘We’ve got another one—’

      Dr McDonald snatched the phone out of my hand. ‘No, no, no!’ She held it to her ear, listening for a moment. ‘No, I will not put him on: he’s driving, are you trying to cause an accident, I don’t want to die, why do you want me to die, are you some sort of psychopath that you want random passengers to die in car crashes, is that your idea of fun?’

      I stuck my hand out. ‘Give me the phone back.’

      She switched the thing to her other ear, out of reach. ‘No, I told you: he’s driving.’

      ‘Give me the bloody phone!’

      She slapped my hand away. ‘Uh-huh … Hold on.’ She looked across from the passenger seat. ‘It’s someone called Matt, he says to tell you you’re a “rotten bastard”.’ Back to the phone again. ‘Yes, I told him … Uh-huh … Uh-huh … I don’t know.’

      ‘Matt who?’

      ‘When are we going to be back in Oldcastle?’

      ‘Who the hell is Matt?’

      ‘He