Birthdays for the Dead - Stuart MacBride

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      He passed it over and I couldn’t breathe. The girl in the photo … every inch of skin was smeared with blood, head shaved, a gaping hole torn in her belly, coils of glistening grey draped between her slashed thighs like vile bunting. Her mouth hung open, the duct-tape gag gone, gaps where the front teeth had been torn out.

      This was two years before the bastard took Rebecca.

      And just like that the minibus was too hot.

      ‘Ash?’

      I looked up. Weber was handing me another blow-up: number six. The girl’s neck ended in a jagged stump. The Birthday Boy had stuffed her head inside her abdomen – her dead eyes gazed out at the camera. ‘I don’t …’ I coughed, swallowed it down, tasting the bile: rancid and bitter in my throat. I gave the copies back to Dr McDonald.

      She frowned down at the most recent card. ‘Lauren was abducted on the twentieth of October, seven years ago, from the Kings Mall shopping centre in Hammersmith, London. Security camera footage puts her in the car park at three fifteen.’ Dr McDonald returned everything to her bag. ‘The Metropolitan Police went through every piece of CCTV footage for a mile around the shopping centre, did the usual appeals … Nothing. She was recorded as a missing person until the card arrived a year later. Of course seven years ago there was no proof he’d actually killed Amber O’Neil or Hannah Kelly: just tied them to a chair and taken a couple of photographs. He wasn’t even called the Birthday Boy till the Daily Mail came up with the name a year later.’

      ‘Right, yes.’ Weber gave his nose another seeing to. ‘Well, while I’m sure you’re right, we’re going to have to hold off issuing any identification until we’ve checked Lauren Burges’s dental records … Assuming we find enough teeth.’ He folded his hanky into a neat square. ‘Speaking of which: Hannah Kelly.’

      I went back to staring out of the window. Not picturing Lauren with her stomach torn open and her head stuffed inside. Not hearing her scream as he ripped out her front teeth. Not seeing the look in her eyes when she realized no one was coming to save her. She was going to die.

      At least he couldn’t hurt her any more.

      Lauren was dead by the fifth card – but Rebecca … How long would … how long did she hold out for, before giving up hope?

      The bile burned my throat.

      Weber shifted in his seat. ‘Our beloved Assistant Chief Constable wants to issue a statement saying we’ve ID’d Hannah Kelly.’

      I swallowed, but it wouldn’t go away. ‘So? Drummond always did like the spotlight.’

      ‘Yes, well, unfortunately we can’t really do that until someone’s informed the parents …?’

      Silence.

      I closed my eyes. Should’ve done it before going to Dundee. Should’ve done it as soon as I got back. But I didn’t. I put it off. ‘It’s next on the list.’

      ‘Ash, I can always send—’

      ‘I said I’ll do it. They don’t deserve to get the news from some spotty stranger in a uniform.’

      Silence.

      Dr McDonald put her hand up. ‘Can I go with him, I mean if that’s OK – I need to talk to them about their daughter to get some context on the victimology, did Ash tell you that we’ve had a problem with the psychology data on our servers and I have to start again from scratch and I only joined the investigation yesterday, but I want to assure you this isn’t the first case I’ve handled and I’m sure Ash will vouch for me, won’t you, Ash?’

      Great, so now whatever happened would be all my fault.

       7

      Douglas Kelly peered around the door. His cheekbones stuck out more than they used to, so did his forehead, nose, and chin, as if he were slowly disappearing from the inside out. His freckled scalp stood out through a crown of thin grey hair. Wasn’t even forty yet, and he already looked the other side of sixty.

      It was a nice house, about a third of the way down a small Georgian terrace – one of four that enclosed a little private park. But where the one behind McDermid Avenue was sprawling and overgrown, this one was trimmed and tidy, closed off from the road by a set of four-foot-high railings. Nice neighbourhood too: mullioned windows, no litter, every car an Audi, a Porsche, or a Range Rover.

      Couldn’t have been further from my crappy little Kingsmeath council house if it was in Australia.

      Douglas Kelly blinked at me.

      I stood on the top step, hands behind my back. ‘Douglas, can we come in, please?’

      He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, as if he was tasting the air, then turned and stalked back into the house. Not so much as a word.

      We followed him into the lounge.

      Douglas slumped into the leather couch and reached for a china mug. He peered up at the carriage clock ticking away on the mantelpiece, the noise jarring in the cluttered room. Cardboard boxes made a cubist city on the polished floorboards, each one printed with a red squirrel in dungarees, carrying a huge acorn: ‘SAMMY’S MIDNIGHT FLIT ~ YOU’D BE NUTS TO TRUST ANYONE ELSE!!!’

      A standard lamp cast a yellow glow in the gloomy room.

      I licked my lips. Took a deep breath. ‘Douglas, you’ll have seen—’ My phone rang. ‘Fuck …’ I dragged the thing from my pocket, dropped it, grabbed it before it hit the deck. A name sat in the middle of the screen: ‘KERRIGAN, MRS’. No thanks. I switched the phone off, then stuck it back in my pocket again. ‘Sorry.’

      Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

      A car drove by on the street outside.

      Try again: ‘Douglas, it’s—’

      ‘I’m sorry about the mess. We should really get round to unpacking, but …’ He blinked, biting his bottom lip, deep breaths hissing in through his nose. His pale blue eyes shimmered. He scrubbed a hand across them. Stared down into his tea. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been …’

      Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

      ‘Douglas, we’ve found—’

      ‘All these years you’ve come out and sat with us: every sixteenth of September, even when Angela had her breakdown … You didn’t have to do that.’

      ‘Douglas, I’m so sorry, we—’

      ‘Don’t say it. Please.’ The china mug trembled in his hands. ‘Please …’

      Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

      Dr McDonald picked her way between the boxes, squatted down in front of Douglas Kelly and put a hand on his knee. Just like she’d done with Helen McMillan’s parents. ‘It’s OK. You can let go.’

      ‘It’s …’ Douglas screwed his eyes closed, biting his lips.

      ‘It happened a long, long time ago. She’s not suffering any more, he can’t hurt her. It’s over.’

      ‘Who …’ A tear ran down the side of his nose. ‘Who …’ When he opened his eyes they were pink and swollen. Lips quivering.

      ‘It’s OK, Douglas, it’s OK. It’s over. She’s—’

      Douglas Kelly slammed the mug into Dr McDonald’s face. It shattered, shards of delicate white bursting open in slow motion like a flower blooming, tea spraying out. She grunted, toppled backwards, glasses clattering into the fireplace. He let go of the remaining bits of mug and clenched his hand into a fist – launched himself off the couch, swinging for her.

      I dipped my knees and lunged. And then everything snapped back to

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