Stuart MacBride: Ash Henderson 2-book Crime Thriller Collection. Stuart MacBride
doing that’d let him find out where the victims’ families live. Might work for the Inland Revenue, or the DMV, or maybe he’s a doctor, orra journalist, or he’s in the Post Office, or with a telecoms provider, or he’s a bizzie—’
‘A police officer?’
‘Maybe. Or maybe he’s someone who knows how to use the internet, you think about that? I want to find out ’bout a suspect I don’t even bother with the PNC these days, I look them up on Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, electoral register … Internet’s a goldmine: everyone’s gorra digital footprint, if you know where to look.’
Yeah, right: because Donald Kelly would be updating his status to ‘WE’VE MOVED HOUSE TO 36 DUNROSS STREET, OLDCASTLE, OC23 9WP. DON’T TELL THE BIRTHDAY BOY! LOL!!!!’
‘Point is, if our lad’s computer savvy, it’s not gonna take him long …’ The rattle of fat fingers on a keyboard. ‘Ash Henderson: Forty-Two Fletcher Avenue; Royal Bank of Scotland … overdrawn by a grand and a bit; mobile number: oh seven eight four two—’
‘OK, OK, I get the—’
‘Divorced, two children: Rebecca … ran away when she was twelve, Katie …’ More keystrokes. ‘Katie lives at Nineteen Rowan Drive, Blackwall Hill, Oldcastle; she goes to Johnston Academy; and is “in a relationship” with someone called Noah. Apparently it’s “complicated”, but—’
‘Enough. I get it.’ And who the hell was Noah?
‘How long did that take us?’
‘Donald Kelly isn’t on Facebook.’
‘Doesn’t have to be. If we’re all seven steps of separation from Kevin Bacon, how many steps do you think it takes to find someone posting photos to Flickr, blogging, tweeting, sticking stuff up on any one of a million social networking sites? Might never have touched a computer in your life and youse’ll still have a digital footprint.’
Sod.
The clouds were getting darker, spreading like cancer across the pale-blue sky.
‘How’s Dundee going?’
‘Nothing more we can do there, so we’ve all upped sticks to your neck of the woods. Helpin’ your divvie mates – see if we can narrow the search down a bit. You wanna talk to the guvnor?’
‘Nah, I’m good.’ A tiny fleck of white drifted through the cold air, followed by a second and a third. Not really snowing, but definitely thinking about it. ‘Do me a favour: find out who’s been searching for Donald Kelly, or any of the other parents.’
‘On the internet? I’m good, but I’m not that good.’ More munching noises. ‘No one’s that good. Youse are talkin’ about millions of servers all over the world and—’
‘Well, can’t you … Erm …’
What? If it was impossible it was impossible. I stood, stamped my feet to get some feeling back into them. Maybe we should start small. ‘What systems could you do it for?’
‘Seriously?’
‘Just because it’s a pain in the arse, doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.’
‘You’re the pain in the arse.’ A sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do, but I’m promisin’ bugger all.’ And he was gone.
I headed back along the harbour. The flakes were still tiny, but there were more of them – settling on the cold pavements, making it look as if they’d been dusted with icing sugar.
On the other end of the phone, DCI Weber sighed. ‘You’re a silly bugger, Ash.’
I pushed my empty plate away: macaroni cheese and chips – lunch of champions. ‘Thanks, Gregor, that helps.’
‘Ash, Ash, Ash, what did I tell you about pissing off Mrs Kerrigan? It doesn’t matter if Andy Inglis likes you, she’ll still have your—’
‘I know, OK? I know.’ I dropped a tenner on the table, drained the last of my mineral water, and pushed out onto the street. My breath plumed around my head. ‘Who told you?’
‘They didn’t put me in charge of CID because I’m pretty. I do work things out from time to time.’
I took a right, heading back along Main Street towards Henry’s house, one hand stuffed deep in my pocket, the other nipping in the frigid air. ‘It’s not—’
‘Ash, we’ve talked about this: while Sergeant Smith is with us we have to be extremely discreet. I don’t think getting your house trashed by the local hoodlums is very discreet, do you? What if she decides to have you killed? Do you have any idea how awkward a position that would put me in?’
‘Yeah, how thoughtless of me. What was I thinking?’
Wind whipped down an alley, swirling the tiny white flakes into a vortex. There was some sort of bookshop on the other side. I stopped.
‘You know what I mean. Obviously your loss would be tragic, but it’d be the rest of us getting a screwing from Professional Standards.’ A pause. ‘How much do you owe?’
There was a fluffy stuffed puffin in the window. Katie would love that. She might dress like something out of the Addams Family, but she still had every fluffy toy I’d ever bought her.
‘Got to go. Bird-related emergency.’
‘Ash—’
‘I’ll sort it, OK?’ Though Christ knew how …
The lounge bar at the Scalloway Hotel was busy that evening. I picked my way around a clump of men in overalls, then through a swarm of girlies – dressed in pink Stetsons and ‘L’ plates – to where Henry and Dr McDonald were sitting.
Her face had developed a pale-grey tint, like unpainted wood-chip wallpaper, the bags under her eyes a greenish-purple. I put a pint glass full of milk and another of water on the table in front of her. A thin smile, then she puffed out her cheeks and gulped at the milk.
Sitting opposite, Henry took his double Grouse with a nod. ‘Sally came, so we ordered for you.’
I pulled out a chair and parked myself next to Dr McDonald. At least this way if she puked it’d be all over Henry and not me. ‘I was only gone five minutes.’
Dr McDonald wiped a hand across her mouth, then put the empty glass back on the table. ‘You’re having the lamb.’
‘OK …’ I probably would have picked that anyway, but it would have been nice to get the choice. That was the problem with psychologists: they always had to know best. ‘And did you two achieve anything today? Cirrhosis? Alcohol poisoning?’
Henry took another sip of whisky.
She picked up her water. ‘What: you don’t like lamb?’
‘Do we have a profile? Vague pointers? Something for the door-to-door teams to look out for?’
‘What’s wrong with lamb?’
‘There’s nothing …’ For God’s sake. ‘Look, do we have any idea what the Birthday Boy wants, or don’t we?’
She glanced across the table at Henry.
He lifted his whisky as if he was toasting her. ‘In your own time.’
Dr McDonald nodded, then toasted him back with the water. ‘There’s something deeply wrong about the way he deals with the victims: when he snatches them he should be all excited and wound up and desperate to relive the fantasy again,