Stuart MacBride: Ash Henderson 2-book Crime Thriller Collection. Stuart MacBride
to get back to work.’
The smell of frying garlic filled the kitchen, steam from the boiling pasta turning the window opaque as the extractor fan struggled to cope.
Henry plonked himself down on one of the stools by the breakfast bar, the litre of Bells clutched in both hands. ‘You know, I rather like Alice: she’s a trooper.’
‘Still throwing up?’ I scraped langoustine tails and chunks of smoked haddock into the frying pan, gave it all a shake. My phone vibrated in my pocket – not an incoming call, a text message. The kitchen clock was pointing out ten to two. That would be Mrs Kerrigan then, wanting to know where her money was and which kneecap I’d like shattered first.
Well screw her. I left it where it was, unread.
Henry made a little harrumphing noise. ‘I’m sorry about earlier. It was … After what happened last time …’ Sigh. ‘Maybe my delightful daughter is right: I’m just a bitter selfish old man.’ A shrug. ‘Tell Sabir I’m sorry, but I can’t face it any more.’
I shredded some fresh parsley and spring onions, chucked them in, then added the double cream. ‘Did you know there’s bugger all in your cupboards, other than bottles of whisky, empties, and a packet of stale Bran Flakes?’
‘I have Bran Flakes?’
‘Had to go shopping.’ It wasn’t as if I’d had anything else to do while the pair of them banged on about stressor events and psychological trigger-points.
He unscrewed the top off the whisky and poured himself a stiff measure. ‘Didn’t know you were a domestic goddess.’
‘Used to cook with Rebecca and Katie all the time. Never really saw the point when I’m on my own …’ I tested the spaghetti. Not quite there yet. ‘So who was this policeman you lot were looking at?’
‘For the Birthday Boy? Pffffff … Now you’re asking.’ He raised the glass to his lips. ‘Glen Sinclair, I think. Or was it Strachan? Struthers? Something like that. He was a sergeant with Northern Constabulary, kept doing PNC searches on the families, so we picked him up and questioned him. Got a couple of Party Crashers to keep tabs on where he went and who he saw. Two days later he jumped off the Kessock bridge.’ A sip. ‘Long way down.’
‘It wasn’t him then.’
Henry hunched his shoulders. ‘Yet another of my spectacular failures. I’d done a revised profile and he fit perfectly, right down to volunteering to work with children.’
‘Scouts?’
‘Junior league football. After he died we went through his home computer: it was stuffed full of naked little boys. Wasn’t the Birthday Boy at all.’
I drained the spaghetti in the sink, sending a huge cloud of steam billowing up into the room. ‘Only you could make catching a paedophile sound like a bad thing.’
‘We didn’t catch him though, did we? We thought he was someone else, and he killed himself before we knew anything about his photo collection. Probably part of a ring, and we missed the chance to do something about it.’
‘Go shout on Dr McDonald: if she’s finished throwing up, it’s lunchtime.’
Henry stared at his hands. ‘I meant what I said, Ash: you need to tell her about Rebecca.’
I dumped the spaghetti into the frying pan, swirled it around in the sauce. ‘No.’
‘You can’t expect her to draw up an accurate profile when she doesn’t have all the information, you know that. She’ll make assumptions based on what she has, and it isn’t going to—’
‘Then steer her in the right direction. Prod her. Guide her. Make her get it right.’ The pan thumped back down on the cooker. ‘If I tell her, she’ll tell Dickie and they’ll kick me off the case. Compassionate leave, grief counselling; I’ll have to sit at home and watch them fuck everything up while the Birthday Boy keeps on going.’
‘Perhaps grief counselling wouldn’t be a bad—’
‘I’m not telling her, Henry, and neither are you. Understand?’ I switched off the gas. ‘Now go get her before it’s ruined.’
Snow drifted down outside my hotel-room window, shining as it passed through the streetlights. Henry’s dent-covered Volvo estate sat by the kerb, the word ‘WANKER’ scratched in big letters along the side, engine running, exhaust curling out into the darkness. I wrapped Rebecca’s cigar box in two T-shirts and that ugly jumper Michelle’s mum gave me, wedging socks and pants and jeans in around it. Keeping it safe. Then went through to the en-suite for my toilet bag.
My mobile rang, echoing back from the pristine tiles: Dickie again.
I jammed the thing between my ear and shoulder. ‘Let me guess, she’s not answering her phone.’ Gathered up my things: toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, shaving foam …
‘Sometimes it’s better to talk to the monkey than the organ grinder.’
‘Cheeky bastard.’ Pills, pills, more pills …
‘We’ve got a confession out of the bookshop owner.’
I stopped. Stared in the mirror, pulse thumping in my ears. After all this time … ‘He’s the Birthday Boy.’
‘No, he’s not. I couldn’t be that bloody lucky. But he does have a collection of explicit videos of him sexually abusing Helen McMillan. She was only twelve …’ Dickie made a sort of rubbery flapping sound with his lips, like an underwater sigh. ‘Apparently they had an arrangement – she’d do whatever he wanted, on camera, as long as he paid her in signed first editions. Told him she was going to sell them when she was eighteen so she could afford to go to Edinburgh University. Study law.’
I closed my eyes, leant on the sink, breathed again. It wasn’t him … The Birthday Boy was still out there. I stuffed the Naproxen in the toilet bag.
‘That’s very … pragmatic for a twelve-year-old.’ I nicked the complimentary soap, shower cap, cotton buds, then the little bottles of body lotion and conditioner. Zipped the toilet bag shut.
‘When I was twelve I got a paper round. What the hell happened to Scotland?’
‘Same thing that happened everywhere else.’
A car horn blared outside. I peered through the window. Dr McDonald was in the passenger seat of Henry’s Volvo, staring up at me, pointing at her watch and grimacing, even though we still had a whole hour to catch the ferry.
I dumped the bag in the suitcase and took one last tour through the chest of drawers, wardrobe, and bedside cabinet: making sure I hadn’t missed anything.
‘You remember when this used to be a good job? Something you could be proud of?’
‘No.’ The only thing left was the Gideon Bible, and let’s face it: it was far too late for that. I zipped the wheelie case shut and hauled it off the bed onto the floor.
‘Me neither.’ Another rubbery sigh. ‘Right, I’d better go – have to inform Helen McMillan’s parents that she was being sexually abused for two years. Two years getting molested by a greasy old man, then the Birthday Boy grabs her … What sort of a life is that?’
Snow battered down from a dark sky, a billowing curtain of white and grey that hid half of Lerwick as we stood in the forward bar of the MV Hjaltland.
The deck beneath my feet throbbed and purred, the streetlights sliding past as we headed out towards the harbour exit.
Dr McDonald appeared beside me, holding a glass of something that fizzed and frothed. She knocked it