Stuart MacBride: Ash Henderson 2-book Crime Thriller Collection. Stuart MacBride
ideas about psychological indicators, but he really cares, even after all this time.’ She swirled the liquid in the glass, making a vortex of little white flecks, then swigged the lot down. ‘But if I never have to look another whisky in the eye I’ll be very, very happy.’
‘Can you catch him?’
She tilted her head to one side, eyes fixed on the ferry’s starboard windows. Lerwick was a little knot of yellow and white lights, twinkling through the snow, getting smaller all the time. ‘Do you want to hear the profile?’
‘Thought you called it “behavioural evidence analysis” these days.’
‘He’s a white male, mid to late forties – which is pretty unusual, normally they’re in their early twenties – he lives on his own or with an elderly relative, someone housebound who can’t see what he’s up to, he drives a large car or van, something he can transport his victims in, and he probably works in the media.’ Another mouthful of water. ‘Nothing that high-profile, just enough to make him look showbiz to a twelve-year-old girl. Make her think he can take her places, make her famous …’ A shrug. ‘Or he might be a bricklayer from Falkirk: it’s not an exact science.’
Lerwick disappeared into the blizzard as the ferry began to pitch and yaw. ‘Should narrow the field.’
‘I’ll put it into proper, woolly, percentage-based, science-speak before I present it. We can’t say outright “this what you’re looking for”, because … well … you know.’
My phone vibrated in my pocket – another text message. I pulled it out and pressed the button. Unknown number:
We’re coming to get you.
Join the queue.
‘… for the next couple of days as that cold front sweeps down across the north-east of Scotland, bringing snow and sleet with it. Steve?’
‘Thanks, Davie. You’re listening to Sensational Steve’s Breakfast Drive-Time Bonanza, and we’ll be back with another bonkers wind-up call right after these words from our sponsors.’ Grating honk, cheesy trombone noise, and then the adverts.
‘Have you had an accident in the last five years, and it wasn’t your fault? …’
I turned the rusty Renault onto Lochview Road, the steering wheel juddering on full lock. A screeching noise came from somewhere inside, even though I can’t have been doing more than five miles an hour.
Lochview Road wasn’t bad – a tree-lined street of sandstone buildings, iron railings, bay windows, Mercs and Beamers parked outside. Small front gardens with a flight of steps up to the front doors. Classy. The kind of place that hid behind the curtains when Jehovah’s Witnesses came round, instead of telling them to fuck off.
‘… think I’m crazy, but there’s an additional twenty percent off this weekend when you buy a new sofa!’
Ethan’s house was down at the far end. I parked as close as I could. Checked my watch: five past eight. Should have got here twenty minutes ago, but the Renault wasn’t exactly in rally-fit condition. And having to drop Dr McDonald off at her aunt’s place hadn’t helped.
With any luck Ethan would still be bumbling about inside: where’s my keys, is the toast burnt; have I got everything; don’t want to be late for work; hurry, scurry, hippity hop. Not quite as good as three in the morning for catching someone off guard, but it would have to do.
‘… and nothing to pay for eight months! That’s right, nothing to pay—’
I killed the engine and climbed out of the car.
Wind ripped through the street, shivering the trees’ naked branches, slamming into my chest like a cold fist. I gritted my teeth, stuck my hands in my pockets, and marched down the road towards Ethan’s house.
There was a clunk behind me and Rhona’s voice cut through the groaning wind. ‘Guv?’
Shite.
I stopped, turned, the tails of my jacket flapping around my waist. ‘Thought I told you—’
‘Don’t worry.’ She didn’t even bother trying to cover her mouth, just yawned like a hippo, showing off those large beige teeth. ‘He got home at half seven yesterday evening: hasn’t moved since.’
‘You’ve been here all night?’
‘Said I’d keep an eye on things for you, didn’t I?’ She produced a pair of black leather gloves from her pocket and pulled them on. ‘Besides, you’re going to need someone to hold him down.’
I closed my eyes, rubbed at my forehead. ‘Rhona, you can’t—’
‘What, he’s going to open the door for you? Guv, soon as he sees you through the peephole he’ll barricade himself in and call the cops. You need a nice approachable female face to put him at his ease, make sure the place is wide open for you.’
She had a point. ‘Well …’
‘And anyway, I read the wee bugger’s file. He deserves whatever he’s got coming.’
A smile pulled at my cheeks. ‘OK, you’re in.’
Rhona grinned back at me. ‘You ready?’
She rang the doorbell again, leaning on it for a good five or six seconds – long enough to be really annoying. Then turned and gave me the thumbs up.
I ducked back down behind the silver Mercedes parked outside the house – kidding on I was tying my shoelace, in case any nosey neighbour was looking.
Clunk.
Rhona put on her official police officer voice: ‘Mr Baxter?’
A man’s voice, slightly bunged up and jowly. ‘Look, is this important, because—’
‘Mr Ethan Baxter? Oldcastle Police, can I come in, please?’
‘I haven’t got time for— Hey, stop pushing! You can’t—’
Clunk.
I popped my head over the bonnet. The front door was closed, no sign of a struggle. Say what you like about Rhona, she did a good forced entry. I pulled on my own leather gloves, then strolled around the car, up the stairs and in through the front door. Closed it behind me, shutting out the groaning wind.
The hall was full of polished wood and things in frames.
Muffled struggling noises came from the other side of a half-glazed door at the end of the hall. It opened on a huge kitchen – the kind with a range cooker, prints of farmyard animals, and a wall packed with cookery books.
Ethan was sitting in a wooden dining chair, gagged with a tea towel, his hands cuffed behind his back. Soon as I walked in his eyes went huge above that squint nose of his. ‘Mmmmmmmmph. Mmmmmmphngn mmmphn!’
He’d let himself go: chubby cheeks flushed and shiny, a pot belly hanging over the waistband of his suit trousers. His hairline was quite a bit higher too, but for some reason he’d decided that the best way to compensate was to grow it long. Not a good look on an overweight, middle-aged man.
Rhona stood with her back against the range, smiling. ‘Nice house, eh, Guv? These architect bastards must be raking it in.’
I settled into the seat on the other side of the table. Flexed my black-leather fingers. Stared.
He blinked a couple of times, then looked away.
Silence: