Stuart MacBride: Ash Henderson 2-book Crime Thriller Collection. Stuart MacBride
of Oldcastle’s Scenes Examination Branch always did have a mouth like a sewer.
Another body.
Don’t let it be Rebecca. Let her lie quiet and safe in the ground until I get my hands on the bastard who tortured her to death. Please.
I threw the car into a right. ‘Ask him if they’ve ID’d the second body yet.’
‘Constable Henderson wants to know if you’ve ID’d … Uh-huh … No … I’ll tell him.’ She looked at me. ‘He says you owe him twenty pounds, and—’
‘For God’s sake: did they get a bloody ID or not?’
Left onto another street of prison-block tenements.
‘He says they’re still excavating the remains.’ She held a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Apparently the Procurator Fiscal insisted on putting some forensic archaeologist in charge of the dig, and he’s turning everything into a big production.’
I took the next left, then left again into a cul-de-sac with three-storey blocks of flats on one side and grey bungalows on the other. Just after ten on a wintery Monday morning and most of the homes were in darkness. Here and there the occasional window glowed in the drizzly gloom.
Sodding hell. ‘We’ve got company.’
A grey Transit van, with the SKY News Logo emblazoned down the side, sat at the kerb, its roof bristling with antennae and a satellite dish. It was the only outside broadcast unit in sight, the other vehicles were the usual crappy assortment of Fiats, Vauxhalls, and Fords beloved of tabloid and broadsheet reporters.
I parked in front of the L-shaped block at the end of the road – the one with a uniformed PC standing outside in the rain, crossed arms resting on her swollen belly. A light above the main door made her fluorescent-yellow jacket glisten.
I hauled on the handbrake, then killed the engine. Stuck out my hand. ‘Phone.’
Dr McDonald dropped the mobile into my palm, as if she didn’t want to risk her fingers actually touching me.
‘Matt: tell Archaeology Boy to get his finger out. This is a murder investigation, not a fucking slumber party.’
‘But—’
I hung up and slipped the phone back in my pocket. ‘How can you be afraid of flying?’
‘It’s not natural. And I’m not afraid of flying.’ She undid her seatbelt and followed me out into the drizzle. ‘I’m afraid of crashing. Which is completely logical, when you think about it, it’s a survival mechanism, perfectly rational, everyone should be afraid of crashing, what’s strange is not being afraid, you: you’re the one who’s strange.’
I stared at her. ‘Yeah, I’m the one who’s strange.’
We had to show our IDs to the rain-soaked lump standing guard outside the small block of flats. A dark fringe poked out from underneath her bowler, plastered to her forehead by the drizzle, her chubby face stretched into a permafrost frown.
I nodded back towards the clump of journalists. None of them had bothered to get out of their nice warm cars. One had rolled down their window to stick a telephoto lens out, but other than that it was a hotbed of apathy. ‘Giving you any trouble?’
The constable bared her top teeth. ‘Like you wouldnae believe. You going up?’
No, we were going to stand out here in the drizzle, bonding. I looked up at the redbrick building. ‘The McMillans in?’
‘Yeah. But watch yourself, they’ve got a journo up there.’ She stood to one side. ‘And we’re no’ exactly flavour of the day.’
‘When are we ever?’ I held the door open and ushered Dr McDonald inside.
She just stared at me. ‘Erm …’
‘This was your idea, remember? I wanted to go back to Oldcastle, but no, you said—’
‘Can’t you go first?’
‘Fine.’ The stairwell smelled of musky perfume and frying onions. A collection of pot plants was expiring on the first landing, the carpet beginning to go bald at the edge of each tread. The sound of a television turned up too loud.
My shoes scrunched on the steps, as if someone had put sand down to stop the carpet getting too slippery. The second landing was a lot like the first – more dying pot plants, a couple of plain doors painted reddish-brown, a stack of unopened Yellow Pages sitting on the windowsill still in their clear plastic wrappers.
Dr McDonald’s voice echoed through the stairwell from somewhere below. ‘Is it safe to come up?’
‘Safe?’ I looked around at the mouldy pot plants. ‘No, the whole place is full of rabid Ninjas.’ Pause. ‘Of course it’s bloody safe!’ I grabbed the balustrade and hauled myself up to the top floor.
A pair of doors led off to separate flats: a welcome mat sat outside one of them, a grubby brown rectangle on the gritty carpet. The word ‘McMILLAN’ was hand-painted in wobbly childish lettering on a wooden plaque above the bell.
I leaned against the wall and waited.
Three minutes later, Dr McDonald poked her head around the corner, looking up at me. ‘You don’t have to be so sarcastic, you know, it’s not like I’m trying to annoy you, I just have certain … concerns with unfamiliar enclosed spaces.’
It was a miracle she was allowed out unsupervised.
I knocked on the door.
It was opened by a police officer wearing the white shirt-and-tie outfit that every beat cop had abandoned years ago in favour of Darth-Vader-black. His long nose was speckled with spider-veins, his dark eyes spaced wide on a narrow forehead. A set of silver sergeant’s bars shone on his black epaulettes as he had a good look at Dr McDonald, then turned and sniffed at me. ‘You Henderson? Let’s see some ID.’
Officious little prick. I flashed my warrant card again. ‘You Family Liaison?’
A nod. ‘Cool: thanks. Sorry, but the amount of bloody journos trying to wangle their way up here – kidding on they live in the flats, or they’re relatives, friends of the family …’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Parents are in the lounge with some tabloid gimp.’
‘How’d he get in?’
‘She: they invited her up. And her chequebook. Going to let her publish the birthday card.’
‘Oh for … That’s evidence in an ongoing investigation! Why haven’t you thrown her out? Do I really need to—’
‘We can’t stop the victim’s family inviting people up to their house: it’s their house.’ The FLO stuck his chest out. ‘And by the way, Detective Constable, I don’t care if you are one of Dickie’s “Party Crashers”,’ he patted himself on one shoulder, making the black epaulette with its silver bars wobble, ‘see these? These say “Sergeant”, so watch the lip. You bloody special-task-force dicks are all the same. Well, you know what: if you’re so damn special, why haven’t you caught the Birthday Boy yet? Party Crashers? You bastards couldn’t crash a wobbly shopping trolley.’
Silence.
I clenched my fists – the knuckles grumbled and creaked. Punch the bastard. So what if he was a sergeant: wouldn’t be the first time—
Dr McDonald stepped into the doorway, right between us. ‘This is a pickle, isn’t it, well, not literally, that would be silly, but figuratively, I mean we’re all working towards the same ends, but we’ve got different pressures and expectations.’ She smiled up at the sergeant as he backed away. ‘Being a Family Liaison officer must be incredibly high pressure, my name’s Dr Alice McDonald, I’m a criminal psychologist, well, I don’t mean I’m a psychologist who commits crimes – that kind of thing