Birthdays for the Dead. Stuart MacBrideЧитать онлайн книгу.
own little kingdom and anyone who shows the slightest backbone, or contradicts them in any way, has to get this huge lecture about how things are done in the “real world”, and I mean how can they even say that—’
On and on, all the way from Dundee – the rain, and the squealing wipers, and the roar of tyres on the road, and the grumbling engine, building up into a headache that must have registered on seismographs on the other side of the bloody world.
A green road sign loomed out of the rain: Oldcastle 5.
Thank Christ.
‘—so when I turned around and showed him the injection site hidden in the bite marks on her breast I thought he was actually going to explode, boom, right then and there—’
A huge Asda eighteen-wheeler roared past in the outside lane, and the crappy little Renault rocked on its springs, caught in the backdraught. The windscreen disappeared under a wall of spray.
‘—I mean psychologically it was the obvious place to look, given the indicators, but try telling him that—’
On and on.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel: imagine it’s her neck and squeeze …
‘Ash?’
Keep squeezing.
Silence – nothing but the engine and the road and the radio and the rain.
She coughed. ‘You don’t really like me, do you? Every time you look at me, there’s this little pause, like you’re trying not to beat me to death. Do I threaten you, or am I just really annoying? I bet it’s annoying, I annoy people when I’m nervous and new people make me nervous, especially when they’re all covered in bruises.’
‘Maybe … Maybe we could listen to the radio for a little bit.’
More silence, then a little, ‘OK.’ She reached out and turned the volume up. A song by one of those emo bands Katie liked crackled out of the speakers, all guitars and angsty vocals.
I glanced over at the passenger seat. Dr McDonald was staring out of the side window, both arms wrapped around herself, as if she might split down the middle and this was the only way to hold both halves together. Probably sulking.
As long as she did it quietly it was OK with me.
The road climbed up Pearl Hill, past the huge Costco, then down again. The valley opened out in front of the car as the dual carriageway dipped towards Oldcastle. Amber streetlights mapped out the city, even though it had only just gone twelve. Up on Castle Hill, floodlights caught a squall of rain as it hammered the crumbling ramparts. On the other side of the river, warning lights blinked red on top of the Blackwall transmitter. The high-rise blocks and grimy council houses of Kingsmeath loomed up the side of the hill, as if a tidal wave of concrete was about to crash down and sweep everything away. The sky looked like a battered wife.
Welcome home.
I pulled the crumbling Renault into the kerb and killed the engine. McDermid Avenue was a dirty-beige terrace of four-storey buildings with railings to keep the pavement at bay and steps up to the front door. Satellite dishes pimpled the sandstone walls like blackheads on a teenager. Bay windows, fanlights, gnarled oak and beech trees lined the road, their naked branches dripping in the rain.
The twin chimneys of Castle Hill Infirmary’s incinerator poked up in the background, trailing plumes of white steam into the bruised sky.
Dr McDonald peered out through the windscreen. ‘Oh dear …’
A pair of outside broadcast vans, the battered BBC Scotland Volvo, and a collection of crappy hatchbacks were parked in front of a patrol car – blocking the road about a third of the way down. Most of the journos were still in their cars, staying out of the rain, but the TV crews had set up on the pavement with the barricade in the background, doing serious-faced pieces for the next news bulletin, clutching umbrellas and microphones, trying not to look as if they were creaming themselves with excitement.
Bastards.
I opened the door and climbed out. Icy rain stinging my ears and forehead. ‘Just keep your head down, and your mouth shut.’
She clambered out after me, pulling on her leather satchel – the strap diagonally across her chest, like her own private seatbelt – following as I marched towards the line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape. With any luck we’d get through into the scene before anyone noticed us.
PC Duguid stood on the other side of the cordon, in front of the patrol car; glaring out from beneath the peak of an oversized cap. His fluorescent-yellow high-vis jacket was all slick and shiny. Like his face. Only not as ugly.
Duguid jerked his chin up and tapped two fingers against his nose. A car door clunked shut behind me. Then another one. Then an English accent, all marbles and plums, at my shoulder: ‘Officer Henderson? Hello?’
I kept walking.
A duffle-coated woman waddled alongside, thrusting a microphone under my nose. ‘Is it true you’ve uncovered a second set of remains?’
Someone else: ‘Have you identified the first body?’
‘Any comment on the new Dundee victim, Helen McMillan? Will Douglas Kelly be speaking to her parents?’
‘Your own daughter went missing, does that give you special insight into how the victims’ families are feeling?’
I kept going: just three more feet till the safety of the police tape. ‘We’re pursuing several avenues of enquiry.’ Never give the bastards anything they can quote.
A squat man barged in front, ears like knots of gristle, broken nose, little digital recorder in hand. ‘How do you respond to criticism that your botched investigation into Hannah Kelly’s abduction eight years ago left the Birthday Boy free to kill— Hey!’
I shoved him to one side and ducked under the cordon, holding it up so Dr McDonald could follow. PC Duguid leaned back against the bonnet of the patrol car, grinning. Gave a wee salute. ‘Morning, Guv. Like the bruises: very fashionable.’
‘You tipped the bastards off, didn’t you?’
The grin grew wider, pulling his chubby cheeks with it. ‘Bottle of Macallan, Guv. What’s a boy to do?’
I marched past, didn’t give him the satisfaction. Or a knee in the balls.
Dr McDonald trotted up beside me. ‘Did he really tip off those reporters for a bottle of whisky, what kind of police officer takes bribes like that, I mean it’s not right, is it, we should report him …’
Yeah, see how much good that’d do.
A dirt track led away from the road, grass growing down the middle, disappearing into the gap between two sandstone buildings.
Cameron Park must have been impressive once – back when this was an exclusive neighbourhood. A manicured landscape of oak, elder and ash; rhododendron bushes with their gleaming leaves; beds of flowers and shrubs; a duck pond; and a bandstand with a paved area around it for dancing … Now it was a rest home for weeds and litter. A shopping trolley stuck out of the long grass, nose up, one wheel missing, empty crisp packets caught in its metal grille. The rhododendrons were huge sprawling masses, their leaves trembling in the rain, the ground beneath them thick with shadow.
Three blue plastic marquees had been erected in the undergrowth, one – the largest – next to a dirty-yellow digger and a long trench gouged through a barbwire patch of brambles. The second was beside the crumbling bandstand, the third just visible behind one of those massive rhododendrons.
Flickering light came from inside two of the tents – crime scene photography casting the silhouettes of kneeling figures against the plastic walls.
A voice boomed through the rain: ‘I don’t care – get it bloody sorted!’
Dr McDonald flinched.
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