Читать книгу Stuart MacBride: Ash Henderson 2-book Crime Thriller Collection - Stuart MacBride - Страница 24

The corridors under Castle Hill Infirmary stretch for miles, a tangled maze lined with pipes and cables. It smelled of damp, disinfectant, and something floral and cloying. When I was wee, Jane Moir’s dad worked maintenance for the council and he swore blind the tunnels went all the way out to the river, so medical students could buy dead bodies from smugglers to dissect. But then he was done for fiddling with girl guides eight years later, so I wouldn’t put too much faith in it.

‘It’s creepy down here, what happens if we get lost and end up wandering the corridors for days in the dark?’ Dr McDonald inched closer until she bumped against me with every other step. Sticking close.

The hospital throbbed above us, distant clanks and bangs echoing back from the concrete walls.

She slipped her arm through mine. ‘Lost forever in the dark …’

The corridor split up ahead. On the right, the black line disappeared under a set of dark-green doors marked ‘MORTUARY’, the metal bumper plates scuffed and dented by the passage of the dead. But Dr McDonald was staring the other way.

Her grip on my arm tightened.

The corridor on the left stretched away into patchy gloom – half the bulbs were blown, plunging sections into thick shadow, others were stuck in the process of warming up, never getting beyond the blinking stage.

Someone stood in one of the dark spots, about fifteen feet away. That cloying floral air-freshener smell was even stronger.

Whoever it was stared at us, eyes glinting in the shadows. Big, hunched shoulders, a wheeled cart … The light directly above them flickered and buzzed. It was a woman in a slate-grey boilersuit and scabby trainers. Face like a slab of meat, deep creases around her mouth and eyes. Her cart looked like a hostess trolley. Only instead of the box to keep food in, there was a large metal cage. Something furry moved inside: pointed noses, long pink tails. Rats. The bottom of the cart was piled with traps and a big bag with ‘Bait’ written on it.

Another buzz, and the light died again.

Singing echoed down the corridor from somewhere behind us. A man’s voice, getting louder, accompanied by the grinding squeak-squeak-squeak of a dodgy wheel.

‘Ooh, baby, swear you love me,

doo-dee-doo, oooh-ooh,

something la-la … right …’

The rat catcher didn’t move.

‘Baby, let’s not fight, da-dada, night …

let’s do it, do it, do it …’

The singing drifted to a halt. ‘Ah, there you are.’

I turned. Alf: hair scraped back in a ponytail, high forehead gleaming in the flickering light, beard neatly trimmed, wearing pale blue scrubs, and hauling a hospital gurney behind him. Its occupant was covered in a white plastic sheet. Alf popped an earbud out and smiled. ‘Was about to send a search party for you guys. You know what the Prof’s like if he can’t start bang on nine.’

Alf nodded towards the mortuary. ‘Can you get the door for us? Bloody gurney’s like a wonky shopping trolley today.’

And when I turned back, the rat catcher was gone.

‘Break on the left tibia and fibula show approximately eight years of bone growth …’ Professor Mervin Twining, AKA: Teaboy, ran a gloved finger along the stained bone. His dark floppy hair hung over his forehead – with the square jaw, dimple, and little wire-rim glasses he looked like an extra from a period spy drama.

The skeleton laid out on the dissecting table in front of him had been cleaned of dirt and mud, but it was still the reddish-brown colour of stewed tea. They’d put the head back where it belonged.

Alf looked up from a set of notes, earbuds dangling loose from the neck of his scrubs. ‘Lauren Burges fell off her bike when she was five, treated for broken left leg.’

Castle Hill mortuary was a Victorian monstrosity. Cracked black tiles on the floor, grout turned grey by generations’ worth of bleach, formaldehyde, and disinfectant. Drainage channels leading to wire-mesh grilles and the sewers beyond. The walls had probably been white once, but their tiles had aged to a dirty ivory. Harsh overhead lighting glittered off stainless-steel work surfaces, a wall of refrigerated drawers, and the dissecting tables.

Three of them, each with an inch-high lip, a drain, a tap, a hose, and a blood-coloured set of bones.

Half a dozen flip charts were arranged around the room in pairs, one of each set was covered with copies of the victim’s birthday cards – the other with medical notes, X-rays, and dental charts.

It was cold too, almost as cold as it was outside. Dr McDonald’s nose was going pink, the woolly hat still pulled down over her ears, duffle coat toggled up to her chin, shoulders hunched, hands in her pockets. ‘Shouldn’t we be wearing masks and safety goggles and things?’

Professor Twining looked up from the remains. ‘Not a huge amount of point, I’m afraid: no soft tissue, no DNA, just bones. And they’ve been cleaned by the soil science people, so there’s nothing left for us to contaminate. Can I have the corresponding X-ray, please, Alf? … Thank you.’

Twining worked his way through Lauren Burges’s skeletal remains, comparing the damage to her medical records and the photos on the birthday cards. Confirming her identity.

Three sets of bones on three separate cutting tables. It wouldn’t be long before the SEB turned up the other victims. Only they’d get one more than they were expecting: Rebecca, laid out on a cold metal slab. My little girl, reduced to a collection of mud-stained bones. Chipped and scarred where he slashed and stabbed and broke …

The mortuary air was like cold treacle, sticking in my throat.

I thrust my hands in my pockets. Clenched my jaw.

No one knew: there was still time to find the bastard.

So why couldn’t I breathe?

Think about something else. Anything else. Anything but Rebecca.

Money. Think about the money. About how utterly and completely screwed I was.

That was better …

OK, so I didn’t get the chance to squeeze money out of anyone before the post mortems, but there was still time, wasn’t there? Slip out for a couple of hours while they were examining the other remains. Plenty of time.

Yeah, plenty of time …

‘… median damage and periosteal hematoma evident on the left humerus, anterior …’

There was no way in hell I’d ever get enough money. Turn up at the Westing with a fistful of fivers and Mrs Kerrigan’s goons would send me home in a wheelchair.

‘… compound fracture of the right radius and ulna, seven centimetres from the wrist joint …’

So don’t. Don’t turn up at all. As long as I kept my head down till the ferry left Aberdeen at seven tonight, I’d be fine.

‘… striated scarring on the fourth and fifth ribs consistent with a serrated blade …’

Well, maybe not fine, but it’d buy some time.

And all this would still be waiting for me when I got back.

The hands on the mortuary clock clicked around to eleven thirty: two and a half hours of watching Professor Twining pick his way through a murdered girl’s bones.

‘… and one tea: milk, no sugar.’ Alf handed me a mug with ‘World’s Greatest Proctologist!’ printed on the side.

‘Thanks.’ One thing you can say about Anatomical Pathology Technicians: they make a decent cup of tea.

Twining stretched out his arms, hands locked together, as if he was about to crack a safe. ‘Well, I think we can confirm that the remains belong to Lauren Burges.’

I settled back against the working surface. ‘And it only took you two and a half hours. Dr McDonald did it in thirty-five seconds.’

Pink bloomed on her cheeks. ‘Well, the position of the head was a bit of a giveaway, I mean there might be other victims he’s decapitated that we don’t know about. We don’t have a complete collection of birthday cards, and most haven’t got to the bit where he kills them yet …’ She cleared her throat, shuffled her feet. ‘It was an educated guess.’

Twining brushed a hand through his floppy hair. ‘Unfortunately, I have to make my identification stand up in a court of law.’ He took his tea across to the two flip charts with Lauren Burges’s details on them, and pointed at the second-last photo in the series of birthday cards. ‘She was almost certainly dead by the time this one was taken. Difficult to tell with no internal organs left to examine, but working from the photographs I’d say heart failure triggered by blood loss and shock.’

Maybe she was lucky – maybe she was dead when he hacked her open and pulled out her insides. Maybe Rebecca was lucky too …

That fizzing sensation burned at the base of my throat again.

Twining tapped the first card. ‘Given the size and colour variation of the bruises between this picture and when she was killed – I’d say Lauren was probably tortured over a period of six or seven hours. Nine at most.’

Dr McDonald looked up at me. ‘She went missing four days before her birthday.’

‘Yes …’ Twining squinted at the first card again. ‘That would be consistent with her appearance in this photograph. As if she’s been living in those clothes for a couple of days.’

Eight or nine hours screaming into a duct-tape gag while he carved names into Rebecca’s skin, burned her head with bleach, ripped out her teeth with pliers …

I put my tea down, worked hard to keep my voice level. ‘So …’ Try again. ‘So he doesn’t kill them till it’s their actual birthday. He grabs them, he ties them to a chair and leaves them sitting there till it’s time. Waiting.’

Dr McDonald crossed to the dissecting table, with its collection of red-brown bones. ‘Can I hold Lauren’s skull?’

Twining shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t see why not. As long as you don’t drop it.’

I stepped out into the corridor and let the mortuary door swing shut behind me. ‘Are you OK?’

Dr McDonald sniffed, then rubbed a hand across her eyes. She did the same with the shiny trails beneath her nose. ‘Felt like some fresh air …’

In a subterranean corridor, in the bowels of a hospital.

She turned, so I couldn’t see her face. ‘Perhaps I’m allergic to formaldehyde or something.’

Yes. That was it. ‘We’re breaking for lunch. The food’s pretty dreadful, but there’s a private canteen for senior staff Twining can sneak us into.’

‘Right. Great.’

‘That was your first post mortem, wasn’t it?’ I moved around so I could look at her … And stopped. A pair of eyes glittered in the shadow of a missing bulb about thirty feet away. The Rat Catcher was back: just standing there, watching Dr McDonald.

‘Poor Lauren … He makes you sit there till it’s your birthday, three days tied to a chair, waiting for the pain to begin, can you imagine how lonely, how terrified you’d be, and she was only twelve …’ A sniff, and another wipe. ‘Well, thirteen, at the end.’

Of course I could. Every bloody day.

The Rat Catcher was like a statue. Standing. Watching. Staring. Not moving.

I took a couple of steps towards her, put a bit of gravel into my voice. ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’

Dr McDonald flinched, then turned to see who I was shouting at.

The Rat Catcher didn’t even flinch.

‘Go on, fuck off!’

Nothing.

And then, finally, she turned and walked away, no rush, her trolley squeaking and groaning in the darkness. A sudden flare of light as she passed beneath a working bulb, her greying hair glowed around her head like a grubby halo. And then she was gone.

‘Freak.’ I put a hand on Dr McDonald’s shoulder. ‘You sure you’re OK?’

A small nod. ‘Sorry.’ She wiped her eyes again. ‘Just being stupid.’

‘If we’re going to make the ferry we have to be out of here by about … half four? Five at the latest.’

‘I mean I’ve been to post mortems before, but it’s always the same: I spend so much time trying to empathize with killers … I have to stand there and pretend I’m him, imagining what it’d be like, how good it would feel to do all those horrible things.’ Another sniff. ‘And then it’s over and I can’t help …’ She stared at the ground.

‘You don’t have to be here for the rest of this. Go back to your aunt’s house, put your feet up. Crack open a bottle of wine. I’ll catch you up when we’re done.’

Dr McDonald shook her head, dark brown curls bouncing around her puffy face. ‘I’m not abandoning them.’

‘Far as we can tell anyway.’ I sat back in the creaky plastic chair.

Dickie’s image nodded on the laptop’s screen. ‘Fair enough. We’re packing up here tomorrow, so we should be in town mid-afternoon-ish.’

DCI Weber drummed his fingertips on the desk. ‘You’re going to march in and take over my investigation?’

Weber’s office was one of the nicer ones in the building – a proper corner job with big windows looking out on the boarded-up cinema opposite.

Dr McDonald’s laptop was perched on Weber’s desk, where everyone could see the screen, and the webcam could see us. But she was gazing out of the window, one arm wrapped around her chest, the other hand fiddling with her hair.

Dickie sighed. ‘Don’t be like that Gregor, you know how this works. I’m carrying the can for everything the Birthday Boy does, whether I like it or not.’ He frowned. ‘Did I tell you about my ulcer?’

‘I don’t care about your ulcer, I’ve got—’

‘How about this: if we get anything, you sit next to me at the press conference. We both make the announcement: you get half the credit, twelve-year-old girls get to grow up without some sick bastard torturing them to death, and I get to retire and put the whole bloody mess behind me.’

Weber took off his glasses and polished them on his hanky. ‘Well, in the interests of interagency cooperation, I suppose we could come to some operational understanding.’

Dickie didn’t even bother trying to smile. ‘Dr McDonald?’

Gaze, twiddle.

‘Dr McDonald, do you have anything to add? Hello? … Someone give her a poke, for Christ’s sake.’

I did and she jumped, eyes wide. ‘Aagh. What was that for?’

‘DCS Dickie wants to know if you’ve got anything to add.’

‘Oh, right, yes, well …’ She scooted her chair forwards, closer to the laptop. ‘Did Helen McMillan’s parents say anything about where she got her books from?’

On the little screen, Dickie opened his mouth, then shut it again. Frowning. ‘Books?’

‘Did they say where she got them, I mean did she have a rich relative who collected them, and then died and left them to Helen, or something?’

OK, Dr McDonald had been on fairly shaky mental ground to begin with, but it looked as if that bash on the head yesterday had knocked something loose.

‘Books?’

Weber sat back in his chair. ‘Is this really relevant to—’

‘Do you still have that Family Liaison officer at her house, because if you do, can you get him to check the books in Helen’s room? The ones on the shelf.’

The frown got deeper. ‘Dr McDonald … Alice, I know this has all been very stressful for you, and you’re doing your best, but maybe it’d be better if we found someone more suited—’

‘I mean when we were in her room I remember thinking it was a strange collection for a twelve-year-old girl, and I think they were first editions.’ She turned to me. ‘They were, weren’t they, you looked at them too, and—’

‘No idea. They were just books.’

‘Signed first editions. Do you have any idea how much they’re worth? The Chamber of Secrets is about one and a half thousand, The Prisoner of Azkaban: two to three thousand, depending on which version it is, and God knows what a Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe or the Dickens would cost.’

Dickie’s face went an alarming magenta colour, but that might have been the screen. ‘Ah … I see.’

Dr McDonald wrapped her arm back around herself again, the fingers of her other hand making tight little curls through her hair. ‘What’s a twelve-year-old girl doing with twenty or thirty thousand pounds’ worth of books?’