Читать книгу Stuart MacBride: Ash Henderson 2-book Crime Thriller Collection - Stuart MacBride - Страница 28

She spanked the second whisky down in one, screwed up her face and stuck out her elbows, hissed a juddery breath.

I sat back, helped myself to some fizzy water. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re not a drinker?’

‘Would you call the Birthday Boy normal, because I wouldn’t, but I have to try to think like him if I’m going to figure out what he wants, and what he needs, and why torturing young girls makes sense to him, and that’s a bit of a stretch, because he’s not normal and I am.’ She put the glass back on the table. ‘Luckily alcohol’s a great depressor of inhibitions.’

‘You’re normal?’ I could feel the smile spreading. ‘You sure?’

Pink rushed up her cheeks and she broke eye contact, staring down at the photos of Hannah Kelly instead. ‘He’s been active for ten years, he abducts one girl a year for the first six – except for one twelve-month gap – then three years ago he takes two victims within three weeks, then the same again last year—’

‘You really think you’re normal?’

‘—and by now he’s probably abducted another two.’ She glugged Pinot Grigio into her wine glass, then gulped down a mouthful. ‘That brings his total to twelve girls, snatched just before their thirteenth birthday, next one will be number thirteen … Thirteen thirteen-year-olds: that might be significant …’ Another swig. ‘Or it might not, I mean there was always going to come a time when he’d have killed thirteen girls, as long as he keeps doing what he’s doing and we keep not catching him, eventually he’s going to have nineteen victims, then twenty-one, then …’

The bread rolls were warm, I slathered one with butter. ‘Unless he’s escalating. Last year it was two victims, but this year it might be three, or four. Maybe he’ll go on a spree – wind up dead in a ditch with a shotgun in his mouth?’

Dr McDonald rubbed a hand up and down the sleeve of her stripy top. ‘The number is definitely significant, you don’t randomly pick a girl’s thirteenth birthday as the trigger-point for your abduction and torture fantasies for no reason, something must have happened to him when he was thirteen …’ This time, when she picked up the wine glass she drained it.

‘You’re going to be sick, you know that, don’t you?’

She peered at the bottle, licked her lips, then filled the glass up again. ‘Why isn’t it working?’

‘Oh … give it time.’

A lump of marinated herring wobbled on the end of her fork. ‘Or perhaps whatever happened … happened when someone else was thirteen and he was mush younger, which is more likely, I mean to develop a pathology like this you need to be in the early stages of sexual development, when your sense of right an’ wrong an’ good an’ bad an’ normal annn’ weird are still … still mall … malleable—’ The last word rumbled out on a belch that wafted alcohol and vinegared fish across the table. ‘Ooh, pardon.’ She reached for the wine and topped her glass up again. There wasn’t much left in the bottle. Her cheeks were a rosy pink, and so was the point of her chin.

I picked at my smoked salmon. ‘You might want to think about pacing yourself.’

‘I think … I think we’re looking for someone who was traumatized by a thirteen … thirteen-year-old-girl.’ Dr McDonald closed one eye and glugged Shiraz into my glass. Almost all of it went in, the rest making blood spatters on the white tablecloth. ‘Then again, who hasssn’t been traumatized by a thirteen-year-old girl at some … at some point. There was this horrible cow at Gordons called Clarissa an’ she used to say horridible things behind my back.’

I pushed the glass away. ‘Let me guess: you stood up to her, she realized she was just as scared as you, and you became bestest friends.’

‘No, she … she beat the crap out of me behind the bins at break time.’ Dr McDonald skewered a lump of black pudding with her fork, held it up and squinted at it. ‘Perhaps she sexually abused him, or he wan … he wanted her to and she wouldn’t but … but he loved her and it was all doomed … Doooooomed. You’re not dringing your wine, why are you not … dringing your wine?’

‘Yeah, sorry about that.’ I took my card out of the chip-and-pin thing, then dug out a twenty and handed it over too. A pretty generous tip, but then again, given the way Dr McDonald had behaved …

She was slumped forwards in her seat, arms folded in her Orkney fudge cheesecake, head on her arms, brown curly hair dangling in a puddle of spilled brandy. Singing quietly to herself.

That was the trouble with psychologists – too much time spent grubbing about in the minds of nutters, rapists, killers, and paedophiles, tended to rub the ‘sane’ off a bit.

I jammed the red plastic folder back in her satchel, hooked it over her head, then hoisted her up by the armpits.

She stopped singing. Frowned. ‘He wasss hurt by a blonde … thirteen-year-old girl. She broke … she broke his heart … An’ maybe his arm. Or a leg or something.’

‘You’ve got cheesecake all over your cheek.’ I let go and Dr McDonald wobbled a bit, took a step back – looked as if she was going to keep on going into the other table. I grabbed her again. ‘Top of your class, eh?’

‘Have you … you been … has a thirteen-year-old-girl ever broke … broken your heart?’

Oh, she had no idea.

‘Can you walk?’

‘I bet she did. Bet she snapped it in two and … and stomped on it, like a … like a bug.’

The sound of vomiting echoed out of the cabin bathroom. I lay back on my bunk, pillows folded behind my head, bare feet on the duvet, flicking through the photos in Dr McDonald’s folder. Tramadol and Naproxen wrapped their warm arms around me, more soothing than the ferry’s gentle rocking.

Another round of splattering heaves. Then a voice. ‘Ash … Ash … hold my hair back …’

‘No.’

McDonald’s printouts didn’t seem to be in any sort of order. The Hannah Kelly birthday cards were at the top, but right after those were Helen McMillan’s: the twelve-year-old from Dundee with thirty-two grand’s worth of signed first editions on her bedroom shelf.

She didn’t look much like the photo we’d found on her chest of drawers. The fairy princess outfit and the gap-toothed smile were gone; now her Irn-Bru hair hung in lank curls around a heart-shaped face and long, bruised neck. Freckles covered her nose and cheeks, a thin line of blood running from her nose. Too much eye makeup, the mascara smudged and tear-streaked.

The collar of Helen’s bright-green coat was torn on one side, the stuffing sticking out. Both arms behind her back, both ankles strapped to the chair legs, jeans dark around the crotch and thighs. A number ‘1’ was scratched into the top-left corner.

The photograph wasn’t a Polaroid like the ones on Rebecca’s cards, or any of the earlier victims. The Birthday Boy had finally moved with the times and got himself a digital camera. Well, it wasn’t as if he could take conventional film into the supermarkets and get them to process it for him.

I stared into Helen’s eyes. They were grey-green, surrounded by pink, shining where the flash bounced off her tears. The card only arrived yesterday, but she’d already been dead for a year.

‘Ash … Ash, I’m dying …’ More retching. ‘Oh no … There’s … there’s black pudding in my hair …’

Thank God the bathroom had an extractor fan that came on with the light: wheeching away the stench of a three-course meal, two whiskies, a brandy, and two bottles of wine. She’d better be getting it all in the toilet, because if not she could clean it up herself.

I put Helen McMillan’s card to one side and pulled out the next set: the girl from Cardiff. Then the one from Bristol. Aberdeen. Newcastle. Inverness. London. London again. Oldcastle, Glasgow … Ten victims – not counting Rebecca – going back nine years. Forty-two cards in total.

Amber O’Neil’s cards sat at the back of the pile. Abducted from the Princes Square shopping centre in Glasgow ten years ago, she was the first girl to catch the Birthday Boy’s dark little eye.

A mousy blonde, tear streaming down her pale face, nose a bit too big, lips drawn back showing off bloodied teeth. No gag. Not in the first couple of photographs anyway. He wanted to hear her scream, then changed his mind. Maybe it wasn’t quite as much fun with her roaring her throat raw as he carved shapes into her naked skin.

Blonde to start with: so no need to dye her hair. Abducted in Glasgow. Never seen again.

Lauren died between card four and five; Hannah between seven and eight. Amber lasted till number six, eyes wide and pleading, Stanley-knife graffiti scrawled across her naked body. And a year later, card number seven arrived. The left side of her head was caved in, the mousy blonde hair matted with blood. The next card was worse, but at least by then Amber couldn’t feel it any more. Now it was her parents’ turn to suffer.

I unzipped my wheelie suitcase and pulled out the cigar box, opened the lid and took Rebecca out. Five cards and she was still alive, still struggling and screaming and bleeding …

The sound of a toilet flushing, then a couple of groans, then the shower running. Washing off the chunks.

I was staring at Rebecca’s last birthday card when the toilet door clunked open and Dr McDonald lurched out, wrapped in a towel, clutching her clothes to her chest. Wet hair hung in straggly curls around her face – one eye scrunched shut, the other all bloodshot. She opened and closed her mouth, making sticky clicking noises.

‘Urgh …’

I pulled one of Amber O’Neil’s cards on top of Rebecca’s. ‘Well, what did you expect?’

Her voice was still slurred. ‘I’m dead. I’ve died, and this is hell …’ She slumped down on the other bunk, rocking back and forwards with her knees clamped together. ‘Do we have any water? The stuff in the tap tastes like dog pee.’

Not so rambly now, was she?

‘Bottle beside your bed, got it from the little shop while you were spewing your ring.’

‘I’m never – drinking – again.’ She dumped her clothes on the floor and helped herself to the two-litre bottle, drinking deep. Then surfaced with a burp. ‘Urgh … Tastes of sick.’

‘Stop whinging and drink it. You’ll feel better tomorrow.’

‘Why did you let me drink all that wine?’

‘You’re supposed to be a grown-up, remember?’

‘Urgh …’ She collapsed back, lying half on, half off the bed, one arm thrown across her face. ‘You’re doing it wrong.’

I frowned at her. ‘I’m looking for—’

‘That’s Amber, right? You have to … you have to look at them all at once, or it’s … All her birthday cards, all at once …’

‘What difference does that—’

‘See, for us they arrive a year apart, it’s like … it’s like paintings on a cave wall, something that happened long time ago. Slow motion, but for … for him it’s quick, it’s visceral, it’s … it’s happening all in a whooooooosh …’ Another belch. ‘Urgh …’ More sticky clicking noises. ‘It’s all now and bright and bloody and sharp. You’ve got … you’ve got to appreciate it like he does, you’ve got … got to be in the moment like him. Got to beeeee. A busy, busy little bee …’ Getting quieter all the time. Then silence.

‘Dr McDonald?’ Nothing. ‘Alice? Hello, Alice?’ Silence.

She’d conked out.

I slipped Rebecca’s birthday cards back into the cigar box, stuck everything else on the little table bolted to the bulkhead, and clambered off the bunk. Rolled Dr McDonald onto her side, pulled out the duvet, then rolled her back again so she was covered up. Might be an idea to put her in the recovery position so she didn’t choke on her own vomit. Assuming she had any chunks left to choke on.

After that, I got the cabin’s bin out from under the tea-and-coffee bit and placed it next to her head. Then stood and looked down at her, lying there with her mouth open a crack, dribble slowly glistening its way down her cheek.

Just like Katie after her first proper party. First week in secondary school and there she was: white sweatshirt stained the colour of clay, flecked with little chunks of sausage roll, reeking of sick and sticky cider-and-blackcurrant. Eleven years old, and she didn’t want to be daddy’s little girl any more.

Ah, the good old days.

I tucked the duvet under Dr McDonald’s chin. ‘Sleep tight, you complete and utter rambling lunatic …’

Something rumbled under the covers, followed by a waft of mouldering cauliflower.

‘Oh, Jesus! Ack …’ It was followed by three aftershocks, sounding like someone was kicking a duck down a length of metal pipe. And the smell! I opened the toilet door and flicked on the light, setting the extractor fan going.

There were lopsided letters scrawled across the mirror above the sink in plum-coloured lipstick: ‘WHOSE HE REELY TORCHERING?’

She’d come top of her class? What the hell were the rest of them like?