Читать книгу Stuart MacBride: Ash Henderson 2-book Crime Thriller Collection - Stuart MacBride - Страница 34

A dirty blue van sat outside Henry’s house, the legend ‘DAVIE’S DA JOINER!’ painted down the side in Gothic script. A little man was hammering a large sheet of plywood over the lounge window, whistling as he battered in the nails.

I let myself in, not bothering to wave goodbye to Royce, and followed the sound of voices into the kitchen.

Henry leaned back on his stool, sleeves rolled up, one hand resting on top of his little pot belly, the other wrapped around a tumbler. Sheba wheezed and twitched on the floor by the oven, dreaming old dog dreams.

Dr McDonald was hunched over her glass, elbows on the table, fingers drumming a random beat on the wooden surface, curls hiding her face. Her glasses were sitting beside an open bottle of Isle of Jura, the lenses almost opaque with fingerprints. ‘I think … I think Amber O’Neil’s the moss important, he picked … picked her because she looked like Her, I mean whoever it was hurted him … have … have you ever been hurted by a thirteen-year-old girl?’ Then a belch. ‘Oops …’

Henry took a sip and smacked his lips. ‘Yes, but have you considered the possibility that she was a cipher?’

‘Ooh.’ McDonald’s head snapped up. ‘I han … han thought of that, a cipher …’ A little crease formed between her eyebrows. ‘Nah, that makes no … makes no senses … Why would she be a cipher?’ A laugh. ‘You’re silly.’

I closed the door. ‘See the two of you are getting along.’

Henry pointed at the bottle. ‘It’s hard to say no to a lady who brings a single malt for an old man.’ Then a small frown. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Anyone want tea?’

‘I don … I don think she’s a cipher, I think … I think she’s a massage …’

I filled the kettle and stuck it on to boil. ‘No more whisky for you.’

‘Nooo!’ Dr McDonald grabbed her tumbler and clutched it to her chest; Isle of Jura sloshed onto the stripy top. ‘You know what I … what I wonner, Henry, I wonner …’ One eyebrow dipped. ‘I wonner … Em …’

‘Who’s he really torturing?’ Wild guess, but it was what she’d written on the mirror above the sink in the cabin’s toilet.

Dr McDonald banged a hand on the tabletop and looked at me as if I’d invented bacon. ‘God, that’s … that’s brilliant, who’s he really torchering, that’s right … that’s … you’re a genius … isn’t … isn’t he a genius, Henry?’

The four mugs from this morning sat on the working surface, their bottoms crusted and stained with brown. I rinsed one out under the hot tap.

‘Oh, our friend Ash is a man of many talents.’ Henry put his glass down on the table. ‘You went to see him, didn’t you? Burges. That’s where you’ve been.’

‘No, he’s a genius … I mean, Ash, Ash, Henry tol … tol me all bout you and what … what …?’ She downed a gulp of whisky. ‘Who’s he really torchering? Is … is not juss the girls, is it, he’s torchering the parents too, torchering them for years an years an years an years.’

‘We identified Arnold Burges’s daughter’s remains yesterday.’ Teabag in the mug, followed by boiling water. ‘Someone had to tell him.’

‘I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Ash.’

‘Yeah, because you’re doing such a great job of sorting him out on your own.’

‘You’re not a genius, you’re an idiot.’

‘Prhaps … prhaps thass the point, I mean, is … is horrible for the girls, but … but prhaps they’re the means to … to the ends, an that … that’s why he keeps them gagged while he … while he does it?’

I fished the bag out with a spoon and dumped it in the sink. ‘I’m not the piss-head sitting in a freezing house with shattered windows and dog shit on the carpet, drinking myself to death.’

Henry poured himself another measure of whisky. ‘Do I look pished to you?’

No he didn’t. He looked more sober than he had when we’d arrived. And the ‘caffeine’ tremors seemed to have vanished as well.

‘He doesn’t … doesn’t want to hear them scream cos … because he’s not innit for … for their pain, he wans … he wans the parents to feel it, ooh I needa pee …’ Dr McDonald lurched up from the table and grabbed the working surface. ‘Oops … Floor’s all … slippy … like Switzerland …’

The teaspoon rattled against the stainless-steel draining board. I sploshed some milk into the mug. ‘What, I’m not supposed to worry about you now? Thought we were friends.’

‘I don’t want you interfering.’

Interfering? For God’s sake. ‘He took a sledgehammer to Ellie’s headstone!’

‘Back inna … inna bit, you got any crisps, I like crisps …’ And she was gone, leaving the door open behind her. ‘Crisps, crisps, crisps, crisps, crisps …’

Henry drank, rolling the whisky around his mouth. ‘Arnold Burges is entitled to feel bitter. I screwed up the profile, if I’d been a better psychologist his daughter would still be alive.’ He stared at his gnarled hands, the skin peppered with liver spots. ‘And Rebecca would be too.’

Maybe he was right.

There was a little patio in the top corner of the garden: a suntrap with a wooden table and some folding chairs, looking out over the harbour, the mountains, the boats, and the sea. Good view. Certainly a hell of a lot better than the one from my kitchen window.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the messages, deleting all the ones where Michelle ranted and raved about what a thoughtless prick I was. OK, so she could be a pain in the arse, but that didn’t mean it was OK for Katie to lie to her. Even if Michelle was being unreasonable.

Mind you, Ashley’s dad did sound like a bit of a tosser …

A grunt from the bottom of the garden. It was Henry, labouring his way up the weed-strewn path to the patio, puffing and panting all the way. Sheba wobbled along behind him, tongue lolling out.

Henry collapsed into one of the folding chairs. ‘She’s stopped throwing up.’

‘You OK?’

He shrugged, then clunked the bottle of whisky down on the table, followed by a single tumbler. ‘When did you stop drinking?’

‘Pills. Unlike you I actually read the instructions.’

‘She’s curled up on the kitchen worktop, snoring like a drain and making the most appalling smells.’

‘That’s what you get for leading her astray.’

‘True.’ He poured himself a stiff measure. The Isle of Jura was about halfway done already, and it was barely noon. ‘Just because I don’t want you interfering with Arnold Burges, doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see you. And I’m sorry I didn’t call. The funeral was on Monday and I—’

‘It’s OK. It doesn’t matter.’

He wrapped his hands around the tumbler. ‘You got another card.’

‘Number five.’

A nod. ‘Ash, if you tell Dickie, or Weber, or McDonald, they can—’

‘Shouldn’t even have told you.’

He fiddled with the glass, not looking at me. ‘No, probably not.’

Because if I hadn’t, Philip Skinner might still be alive. And Detective Superintendent Len Murray wouldn’t be serving eighteen years in Glenochil Prison.

‘Do you know what Dickie and his Party Crashers have achieved in the four years since you quit? Sod all. If we hadn’t found Helen Kelly’s remains they’d still be poking about in Dundee, waiting for the next girl to go missing. They’re treading water, Henry, and he’s still out there.’

Henry took a sip, pursed his lips. The stubble on his chin glowed in the sunlight. ‘I’ll help Dr McDonald with her “behavioural evidence analysis”, try and stop her from making the same mistakes I did, but there’s one condition: it’s all off the record. Unofficial. You keep me out of the investigation.’

‘Deal.’

Sheba gave up halfway up the path and groaned down onto her side in the middle of a sunny patch.

‘And I’m not coming back to Oldcastle with you. If I help, it’s got to be from here.’

‘Oh … Well, maybe we can—’

My phone buzzed on the tabletop, skittering as the ringing got louder. DC Massie’s name flashed on the screen. I picked it up and jabbed the button. ‘Rhona.’

A pause. Then, ‘Oh thank God, you’re OK … You are OK, aren’t you? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours.’

‘Of course, I’m OK. Why wouldn’t I be?’ Pause. ‘Look, Rhona, is this important, only I’m in the middle of something.’

Silence.

‘Rhona?’

‘I … I wanted to check you were OK. No one knew where you were, and your house was trashed, and the Fire Brigade said it was—’

‘Fire Brigade?’ I nearly dropped the phone. What the hell were the Fire Brigade … Bloody Shifty Dave: I asked him to tidy up, not burn the place down!

Henry sat forward in his seat. ‘Everything all right?’

‘I was worried when you didn’t call me back, so I went by your house this morning and there was a fire engine sitting outside, and council vans, and the bastards wouldn’t let me in, but there was water everywhere and the whole place was trashed. I mean completely fucked. And no one knew where you were …’

‘What the hell did you do to my fucking house?’

A large woman with a pushchair full of screaming toddler gave me the evil eye, then hurried past. Well, screw her. How would she like it if someone set fire to her bloody house?

Main Street was relatively busy for a small town on the west coast of Shetland. Parked cars lined one side of the road outside the Scalloway Meat Company shop, its frontage plastered with signs about ‘FANCY GOODS, TOYS, and SOUVENIRS’. The flat-fronted houses opposite were painted in various pastel shades. All very quaint.

Shifty Dave Morrow grumbled on the other end of the phone. ‘You’re bloody welcome. You any idea what kind of mess that big bastard made in my car?’

‘Dave, I swear to God—’

‘I didn’t do anything to it, OK? The place was like that when I got there. And you could’ve bloody warned me! Water pishing down the stairs, the walls, all the furniture wrecked, ceiling caving in … How was I supposed to tidy that up? What am I, Kim and fucking Aggie?’

Water?

Main Street ended at a little make-believe roundabout. I took a right, into a car park overlooking the harbour.

‘The house wasn’t wrecked when I left it! Well, maybe the hall and the stairs, but that’s it. So don’t—’

‘Nah: whole place was smashed up. Don’t know how your visitor managed it with his ankle fucked like that, but your house was a bombsite when I got there.’ A sniff, then a honking snork as Shifty blew his nose. ‘He got a bit rowdy: had to hit him with a spade a couple of times. Dumped him outside A&E, so he’s either OK by now, or he’s dead.’

‘How could he … My sodding house?’ A pair of seagulls stopped pecking at a fishing net draped over a couple of bin-bags, and stared at me, heads tilted on one side. I aimed a kick in their direction. ‘And you can fuck off as well!’

They scrambled into the air, screeching abuse.

‘Should be thanking me: put my back out, dragging that big bastard in from the garden. Bloody suit’s ruined. And he puked in the boot.’

I slumped back against a big Toyota flatbed. It was stacked with creels, the smell of stale fish and seaweed wafting out into the cold air. ‘Is the whole place really wrecked?’

‘Total bombsite … Hold on.’ Muffled crunches came from the phone, as if Shifty had stuck a hand over the mouthpiece. Then he was back. ‘Got to go: three-line-whip briefing in the canteen. Party Crashers have turned up and the ACC’s going mental.’ The connection went dead. He’d hung up.

I jammed the phone in my pocket, then let my head fall back until it clunked against the truck’s roof and stared up at the gathering clouds. ‘It was my house …’

Even if it was a shithole.

The seagulls were back, swooping and jeering around a fishing boat as it chugged into harbour. Must be nice to be a seagull. You eat, you sleep, you shag, and if you’re having a bad day you can shite on everyone from a great height. Doesn’t even have to be a bad day, you can do it just for fun.

I leaned against the low stone wall and scowled out at the birds.

The whole house: wrecked.

How the hell could Mr Pain wreck the place on one leg? What did he do – hop from room to room, smashing things like a demented Heather Mills?

Maybe it was local neds …? Then again, maybe not. After the last thieving git got out of Castle Hill Infirmary the little sods tended to steer clear of my place.

Unless Shifty Dave Morrow was a lying fat bastard and he was the one who’d trashed my house? But why go to all that effort? Not as if I couldn’t tell his wife about him and Andrew the Barman …

Definitely getting colder.

Let’s be honest: it was probably more of Mrs Kerrigan’s goons, sent to teach me a lesson after I threatened to come after her. What a great idea that had been. Really smooth.

I stuck my hands in my pockets and did the grand tour of Scalloway: all the way back down Main Street, past the various boathouses and halls and shortbread-box terraces, until the buildings ran out and I was walking along with water on one side and a scrubby hill on the other.

Two rows of small boats were tied to a floating walkway about twenty yards from shore. Someone had hauled an upturned fibreglass dinghy onto the grass at the side of the road – I perched on the edge. Looked out across the glittering water to the grey-green hills speckled with tiny white houses.

Cold leached into my bones, nipping my ears and nose.

Arnold Burges had a point – how did the Birthday Boy find them all the way up here? And how did he manage to track down Hannah Kelly’s parents even though they’d moved house again and again and again …

It was different for us – we’d stayed put. Well, Michelle had. She got the house and I got a kicking from her divorce lawyer. But all the other parents …

I gave Sabir a call and asked.

His Scouse accent was muffled, as if he had a mouthful of something. ‘Dunno.’

‘Oh, come on: don’t tell me you guys haven’t looked into it. Hannah Kelly’s parents couldn’t be more difficult to track down if they were in witness protection and they still get a birthday card every year. That doesn’t seem a bit suspicious to you?’

The sound of slow chewing came from the earpiece.

I waited.

‘Sabir?’

‘Are youse finished?’

‘I was just—’

‘Treatin’ us like we’re a bunch of bell ends. Course we thought about it, you divvie. We gorra big list of jobs our lad could be doing that’d let him find out where the victims’ families live. Might work for the Inland Revenue, or the DMV, or maybe he’s a doctor, orra journalist, or he’s in the Post Office, or with a telecoms provider, or he’s a bizzie—’

‘A police officer?’

‘Maybe. Or maybe he’s someone who knows how to use the internet, you think about that? I want to find out ’bout a suspect I don’t even bother with the PNC these days, I look them up on Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, electoral register … Internet’s a goldmine: everyone’s gorra digital footprint, if you know where to look.’

Yeah, right: because Donald Kelly would be updating his status to ‘WE’VE MOVED HOUSE TO 36 DUNROSS STREET, OLDCASTLE, OC23 9WP. DON’T TELL THE BIRTHDAY BOY! LOL!!!!’

‘Point is, if our lad’s computer savvy, it’s not gonna take him long …’ The rattle of fat fingers on a keyboard. ‘Ash Henderson: Forty-Two Fletcher Avenue; Royal Bank of Scotland … overdrawn by a grand and a bit; mobile number: oh seven eight four two—’

‘OK, OK, I get the—’

‘Divorced, two children: Rebecca … ran away when she was twelve, Katie …’ More keystrokes. ‘Katie lives at Nineteen Rowan Drive, Blackwall Hill, Oldcastle; she goes to Johnston Academy; and is “in a relationship” with someone called Noah. Apparently it’s “complicated”, but—’

‘Enough. I get it.’ And who the hell was Noah?

‘How long did that take us?’

‘Donald Kelly isn’t on Facebook.’

‘Doesn’t have to be. If we’re all seven steps of separation from Kevin Bacon, how many steps do you think it takes to find someone posting photos to Flickr, blogging, tweeting, sticking stuff up on any one of a million social networking sites? Might never have touched a computer in your life and youse’ll still have a digital footprint.’

Sod.

The clouds were getting darker, spreading like cancer across the pale-blue sky.

‘How’s Dundee going?’

‘Nothing more we can do there, so we’ve all upped sticks to your neck of the woods. Helpin’ your divvie mates – see if we can narrow the search down a bit. You wanna talk to the guvnor?’

‘Nah, I’m good.’ A tiny fleck of white drifted through the cold air, followed by a second and a third. Not really snowing, but definitely thinking about it. ‘Do me a favour: find out who’s been searching for Donald Kelly, or any of the other parents.’

‘On the internet? I’m good, but I’m not that good.’ More munching noises. ‘No one’s that good. Youse are talkin’ about millions of servers all over the world and—’

‘Well, can’t you … Erm …’

What? If it was impossible it was impossible. I stood, stamped my feet to get some feeling back into them. Maybe we should start small. ‘What systems could you do it for?’

‘Seriously?’

‘Just because it’s a pain in the arse, doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.’

‘You’re the pain in the arse.’ A sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do, but I’m promisin’ bugger all.’ And he was gone.

I headed back along the harbour. The flakes were still tiny, but there were more of them – settling on the cold pavements, making it look as if they’d been dusted with icing sugar.

On the other end of the phone, DCI Weber sighed. ‘You’re a silly bugger, Ash.’

I pushed my empty plate away: macaroni cheese and chips – lunch of champions. ‘Thanks, Gregor, that helps.’

‘Ash, Ash, Ash, what did I tell you about pissing off Mrs Kerrigan? It doesn’t matter if Andy Inglis likes you, she’ll still have your—’

‘I know, OK? I know.’ I dropped a tenner on the table, drained the last of my mineral water, and pushed out onto the street. My breath plumed around my head. ‘Who told you?’

‘They didn’t put me in charge of CID because I’m pretty. I do work things out from time to time.’

I took a right, heading back along Main Street towards Henry’s house, one hand stuffed deep in my pocket, the other nipping in the frigid air. ‘It’s not—’

‘Ash, we’ve talked about this: while Sergeant Smith is with us we have to be extremely discreet. I don’t think getting your house trashed by the local hoodlums is very discreet, do you? What if she decides to have you killed? Do you have any idea how awkward a position that would put me in?’

‘Yeah, how thoughtless of me. What was I thinking?’

Wind whipped down an alley, swirling the tiny white flakes into a vortex. There was some sort of bookshop on the other side. I stopped.

‘You know what I mean. Obviously your loss would be tragic, but it’d be the rest of us getting a screwing from Professional Standards.’ A pause. ‘How much do you owe?’

There was a fluffy stuffed puffin in the window. Katie would love that. She might dress like something out of the Addams Family, but she still had every fluffy toy I’d ever bought her.

‘Got to go. Bird-related emergency.’

‘Ash—’

‘I’ll sort it, OK?’ Though Christ knew how …