Читать книгу Birthdays for the Dead - Stuart MacBride - Страница 17

Whatever song was pounding through the place faded out and there was silence.

A mirror stretched the length of the bar – behind the optics and bottles of whisky. I watched the reflection of a chunky blonde scoop up her cowgirl costume and bra, then wobble off the stage in too-high heels, biting her bottom lip, cheeks streaked with mascara tears. An Aberdeen accent crackled out of the speakers. ‘That wis Tina. Big round of applause fir Tina! Come on, big round of applause …’ Nothing. ‘Next we’ve got a real treat for you: Naughty Nikita the Polish Princess!’

The music cranked up again.

That was the trouble with early evening slots at the Silver Lady: the handful of after-work-let’s-go-to-a-titty-bar-isn’t-that-cool-and-or-ironic? brigade weren’t worth putting on the best talent for. So management put on newbies like Tina – out of her clothes and out of her depth, trying to prove she had what it takes to keep the punters aroused and drinking.

A lanky bloke in a black waistcoat and bow tie sidled up behind the bar, wiping the wooden surface with a cloth. He smiled. ‘Another?’ Enough gel in his hair to keep him looking like a prick, even in a force ten gale.

‘Thanks, Steve.’

He was back a minute later with a fresh glass of sparkling mineral water. The ice cubes clinked as I raised it to my lips.

Steve leaned on the bar. ‘Hear your brother got him a spanking from three of Big Johnny Simpson’s boys last night.’

I put it down again. ‘Oh yeah?’

‘Seriously: chattin’ up Big Johnny’s sister? Like that was ever gonnae end well.’

But then Parker never was the brightest.

Steve glanced up and down the bar. Inched closer, voice barely audible over the thumping music. ‘I heard you waded in and battered the crap out them. All three of them.’ He licked his lips. ‘It true you’re gettin’ back in the game?’ Steve threw a couple of messy punches in the air. ‘Man, I’d love to see that – Ash Henderson, Comeback King of the Bare-Knuckle Ring! How legendary would that be?’

I took a sip. ‘Someone’s been pulling your leg.’

‘Oh …’ His face fell, and so did his shoulders. Then he snapped on a grin as a chubby man in a wrinkled grey suit with matching comb-over lurched up to the bar. ‘Same again, sir?’

A booming laugh. ‘She’s after champagne, Steveyboy. Mak’ it a bottle, eh? And none of your foreign pish – French. And twa glasses.’

‘Coming right up, sir.’

Mr Champagne shuffled his feet, shoogling his bum in time to the music. ‘Do you no’ love this place?’ A network of parallel brown streaks scarred his trouser leg from knee to groin. Skidmarks, the sign of a classy lap dance.

A hand landed on my shoulder. ‘What’s this I hear about you getting back in the bare-knuckle game?’

I didn’t look around. ‘Evening, Shifty.’

In the mirror, DI Shifty Dave Morrow gave me a wink. His neck had disappeared years ago taking his hair with it. He wrapped an arm around Mr Champagne. ‘Do’s a favour and bugger off before I twat you one, eh?’

The dance came to a sudden stop and Mr Champagne stood there with his mouth open for a moment, then shuffled down to the other end of the bar.

Shifty Dave levered his huge arse up on the stool next to me. ‘How’s the titties? Anyone good been on yet?’

‘The new girl, Tina, fell off again.’

‘Oooooh …’ He pursed his lips, pulling in a whistling breath. ‘How many times?’

‘Twice.’

A nod. ‘Well, at least it’s an improvement on last night.’ He unbuttoned his suit jacket, showing off a straining blue shirt and a spatter-stained tie. ‘Any chance of a drink here, I’m parched.’

Right on cue, Steve the barman reappeared with an ice bucket. An open bottle of Moët & Chandon stuck out of the top.

Oldest trick in the book. Management buys one case of the stuff, drinks it, then fills the empty bottles with the cheapest supermarket sparkling wine they can find. All the girls are told: some punter wants to buy you a drink? Got to be champagne. So the punter buys the ‘champagne’. Then the staff collect the empties, fill them with Asda’s discount cava, and round we go again. The Happy Hedgehog in Cowskillin doesn’t even bother with the cheap fizzy – they get a crate of bargain-basement Liebfraumilch and stick it through a SodaStream.

Shifty watched Mr Champagne hand over a credit card. ‘Look at this tosser.’ Not bothering to keep his voice down. ‘Buying fizzy plonk ’cos he thinks it’ll impress the halfwits he works with if he can clamber inside some stripper’s G-string. Like that’s ever going to happen.’ A little louder: ‘You’re fucking dreaming!’

The wee man in the rumpled grey suit took his bottle of expensive cava and marched back to his booth, head held high. Noble in the face of rudeness. With someone else’s skidmarks on his trousers.

I took another sip of sparkling water. ‘Any idea where I can get somewhere to hold a kid’s birthday party?’

Shifty licked his lips as Steve pulled a pint of Tennent’s. ‘Could do it here? There’s that function suite upstairs. Sure Dillon would give you a decent rate.’

Up on stage, a woman with space-hopper breasts twirled herself around a shiny pole, dark hair trailing behind her like a banner.

Yeah, maybe not.

Steve plonked the pint down in front of Shifty. ‘Don’t pick on the punters – it screws up my tips.’

‘Cheers, Steve.’ Shifty didn’t even bother pretending to get his wallet out any more. On the house was on the house. He resurfaced after downing half the glass in one. ‘Ahhhh …’ A small belch. ‘Shitter of a day, Ash, complete shitter. You’d think that wanker Smith was the Chief Bloody Constable, way he’s ordering everyone about. Only a DS, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Word is he’s PSD from Aberdeen.’

Shifty’s whole face pinched in around his bared teeth. ‘Rubber-heeling little bastard.’ The rest of his pint disappeared, then he held out the glass. ‘Put another one in there, Steve.’

Steve did as he was told, then wandered off to serve someone else.

This time Shifty savoured it. ‘You really fighting again? Seriously, with your hands?’

‘I’m not – it’s all bollocks.’ I went back to my water. ‘You get anything from the door-to-doors?’

‘Early days yet. Got a team pulling an all-nighter down the Land Registry, finding out who owned what house when the poor cows went missing. No point interviewing buggers who only moved in a couple years ago, is it?’

I shrugged. Up on the glittering stage, Naughty Nikita ground her way along the floor.

‘How far back you going?’

‘Nine years: when Amber O’Neil got snatched …’ He frowned at me. ‘What’s that look for?’

‘Did you know Oldcastle produced more chlorine gas for World War One than anywhere else in the UK?’

‘Come on – surely nine years is enough.’

‘Apparently the ground’s all contaminated with mercury, that’s why we get so many nutters.’

‘We’re talking about three hundred houses here.’

‘That prick Forbes sacks the place, the wanker Montrose burns it down, and the arch fucker Huntly—’

‘Salts the earth, “so nane croppes shall growe on the accursd haven of evill and wicked Covenanters”, yeah: went to school, I know. So come on: Land Registry.’

I hunkered down over my glass, resting my aching knuckles against its cool surface. ‘Remember that guy we caught three years ago: Martin Floyd? Where did he dump those prostitutes’ bodies?’

‘Can we not stick to the one topic for five minutes?’

‘He strangled them, raped them, then dumped them in Moncuir Wood. Why?’

‘Because he was a fucking nut-job, that’s why. Now can—’

‘He dumped them there, because when he was a wee boy he used to go camping in Moncuir Wood with the scouts. He knew the area.’

‘That thump in the head must’ve loosened your …’ Shifty stood there with his mouth hanging open.

I took another sip of fizzy water. ‘Penny just dropped, has it?’

‘Eight o’clock.’

I looked into the mirror. The place was getting busy, the after-work suits joined by stag nights and leaving dos: blokes up for a night on the batter with a little gratuitous nudity thrown in. Kicking off an evening that’d end with kebab vomit all down their front and a bollocking from the wife.

‘Come on, gents, let’s hear it for Naughty Nikita! Yeah, OK, whoo!’ No one joined in with the idiot on the PA system. ‘Now, the girls are going to take a little break, but we’ll be back in five minutes with the one, the only, the wonderful Kayleigh! Yeah!’

Eight o’clock … I scanned the crowd’s reflection. Suits; stag night; that tosser ‘Sensational Steve’ off the morning drive-time show, plus hangers on; one of the council’s last remaining Liberal Democrats, sitting all on his own; a couple of local hoods sharing a joint. But no sign of anything … Fuck.

Fuck!

The man standing by the club’s entrance had barn-door ears, a sloping forehead, jutting chin, and a haircut so short you could see every inch of scar tissue criss-crossing his misshapen head. He couldn’t have been an inch over five-three. He ran a hand across his open mouth as he scanned the crowd. A DIY swallow tattoo perched on his wrist, blue ink spidering out into the surrounding skin.

I hunched my shoulders up to my ears and slouched down, making myself as small as possible.

Fuck.

Shifty groaned. ‘Are you hiding from—’

‘I’m not hiding, I’m—’

‘Oh, you stupid prick. I told you to steer clear of—’

‘Shut up, OK?’ I glanced in the mirror again. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘Looking for someone.’

See, that’s what happens when you have a local: people can find you. I downed the last of my water in one. The bubbles made my stomach churn. The bubbles. Nothing else.

And then a voice came from right behind me, high-pitched and breathy. ‘Well, well, well, Detective Constable Ash Henderson, how fortuitous.’

Too late to do a runner.

I swivelled around on my seat, still holding the empty glass. Not the most elegant of weapons, but it would make one hell of a mess. ‘Joseph.’ I had a quick look behind him. ‘Where’s your boyfriend?’

‘Homophobia, Constable Henderson? I expected more from a man of your standing in the community.’ A small shake of the head. ‘If you must know, Francis is parking the BMW. But don’t worry, he’ll be joining us presently.’ Joseph pulled on a breadknife smile. ‘And Detective Inspector Morrow, how’s life treating yourself?’

Shifty shrugged. ‘Did you know Oldcastle made heaps of poison gas for killing Nazis in World War One?’

Joseph raised a scarred eyebrow. ‘Fascinating.’ Then back to me. ‘Constable Henderson: do you, by chance, have something for me?’

A figure appeared at Joseph’s shoulder. Tall and broad, curly ginger hair tied back in a ponytail, broken nose, huge moustache with matching tuft below the bottom lip. He took off a pair of John Lennon sunglasses and slipped them inside his leather jacket. Small pink eyes. He gave me a stiff little nod. ‘’Spector.’

I nodded back. ‘Francis.’

Joseph took a pair of black leather gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. ‘Tell me, Francis, is our friend Constable Henderson on our list for today?’

The big man produced a notebook and flicked through the pages, his forehead all creased up, tip of his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. ‘Nah.’

‘Oh …’ Joseph frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah.’

Thank Christ for that.

‘Oh well, perhaps tomorrow.’ He winked at me. ‘It seems Lady Fortune is smiling upon you this evening, Constable Henderson. Perhaps you should consider paying off your debt to Mr Inglis, before it becomes necessary to arrange a late-night home visit from our fiscal management services?’

Francis sniffed. ‘Our boy’s off tae the bogs.’

A thin man with a rectangular bald-spot was lurching his way towards the toilets. The door swung shut behind him with a thump. Francis set off after him.

Joseph stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. ‘Actually, the Nazi Party didn’t come into being until 1920, so they can’t have been the recipients of Oldcastle’s gaseous emissions … Ah. Francis has liaised with our friend. Excellent.’

Francis hauled the balding bloke out of the toilets.

The guy was fumbling with his trousers, still doing up his flies. ‘Please, I can explain, I didn’t think it was due till next week, I mean I’ve got the money, I never said I didn’t have the money, did I?’

Francis dragged him past, making for the entrance.

‘I can get it tomorrow, when the banks open, that’ll be OK, won’t it?’ Out onto the cobbled street. ‘Really, I’ve got the money, it’s not a problem, we can—’

The door clunked shut.

‘And now, the girl you’ve all been waiting for, the one, the only, the incredibly sexy: Kayleigh!’ The lights dimmed and ‘Bad to the Bone’ thumped out of the speakers. Amateur hour was over.

Joseph flashed his teeth again. ‘Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have business to attend to. Do enjoy the show.’

Shifty waited until Joseph joined Francis outside, before turning to stare at me. ‘How much do you owe Andy Inglis?’

I turned back to the bar, pulse pounding in my ears almost as loud as the music. Christ, that was close. I signalled Steve for another water. ‘The Birthday Boy might have lived near Cameron Park when he was a wee boy. You’re going to have to go back a lot further than nine years.’

‘Ash?’

Up on stage Kayleigh showed everyone how it was done, hanging upside down, thighs wrapped around the pole, spotlights glittering off her sequined bra.

‘Enough. Too much.’ I ran my tongue over the two loose molars. ‘More than I’ve got.’

Retching noises echoed out from one of the toilet cubicles. I splashed water on my face, took a deep breath, and stared at myself in the mirror. Fucking halfwit. Another splash of water, scrubbed away with a handful of green paper towels that smelled like sour milk. It went with the rank perfume of piss-soaked floors and bitter vomit.

I checked my watch – half ten. Susanne would do her last set soon, then we could get the hell out of here. Before Joseph and Francis came back.

Time for some fresh air.

The fire exit had one of those, ‘THIS DOOR IS ALARMED’, signs on it, but it was open anyway – a brick stuck in the gap to keep it that way, so the staff could nip out for a sneaky cigarette. I pushed through into a gloomy alley. The security light bolted to the wall above the loading bay didn’t come on, just fizzed and crackled, never quite getting there.

A siren wailed in the distance, the rumble of a late-night bus, a singing drunk, two women fighting, the thump-thump-thump bassline of whatever song was playing inside. The fumbling moans of a couple going at it, hidden in the shadows of a recessed doorway on the other side of the alley.

I took a deep breath, hauling in cold air, letting out a cloud of white.

Should have kept on driving to Newcastle.

More moaning from the snoggers.

Still could. Car was parked outside the club: get in and bugger off before they dump my mangled body in a shallow grave somewhere. Like Rebecca.

‘Fuck …’ I scrubbed a hand over my face.

I wasn’t going anywhere. What was the point of struggling through the last four years, only to give up and run away before we’d caught the bastard?

I pulled out my phone and called Rhona. She picked up on the third ring. A diesel generator rumbled somewhere in the background. ‘Guv?’

‘Any news?’

A yawn drowned out everything else. ‘Yeah, sorry … I was about to call you: ground-penetrating radar think they’ve got a fourth burial site. No way he’s getting away this time, right? Four bodies down, seven to go.’

Eight. But the only people who knew that were: Henry Forrester, me, Rebecca, and the bastard who killed her.

‘Any ID on the other girl?’

‘Hold on, I’ll check …’

From the doorway opposite came the sound of a zip being undone. A knee-trembler in the alley behind a lap-dancing bar. Talk about romantic.

I stuck the phone against my chest. ‘Hoy, you two: get a room.’

‘Fuck!’ Frantic scrabbling, and one of the figures lurched out of the shadows. Andrew: the Silver Lady’s head doorman, hauling up his flies. ‘I was … We …’ He cleared his throat. Flexed his shoulders. Chin jutting out like a slab of freshly shaved granite. ‘You tell anyone about this and I’ll snap your bloody neck. Understand?’

He grabbed a bottle from one of the recycling bins. A sharp tap against the wall turned it into a multi-bladed weapon. ‘I’m no’ kidding, you hear me? One fucking word!’ Jabbing the broken bottle in my direction. Trembling.

I backed off a couple of steps, palms out. ‘OK, Andrew, I hear you. Our little secret.’

He licked his lips, glanced across at the shadowy doorway, then dropped the bottle and charged through the door, back into the club.

What the hell was that all about? Doormen got hand jobs from star-struck women every evening. Friend of mine once told me it’s the bow tie that does it: reminds the ladies of James Bond. But then he always was a bit of a prick.

Back to the phone. ‘Rhona?’

‘I was about to give up on you.’ She sniffed. ‘It’s not confirmed or anything, but we think number two might be Sophie Elphinstone, went missing from Inverness four years ago.’

‘They doing a dental chart match?’

A small pause. ‘Can’t. He tore all her teeth out.’ Another yawn.

‘Go home and get some rest. You’re no good to anyone knackered.’

I hung up, scrolled through my contacts list, and picked the number Dickie had texted me for Dr McDonald. Listened to it ring and ring …

On the other side of the alley, Andrew’s bit of stuff was getting restless. Feet shuffling in the darkness. Waiting for me to bugger off so she could slip back into the club unnoticed.

Tough. She could wait.

I let the phone ring through to voicemail, then tried again.

‘Mmmph? Lo?’ Not quite words, mumbled and fuzzy.

‘Dr McDonald, sorry to wake you, but—’

‘Ash … No it’s fine, I’m awake.’ A yawn. ‘Urgh … What time is it?’

‘We’ve found another body. Might be Sophie Elphinstone. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Sorry to bother—’

‘Sophie Elphinstone?’ Dr McDonald sounded a lot more awake. ‘Is she … Did he decapitate her?’

More shuffling from the doorway opposite.

‘He ripped all her teeth out instead.’

‘Isn’t that interesting: he decapitates his third victim, Lauren Burges, but he doesn’t decapitate his second or his sixth. Hannah Kelly and Sophie Elphinstone get to keep their heads …’

‘Maybe he goes through phases, and—’

‘It’s almost as if he’s experimenting. The normal pattern is to keep doing the same thing over and over, getting better at it every time, refining it, building up the fantasy, but it’s …’ A pause. ‘It’s as if he doesn’t really like what he does – he cuts Lauren Burges’s head off, but he can’t bring himself to do it again.’ A strange clicking sound came from the earpiece, as if she was banging the phone off her teeth. ‘When they examine the remains tomorrow, we need to get them to look for patterns of wounding – map the correlation points, see what else he’s tried and discarded.’

‘Yeah … OK.’ I hung up, slipped the phone back into my pocket and stood there watching a rat rip a hole in a bin-bag. He doesn’t really like what he does. Bollocks – if he didn’t like it, he wouldn’t keep doing it.

More shuffling from the other side of the alley.

‘Oh, grow up.’ I turned my back on them and hauled the door open. ‘I don’t care, OK? Shag who you want, where you want.’

Whoever it was cleared their throat behind me. ‘How long have you known?’

I stopped, one hand on the door, the music from inside getting louder. Licked my lips. Didn’t say anything.

‘Ash?’ Footsteps on the tarmac. ‘How long have you known?’

I glanced over my shoulder and there he was: DI Shifty Dave Morrow, sausage fingers fidgeting with his jacket buttons.