Читать книгу Stuart MacBride: Ash Henderson 2-book Crime Thriller Collection - Stuart MacBride - Страница 30

‘There you are, I’ve been looking all over for you, you want breakfast, I want breakfast, I mean I’m ravenous this morning, no idea why: had a huge dinner, actually are you OK, because you look a bit rough …’

I twisted my head to the side. Pops and cracks rippled down my spine; someone jabbed a rusty compass right between my shoulder blades.

The forward bar was full of bleary-eyed people and the smell of stale breath and stale beer. The metal grille was still down, locking away the row of taps and glinting optics, but the place was alive with stretching and yawning. A collection of booths and horseshoe-shaped sofa-style benches surrounded little round tables heaped with personal possessions. Like a refugee camp the morning after a booze-up.

Dr McDonald fiddled with her glasses. ‘Thanks for not … you know, thanks for letting me have the cabin, I know it probably seems silly, but I really get uncomfortable if—’

‘I didn’t.’ I swung my feet onto the blue-and-green carpet and sat there, blinking, rubbing the grit out of my eyes. A cough ripped through me, making my ribs ache. ‘You snore.’

She pulled her head back, giving herself a double chin. ‘I do not snore, it’s—’

‘Thought the farting was bad, but Jesus – you’re like someone hacking up a metal dustbin with a chainsaw.’ One. Two. Three … I pulled myself upright, then slowly straightened. Twinges, aches, and pains.

‘You were there? In the room while I was sleeping?’ Her eyes widened, then pink rushed up her cheeks. She wrapped both arms around herself. ‘I was naked, I woke up and I was naked, and I’d been drinking, and I was naked in bed when I woke up! What did … did you … it wasn’t … oh no, no, no, tell me we didn’t actually—’

‘Like rabbits. All night. Couldn’t keep your hands off me.’ Why wouldn’t my shoes fit properly? Like trying to squeeze a Labrador into a letterbox.

‘Oh God …’ The pink got a shade darker. ‘I didn’t … it was a mistake and I really don’t think …’

And then she slapped me. Not hard enough to do any real damage, but it still stung like a bastard.

‘How could you? How could you take advantage of me like that, I was drunk, what kind of a man are you, you’re old enough to be my father, you slimy, lowlife, exploitative—’

‘Don’t be stupid; nothing happened. You spent half the night throwing up, and the rest of it snoring from both ends.’

‘Ah.’ She bit her top lip, looked away. ‘I see, you were being humorous, joking that I was promiscuous and predatory, when in fact I was revolting and disgusting …’

‘Believe it or not: you’re not irresistible, and not all men are potential rapists.’ I rubbed a hand across my throbbing cheek. ‘And if you hit me again, I’m hitting you back.’

A pale blue glow edged the horizon, the sky a deep indigo twinkling with stars. Most of Lerwick lay in darkness, just the sulphur ribbons of streetlights and the occasional car’s headlights breaking the gloom, but the Holmsgarth ferry terminal was lit up like a football stadium.

My badly behaved wheelie case jinked and skittered as I limped down the covered walkway after Dr McDonald. Her breath streamed out behind her in the fluorescent lighting.

Cold leached through the soles of my shoes, making my feet ache.

Shetland in November – I had to be mad.

The ferry terminal looked like a massive corrugated-iron pig sty, its grey curved roof trimmed in red.

She stomped down the stairs into the reception area. A ZetTrans bus idled outside, its blue-and-white livery spattered with pale brown. ‘How are we getting there?’

It speaks! ‘Thought you weren’t talking to me.’

She stuck her nose in the air. ‘That wasn’t nice.’

‘Yeah, well, it wasn’t nice getting hammered, sticking me with the bill, then puking all over the bathroom, was it?’

Headlights swept across the ferry terminal as a little white Ford Fiesta pulled in beside the bus. It had the distinctive blue-and-yellow checked stripe down the side and blues-and-twos fixed to the roof. The world’s smallest patrol car. A uniformed constable unfolded himself from the driver’s seat, then stood there, checking his watch.

I dragged my wheelie case out into the cold dark morning.

The PC looked up. He had a thin pale face, a long nose, and a short-back-and-sides haircut with a gelled fringe at the front. ‘You Henderson?’ A north-east accent, so he wasn’t a local lad.

‘Thanks for the lift, Constable …?’

‘Clark. Royce Clark. Like James Bond only without the gadgets.’

‘OK …’ I went around to the boot, but there was sod all space for luggage in there – it was jammed full of safety gear and black holdalls.

‘Sorry.’ He shrugged. ‘Everything bigger is out at that double murder on Unst.’

Dr McDonald peered into the back seat. ‘Oh dear …’ More safety gear.

‘Well, you’re not going very far.’ Royce pulled open the back door, grabbed the smaller of her cases and jammed it in behind the driver’s seat. ‘Maybe fit the big one on your lap?’

She swallowed, shuffled her feet on the frosty tarmac. ‘Right, yes, that’ll be fine, it’s not like we’re going to be stuck in there for ages, is it, it’s more of an adventure this way, and—’

I took the big case off her. ‘It’s bloody freezing: stop faffing about and get in.’

‘You know I don’t like enclosed—’

‘You’re the one wants to go see Henry.’

Royce blew into his cupped hands. ‘No offence, guys, but I’ve got a load on today and we’re short staffed, so …?’

‘Yes, we’re fine, perfect, it’s all good, no problem here at all, I’ll get in the back …’ She rubbed her fingers together, then took two deep breaths and climbed in.

I lumped the big case onto her lap; it took up all the remaining space, leaving her peering over the top like a wee kid at a sweet-shop counter. Clunked the door shut. Then squeezed in the front, wheelie case stuffed down at my feet.

Royce stuck the blower on full and pulled out of the car park, heading north out of town. Some sort of live Queen concert blared out of the car stereo – Freddie Mercury singing about not wanting to live forever.

Be careful what you wish for.

I turned it down.

‘So,’ Royce looked in the rear-view mirror, ‘you’re a criminal psychologist then?’

‘Can you keep your eyes on the road, please, only I get nervous in cars, well, any enclosed space really, I mean it’s nothing personal, but—’

‘Yes, she’s a criminal psychologist.’

‘Great.’ He nodded, shifting down as we turned the corner and headed up a steep hill. The last remnants of Lerwick disappeared behind us. ‘You here about the murder? Bizarre, right? Married couple hacked to death with an axe. Word is they were swingers.’

‘Actually—’

‘Can you believe that? On a wee island like Unst? Not like everyone doesn’t know everyone else’s business up here, is it? Break wind in Valsgarth and everyone in Sumburgh knows what it smells like before you’re halfway home.’

‘We’re not really—’

‘Tell you: it was quite the culture shock, coming up here from Lossiemouth. You know most of them are related? Well, except for the incomers. Our victims – you know, the swingers – they were from Guildford originally. That kind of thing’s probably quite normal down there …’

Scrubby heathland drifted by in the dark, pale yellow and green in the patrol car’s headlights.

I pulled out my mobile. ‘We’re not here for your murders.’

‘No?’

‘Birthday Boy.’

Another nod. ‘Right.’ The road swept around to the left, and the bleak landscape opened up into a valley. Pre-dawn light turned a sea loch into a pewter slab, nestling between dark hills. ‘Want to know what I think?’

Not really.

My phone bleeped and pinged: fifteen missed calls. Eight from DC Rhona Massie – probably wanting another moan about Sergeant Smith from Aberdeen – the rest from Michelle. Three new text messages as well, all sent while the ferry was out of mobile range.

Royce held up a finger. ‘I think your Birthday Boy’s a paedophile: he’s torturing them ’cos it’s the only way he can get off, so he’s probably impotent. The photos help him relive the experience when he’s masturbating. Probably got a big house in the country somewhere, so no one can hear them screaming. How am I doing, Doc?’

A plastic creak came from the back seat. ‘Can we slow down, please?’

‘Bet he’s a single white male, twenty-four … twenty-five, menial job, but his parents were loaded: that’s how he can afford his place in the country.’

‘Hmm …’ I clicked on the first message – Shifty Dave Morrow:

Holy FUCK! You owe me big time!

The next was from Michelle:

WTF were you thinking?

Wre suppsed 2 b past all this!!!

What the hell was that supposed to mean? The third one was from her as well, sent at eleven fifty-five:

Yr suppsed 2 b a grown up!

Fkn act like 1

U cant just have kt stay ovr & not tell me!

Shit. I jabbed the call button. ‘Pull over.’

‘We’re only going to be another five—’

‘Stop the fucking car!’

‘Answer the bloody—’

‘Ash?’ Michelle’s voice boomed in my ear. ‘What the hell are you playing at? We had a deal!’

I took another couple of steps away from the patrol car. PC Clark had parked on a crescent of tarmac by the side of the road, at the top of a steep hill overlooking Scalloway. The little town curled at the join between two fingers of land reaching out for the Atlantic Ocean – street and harbour lights glittering back from the dawn-blued water.

‘I have no idea what you’re on about, OK? Can we discuss it like adults for a—’

‘Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m the one being unreasonable! We had a deal, Ash Henderson!’

‘What am I supposed to have—’

‘I’m her mother, for Christ’s sake! Why can’t you ever think about anyone but yourself? At least you could’ve called me and let me know everything was OK!’

‘It—’

‘Do you have any idea how worried I was?’

The morning was getting lighter, gold rippling across the water. ‘I don’t understand what you’re—’

‘You can’t have Katie stay the night without telling me! I was worried sick!’

Stay the night?

‘It … I don’t—’

‘You’re impossible.’ Michelle hung up.

Stay the night? How the hell could she stay the night, I wasn’t even there!

Katie’s number was on speed-dial. It rang, and rang, and—

‘Daddy, I was just thinking about you!’

‘Your mother’s been on the phone.’ Dealing with kids is exactly the same as dealing with criminals: never let on how much you do or don’t know.

A pause. ‘Has she? Is she OK, I was—’

‘Why does your mother think you stayed at my house last night?’

‘Does she? Wow, how weird is that?’ Another pause, as if Katie was giving it some serious thought. Then she was back, every sentence sounding as if it was a question. ‘Oh, you know what happened: she must’ve misheard me? I told her I was staying with my friend Ashley and her dad? And Mum must’ve thought I meant—’

‘You do know I’m a police officer, right, Katie? It’s my job to spot when someone’s lying their arse off.’

‘Ah …’ Deep breath. ‘I really was round Ashley’s house, but Mum hates Ashley’s parents ’cos they’re Tories, and sometimes they let us stay up late watching horror films and drinking Red Bull and you know what Mum’s like about Tories and horror films. Ashley’s mum and dad were in the house the whole time, so we were always safe and looked after and it was only a little teensy-weensy white lie … I didn’t want Mum getting all upset.’

‘I don’t—’

‘You can ask Ashley’s dad if you like? He’s really nice, not as cool as you, but he’s OK, and he’ll tell you we did our homework first and everything! Hold on, he’s right here …’

Some rustling, then a smoker’s voice: Oldcastle accent, trying hard to sound posh. What Michelle would call a typical Tennent’s Lager Tory. ‘Hello?’

‘You Ashley’s father?’

‘Is something wrong?’

‘I’m Katie Henderson’s dad.’

‘Ah, right, lovely kid. Good as gold last night: pizza and a Freddy Krueger marathon. Sweet.’

‘Just wanted to check she’d behaved herself. Can you put her back on?’

‘Here we go …’

‘See, Daddy? You won’t tell Mum, will you? She’ll freak, you know what she’s like.’

So the choice was: land Katie in it, or say nothing and pretend I’m a complete tosser who couldn’t be arsed telling her mother she wasn’t going to be home last night.

Well, it wasn’t as if Michelle could actually hate me any more than she already did.

‘OK, but only on the condition that you’re nicer to your mum. I know she can be a bit …’ There was no way to end that sentence well. ‘Be good, all right? For me?’

‘I promise.’ The little girl voice again. ‘Daddy, can we go pony trekking for my birthday?’

Pony trekking? How the hell was I supposed to organize that?

‘We’ll see.’

‘Oops: got to go, Daddy, Ashley’s dad’s giving us a lift to school. Love you!’

‘Be nice to your mother.’

I jammed the phone in my pocket and turned back to the tiny patrol car. Dr McDonald was peering out over the top of her big red suitcase. Her glasses were on squint, it made her head look lopsided.

Why did every woman in my life have to be a card-carrying nutcase?

I got back in the car.

We stopped at the Scalloway Hotel to drop off our suitcases and check in, then it was a five-minute drive through the dark streets to a house on the outskirts of town, overlooking the bay. The garden was a mix of overgrown bushes and stunted trees, their bare branches clawing at each other, fighting for space. Moss had colonized the pantile roof, lichen speckled the walls, and both front windows were jagged holes fringed with broken glass.

PC Clark hauled on the handbrake. ‘Not again …’

I climbed out into the cold morning.

A sign was bolted to the garden wall: ‘Freiberg Towers’. I pushed through into the garden and marched up the path as Royce called it in.

‘Sarge? Lima One Six: we’re out at the Forrester place … Yeah, looks like Burges has been at it again.’

The doorbell sounded a dismal two-tone chime from somewhere deep inside. I cupped my hands and blew into them, shifting from foot to foot. Then tried again.

‘… both windows panned in … Uh-huh … Uh-huh … Don’t know …’

I forced my way through the grabbing skeleton of a rose bush and peered into the lounge. A chunk of breeze block lay in the wreckage of a coffee table, carpet covered in glittering cubes of glass. ‘Henry?’

It was dark inside – no sign of life.

‘… has he not called it in? … Ah, OK. Well, I’ve got the camera in the car anyway. You want me to dust for prints too?’

I fought my way back to the front door – locked – then around the side of the house. The damp fingers of an ancient leylandii pawed at me as I waded through knee-high weeds to a tall wooden gate. The hinges squealed as I shouldered it open.

The back garden was a riot of thistles, docken, and grass. It followed the slope of the hill, the top corner just catching the first rays of dawn. A small pond choked with reeds, a greenhouse with no glass left in it, and an outbuilding that needed a coat of paint and a new roof.

I took the path along the back of the building to the bedroom window. Dark. Probably had the curtains drawn. The kitchen door was locked like the front one, but …

Up on my tiptoes, fingers spidering along the top of the architrave. Bingo: a little ceramic puffin, the black and white paint flaking and brittle. A Yale key was wedged inside. I pulled it out and unlocked the kitchen door.

‘Henry? Henry, it’s Ash. Ash Henderson? You in? You awake? You sober?’ Nothing but silence from the dead house. ‘Henry? You still alive, or have you pickled yourself to death, you daft old bugger …?’

No answer.

The kitchen was disappearing under a layer of dust. Piles of newspapers and unopened letters covered a small breakfast bar, four stools tucked beneath the worktop.

‘Henry?’

Through into the hallway, breath streaming out in a thin grey fog. It was colder in here than outside.

‘Henry?’

The stairs led up to a small landing, but I went for the back bedroom instead. Knocked, waited, then eased the door open. Darkness. The smell of rancid garlic and stale booze underpinned something foul and rotting. ‘Henry?’

I felt for the light switch and flicked it on.

Henry was lying on the bed, flat on his back, dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. Grey hair made a rumpled tonsure around a bald crown speckled with liver spots. His face was slack, like a sock-puppet without a hand, his features too big for that little head. A bottle of Bells lay beside one thin hand, only a third of it left.

A small plastic bottle of pills sat on the bedside cabinet.

The silly old git … He’d finally done it.