pleasure was going to be all mine. I scrolled down and clicked another number.
It rang, and rang, and rang, and then a recorded voice came on the line: Hi, this is Rhona. Leave a message. Beeeep.
Rhona, it s Ash. Listen, I need you to do me a
Hello? Scrambling, clicking noises. Hello? Guv? Voice a little slurred around the edges.
Ethan Baxter: not sure where he s living now, but he used to have a house on Lochview Road. He s been hassling Michelle and Katie.
Right, Jesus, OK You want him picked up? I ll get Norm and we ll give him a tour of the station stairs.
She would too. Just get someone to keep an eye on Michelle, drive by the house now and then, make sure Baxter s behaving himself. I ll deal with him when I get back from Shetland.
Cool. I ll come with you and
I don t really think that s a good idea, it s
Guv, you ll need someone to watch your back: make sure you re covered in case the wee shite makes a complaint, or there s an investigation That kind of thing.
A Range Rover growled past, windscreen wipers going full pelt, headlights making the snow flare brilliant white in the darkness.
I ll be fine. Make sure whoever s doing the drive-bys lets Michelle know they re there, OK?
You can count on me, Guv: she ll know you re looking out for her.
And if the bastard goes anywhere near them, pick him up and stick him somewhere till I get back.
Somewhere quiet and out of the way. No witnesses. Got you.
Thanks, Rhona.
We spent a few minutes moaning about the Warriors chances against Aberdeen Football Club on Saturday, what a cock Sergeant Smith was, and the weekend s weather forecast; then she caught me up on the Cameron Park investigation. Which didn t seem to be achieving much more than produ-cing a small rainforest s worth of paperwork.
The band s Jimmy-Shand-style interpretation of Smells Like Teen Spirit got louder for a couple of seconds, then a door clunked and Henry s voice cut through the snow s feathery silence. Wondered where you d got to.
I hung up and slid the phone back into my pocket. Checking in with the station.
Henry turned up his collar and squinted out into the slow-motion blizzard. He didn t look that great even for someone slowly pickling themselves into oblivion. Sunken cheeks, sunken eyes, skin the colour of parchment. He sniffed. Held out his arms, voice a gravelly monotone.
Then winter s icy claws dig deep into the hearts of men pulling forth the long dark nights, the pale bone touch of death again
Poetry? God, you re a cheery bastard.
A shrug. My clown suit s been in the wash since Ellie passed. He wiped a finger under his nose catching a drip. You know the funny thing about Albert Pearson s funeral? The only person I knew there was dead. What was the point? We re all dead now, even me. I just haven t stopped moving yet.
Thursday 17th November
Chapter 22
The kitchen clock ticked quietly on the wall, Sheba groaned and twitched on a hairy tartan beanbag, and the muffled sound of snoring came from the master and spare bedrooms. I sat at the breakfast bar, looking out at the back garden. All the sharp edges were gone, softened by eight inches of snow, more of it drifting down from the pale sky. A puffed-up robin perched on top of the washing line, shouting territorial abuse at anyone within listening distance.
No sign of Henry or Dr McDonald, so I d let myself in and taken over the kitchen. Flicking through the case files, brooding about Michelle, Katie, and Rebecca, listening to the clock carving the day into thin sharp slices.
And my coffee was cold.
What to do about Ethan Baxter? The vicious little bastard never learned Well, tomorrow morning he was going to get a telling he wouldn t forget.
Maybe it was time for Ethan to have an accident? Drag him out into the middle of nowhere and put a bullet through his head. Put an end to his crap once and for all
Well, it was worth thinking about.
And once I d taken care of Ethan Baxter, there d be Mrs Kerrigan to deal with. Four grand by lunchtime today. Even if I had four grand, which I didn t, there was no way I could get it to her not from here. Never mind the other fifteen.
Where the hell was I supposed to get nineteen thousand pounds from?
It was like a weight, sitting on my chest, forcing me back into the chair.
Focus on the do-able first, then worry about the rest.
Four grand by today was impossible: the ferry wouldn t get back to Aberdeen till seven tomorrow morning. OK, I could blag a flight from Sumburgh Airport flash my warrant card and pretend it was urgent police business but what would be the point? Rush home so I could be in time to get my legs broken? Bugger that.
The house was a wreck, my car wasn t worth the duct tape holding the rear bumper on, and I had nothing left to sell. Nothing: it was all gone. And shaking a few perverts and drug dealers by the ankles would only net a couple of grand tops, so how the hell was I going to get my hands on nineteen thousand pounds?
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Ethan Baxter wasn t exactly scraping along the poverty line, was he? No: Ethan drove a Mercedes; Ethan lived in a nice big house in Castleview; Ethan was due a battering anyway, why not throw in a bit of demanding money with menaces too?
Wasn t as if the bastard didn t deserve it. And I m sure given the choice of a shallow grave or making a donation he d jump at the chance to help out an old friend.
I d be doing him a favour really.
Rationalization that good deserved a fresh cup of coffee.
I got as far as filling the kettle when someone banged on the front door.
OK, OK, I m coming.
More banging.
I hauled the door open.
Winter had claimed Scalloway. The rooftops were laden with thick crusts of white, the gardens nearly buried. Arnold Burges stood on the path, scuffed yellow wellingtons ankle-deep in snow, dressed in a scabby pair of orange overalls with a quilted jacket over the top and a woolly hat. His eyes were thin and dark, beard bristling.
I blocked the doorway. Arnold.
He bit his top lip, flexed his hands into fists. She was alive. His breath hung in the cold air around his head. It stank of stale booze.
Did you drive here? Because
She was our little girl, and we loved her.
Mr Burges, I know it s
But Lauren s never going to be a person in her own right, is she? She s always going to be Lauren Burges: the Birthday Boy s third victim. Like her whole childhood, all the time we had together, we were only killing time till the bastard grabbed her. Burges reached into his padded jacket and pulled out a red-top tabloid.
Lauren s photo was on the front page grinning away with a party hat perched on top of her spiky pink hair beneath the headline, BIRTHDAY BOY VICTIM S BODY DUG UP IN OLDCASTLE.
Bloody Oldcastle CID couldn t keep its mouth shut if it fell in a septic tank.
I m sorry. I really am.
Burges looked away, blinking, then went back into his jacket and produced a bulging folder. He held it out. Thick snowflakes settled on the blue surface. I took it from him, put it under my arm.
You read that. He squared his shoulders, stuck his chin out. You read that and you know our Lauren was real. She wasn t just a frigging victim.
