water splashing up the side of the shed. ‘Been picking dead fish out the cages all week.’
‘Arnold, this is Detective Constable Henderson, he wants a word.’
Burges went back to the winch, lifting more net out of the water. ‘Benny? You get that feed?’
Benny nodded towards the pile in the barge. ‘Twenty bags.’
‘That’s no bloody good, how’s twenty bags going to last us—’
‘Don’t draa doon dy broos at me, Arnie Burges. A’m hed me some passengers, didn’t I?’
Draa doon dy …? What the hell was that supposed to mean? It was as if he was making up words.
Benny hopped back in the boat. ‘Wis just aff to get the balance.’
I stared at Royce, jerked my head towards the shore.
A pause, then the constable nodded. Not as daft as he looked. ‘Yes, right, well, why don’t I give you a hand, Benny? Less of a job for two. This pair can stay here and … have that word.’
The boat’s engine faded to a grumble, then a whisper, then nothing.
I leaned back against the rusty metal handrail. ‘Stay the hell away from Henry Forrester.’
Burges hurled another dead fish into the barrel. ‘Fertilizer. That’s all these are good for now.’
‘It’s not his fault.’
‘Waste of good fish.’
‘Look, Mr Burges, I know you’ve been through a lot, but—’
‘You know what I’ve been through?’ THUMP. The next salmon didn’t go in the barrel, it battered into the wooden platform at my feet. ‘You fucking know?’
Yes, I fucking did.
‘It isn’t—’
‘My Lauren’s dead, Constable Henderson. Oh yeah, I know who you are. I remember you from the frigging press conferences. Calling yourself the “Party Crashers”: like this was some sort of game. Tell you what, how about we all throw a party, because some twisted bastard killed my Lauren?’
‘Henry Forrester did his best to—’
‘We’ll all have jelly and ice cream, because someone pulled out her teeth, cut her, tore out her fingernails, hacked off her head, and gutted her like a fish? Yeah, let’s have a frigging party!’ The big man’s face was getting darker, red spreading across his round cheeks. The veins in his neck throbbed where the skin met the drysuit’s rubber collar.
I stared out across the water. Took a deep, slow breath. At least he knew; he wasn’t waiting for the next card to turn up to find out what the bastard had done. Lauren was dead, the Birthday Boy couldn’t hurt her any more. But Rebecca …
There was something in my throat. ‘You’re not the only one who lost a daughter.’
‘She wasn’t even thirteen!’ Spittle flew from his lips, sparkling in the sunshine.
‘Then take it out on the Birthday Boy, not the poor old bastard who—’
‘If you useless wankers had done your jobs and caught him, Lauren would still be here!’ He squared his shoulders, bearded chin jutting out. ‘Two years. TWO FUCKING YEARS you had before he took her!’ Burges took a step forwards.
Here we go.
I pushed myself off the handrail, coiling my aching hands into fists. ‘You need to calm down, before you get hurt.’
‘You got any idea what it’s like? The waiting? Every birthday, waiting for the next card, waiting to see what he’s done to her?’
All the time.
I closed my eyes, counted to five. Had another go: ‘Henry Forrester tried to help you.’
Burges threw his arms wide, the drysuit creaking as it stretched. A balding bear in a rubber romper suit, beard jutting out like wire wool. ‘Why should he get to forget? Eh? Why should he get to put it all behind him? Every year we get another card. Every frigging year. We moved up here and he still found us! He’s out there with his camera and his knives and other people’s daughters, because you FUCKERS can’t do your—’
‘What the hell are we supposed to do: magic the bastard up out of thin air?’ Getting louder. ‘You think this is easy? You think you’re the only one fucking suffering? At least we’ve found Lauren’s body, at least you get to …’
Burges’s eyes went wide, mouth hanging open, face drained to a pale grey.
‘Are you OK?’
He took a step back, then thump, he was sitting on the platform’s wooden surface. Staring up at me.
‘Mr Burges?’ Shite, he was having a heart attack. ‘Mr Burges?’
‘You …’ He blinked, rubbed a huge hand across his face. Then looked out across the water, eyes glistening. ‘You found my Lauren …?’
‘No one told you?’ For fuck’s sake – surely someone should have told him. One of Dickie’s team, or Weber, or—
‘You little bastard …’ He scrambled to his feet, neoprene drysuit squeaking and groaning. Backed up to the open doorway. ‘You’re fucking for it now!’
Great. If I’d known I was going to be delivering the sodding death message I wouldn’t have opened with, ‘Stay the hell away from Henry Forrester.’
Idiots. How could they not tell him? How could they be so bloody …
Burges was back on the walkway, clutching a rifle. Big wooden stock, black metal barrel – a two-twenty-two, more than capable of blowing a massive hole in anyone daft enough to stand in front of it.
Oh. Shit.
The big man racked the bolt up and back, then forward again. Putting a bullet in the breech.
SHIT.
Where the hell was Royce? I glanced over my shoulder – the little boat was still tied up on the shore by the containers. They’d hear the shot … but by then I’d be dead.
Then do something. Rush him. Grab the gun. Move.
Burges raised the rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and pulled the trigger.
Too late.
Missed. The bastard missed! Everything was crystal clear, each detail rendered in glowing HD Technicolor, with Dolby surround: the slap of the water against the platform, the grain of the wood on the walkway, the flecks of rust on the handrail, the golden flash as the brass cartridge spun through the air, the ping as it bounced off the shed wall.
MOVE!
I rushed the fat bastard, head down like a battering ram.
Nothing hurt any more. Like being reborn.
I slammed into Burges’s swollen stomach, sending him crashing back into the door frame. He wasn’t just big, he was solid too – it was like rugby-tackling a sofa. The two-twenty-two went flying, clattered against the wooden platform.
‘Get off me!’
I did: coiled a fist back, ready for the fat bastard’s face, but he was faster than he looked – barging past, making for the railing where I’d been standing, feet thumping on the walkway, making it judder.
I grabbed the rifle, hauled it up and round until it was pointing right in the middle of Burges’s huge back.
He stood there, at the railing,