with us folks ’cos we’ve got another heeee-larious wind-up call after the news, but first it’s a golden oldie: Tammy Wynette and her crash-helmet hairdo, with “Stand by Your Man”. Good advice there, ladies.’ Another comedy horn noise.
Rebecca’s pale skin was smeared with blood, slashed and burned and bruised, eyes wide, screaming behind a duct-tape gag. ‘5’ scratched into the corner of the picture.
Five years since she disappeared. Five years since the bastard tortured her to death and took photos to prove it. Five birthday cards, each one worse than the last.
The toast popped up, filling the kitchen with the smell of burnt bread.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
I lowered card number five into the box, on top of all the others. Closed the lid.
Bastard …
She would’ve been eighteen today.
I scraped the blackened toast over the sink as Tammy got into her stride. The butter turned yellow-grey as I spread it with the same knife. Two slices of plastic cheese from the fridge, washed down with milky tea and a couple of anti-inflammatories. Chewing. Trying to avoid the two loose teeth on the top left, the skin tight across my cheek – swollen and bruised. Scowling out through the window’s new clean patch.
Light flashed off the Kings River as the sun finally made it up over the hills, turning Oldcastle into a patchwork of blues and orange. In the middle distance, Castle Hill loomed over the city – a thick blade of granite with a sheer cliff on one side, steep winding cobbled streets on the other. Victorian sandstone buildings stained the colour of dried blood. The castle’s crumbling fortifications looked like broken teeth, perched right at the top.
That was the thing about living here – you could get up every morning and look out across the crumbling concrete boxes of your crappy council estate, at all the pretty parts of Oldcastle. Have it ground in your face every day: that no matter how long you spent staring out at the nice bits, you were still stuck in bloody Kingsmeath.
She would’ve been eighteen.
I spread the tea towel out on the work surface, then pulled the plastic ice-cube tray out from the fridge’s freezer compartment. Gritted my teeth, and twisted. The ice cracked and groaned, a better soundtrack to my aching fingers than Tammy Bloody Wynette.
Ice cubes tumbled into the middle of the tea towel. I folded it up into a cosh, then battered it off the worktop a few times. Fished a used teabag out of the sink and made a fresh cup in a clean mug – laced it with four sugars and a splash of milk – tucked the cigar box under my arm, then took everything through to the living room.
The figure on the couch was huddled beneath an unzipped sleeping bag. I hauled the curtains open.
‘Come on you lazy wee shite: up.’
Parker groaned. His face was a mess: eyes swollen and purple; a nose that would never be straight again; split lips; a huge bruise on his cheek. He’d bled during the night, staining the sleeping bag. ‘Mmmmnnnffff …’
One eye opened. What should have been white was vivid red, the pupil dilated. ‘Mmmnnnfff?’ His mouth barely moved.
I held out the tea towel. ‘How’s the head?’
‘Fmmmmmnnndfff …’
‘Serves you right.’ I stuck the icepack against Parker’s cheek until he took hold of it himself. ‘What did I tell you about Big Johnny Simpson’s sister? You never bloody—’ My mobile rang – a hard-edged rendition of an old-fashioned telephone. ‘God’s sake …’
I put the mug on the floor by Parker’s head, pulled a blister pack of pills from my pocket and handed them over. ‘Tramadol. And I want you gone by the time I get back: Susanne’s coming round.’
‘Nnnng … fnnn brrkn …’
‘And would it kill you to tidy up now and then? Place is a shitehole.’ I grabbed my car keys and leather jacket. Dug the phone from my pocket. The name, ‘Michelle’, sat in the middle of the screen.
Great.
Because today wasn’t screwed up enough.
I hit the green button. ‘Michelle.’
Her Highlands-and-Islands accent was clipped and pointed. ‘Put that down!’
‘You phoned me!’
‘What? No, not you: Katie.’ A muffled pause. ‘I don’t care, put it down. You’ll be late!’ Then back to me. ‘Ash, will you please tell your daughter to stop acting like a spoiled little brat?’
‘Hi, Daddy.’ Katie: putting on her butter-wouldn’t-melt little-girl voice.
I blinked. Shifted my grip on the cigar box. Tried to force a smile.
‘Be nice to your mother. It’s not her fault she’s a bitch in the mornings. And don’t tell her I said that!’
‘Bye, Daddy.’
And Michelle was back. ‘Now get in that car, or I swear to God …’ The sound of the door clunking shut. ‘It’s Katie’s birthday next week.’
‘It’s Rebecca’s birthday today.’
‘No.’
‘Michelle, she’s—’
‘I’m not talking about this, Ash. You promised to sort out the venue and—’
‘Five years.’
‘She didn’t even leave a note! What kind of ungrateful little …’ A pause, the sound of breath hissing between gritted teeth. ‘Why do we have to do this every single year? Rebecca doesn’t care, Ash: five years and not so much as a phone call. Now, have you got a venue for Katie’s party or haven’t you?’
‘It’s in hand, OK? All booked and paid for.’ Well, almost …
‘Monday, Ash: her birthday’s on Monday. A week today.’
‘I said it’s booked.’ I checked my watch. ‘You’re going to be late.’
‘Monday.’ She hung up without saying goodbye.
I slipped the phone back in my pocket.
Would it really be so bad to just talk about Rebecca? Remember what she was like before … Before the birthday cards started.
Upstairs, I slipped the cigar box back in its hiding place – under a loose floorboard in the bedroom – then clumped down to the lounge and nudged the useless lump of gristle lying on the couch. ‘Two Tramadol every four hours, maximum. I come home and find your overdosed corpse mouldering on my sofa, I’ll bloody kill you.’
‘… sources close to the investigation confirm that Oldcastle Police have uncovered the body of a second young woman. Local news now, and Tayside Police are refusing to comment on claims that parents of missing teenager Helen McMillan have received a card from a serial killer known as “The Birthday Boy” …’
‘What? No, you’ll have to speak up.’ I pinned the phone between my ear and shoulder, and coaxed the ancient Renault around the roundabout. Dundee was a mass of grey, scowling beneath a clay-coloured sky. Rain spattered the windscreen, rising in twin streams of spray from the Audi in front. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello?’ DCI Weber was barely audible over the engine, squealing windscreen wipers, and crackly radio. ‘I said, how long?’
‘… where Assistant Chief Constable Eric Montgomery issued the following statement.’
Dundee’s ACC sounded as if he had both thumbs wedged in his nostrils. ‘We want anyone who remembers seeing Helen, when she went missing in November