was hammering a large sheet of plywood over the lounge window, whistling as he battered in the nails.
I let myself in, not bothering to wave goodbye to Royce, and followed the sound of voices into the kitchen.
Henry leaned back on his stool, sleeves rolled up, one hand resting on top of his little pot belly, the other wrapped around a tumbler. Sheba wheezed and twitched on the floor by the oven, dreaming old dog dreams.
Dr McDonald was hunched over her glass, elbows on the table, fingers drumming a random beat on the wooden surface, curls hiding her face. Her glasses were sitting beside an open bottle of Isle of Jura, the lenses almost opaque with fingerprints. ‘I think … I think Amber O’Neil’s the moss important, he picked … picked her because she looked like Her, I mean whoever it was hurted him … have … have you ever been hurted by a thirteen-year-old girl?’ Then a belch. ‘Oops …’
Henry took a sip and smacked his lips. ‘Yes, but have you considered the possibility that she was a cipher?’
‘Ooh.’ McDonald’s head snapped up. ‘I han … han thought of that, a cipher …’ A little crease formed between her eyebrows. ‘Nah, that makes no … makes no senses … Why would she be a cipher?’ A laugh. ‘You’re silly.’
I closed the door. ‘See the two of you are getting along.’
Henry pointed at the bottle. ‘It’s hard to say no to a lady who brings a single malt for an old man.’ Then a small frown. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Anyone want tea?’
‘I don … I don think she’s a cipher, I think … I think she’s a massage …’
I filled the kettle and stuck it on to boil. ‘No more whisky for you.’
‘Nooo!’ Dr McDonald grabbed her tumbler and clutched it to her chest; Isle of Jura sloshed onto the stripy top. ‘You know what I … what I wonner, Henry, I wonner …’ One eyebrow dipped. ‘I wonner … Em …’
‘Who’s he really torturing?’ Wild guess, but it was what she’d written on the mirror above the sink in the cabin’s toilet.
Dr McDonald banged a hand on the tabletop and looked at me as if I’d invented bacon. ‘God, that’s … that’s brilliant, who’s he really torchering, that’s right … that’s … you’re a genius … isn’t … isn’t he a genius, Henry?’
The four mugs from this morning sat on the working surface, their bottoms crusted and stained with brown. I rinsed one out under the hot tap.
‘Oh, our friend Ash is a man of many talents.’ Henry put his glass down on the table. ‘You went to see him, didn’t you? Burges. That’s where you’ve been.’
‘No, he’s a genius … I mean, Ash, Ash, Henry tol … tol me all bout you and what … what …?’ She downed a gulp of whisky. ‘Who’s he really torchering? Is … is not juss the girls, is it, he’s torchering the parents too, torchering them for years an years an years an years.’
‘We identified Arnold Burges’s daughter’s remains yesterday.’ Teabag in the mug, followed by boiling water. ‘Someone had to tell him.’
‘I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Ash.’
‘Yeah, because you’re doing such a great job of sorting him out on your own.’
‘You’re not a genius, you’re an idiot.’
‘Prhaps … prhaps thass the point, I mean, is … is horrible for the girls, but … but prhaps they’re the means to … to the ends, an that … that’s why he keeps them gagged while he … while he does it?’
I fished the bag out with a spoon and dumped it in the sink. ‘I’m not the piss-head sitting in a freezing house with shattered windows and dog shit on the carpet, drinking myself to death.’
Henry poured himself another measure of whisky. ‘Do I look pished to you?’
No he didn’t. He looked more sober than he had when we’d arrived. And the ‘caffeine’ tremors seemed to have vanished as well.
‘He doesn’t … doesn’t want to hear them scream cos … because he’s not innit for … for their pain, he wans … he wans the parents to feel it, ooh I needa pee …’ Dr McDonald lurched up from the table and grabbed the working surface. ‘Oops … Floor’s all … slippy … like Switzerland …’
The teaspoon rattled against the stainless-steel draining board. I sploshed some milk into the mug. ‘What, I’m not supposed to worry about you now? Thought we were friends.’
‘I don’t want you interfering.’
Interfering? For God’s sake. ‘He took a sledgehammer to Ellie’s headstone!’
‘Back inna … inna bit, you got any crisps, I like crisps …’ And she was gone, leaving the door open behind her. ‘Crisps, crisps, crisps, crisps, crisps …’
Henry drank, rolling the whisky around his mouth. ‘Arnold Burges is entitled to feel bitter. I screwed up the profile, if I’d been a better psychologist his daughter would still be alive.’ He stared at his gnarled hands, the skin peppered with liver spots. ‘And Rebecca would be too.’
Maybe he was right.
There was a little patio in the top corner of the garden: a suntrap with a wooden table and some folding chairs, looking out over the harbour, the mountains, the boats, and the sea. Good view. Certainly a hell of a lot better than the one from my kitchen window.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the messages, deleting all the ones where Michelle ranted and raved about what a thoughtless prick I was. OK, so she could be a pain in the arse, but that didn’t mean it was OK for Katie to lie to her. Even if Michelle was being unreasonable.
Mind you, Ashley’s dad did sound like a bit of a tosser …
A grunt from the bottom of the garden. It was Henry, labouring his way up the weed-strewn path to the patio, puffing and panting all the way. Sheba wobbled along behind him, tongue lolling out.
Henry collapsed into one of the folding chairs. ‘She’s stopped throwing up.’
‘You OK?’
He shrugged, then clunked the bottle of whisky down on the table, followed by a single tumbler. ‘When did you stop drinking?’
‘Pills. Unlike you I actually read the instructions.’
‘She’s curled up on the kitchen worktop, snoring like a drain and making the most appalling smells.’
‘That’s what you get for leading her astray.’
‘True.’ He poured himself a stiff measure. The Isle of Jura was about halfway done already, and it was barely noon. ‘Just because I don’t want you interfering with Arnold Burges, doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see you. And I’m sorry I didn’t call. The funeral was on Monday and I—’
‘It’s OK. It doesn’t matter.’
He wrapped his hands around the tumbler. ‘You got another card.’
‘Number five.’
A nod. ‘Ash, if you tell Dickie, or Weber, or McDonald, they can—’
‘Shouldn’t even have told you.’
He fiddled with the glass, not looking at me. ‘No, probably not.’
Because if I hadn’t, Philip Skinner might still be alive. And Detective Superintendent Len Murray wouldn’t be serving eighteen years in Glenochil Prison.
‘Do you know what Dickie and his Party Crashers have achieved in the four years since you quit? Sod all. If we hadn’t found Helen Kelly’s