just said—’
‘Like little hoovers made of static electricity, they are. Should get some fibres if we’re lucky.’ Matt cradled the skull in the hollow of his elbow, filling in the form printed on the evidence bag. ‘And before you ask, our wee skeleton’s that colour ’cause of iron and aluminium elemental staining. This whole area’s hoaching with old red sandstone mudstones.’ He popped the top back on his pen. ‘Any other basic science lessons you’re needing while I’m here?’
Smith actually trembled. ‘You – don’t – ever – speak – to me – like – that!’
A shrug. ‘Not my fault you’re thick.’
‘THICK?’ The word bellowed out from behind the facemask.
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Weber stared up at the rain-drummed roof.
‘How dare you call—’
‘ENOUGH!’ Weber’s hands were claws, turned to the sky. ‘Both of you.’
Silence.
‘Sorry, Boss.’ Matt went back to the remains.
Smith stared after him. ‘I was only—’
‘Sergeant, why don’t you just …’ Deep breath. ‘Why don’t you go check up on the door-to-doors? I need to speak with DC Henderson here.’
‘But …’
‘Off you go. And remember: Veeber – “Veeeeee-Ber”.’
Smith didn’t move for a moment, then his shoulders went back, head up. ‘Sir.’ He turned and marched towards the changing area, arms swinging as if he was on parade.
I cranked the heating up full and treadled the accelerator. The minibus was parked beside Tent C, its diesel engine rattling away as the interior slowly got up to a reasonable temperature. Filthy carpet, stained upholstery, and the smell of stale chips and cheesy feet. Sitting in the passenger seat, Dr McDonald fiddled with the air vent, doing her best not to make eye contact with Weber.
He was in the next row back, leaning forwards, arms draped over the seat. ‘I told you to play nice with the new boy.’ He took his glasses off and polished them on a hanky, before blowing his nose. ‘What happened to your face?’
I shrugged, tried for a smile. ‘Can we not just get rid of him? Palm him off on Traffic, or something?’
‘Dr McDonald, I want to assure you that my team isn’t normally quite this …’ He wiggled a hand.
‘Dysfunctional?’ A blush spread across her cheeks. She’d finally plucked up the nerve to say something loud enough to hear.
‘Actually, I was going to say, “high spirited”, but I suppose either works.’ Weber blew his nose again, a honking snork that ended with a sniff and a wipe. ‘What makes you think the remains are Lauren Burges?’
Dr McDonald popped open her satchel and rummaged inside – it looked as if the thing was full of files, folders, and a big silver laptop. She pulled out a red plastic sleeve with Lauren’s name written on a white sticker in careful block capitals, then flipped through the contents before producing an A4 blow-up of a homemade birthday card. The number five was scratched into the top-left corner. She handed it to Weber and he made a little hissing noise.
‘What?’
He passed it over and I couldn’t breathe. The girl in the photo … every inch of skin was smeared with blood, head shaved, a gaping hole torn in her belly, coils of glistening grey draped between her slashed thighs like vile bunting. Her mouth hung open, the duct-tape gag gone, gaps where the front teeth had been torn out.
This was two years before the bastard took Rebecca.
And just like that the minibus was too hot.
‘Ash?’
I looked up. Weber was handing me another blow-up: number six. The girl’s neck ended in a jagged stump. The Birthday Boy had stuffed her head inside her abdomen – her dead eyes gazed out at the camera. ‘I don’t …’ I coughed, swallowed it down, tasting the bile: rancid and bitter in my throat. I gave the copies back to Dr McDonald.
She frowned down at the most recent card. ‘Lauren was abducted on the twentieth of October, seven years ago, from the Kings Mall shopping centre in Hammersmith, London. Security camera footage puts her in the car park at three fifteen.’ Dr McDonald returned everything to her bag. ‘The Metropolitan Police went through every piece of CCTV footage for a mile around the shopping centre, did the usual appeals … Nothing. She was recorded as a missing person until the card arrived a year later. Of course seven years ago there was no proof he’d actually killed Amber O’Neil or Hannah Kelly: just tied them to a chair and taken a couple of photographs. He wasn’t even called the Birthday Boy till the Daily Mail came up with the name a year later.’
‘Right, yes.’ Weber gave his nose another seeing to. ‘Well, while I’m sure you’re right, we’re going to have to hold off issuing any identification until we’ve checked Lauren Burges’s dental records … Assuming we find enough teeth.’ He folded his hanky into a neat square. ‘Speaking of which: Hannah Kelly.’
I went back to staring out of the window. Not picturing Lauren with her stomach torn open and her head stuffed inside. Not hearing her scream as he ripped out her front teeth. Not seeing the look in her eyes when she realized no one was coming to save her. She was going to die.
At least he couldn’t hurt her any more.
Lauren was dead by the fifth card – but Rebecca … How long would … how long did she hold out for, before giving up hope?
The bile burned my throat.
Weber shifted in his seat. ‘Our beloved Assistant Chief Constable wants to issue a statement saying we’ve ID’d Hannah Kelly.’
I swallowed, but it wouldn’t go away. ‘So? Drummond always did like the spotlight.’
‘Yes, well, unfortunately we can’t really do that until someone’s informed the parents …?’
Silence.
I closed my eyes. Should’ve done it before going to Dundee. Should’ve done it as soon as I got back. But I didn’t. I put it off. ‘It’s next on the list.’
‘Ash, I can always send—’
‘I said I’ll do it. They don’t deserve to get the news from some spotty stranger in a uniform.’
Silence.
Dr McDonald put her hand up. ‘Can I go with him, I mean if that’s OK – I need to talk to them about their daughter to get some context on the victimology, did Ash tell you that we’ve had a problem with the psychology data on our servers and I have to start again from scratch and I only joined the investigation yesterday, but I want to assure you this isn’t the first case I’ve handled and I’m sure Ash will vouch for me, won’t you, Ash?’
Great, so now whatever happened would be all my fault.
Douglas Kelly peered around the door. His cheekbones stuck out more than they used to, so did his forehead, nose, and chin, as if he were slowly disappearing from the inside out. His freckled scalp stood out through a crown of thin grey hair. Wasn’t even forty yet, and he already looked the other side of sixty.
It was a nice house, about a third of the way down a small Georgian terrace – one of four that enclosed a little private park. But where the one behind McDermid Avenue was sprawling and overgrown, this one was trimmed and tidy, closed off from the road by a set of four-foot-high railings. Nice neighbourhood too: mullioned windows, no litter, every car an Audi, a Porsche, or a Range Rover.
Couldn’t