Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Tuesday 22nd November
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About the Author
By Stuart MacBride
About the Publisher
As usual I’m indebted to many people for their assistance, information, and patience while I’ve been writing this book. People like Ishbel Gall, whose knowledge of the dead knows no bounds; Dr Lorna Dawson and Margaret McKeen – soil science gurus; Professor Dave Barclay – physical evidence superstar; and pathology legend, Dr James Grieve.
A big cheer goes out to Matt Wright for all his fishy help; Sergeant Gordon Fowler; Donald Anderson for the hospitality, and the song; and everyone at Shetland Arts. And another for Jennifer, Sue, and Caroline at Talking Issues, for their help and the tour of Bath.
The excellent team at HarperCollins all deserve a medal for their patience and encouragement: Sarah Hodgson, Jane Johnson, Julia Wisdom, Alice Moss, Amy Neilson, Laura Mell, Damon Greeney, Oliver Malcolm, Laura Fletcher, Roger Cazalet, Kate Elton, Lucy Upton, Sam Hancock, Emad Akhtar, Anne O’Brien, Marie Goldie and the DC Bishopbriggs posse. More medals to Phil Patterson, Isabella Floris, Luke Speed, and everyone at Marjacq Scripts.
Many hats off to Dave & Maureen Goulding, Molly Massie, Michelle Bruce, Alex Clark, my little brother Christopher, and Roseanna Massie; Jim Duncan and Carl Wright for all their help; Allan, Donna and Edward Buchan; Andy and Sheena Inglis; Mark McHardy; and Christine Laurenson.
A number of people have helped raise a lot of money for charity by bidding to have a character named after them in this book, so many thanks to the winners: Royce Clark, Janice Russell, Julie Wilson, and Sheila Caldwell for donating so much.
And saving the best for last – as always – Fiona and Grendel.
Flash. It’s like an explosion going off in her head, knives in her eyes, broken glass in her brain. Then darkness. She rocks back in the seat; the wood creaks under her.
Blink. Blink. A hot blue-and-orange glow painted across the inside of her eyelids. Tears rolling down her dirty cheeks.
Please …
She drags a shuddering breath through her nose, wet with snot. The smell of dirt and bitter-onion sweat, dust, and something pissy – like when that mouse got trapped behind the cooker. A little furry body hidden in darkness, going rancid with mould, stinking of rotting sausages, roasting every time they turned the oven on.
Please … Her mouth makes the word behind the gag of sticky tape, but all that comes out is a muffled moan. Her shoulders ache, both arms twisted behind her back, wrists and ankles stinging from the cable-ties that hold her to the hard wooden chair.
She throws her head back and blinks at the ceiling. The room fades back in: bare wooden joists stained almost black; spider webs; a neon strip-light, buzzing like a wasp trapped in a glass. Walls smeared with filth. A huge camera mounted on a tripod.
Then the noise. He’s singing ‘Happy Birthday to You’, the words coming out all broken and hesitant, like he’s scared to get them wrong.
This is fucked up. Completely fucking fucked up. It’s not even her birthday yet: not for four more days …
Another shuddering breath.
It can’t be happening. It’s a mistake.
She blinks the tears from her eyes and stares into the corner. He’s getting to the big finale, head down as he mumbles out the words. Only it’s not her name he sings, it’s someone else: Andrea.
Oh thank God.
He’ll get it, right? That it’s a mistake? She’s not supposed to be here: Andrea’s supposed to be here. Andrea’s supposed to be the one tied to a chair in a manky little room full of dirt and spiders and the smell of dying mice. He’ll understand.
She tries to tell him, but the gag turns everything into grunts and nonsense.
She’s not Andrea.
She shouldn’t be here.
He stands behind the camera again, clears his throat a couple of times, takes a deep breath, licks his lips. His voice sounds like one of them kids’ TV presenters: ‘Say “cheese”!’ Another flash, filling her eyes with burning white dots.
It’s a mistake. He has to see that – he’s got the wrong girl, he has to let her go.
She blinks. Please. This isn’t fair.
He comes out from behind the camera and rubs a hand across his eyes. Stares at his shoes for a bit. Another deep breath. ‘Presents for the Birthday Girl!’ He thumps a battered old toolkit down onto the creaky wooden table next to her chair. The table’s spattered with brown stains. Like someone spilled their Ribena years ago.
It’s not Ribena.
Her mouth tightens behind the gag, tears make the room blur. Air catches in her throat turning everything into short, jagged, trembling sobs.
She’s not Andrea. It’s all a mistake.
‘I got …’ A pause while he shuffles his feet. ‘I’ve got something special … just for you, Andrea.’ He opens the toolkit and takes out a pair of pliers. Their rusty metal teeth shine in the gloom.
He doesn’t look at her, hunches his shoulders, puffs out his cheeks like he’s going to puke, scrubs a hand across his mouth. Tries for that barely there smile again. ‘You ready?’
Oldcastle FM droned out of the radio on the kitchen work surface.
‘… wasn’t that groooooooooovy? It’s eight twenty-five and you’re listening to Sensational Steve’s Breakfast Drive-Time Bonanza!’ A grating honk, like an old-fashioned car horn.
I counted out thirty-five quid in tens and fives onto the reminder notice from the Post Office, then dug in my pocket and made up the balance in change. Forty pounds eighty-five pence. Enough to
