snoring rattled the living room door. So much for Parker making himself scarce. The steps creaked under my socks as I climbed upstairs.
‘Yeah, well don’t worry: I’ll have a word with him. Make sure he has another go remembering what happened.’
The bedroom was dark, the smell of musk and spice with a faint tinge of bleach. I put breakfast on the chest of drawers, then hauled the curtains open. Condensation made dewy spider webs in the corners of the window. Pale blue fringed the horizon, but Oldcastle was a mass of darkness sprinkled with pinpricks of yellow and white.
‘Guv?’
Susanne’s policewoman costume hung on the back of the wardrobe door. Not the utilitarian workaday UK bobby’s uniform, but a sort of fantasy New York Police Department job, with ra-ra-style skirt and leather corset; a hat, handcuffs, and knee-high black PVC kinky boots finishing off the look.
‘Guv? You there?’
‘Do me a favour: tell Weber you’re off following up on the door-to-doors this morning, park the car somewhere quiet, and grab a couple hours’ sleep. Don’t let that prick Smith saddle you with anything.’
I could hear the smile in her voice. ‘Thanks, Guv. And don’t worry about Photography Boy, I’ll sort it.’ She hung up.
The mattress groaned as I sat on the edge. ‘Susanne?’
‘Nnnnnngh …’ She was flat on her back with one arm draped over her eyes, bleached blonde curls draped across the pillows – tumbling over the side of the bed. A small bruise on the fake-tan flesh of her wrist.
‘Susanne!’
The arm twitched, then she peered out at me, one side of her face scrunched up. ‘Time is it?’
‘You getting up?’
One hand fumbled about on the bedside cabinet, grabbed her iPhone and took it back for a good squinting at. ‘Urgh … It’s seven in the morning!’
‘Tea and toast?’
The phone went back on the cabinet and she burrowed under the duvet until nothing was visible but that mass of golden curls. ‘Fuck tea. Fuck toast. Seven in the morning …’
‘Raspberry jam, your favourite?’
‘Fuck raspberries. Come back to bed.’ She curled up, on her side, back turned towards me. ‘Bad enough I had to spend the night in this craphole.’
I stared at the ceiling for a couple of breaths. Susanne was Page Three pretty, with … phenomenal breasts, thighs of steel, and an arse you could crack walnuts with. Energetic and flexible. Insatiable and pneumatic. Doesn’t understand what I’m talking about half the time. Because she’s twenty-one and I’m forty-five – more than halfway to a single room with satin lining and a screw-down lid.
By now I should be living in a nice house in Blackwall Hill, with a lovely lawyer wife and two gorgeous daughters who worship me, not having to sweet-talk my stripper girlfriend into staying the night in the tiny mouldering council house I get for free because it’s not fit to rent out.
I put a hand on the shape beneath the duvet. ‘I’ve got to go. Work.’ Trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘See you tonight?’
‘Mmmph …’ A twitch, then nothing.
I grabbed my jacket, checked that Rebecca’s cigar box was safely tucked away, then stomped back down the stairs.
My phone rang as I got to the front door. The display read ‘DR MCFRUITLOOP’. ‘Hello?’
‘I think we should meet up before the post mortems this morning, it’s going to be really odd, isn’t it, I mean normally it’s all about finding out how the victim died, but we’ve already got photos of it happening, don’t you think that’s odd?’
I closed my eyes. Rested my forehead against the cool front door. ‘Actually, I’ve got a couple of things on this morning.’ Also known as visiting some dodgy bastards and squeezing as much cash out of them as possible to pay off Mrs Kerrigan before she breaks my legs at lunchtime.
‘It’s all right, I cleared it with DCI Weber, we’re a team now, isn’t that great? I thought we should maybe get some breakfast or something first, because I’m guessing it’s going to be a pretty long day, I mean with three bodies to post mortem, though I suppose it might be a bit quicker as they’re all just bones.’
A team … Oh joy. ‘You start the day with a double espresso, don’t you.’ I unsnibbed the heavy Yale lock. ‘Going to take me at least an hour, hour and a half to get to you, so why don’t we meet up at the hospital?’ That should be enough time for a little light extortion. ‘PMs don’t start till nine anyway, so …’ I hauled the door open.
There was a patrol car sitting outside my house, headlights gleaming in the dark. Dr McDonald stood in front of it, bundled up in a duffle coat, a woolly hat pulled down over her ears with an explosion of brown curls sticking out from underneath. She waved, still holding the mobile phone to her ear. ‘I got a lift.’
The smell of sizzling bacon and hot chip fat filled the air.
‘… warn that the following report contains disturbing images and flash photography.’ The TV mounted above the counter glowed through a thin film of fluff and grease. The picture jumped to a press conference: DCS Dickie shared the stage with Helen McMillan’s parents and a senior officer in full dress uniform.
Jane McMillan clasped her husband’s hand, blinking in the media strobelight. She was wearing the same floral frock she’d had on yesterday, her eyes red, nose shiny, bottom lip wobbling. She looked as if someone had taken away her innards and replaced them with broken glass. ‘I … I want you to know that our Helen was a special girl. If anyone knows who took her: you have to go to the police. You have to.’
I clunked two huge mugs of tea down on the red Formica tabletop.
The Tartan Bunnet wasn’t that busy for a Tuesday morning – normally the little café would be full of nightshift CID and uniform, but everyone was on overtime: searching Cameron Park, or going door-to-door, or trying to track down whoever lived in the area nine years ago.
Dr McDonald took a sip of tea, made smacking noises with her lips. She had the café’s copy of the Daily Mail laid out on the table: ‘HELEN’S BIRTHDAY HORROR’ was stretched across the front page, above a close-up of the birthday card. Helen McMillan, tied to a chair, cheeks streaked with tears.
‘Please, we just want our Helen back …’
‘I know they have to put out an appeal and they have to believe it’s going to make a difference, but it really isn’t, Helen’s father was right: she’s already dead, she’s been dead for a year.’
‘What else can they do?’ I settled into the seat opposite, facing the window. The sun was crawling over the horizon making the rooftops glisten. A pair of white chimneys poked up above the surrounding streets – Castle Hill Infirmary’s incinerator, twin trails of steam glowing against the heavy purple clouds.
‘And it’s not like someone’s going to come forward and say, “Hey, I know who the Birthday
