would be horrible, I can’t have people watching me sleep, Richard has to go into the spare room when he stays over—’
‘Listen up, ye little bollox, if ye ever eat the head off me again I’ll feckin’ come round meself, understand? Then we’ll see how gobby ye are. Deal’s not off till I say so: four grand by Thursday lunch.’ And then she hung up.
‘—it’s not that I don’t value you as a colleague, obviously I do, but I really don’t think we should be sleeping in the same room—’
Oh fuck … I dumped the phone on the bed and folded my arms over my head. Fuck. Fuck. Shitting fuck. Why? Why couldn’t I keep my big gob shut? Threatening Andy Inglis’s right-hand woman, what a great idea that was. No way that was going to come back and bite me on the balls. Fuck …
‘—I mean we only met yesterday … Ash? Hello?’
I rolled over onto my side: it hurt slightly less than being hit by a car. ‘I’m going to have a shower. You can stay and watch if you like, but I wouldn’t recommend it.’
The ferry thrummed and throbbed beneath my feet, rocking and rolling as I hauled myself upstairs to the main deck level – all pale wooden floors and shiny chrome. A shop, two bars, a cinema, lifeboats … Who could ask for more? It was busy: families; groups of friends; couples; people on their own; what looked like a rugby team, wearing matching red tops, downing pints of lager and singing some sort of folk song.
‘Roond da boat da tide-lumps makkin,
Sunlicht trowe da cloods is brakkin.’
A wall-mounted TV played the news, but no one was watching it.
I stopped for a minute. On screen was a shot of Oldcastle Police Headquarters in all its mouldy Victorian glory. A woman with wind-blown hair and a blue umbrella stood in front of the entrance, talking at the camera. It was impossible to make out what she was saying over the singing, but the ticker along the bottom of the screen read, ‘SERIAL KILLER – BODIES FOUND – OLDCASTLE POLICE CONFIRM REMAINS ARE “BIRTHDAY BOY” VICTIMS.’
‘We maan geng whaar fish is takkin,
Rowin Foula doon …’
The picture jumped to ACC Drummond at some sort of media briefing. Busy grabbing the credit before Dickie’s team of Party Crashers turned up tomorrow.
The ferry had two eating areas: a canteen at the back of the ship, and a fancy sit-down place with tablecloths and wine – closed off from the common areas with a glass wall. So the people outside could see what a good time the people inside were having.
I hauled the door open and joined the chosen few. There were only half a dozen tables, and they were all taken. Dr McDonald had the one in the far corner, sitting with her back to the wall hunched over a menu.
I wandered over and pulled out the chair opposite. ‘Our Assistant Chief Constable’s on the telly right now, marking his territory before Dickie turns up.’
She didn’t look up. Sulking.
A man appeared, carrying a tray. ‘The large Glenmorangie?’
Dr McDonald stuck up her hand. ‘Mine. And can I get a bottle of the Pinot Grigio too.’
‘Of course. Sir?’
I turned in my seat … Grimaced as burning needles jabbed up and down my back and stomach. ‘Sparkling mineral water: big bottle.’
‘Are you ready to order, or would you like a couple more minutes?’
Dr McDonald snapped her menu shut. ‘I’ll have the herring followed by the pork and black pudding.’
‘Excellent choice; sir?’
‘Er … Can you give me a minute, I—’
‘He’ll have the smoked salmon, and the fillet steak: rare.’ She threw back her whisky and dumped the empty glass on the table. Shuddered. ‘And I’ll have another one of these.’
‘Coming right up.’ The waiter put the tumbler on his tray, collected the menus and melted away.
As soon as he was gone, Dr McDonald picked her satchel up from the floor and took out a red plastic folder. She laid the contents out on the table: copies of every card Hannah Kelly’s parents had received from the Birthday Boy.
‘You sure you should be doing that in here?’
‘That’s why I’m sitting in the corner. No one can see over my shoulder.’ She arranged them in chronological order, oldest top left, newest bottom right. Then wrapped one arm around herself, the other hand fiddling with her hair as she stared. ‘Everything he does has a meaning, we just don’t know what it is yet. He dyed Hannah’s hair – right here in card number three – he didn’t do that with Amber O’Neil. He’s turning Hannah into someone else, it’s all about projection …’
‘Didn’t think you were a whisky drinker.’
‘And in number seven he shaves it all off, everything, even the eyebrows, he’s not punishing her, he’s punishing whoever it is she represents …’
Dr McDonald stared and twiddled, and stared some more.
‘How do you know I’m not a vegetarian?’
‘Hmm?’
‘You ordered me a steak, how do you know I’m not—’
‘Your hands.’
I held them up. They looked like hands. Bruised and swollen around the knuckles, but other than that …? ‘How can you—’
‘He doesn’t have a physical type: the girls are all different shapes and sizes, straight hair, curly, long hair, short hair; blonde, brunette, ginger – I suppose it doesn’t really matter if he’s going to dye it anyway; some are pretty, some not so pretty, he doesn’t really see them, he sees what he wants them to be …’ Dr McDonald unfurled her napkin and draped it over the table, covering the cards. Then smiled – the waiter was back.
‘Large Glenmorangie?’
She spanked the second whisky down in one, screwed up her face and stuck out her elbows, hissed a juddery breath.
I sat back, helped myself to some fizzy water. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re not a drinker?’
‘Would you call the Birthday Boy normal, because I wouldn’t, but I have to try to think like him if I’m going to figure out what he wants, and what he needs, and why torturing young girls makes sense to him, and that’s a bit of a stretch, because he’s not normal and I am.’ She put the glass back on the table. ‘Luckily alcohol’s a great depressor of inhibitions.’
‘You’re normal?’ I could feel the smile spreading. ‘You sure?’
Pink
