sniffed. Held out his arms, voice a gravelly monotone.
‘Then winter’s icy claws dig deep into the hearts of men,
Pulling forth the long dark nights,
The pale bone touch of death again …’
‘Poetry? God, you’re a cheery bastard.’
A shrug. ‘My clown suit’s been in the wash since Ellie passed.’ He wiped a finger under his nose – catching a drip. ‘You know the funny thing about Albert Pearson’s funeral? The only person I knew there was dead. What was the point? We’re all dead now, even me. I just haven’t stopped moving yet.’
The kitchen clock ticked quietly on the wall, Sheba groaned and twitched on a hairy tartan beanbag, and the muffled sound of snoring came from the master and spare bedrooms. I sat at the breakfast bar, looking out at the back garden. All the sharp edges were gone, softened by eight inches of snow, more of it drifting down from the pale sky. A puffed-up robin perched on top of the washing line, shouting territorial abuse at anyone within listening distance.
No sign of Henry or Dr McDonald, so I’d let myself in and taken over the kitchen. Flicking through the case files, brooding about Michelle, Katie, and Rebecca, listening to the clock carving the day into thin sharp slices.
And my coffee was cold.
What to do about Ethan Baxter? The vicious little bastard never learned … Well, tomorrow morning he was going to get a telling he wouldn’t forget.
Maybe it was time for Ethan to have an accident? Drag him out into the middle of nowhere and put a bullet through his head. Put an end to his crap once and for all …
Well, it was worth thinking about.
And once I’d taken care of Ethan Baxter, there’d be Mrs Kerrigan to deal with. Four grand by lunchtime today. Even if I had four grand, which I didn’t, there was no way I could get it to her – not from here. Never mind the other fifteen.
Where the hell was I supposed to get nineteen thousand pounds from?
It was like a weight, sitting on my chest, forcing me back into the chair.
Focus on the do-able first, then worry about the rest.
Four grand by today was impossible: the ferry wouldn’t get back to Aberdeen till seven tomorrow morning. OK, I could blag a flight from Sumburgh Airport – flash my warrant card and pretend it was urgent police business – but what would be the point? Rush home so I could be in time to get my legs broken? Bugger that.
The house was a wreck, my car wasn’t worth the duct tape holding the rear bumper on, and I had nothing left to sell. Nothing: it was all gone. And shaking a few perverts and drug dealers by the ankles would only net a couple of grand tops, so how the hell was I going to get my hands on nineteen thousand pounds …?
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Ethan Baxter wasn’t exactly scraping along the poverty line, was he? No: Ethan drove a Mercedes; Ethan lived in a nice big house in Castleview; Ethan was due a battering anyway, why not throw in a bit of demanding money with menaces too?
Wasn’t as if the bastard didn’t deserve it. And I’m sure – given the choice of a shallow grave or making a donation – he’d jump at the chance to help out an old friend.
I’d be doing him a favour really.
Rationalization that good deserved a fresh cup of coffee.
I got as far as filling the kettle when someone banged on the front door.
‘OK, OK, I’m coming.’
More banging.
I hauled the door open.
Winter had claimed Scalloway. The rooftops were laden with thick crusts of white, the gardens nearly buried. Arnold Burges stood on the path, scuffed yellow wellingtons ankle-deep in snow, dressed in a scabby pair of orange overalls with a quilted jacket over the top and a woolly hat. His eyes were thin and dark, beard bristling.
I blocked the doorway. ‘Arnold.’
He bit his top lip, flexed his hands into fists. ‘She was alive.’ His breath hung in the cold air around his head. It stank of stale booze.
‘Did you drive here? Because—’
‘She was our little girl, and we loved her.’
‘Mr Burges, I know it’s—’
‘But Lauren’s never going to be a person in her own right, is she? She’s always going to be “Lauren Burges: the Birthday Boy’s third victim”. Like her whole childhood, all the time we had together, we were only killing time till the bastard grabbed her.’ Burges reached into his padded jacket and pulled out a red-top tabloid.
Lauren’s photo was on the front page – grinning away with a party hat perched on top of her spiky pink hair – beneath the headline, ‘BIRTHDAY BOY VICTIM’S BODY DUG UP IN OLDCASTLE.’
Bloody Oldcastle CID couldn’t keep its mouth shut if it fell in a septic tank.
‘I’m sorry. I really am.’
Burges looked away, blinking, then went back into his jacket and produced a bulging folder. He held it out. Thick snowflakes settled on the blue surface. I took it from him, put it under my arm.
‘You read that.’ He squared his shoulders, stuck his chin out. ‘You read that and you know our Lauren was real. She wasn’t just a frigging victim.’
‘You have to let the police do their job, Mr Burges. We’re going to find him, and we’re going to stop him. We’re going to make him pay for what he did to Lauren and … And the others.’ And no matter what else happened: he’d live to stand trial. The bastard would be hauled up in front of everyone, found guilty, and sent down for life. Six months tops, before someone carved his eyes out and cut off his balls in the prison laundry. Then we’d all throw a huge party.
Burges stared at me, then took a step back, nodding. ‘They sent someone round the house while I was at work yesterday, stuck a camera in Danielle’s face, wanted to know what it feels like to find out they’ve dug up your dead daughter …’
Before anyone official had even bothered to tell Burges and his wife that we’d found Lauren’s remains. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You should be.’ Burges turned, and lurched back down the path, scuffing his wellies through the snow. A scarred Berlingo van sat by the kerb, ‘CALDERS LEA AQUACULTURE LTD.’ written along the side. Benny waved at me from the driver’s seat.
I waited until Burges reached the gate. ‘I meant what I said yesterday: Henry Forrester did everything he could. It’s not
