from an old blanket.’ A smile broke free. ‘I got her a restraint mask, and we pushed her about on one of those two-wheeled trolley things, Rebecca shambling along behind us, growling “Brainssssss” at everyone … Tell you, they ate so many Sherbet Fountains and little Mars Bars they were sick for days.’ I ran a hand through the unicorn’s soft pink fur. ‘Was the best Halloween we ever had.’ And the last. Before the bastard took Rebecca and everything went to shit. I put the fuzzy unicorn back on the bed and arranged the Multicoloured Bear Gang around it, then dug my hands into my pockets. Shrugged. ‘Anyway …’
Dr McDonald put the photo frame back on the chest of drawers.
Silence.
I cleared my throat. ‘We’d better get going.’
The windscreen wipers sounded like someone rubbing a balloon along a window, back and forth, leaving one greasy arc across the glass where the rain refused to shift. Squeak, squeal, squeak, squeal.
Dr McDonald wriggled in her seat. ‘Of course it was never his fault – you know what some pathologists are like, kings of their own little kingdom and anyone who shows the slightest backbone, or contradicts them in any way, has to get this huge lecture about how things are done in the “real world”, and I mean how can they even say that—’
On and on, all the way from Dundee – the rain, and the squealing wipers, and the roar of tyres on the road, and the grumbling engine, building up into a headache that must have registered on seismographs on the other side of the bloody world.
A green road sign loomed out of the rain: Oldcastle 5.
Thank Christ.
‘—so when I turned around and showed him the injection site hidden in the bite marks on her breast I thought he was actually going to explode, boom, right then and there—’
A huge Asda eighteen-wheeler roared past in the outside lane, and the crappy little Renault rocked on its springs, caught in the backdraught. The windscreen disappeared under a wall of spray.
‘—I mean psychologically it was the obvious place to look, given the indicators, but try telling him that—’
On and on.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel: imagine it’s her neck and squeeze …
‘Ash?’
Keep squeezing.
Silence – nothing but the engine and the road and the radio and the rain.
She coughed. ‘You don’t really like me, do you? Every time you look at me, there’s this little pause, like you’re trying not to beat me to death. Do I threaten you, or am I just really annoying? I bet it’s annoying, I annoy people when I’m nervous and new people make me nervous, especially when they’re all covered in bruises.’
‘Maybe … Maybe we could listen to the radio for a little bit.’
More silence, then a little, ‘OK.’ She reached out and turned the volume up. A song by one of those emo bands Katie liked crackled out of the speakers, all guitars and angsty vocals.
I glanced over at the passenger seat. Dr McDonald was staring out of the side window, both arms wrapped around herself, as if she might split down the middle and this was the only way to hold both halves together. Probably sulking.
As long as she did it quietly it was OK with me.
The road climbed up Pearl Hill, past the huge Costco, then down again. The valley opened out in front of the car as the dual carriageway dipped towards Oldcastle. Amber streetlights mapped out the city, even though it had only just gone twelve. Up on Castle Hill, floodlights caught a squall of rain as it hammered the crumbling ramparts. On the other side of the river, warning lights blinked red on top of the Blackwall transmitter. The high-rise blocks and grimy council houses of Kingsmeath loomed up the side of the hill, as if a tidal wave of concrete was about to crash down and sweep everything away. The sky looked like a battered wife.
Welcome home.
I pulled the crumbling Renault into the kerb and killed the engine. McDermid Avenue was a dirty-beige terrace of four-storey buildings with railings to keep the pavement at bay and steps up to the front door. Satellite dishes pimpled the sandstone walls like blackheads on a teenager. Bay windows, fanlights, gnarled oak and beech trees lined the road, their naked branches dripping in the rain.
The twin chimneys of Castle Hill Infirmary’s incinerator poked up in the background, trailing plumes of white steam into the bruised sky.
Dr McDonald peered out through the windscreen. ‘Oh dear …’
A pair of outside broadcast vans, the battered BBC Scotland Volvo, and a collection of crappy hatchbacks were parked in front of a patrol car – blocking the road about a third of the way down. Most of the journos were still in their cars, staying out of the rain, but the TV crews had set up on the pavement with the barricade in the background, doing serious-faced pieces for the next news bulletin, clutching umbrellas and microphones, trying not to look as if they were creaming themselves with excitement.
Bastards.
I opened the door and climbed out. Icy rain stinging my ears and forehead. ‘Just keep your head down, and your mouth shut.’
She clambered out after me, pulling on her leather satchel – the strap diagonally across her chest, like her own private seatbelt – following as I marched towards the line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape. With any luck we’d get through into the scene before anyone noticed us.
PC Duguid stood on the other side of the cordon, in front of the patrol car; glaring out from beneath the peak of an oversized cap. His fluorescent-yellow high-vis jacket was all slick and shiny. Like his face. Only not as ugly.
Duguid jerked his chin up and tapped two fingers against his nose. A car door clunked shut behind me. Then another one. Then an English accent, all marbles and plums, at my shoulder: ‘Officer Henderson? Hello?’
I kept walking.
A duffle-coated woman waddled alongside, thrusting a microphone under my nose. ‘Is it true you’ve uncovered a second set of remains?’
Someone else: ‘Have you identified the first body?’
‘Any comment on the new Dundee victim, Helen McMillan? Will Douglas Kelly be speaking to her parents?’
‘Your own daughter went missing, does that give you special insight into how the victims’ families are feeling?’
I kept going: just three more feet till the safety of the police tape. ‘We’re pursuing several avenues of enquiry.’ Never give the bastards anything they can quote.
A squat man barged in front, ears like knots of gristle, broken nose, little digital recorder in hand. ‘How do you respond to criticism that your botched investigation into Hannah Kelly’s abduction eight years ago left the Birthday Boy free to kill— Hey!’
I shoved him to one side and ducked under the cordon, holding it up so Dr McDonald could follow. PC Duguid leaned back against the bonnet of the patrol car, grinning. Gave a wee salute. ‘Morning, Guv. Like the bruises: very fashionable.’
‘You
