Birthdays for the Dead by Stuart MacBride Read Free Book Online

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