Birthdays for the dead

Click, click The photographer looked up from his viewfinder. Too slow. I smacked the flat of my hand against the end of the lens, driving the whole camera into the hairy little shit s face. Crack his head jerked back, a bead of scarlet glistening in one nostril. Weak chin, pointy nose, hairy hands, hairy head. Like someone had cross-bred a rat with a chimp and given it a top-of-the-range Canon digital camera.

Frank!

Gagh Frank blinked, hairy paws smearing red across his face.

I grabbed the lens and pulled; the camera strap yanked his head forwards, clunking it into the window frame. I twisted the Canon through ninety degrees turning the strap into a noose. Pulled harder. Knuckles like burning gravel, fingers aching.

Ash! Don t be a dick, let him go!

Frank gurgled.

Another twist and there it was a small hatch marked

SD Card, set into the camera body. I flipped it open, pushed on the plastic edge, and the SD card popped up. About the same size as the end of my thumb, but rectangular, with one corner cut off. I gritted my teeth and pulled it out. Stuck it in my pocket. Let go.

Gaahhhhh Frank scrabbled away, clambering over the gearstick and the handbrake, camera clunking against the steering wheel.

Jennifer grabbed my sleeve. What s wrong with you?

I jerked my arm away, leaned on the window ledge and glared inside. The car smelled of stale digestive biscuits, cigar-ettes, and cold coffee. Listen up, you little fuck: I see you anywhere near here again, I see you at all, I m going to turn that telephoto lens of yours into an endoscope. Understand?

Frank just coughed and spluttered.

Ash! She grabbed me again.

I spun around and shoved. Jennifer staggered back against a Porsche the car alarm blared, the lights flashing on and off.

Get this into your thick little skull: it s over. I don t owe you a damn thing.

Her eyes were two cold slits, wrinkles creasing either side of her narrowed lips. Teeth bared. Who the hell do you think you are? She spat at me: a gobbet of frothy white that spattered against my chest.

I turned and walked away.

This isn t over, Ash, you hear me? This isn t over!

Chapter 8

I pulled the curtain back. Feeling any better?

Dr McDonald perched on the edge of a hospital gurney, her left eye partially closed, a square of white wadding taped to her forehead and cheek. No.

Doctor says it could ve been a lot worse. Just superficial really.

She scowled at me. It s sore.

I offered you painkillers.

I m not taking pills from a man I barely know, I mean they could be anything: roofies, GHB, Rohypnol, Ketamine

Roofies and Rohypnol are the same thing. And trust me: you re not my type.

Her bottom lip protruded a little, then she sniffed and hopped down from the gurney. The body deposition sites were stupid, I don t mean the park: the park isn t stupid, but burying a dead body there is. Only a set number of people have easy access, and what if someone looks out of their window and sees you with your shovel and a big black-plastic bundle. Who s Jennifer?

None of your sodding business, that s who.

I dropped my vending-machine coffee in the bin. Far as we can tell, Cameron Park s been a wilderness for the last twelve years. Council cut the maintenance budget, told the residents it was their responsibility, so it all went feral. The sounds of an afternoon in A amp;E echoed through the corridors muffled swearing, a young man sobbing, some drunken singing. Door-to-doors spoke to an old biddie been living there for sixty years. She says people dump their garden waste in the park all the time.

Well, that s not very public spirited of them Dr McDonald frowned down at the floor. A series of lines were painted on the cracked linoleum: yellow, blue, red, purple, white, and black. She placed one foot on the black line, then the other, both arms held out sideways as if she was walking on a tightrope. Teetering along.

I pointed in the opposite direction. Exit s that way.

She kept going. This goes to the morgue, doesn t it?

No, it goes to the mortuary. You watch too much American TV.

Sounds a lot more genteel, doesn t it: mortuary, a morgue is full of serial-killer victims, a mortuary is somewhere you go to see Great Aunty Morag who s passed away at the ripe old age of ninety-two.

You re still going the wrong way.

Follow the little black line. She grabbed my arm and gave a skip. Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.

Around the corner and deeper into the hospital. The paintwork was cracked and grubby, the gurney bumpers scuffed and dented, the floor patched with strips of silver duct tape. Paintings broke up the magnolia monotony, landscapes and portraits mostly, all done by school children.

Dr McDonald didn t even look at them. Detective Chief Inspector Veeeber that s German, isn t it, but shouldn t the pronunciation be Veber, or Veyber, I mean I m sure he knows how to pronounce his own name, but