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 his fault.
The big man paused for a moment, then clambered into the van without a word.
It slithered away from the pavement and off into the snow.
I shuffled my chair closer to the open oven door. Not the most ecologically responsible way of heating a room, but at least now the kitchen was warm enough to sit in without getting frostbite.
Sheba creaked up from her bed in the corner and collapsed beside my chair, rolled onto her side and exposed her stomach to the warmth.
Dear God, when did Henry last give you a bath?
She sighed.
I unpacked the folder Burges had given me. It was full of reports from private investigators; interview transcripts; Freedom of Information requests; statements from Lauren s friends and family trying to piece together the last time they d seen her alive; photos of Lauren at the beach, parties, playing in the back garden. It painted a very different picture from the official file. That one was all about facts and evidence, this one was all about Lauren Burges.
She was like Rebecca in so many ways: a nice girl, from a nice home, who got snatched from her family and tortured to death.
Urgh A voice from the doorway.
I turned, and there was Dr McDonald: shuffling, swollen-eyed, brown curls hanging lank and greasy around her pale face.
You look awful.
She winced, held up a finger. Shhhh
Hungover?
If you make too much noise you ll wake him, and then I ll have to start drinking again, and I really don t want to start drinking again, can we not just sit in silence for a bit and then maybe it ll all be OK and I won t feel like throwing myself under a bus or something? She lowered herself onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar, then folded over until her head rested on the working surface. Urgh
Hungry?
Urgh
Trust me: get something in your stomach now, before Henry wakes up and cracks open that litre of Bells.
Do I have to? She peered at me, head still resting on the countertop. OK. I ll have eggs and toast and bacon and saus-ages and tomato and mushrooms and chips and black pudding, and
Then you should ve stayed at the hotel last night, instead of staggering back here with Henry to polish off the Isle of Jura, shouldn t you? I stood and pulled a greasy paper bag out of the bread bin. Bought a couple of sausage rolls on the way over this morning. You want them warmed in the microwave, or the oven?
I want to go home. Music blared out of her jeans.
Noooo She pulled a smartphone from a pocket and jabbed a finger at the display. It kept on singing. Jab, jab, jab. Dr McDonald dumped the thing on the breakfast bar and wrapped her arms around her head. Make it stop
I picked the phone up. A photo of Detective Chief Superintendent Dickie flashed on the screen.
I went to press the green button, but the music stopped before I got there. He d rung off.
Then my phone started ringing: DCS DICKIE. I answered it. What: I m not your first choice?
