Birthdays for the Dead Read Online Free PDF

be back in Oldcastle?’
    ‘Who the hell is Matt?’
    ‘He says, while you’ve been “poofing about” in Dundee, the ground-penetrating radar’s turned up what looks like a third set of remains…’ She tilted her head to one side, frowning as she listened. ‘No, I’m not telling Constable Henderson that… Because it’s unnecessarily rude, that’s why.’
    Well, at least that explained who Matt was: the head of Oldcastle’s Scenes Examination Branch always did have a mouth like a sewer.
    Another body.
    Don’t let it be Rebecca. Let her lie quiet and safe in the ground until I get my hands on the bastard who tortured her to death. Please .
    I threw the car into a right. ‘Ask him if they’ve ID’d the second body yet.’
    ‘Constable Henderson wants to know if you’ve ID’d… Uh-huh… No… I’ll tell him.’ She looked at me. ‘He says you owe him twenty pounds, and—’
    ‘For God’s sake: did they get a bloody ID or not?’
    Left onto another street of prison-block tenements.
    ‘He says they’re still excavating the remains.’ She held a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Apparently the Procurator Fiscal insisted on putting some forensic archaeologist in charge of the dig, and he’s turning everything into a big production.’
    I took the next left, then left again into a cul-de-sac with three-storey blocks of flats on one side and grey bungalows on the other. Just after ten on a wintery Monday morning and most of the homes were in darkness. Here and there the occasional window glowed in the drizzly gloom.
    Sodding hell. ‘We’ve got company.’
    A grey Transit van, with the SKY News Logo emblazoned down the side, sat at the kerb, its roof bristling with antennae and a satellite dish. It was the only outside broadcast unit in sight, the other vehicles were the usual crappy assortment of Fiats, Vauxhalls, and Fords beloved of tabloid and broadsheet reporters.
    I parked in front of the L-shaped block at the end of the road – the one with a uniformed PC standing outside in the rain, crossed arms resting on her swollen belly. A light above the main door made her fluorescent-yellow jacket glisten.
    I hauled on the handbrake, then killed the engine. Stuck out my hand. ‘Phone.’
    Dr McDonald dropped the mobile into my palm, as if she didn’t want to risk her fingers actually touching me.
    ‘Matt: tell Archaeology Boy to get his finger out. This is a murder investigation, not a fucking slumber party.’
    ‘ But— ’
    I hung up and slipped the phone back in my pocket. ‘How can you be afraid of flying?’
    ‘It’s not natural. And I’m not afraid of flying.’ She undid her seatbelt and followed me out into the drizzle. ‘I’m afraid of crashing . Which is completely logical, when you think about it, it’s a survival mechanism, perfectly rational, everyone should be afraid of crashing, what’s strange is not being afraid, you: you’re the one who’s strange.’
    I stared at her. ‘Yeah, I’m the one who’s strange.’
    We had to show our IDs to the rain-soaked lump standing guard outside the small block of flats. A dark fringe poked out from underneath her bowler, plastered to her forehead by the drizzle, her chubby face stretched into a permafrost frown.
    I nodded back towards the clump of journalists. None of them had bothered to get out of their nice warm cars. One had rolled down their window to stick a telephoto lens out, but other than that it was a hotbed of apathy. ‘Giving you any trouble?’
    The constable bared her top teeth. ‘Like you wouldnae believe. You going up?’
    No, we were going to stand out here in the drizzle, bonding. I looked up at the redbrick building. ‘The McMillans in?’
    ‘Yeah. But watch yourself, they’ve got a journo up there.’ She stood to one side. ‘And we’re no’ exactly flavour of the day.’
    ‘When are we ever?’ I held the door open and ushered Dr McDonald inside.
    She just stared at me. ‘Erm…’
    ‘This was your idea,