The Coffinmaker's Garden

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘I cocked up, Shifty.’

  He eyed me across the car. ‘Do I want to know? Actually, scrap that – I don’t. Especially with Professional Bloody Standards poking torches up my fundament.’

  Tchaikovsky’s ‘Danse des Mirlitons’ burst out of my pocket. That would be Alice calling. Again.

  ‘You going to get that?’

  ‘Nope.’

  We passed a couple of bookies and a charity shop. Pulled up at the traffic lights outside the boarded-up remains of Oldcastle’s newest multiplex cinema – still advertising a superhero blockbuster from three years ago, the posters’ colours faded away to a yellow-and-black duotone.

  ‘Still need to know where we’re going, though.’

  Good question.

  Tchaikovsky faded off into silence as Alice’s call went to voicemail.

  Maybe it was time?

  Wasn’t as if the day could get any worse, was it?

  ‘Take a right.’

  Soon as the lights changed, he hit the indicators, setting a slew of angry horns honking behind us.

  I clicked on the radio, jabbing the buttons till something suitably unhappy groaned out of the car’s speakers. We drifted along Nelson Street to the sound of someone else’s misery.

  Then Tchaikovsky joined in again.

  This time I didn’t even let it go to voicemail: hit the ‘reject call’ icon instead.

  Shifty shook his head. ‘You’re going to have to talk to her eventually.’

  Maybe. But not right now.

  Grey buildings slid by the car windows, grey people slumping past in front of them. Oldcastle in November. The whole bloody city needed a Valium.

  On the radio, the song gloomed its way to a depressing finale, replaced by a gravel-voiced woman sitting far too close to the microphone in an attempt to sound sultry and intimate. ‘Four Mechanical Mice there, and “Dear Dinosaur”. You’re listening to Midmorning Madness with me, Barbara Chapman, standing in for Annette Peterson. It’s half ten and we’ve got the news coming up, but first, here’s a word from our lovely sponsors …’

  ‘You going back to the flat tonight, or do you need somewhere to crash as well?’

  ‘Don’t know, yet.’ The way things were going, once Steven Kirk’s lawyer got his hooks into me, I’d probably be sleeping in a cell for the weekend, waiting till they got me up in front of a sheriff on Monday.

  ‘… ahar mateys, cos at Blisterin’ Barnacles Chip Shop, you landlubbers and salty seadogs can get two fish suppers and a poke of onion rings for the price of one! …’

  Tchaikovsky had another go. Didn’t make it past the first bar before I hung up on him.

  ‘Look, Ash, it’s—’

  ‘Just … don’t, OK?’

  ‘Cluckity cluck, cluck, cluck! Mummy, can we have Chicken MacSporrans for tea tonight? They’re new and improved!’

  ‘Of course you can, Timmy, because I know I can trust ScotiaBrand Tasty Chickens to deliver on nutrition and taste. They’re fan-chicken-tastic!’

  I pointed through the grubby windscreen. ‘Right at the roundabout.’

  We joined the queue of traffic, Shifty shaking his head. ‘Only, every time you pair fall out it’s me gets stuck in the middle.’

  ‘… and feel the magic of pantomime as Sherlock Holmes and the Curse of Tutankhamun’s Tomb comes to the King James Theatre, this December! Fun for all the family! Tickets on sale now!’

  ‘Well, what am I supposed to do? It’s—’

  My phone launched into something else for a change: Radiohead’s ‘Creep’, the words ‘DSUPT. JACOBSON’ glowing in the middle of the screen. To be honest, that took longer than expected. Thought he’d be on the phone yelling at me ages ago.

  Ah well.

  Nice while it lasted.

  Shifty took us out and round onto Castle Drive, the multi-building lumps of Castle Hill Infirmary looming over the houses on our left, the twin towers of its incinerators sending out clouds of white steam to be ripped apart by the wind.

  I turned down the radio and took the call. ‘Go on then, get it over with.’

  ‘Ash, Ash, Ash …’ A disappointed noise. Sounding sad, rather than angry. ‘You don’t make things easy for me, do you? Or yourself. You silly bugger.’

  ‘It’s—’

  ‘Alice told me what happened and why. And, while I don’t approve of people beating the hairy snot out of suspects, I appreciate it’s not been easy for you. Not today, anyway.’

  Great: sympathy. The perfect way to make anyone feel even worse about themselves.

  ‘But that’s still no excuse, you complete and utter, total arsehole! You’re supposed to be helping us catch Gòrach, not buggering any chance we have of convicting him!’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Now I have to spend the next hour pacifying Steven Kirk’s lawyer; do you have any idea how hard it’ll be getting a warrant to search his house after this? The Procurator Fiscal is going to do her nut.’

  The road curved around a patch of woods on the right, the sharp blade of granite towering on the left, with the crumbling remains of the Old Castle on top.

  ‘Well? Have you got anything to say for yourself?’

  ‘Yes: I resign.’ Might as well, before he fired me.

  ‘On no, you’re not getting away with it that easily. I need you off the Gòrach investigation till this blows over, but if you think I’m giving you gardening leave, you’ve got another think coming. I’m not paying you to sit about doing sod all: you can go be a massive pain in someone else’s backside for a change. I’m sure DI Malcolmson would be delighted to have you muck up her caseload for a change.’

  No …

  That dragged my shoulders down. ‘In that case, I’m definitely resigning.’

  ‘Have fun in Mother’s Misfit Mob, Ash. Try not to cock anything else up, eh?’ And with that, Jacobson was gone.

  Wonderful. Just. Sodding. Wonderful.

  When I opened my eyes, Shifty was squinting at me.

  ‘You look like someone’s slapped a cold jobbie in your Pot Noodle.’

  To be honest, that would’ve been an improvement.

  Never liked Tarbeth Park.

  Saint Bartholomew’s Episcopal Cathedral dominated the semi-manicured grassland, rearing up in all its jagged granite glory, the copper-coated spire scratching at the sky in shades of greeny-brown. All buttresses and lancet windows. Like Saint Damon’s on steroids, only out in the sunlight, rather than down in a dank rainswept hollow. God knew what kind of sins Oldcastle had to atone for in the sixteenth century, but going by the size of Saint Bartholomew’s, they were many and heinous.

  Shifty stuck the pool car in one of the parking spots reserved for emergency vehicles. Cleared his throat. ‘Want me to come with you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  He nodded, but clambered out after me, anyway. Scuffing along at my side as I limp-hobbled my way past the retractable metal bollards and onto the slick cobbled road that jinked in towards the cathedral’s nave end. Gusts of frigid air shoved us along, making our coattails flap out in front of us as we followed the road, heading for the biggest graveyard in the city. Well, if you didn’t count the plague pits in Shortstaine.

  Shifty stuck his hands deep in his pockets, good eye narrowed as he squinted out into the sunshine. Raised his voice over the howling wind. ‘Least it’s stopped raining.’

  From here, the view stretched down, across the park, to the river’s glittering grey ribbon, then across to Cowskillin – with its rows of pre-war terraced houses and the abandoned hulk of City Stadium. Lots of browns and greys, because who wouldn’t want to live somewhere completely devoid of charm or life?

  Maybe the idea was that the ranks of the dead wouldn’t see anything to make them jealous?

  Saint Bartholomew’s Graveyard sat a good ten-minute limp from the cathedral, as if distancing itself from the wages of all that sin, encircled by a four-foot-high stone wall. Guarded by a large wrought-iron gate, ‘MORS IN NOBIS PONERE DEBEM
US CONFIDUNT IN DEUM’ inscribed in metalwork above the entrance. As if that meant anything to anyone.

  Shifty, thankfully, kept his mouth shut and followed me inside.

  The part nearest the gate was filled with the oldest headstones: short, blunt, ugly things where most of the carving had been eaten away by weather and lichen, leaving nothing but the ghost of memorials behind. The wind badgered us through the Victorian part, where being buried became all about outdoing your dead neighbours. Seeing who could have the swankiest granite mausoleums, or fanciest marble statues of weeping angels and cherubs. Celtic crosses big enough to crucify someone on. The Georgians were even worse. But the further back from the main path they got, the humbler the graves became.

  And then we reached the far side and the modern burial plots, where shiny black headstones with gold lettering sprouted in ordered rows. Photos of loved ones engraved into their surfaces. Wilting flowers and rotting teddy bears slumped against the cold dead stone. Where the grief was still fresh enough to hurt.

  Lines and lines and lines of them, with a chunk of woodland rising in the background – branches writhing, the last of their leaves torn away to soar free in the gale.

  ‘Erm, not meaning to be funny, or anything,’ Shifty did a slow three-sixty, ‘but do you know where she is?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Never been here in my life, but I knew. ‘Thanks, but maybe I’d better do this bit on my own.’

  I left him there and headed down a gravel path fringed with weeds, to a section by the back wall. A pair of plain grey stones, each with a fresh bunch of carnations in front of them. That would’ve been Michelle. Because she’d always been the more responsible parent.

  HERE LIES REBECCA HENDERSON

  BELOVED DAUGHTER, SISTER, & FRIEND

  TORN FROM THIS EARTH FAR TOO SOON

  My little girl.

  Girls, Ash. Look at the other headstone.

  No.

  For God’s sake, it’s been nine years.

  Deep breath.

  But when I tried … it …

  HERE LIES KATIE HENDERSON

  My eyes slid off the shiny grey marble, like it’d been greased. Hauled down by the weight of guilt. My fault. My fault she was dead.

  Wire and dead leaves filled my chest, pushing their way up to knot in the middle of my throat, not letting the breath in.

  I stepped back, focused on Rebecca’s final resting place again. Because at least I wasn’t responsible for that one.

  Huffed out a rattling lungful of bitter air.

  They were only graves.

  Then why was every beat of my shrivelled-up heart like being kicked in the chest?

  The carved golden letters swam out of focus and no amount of blinking would get them to snap back again. Standing there, amongst the dead, as the wind whipped at my back. As it howled and screeched through the headstones. As it raged.

  I closed my eyes.

  Aberdeen beach, when Rebecca was three, the sun hot on my bare back and legs. A picnic in the golden sands, looking out at the supply vessels waiting to come into harbour. Rebecca: testing her courage against the North Sea, chasing the waves as they retreated down the sand, turning around to squeal her way back to us as they doubled back on her.

  Only Rebecca’s face … is a blur. Her face isn’t the only thing that wouldn’t come into focus: the bright-red swimming suit, the sturdy little legs and arms, her curly hair.

  Why can’t I see her? Why can’t I—

  Rebecca: tied to a chair in a dank basement, her pale skin smeared with scarlet, slashed and burned and bruised. Eyes wide. Screaming behind a duct-tape gag. The number ‘5’ scratched into the corner of the bloodstained Polaroid picture, mounted on a homemade birthday card.

  No.

  I snapped my eyes open again, but that image was burned forever on the back of my retinas.

  All these years. All these years and I still couldn’t—

  ‘Ash?’ A woman’s voice, behind me, sounding pleased and amused. ‘Ash Henderson, it is you. Well, well, well …’

  I closed my eyes.

  Apparently today could get worse after all.

  13

  She settled onto the bench next to me, hands in the pockets of her burgundy overcoat, shoulders hunched. Auburn hair escaping from beneath a shapeless woolly hat that was probably meant to look chic, but came off more like a stolen tea-cosy. Jennifer Prentice. She’d lost a chunk of weight, grown hard about the eyes and mouth. Forehead suspiciously smooth and immobile.

  Wind whipped at the grass around us, thrashing the bushes, making trees creak like a galleon under full sail. It was billed as an ‘area of quiet contemplation and peace’, but the reality was four rusty park benches, arranged around a ‘fountain of remembrance’. Which turned out to be a sludge-filled concrete roundel with weeds growing out of the rusting pipe where water probably hadn’t sprayed for years.

  Jennifer looked me up and down, as if assessing the damage. ‘So how’s it going with you and Whatshername: the Detective Superintendent woman?’

  ‘None of your business.’ Besides: that wound was much too raw for prodding.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry.’ A shrug. ‘You never return my calls, Ash. A girl might begin to think you didn’t like her.’

  A ‘girl’ would be right.

  ‘What do you want, Jennifer?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me how I found you?’

  And give her the satisfaction of showing off? ‘Nope.’

  ‘Used to think that strong-silent act of yours was quite sexy. Now? I’m not so sure.’ Nudging me with her shoulder. ‘A tiny birdie tells me you’re the man to talk to about,’ she left a pause, leaning in closer, as if that was going to build up dramatic tension, ‘The Coffinmaker.’

  I held up my middle finger. ‘One: sod off.’ Index finger next, flipping her the ‘V’s. ‘Two: never even heard of “The Coffinmaker”.’ The third finger went up. ‘And three: you really think I’m going to talk to you after what you did?’

  A pout. ‘All I did was write a book about the Birthday Boy, Ash. I was there too, remember?’ Another nudge. ‘But I’m really pleased you read it.’

  ‘You turned my daughter’s murder into torture porn!’

  ‘Ah …’ She wilted a bit under my stare. Shrugged. ‘OK, so I had to take some artistic liberties with events, but my editor insisted. What’s a girl to do?’ She was probably going for a contrite expression, but with half her face immobilised, it didn’t really work.

  How did I ever think it’d be a good idea to cheat on my wife with someone so shallow and greedy and vile? What the hell was wrong with me?

  ‘Go away, Jennifer.’

  ‘And “The Coffinmaker” is what we’re calling Gordon Smith. From Clachmara? The man with the “Kill Room” in his basement?’ She took her hand from her pocket and slipped it through the crook of my arm. As if we were dating. ‘I’ve been talking to the neighbours. Did you know he’s a set designer? Worked for theatres all over the UK – the new Sherlock Holmes thing on at the King James? That’s one of his. Anyway,’ lowering her voice, as if the graves on all sides were full of eavesdroppers, ‘whenever some neighbour-kid’s pet died, he’d build a small coffin for it out of plywood, paint it up all fancy, so the kid could have a proper funeral. Course, everyone thought he was being a sweet, thoughtful old guy, but now? Creepy as hell, don’t you think?’ She leaned back again, flashing a smile that barely moved her frozen face. ‘Hence, “The Coffinmaker”.’

  God save us from tabloid hacks with overactive imaginations.

  A magpie landed on the edge of the sludge-filled fountain, cackling at us, as if we were responsible for the horrible weather. Beady black eyes staring. Head tilted to one side as it popped down onto the gravel path.

  ‘Ash?’ Jennifer gave my arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve heard rumours you were in Smith’s basement. That you’ve got films and photographs. Of the victims.’

  The magpie found the crushed triangular box of a prepacked sandwich, b
ashing its beak against the crumpled plastic window, trying to get at whatever was left inside.

  ‘And I was thinking, obviously we couldn’t publish the photos themselves, not with us being a family newspaper and everything, but there’s definitely a book in it, right? “Kill Room: the hunt for the Coffinmaker.” You and me could do that.’ Her words, soft and warm against my ear as she leaned in again. ‘We could do all sorts of things. Like we used to, remember?’

  A final jab and the plastic ruptured, spilling toenails of brown crust out onto the gravel as wind whipped the container away.

  Jennifer pulled herself closer, till the warmth of her body leached through into my ribs. ‘I could do that thing you like?’

  I’d rather swallow a pint of bleach.

  ‘Well? What did the Wicked Witch of the Wank want?’ Shifty emerged from the shadow of a mausoleum, his one remaining eye narrowed to a suspicious slit.

  ‘Chucking in the river.’ Turning out to be a bit of a theme today.

  He followed me back down the path and out through the big iron gates. Into the full force of the howling wind. High overhead, pale grey clouds snaked across the sky, but down here it was strong enough to turn the simple task of heading for the pool car into an undignified lurch.

  Didn’t make getting the Vauxhall’s doors open exactly easy, either.

  We tumbled inside, the wind slamming them shut.

  Shifty wriggled in his seat. ‘How’d she know we were here?’

  ‘No idea. And I don’t care.’

  He started the engine. ‘Can’t believe you used to shag that. Lucky your poor wee willy didn’t shrivel up and drop off with the cold.’ A three-point turn. ‘We finished now? Can I go back to my actual job?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Half of St Bartholomew’s Road had already been converted into the kind of luxury flats that cost more than most police officers would earn in ten years, the billboards outside advertising, ‘SPACIOUS EXECUTIVE APARTMENTS WITH RIVER VIEWS!’

  ‘Shifty?’ I cleared my throat. Watched the unsold flats go by. ‘Thanks. For taking me to see Rebecca.’

  ‘You’re a daft bugger, you know that, don’t you?’ His hand left the gearstick and thumped down on my arm. Gave it a squeeze. ‘How long we been best friends for, thirty years? No way I’d let you go on your own.’