The Coffinmaker's Garden

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I only heard the screaming, but to actually be there, holding the other end of—’

  ‘All right! All right, I get it.’ Maybe sounding a bit more defensive there than I’d hoped, going by Franklin’s raised eyebrows. ‘Look, he was an arsehole, OK? What kind of moron ignores a direct telling, all the warning notices, cuts through the chain, and sods about on the crumbling headland in the middle of a storm? Yes, he died – tragedy, thoughts and prayers etc. – but he nearly got you, me, Mother, and Watt killed too. And while Watt’s death wouldn’t exactly be a great loss to humanity, the rest of us deserve better.’

  She pulled her head back, making a tiny double chin. ‘You really have it in for John, don’t you? What did he do?’

  ‘He’s a dick.’

  A shrug. ‘True. But if you need to talk to someone about what happened, don’t be a macho idiot about it. It doesn’t impress anyone.’ Franklin had another shiver. ‘Why do mortuaries have to be so cold?’

  ‘You can knock off, if you like? Doesn’t need both of us here for chain of evidence.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘You’re not a police officer any more, remember?’

  ‘True.’ I straightened up. ‘In that case, you stay here, and I’ll see if I can break into Teabag’s office and get a brew on.’

  Franklin munched her way through a third Jammie Dodger, getting crumbs down the front of her overcoat. ‘So I punched him.’

  ‘Good. Sounds like the prick deserved it.’ The tea was almost gone, only a couple of biscuits left in the packet.

  ‘Only it turns out breaking a superintendent’s nose isn’t a good career move.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s not that bad, being in the Misfit Mob. OK, so we don’t get the best of cases, and I do miss Edinburgh …’ She chewed on the inside of her cheek. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Oldcastle’s all right—’

  ‘Oldcastle’s a shitehole.’ I drained the last of my tea. Stood there, head turned … ‘Stick those biscuits in your pocket!’

  ‘What?’ Looking at me as if I’d proposed getting naked and romping on one of the dissecting tables.

  I snatched up the Jammie Dodgers and stuffed the packet in her overcoat pocket. Took the mug from her hand and limped across the cutting room.

  ‘Hey, I was drinking that!’

  Teabag’s office was a gloryhole of paperwork and things in specimen jars. Barely enough room for the roll-top desk and green-leather swivel chair squeezed in amongst the shelves and filing cabinets. Both mugs went back in his in-tray. And I was out again, just in time to shut the door behind me, before the double ones at the far end of the mortuary banged open and in marched Mother and Teabag.

  It looked as if he was on his way to some sort of Jeremy Clarkson convention, in blue jeans, an untucked white shirt, and a tweed jacket. His floppy fringe was a touch greyer than it used to be, the jaw not quite as square – a line of fat softening it and deepening the dimple in his chin. Thin wire-rimmed glasses glinting in the mortuary’s strip lights as he puffed out a long breath. ‘Before we begin, I want everyone to understand that this is not a post mortem. This is an initial, and very brief, impression of the forensic evidence. Assuming there is any.’

  He stopped in the middle of the room and frowned down at the bin-bag package. ‘I assume this is it?’

  Mother pulled on a pained smile, then nodded. ‘Yes, Professor Twining.’

  ‘Very well. ALFRED!’

  A pause.

  ‘AAAAAAAAAALFRRRRRRRRRRRRED!’ Teabag marched across the room to his office, took his keys out, then made puzzled expressions when the door swung open without him unlocking it. ‘That’s odd, could’ve sworn … Never mind.’ Looked back over his shoulder. ‘Wheels up, ten minutes. Assuming Alfred actually shows.’ Then disappeared inside.

  Mother slouched over to join us at the work surface. ‘That man is – and I hope you’ll excuse my language, Rosalind – a complete and utter turdjacket.’ She hoicked up the sleeves of her Police Scotland fleece, exposing those tattooed forearms. Pulled a face. ‘Apparently, our beloved Chief Superintendent isn’t too impressed that we let a journalist die on our watch.’

  What?

  I stared at her.

  ‘I know, I know: I was there, remember? But if you see him coming, take my advice and run. Turns out the media are less interested in your heroics trying to save Nick James, than they are in our not adequately ensuring that he couldn’t cut through a padlocked chain on a clearly marked safety fence, in the pitch-sodding-dark, and sneak through to get himself killed.’ She let her head fall back and grimaced at the greying ceiling tiles. ‘Some days, I hate my job.’

  Franklin reached into a pocket and came out with a Jammie Dodger. ‘Fancy a biscuit? We definitely didn’t steal them from Professor Twining’s office.’

  That got her a smile.

  The biscuit disappeared in two bites, to be followed by a crumb-spilling sigh. ‘Don’t suppose your IT guru has come up with anything, has he, Ash?’

  ‘Says he’s got locations for most of the photographs, but no IDs yet.’

  The smile faded away. ‘The universe hates me, doesn’t it?’

  A voice, from over by the main doors: ‘Evenin’ all.’ A middle-aged man scuffed into the mortuary, headphones around his neck, hair scraped back in a thinning ponytail that exposed about sixty percent of his shiny head, a greying beard trimmed to within an inch of its death. All done up in pale-blue hospital scrubs, backpack slung over one shoulder. ‘DI Henderson! As I live and breathe.’

  ‘Alf.’

  He nodded his head towards the closed office door. ‘The Prof here yet, or do I have time to nip out for a fag?’

  And right on cue: Teabag emerged, having changed into a rustling white Tyvek oversuit, white wellies, and a thick brown rubber apron. ‘Alfred, get scrubbed up: we’re doing a quick surface examination, then I’ve got a dinner party to get back to.’

  ‘Right you are, Prof.’

  ‘The rest of you better put on protective gear. Let’s not have a repeat of the Robert Bradbury fiasco.’

  We all struggled into disposable SOC suits, finishing off with safety goggles, face masks, blue plastic booties, and purple nitrile gloves. Then joined Alf and Teabag at the central table. All gathered around that bin-bag package like ghosts at the feast.

  Alf switched on a big digital camera and took a couple of test shots. ‘All working.’

  ‘Then I’ll begin.’ Teabag’s scalpel sizzled through the black plastic, opening it up like dark flower petals, exposing the red holdall within as Alf snapped away. ‘Has this been tested for fingerprints, fibres, or DNA?’

  Mother shook her head. ‘You always moan when you don’t get first go with remains.’

  ‘I do not moan. I apply constructive criticism when people don’t prioritise the correct chain of forensic hierarchies.’ He took hold of the zip and pulled. Nothing. Tugged. Still nothing. So he sliced along the stitching next to it instead. Pulled the sides apart.

  A dark, leathery smell joined the mortuary’s foul bouquet, tainted with a compost earthiness.

  Whatever was in there, it’d been dead a long, long time.

  ‘Hmm …’ Teabag peered into the slit. ‘Better move this to the end of the table. We’re going to need some room.’

  Soon as it was relocated, he reached in and came out with a dirty length of what looked like grey-brown tubing, about an inch and a half wide, maybe fourteen inches long, both ends ragged and chipped. He laid it down on the stainless-steel surface with an audible click, then went back in for another piece of piping with ragged ends – this one thinner and curved – and laid it out near the end of the table, on the opposite side to the first bit.

  The next two things were definitely ribs. They got clicked down in the proper anatomical place. Then a pelvis. A shoulder blade. Then what looked like the head of a femur.

  ‘You can see here, that the remains have been dismembered.’ Turning the smooth head of bone over to expose the ra
gged end. ‘Probably an axe, going by the fractures and splintering. A saw would leave much cleaner cuts in the bone.’

  A radius and ulna were next, both parts of the arm bone cut short and splintered.

  ‘Your victim was most likely dead at the time, because, let’s face it, dismembering someone with an axe would be fairly difficult if they were still alive. And even if you tried, they wouldn’t be for long.’ Teabag dipped into the bag again and again, humming away to himself as he reassembled a human skeleton on the cutting table in front of us. ‘I know it’s not to everyone’s taste, but I rather enjoy this part. I completely get why people like a good jigsaw puzzle.’

  Finally he stepped back, hands on his hips. ‘Well, I can safely say your victim is dead.’

  Alf was the only one who laughed at that. But it didn’t sound convincing.

  ‘As you can see, we’re missing a number of phalanges, mostly distal and middle,’ pointing a purple finger at the body’s hands and feet. ‘Given the body was most likely dismembered to make it fit in the holdall, you wouldn’t need to take the fingers off, would you? So, and this is nothing more than an educated guess, but I think they could’ve been removed before death. Which suggests to me that your victim was murdered.’

  If Teabag thought he was getting a round of applause for that, he was in for a disappointment. Not when we had the ‘after’ set of Polaroids.

  ‘These additional kerf marks on both sets of forearms, thighs, and shins – you see how they’re nowhere near the dismemberment points? And the ones on the skull?’ Pointing at a trio of dark lines carved into the bone above the right eye socket. ‘That makes me suspect they might be ante-mortem too. And then there’s the broken-slash-missing teeth …’

  He pinged off his gloves, into an open bin marked ‘MEDICAL WASTE ONLY’. Removed his face mask. ‘Don’t quote me on this, but I think there’s a good chance your victim was tortured quite extensively before they died. Male, five-nine, I can’t speculate on ethnicity before we’ve done DNA testing. And for that, and everything else, you’ll have to wait till tomorrow.’ He took off his thick rubber apron and draped it over one of the empty cutting tables. ‘We start at nine o’clock sharp – you should arrange for a forensic anthropologist to be in attendance. In the meantime, thank you for not asking any stupid questions, and I’m going back to my boeuf bourguignon and friends.’

  With that, Teabag marched off into his office, thunking the door shut behind him.

  Mother pulled a face. ‘I don’t know about anyone else, but I am now officially gagging for a glass of wine. Rosalind, Ash?’

  I pushed away from the dissecting table and its collection of bones. ‘Can’t: pills. Besides, I’ve got a prior appointment …’

  I unlocked the front door and hobbled into the flat. Eyes full of grit. My back aching like it’d been holding the world up for two years too long. All that weight pressing down on my shoulders – still aching from trying to haul Nick James up from the abyss …

  Come on, Ash, dead was dead. At least you tried.

  And failed.

  The pair of heavy carrier bags swung in my other hand as I limped down the hall, letting loose the spicy-cumin scent of curry.

  ‘Hello? You still up?’

  No reply.

  Was only quarter to ten. Maybe she’d gone out?

  ‘Alice?’

  She was in the living room, slumped at the dining table, with a pile of paperwork, her laptop, and two half-bottles of something the wee off-licence on Shand Street passed off as ‘SINGLE MALT SCOTCH WHISKEY’. One of them was empty, the other heading that way.

  I picked it up and screwed the top back on. ‘You have to stop drinking this gut-rot. They can’t even spell “whisky” properly – stuff’s probably fifty-fifty antifreeze and horse piss.’

  She raised her head from the table. A big oval red patch where the skin had been pressing into the glass surface. A string of drool still connecting her to it. She blinked puffy bloodshot eyes. Wiped the drool away with the back of her hand. ‘Whhtmsit?’

  ‘Have you eaten anything, or just drunk yourself into a stupor?’ Thunking the carryout down on the table. ‘Punjabi Castle. Got you a chicken dhansak, coconut rice, saag paneer, onion bhajee, and a heap of poppadoms.’ Voice getting harder and sharper. ‘You want to eat it first, or should I flush the whole lot down the toilet now and save you the effort of vomiting it up?’

  ‘I … Drnn’t shhhowwtme.’

  ‘I’m not shouting at you. You were the one who said we should do something to mark nine years, remember? This morning? Back when you were sober.’

  Alice placed the palms of her hands against the glass top, arms stiff – keeping her upright. Blinking and shaking her head, as if she was trying to get it to work again. ‘Had to … profile.’

  ‘YOU CAN’T KEEP DOING THIS!’ Picking up the lighter of the two bags and hurling it down in front of her. The muffled crash of a dozen poppadoms shattering. ‘You’re drinking yourself – to – death.’

  Tears sparkled at the corners of her eyes, nose going dark pink. ‘Henry always said—’

  ‘Henry was an idiot! The only reason he didn’t die of liver failure is he killed himself first. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Ash, why are you being like—’

  ‘I NEARLY DIED TONIGHT!’

  A muffled BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, sounded through the floor beneath us as the tosser downstairs got in on the act.

  I raised my left foot and battered it down three times, good and hard. ‘MIND YOUR OWN BLOODY BUSINESS, OR I’LL COME DOWN THERE AND MIND IT FOR YOU!’ Breathing hard. Heat rushing through my cheeks and brain. Pulsing at the back of my eyes. ‘I nearly died.’ Turning away. ‘I won’t always be here to take care of you.’

  Her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows wiped away its tears and wobbled to its feet. Picked its way around the table, leaning on the glass for support. Then she was behind me. Wrapping her arms around me, her face buried between my shoulders. Voice catching, popping with snot and pain. ‘He … he took … another one, Ash. Gòrach … abducted … another little boy. Because … because I … because I can’t catch him!’

  And I let a journalist die.

  Yeah, today had turned out to be some day.

  I turned around and hugged her back.

  Because, sometimes, what else could you do?

  — things can always get worse —

  19

  ‘… increased tensions in the Middle East, after the downing of that British Airways flight …’

  Porridge, with salt, and a cup of decaf tea. Living. The. Sodding. High. Life.

  Alice’s half bottle of gut-rot still sat at the end of the table, its badly spelled label reflecting in the glass. The sound of retching echoing out through the closed bathroom door as she got rid of the rest of it.

  Darkness pressed against the flat’s windows, the city’s lights twinkling in the early morning gloom.

  A teeny whinge, and there was Henry, looking up at me with his shiny black eyes. Tail wagging. Thick pink tongue hanging out the corner of his mouth.

  Oh to be a wee Scottie dog with nothing to worry about but who was going to feed him, and take him out to pee on things. No dead journalists on his conscience. No murdered children.

  ‘… tributes paid to the crew of the Ocean-Gold Harvester, lost in Storm Trevor on Friday when it was buried in a landslip …’

  He closed his eyes and widened his grin as I ruffled the hair between his ears.

  ‘Give us a minute to finish this, and we’ll go for a wee walk. It’s—’

  A harsh trilling came from the corridor. Was that the bell?

  ‘Right, you wee horror, no stealing Daddy’s porridge. Sit. Staaaaayyyyy …’

  He looked at my finger as if it was the most exciting thing in the world and wagged his tail even harder.

  Thick as custard.

  Down the corridor. I peered through the spyhole set into the front door, because in Oldcastle you never kne
w.

  Franklin’s face stared back at me, all distorted and bulbous in the fisheye lens. I let her in.

  She frowned me up and down. ‘Are you not ready yet?’ She’d bundled up in a thick puffa jacket, with a scarlet scarf wrapped around her throat. Tartan bunnet on her head.

  ‘Ready for what?’ Limping back to the living room and my rapidly cooling porridge.

  ‘Morning Prayers. Mother wants everyone there, and you can’t drive, remember? Pain in the foot?’ A what-can-you-do shrug, playing it nonchalant. ‘So … you OK today? You know, after last night and—’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Well, other than having a go at Alice when I got home, and the horrible dream, and the ache digging its teeth into my shoulders. Other than that? Just peachy.

  ‘God save us from macho …’ She froze as she caught sight of Henry. Then squatted down in front of the wee lad and ruffled his ears. ‘You’re a sweetie, aren’t you? Yes you are.’ Pulling on a pout. ‘Yes you are!’

  Henry lapped it up.

  ‘… five-year-old, missing since yesterday evening. Colin Broadbent is in Oldcastle for us. Colin, what are the police saying?’

  ‘Thanks, Siobhan. Toby Macmillan disappeared from his home in the city’s Kingsmeath area at seven—’

  I killed the TV and polished off my porridge. Dumped my bowl in the sink. ‘Give us two minutes and we can head.’

  ‘Always wanted a dog, but Mark’s allergic.’ Cupping our lad’s hairy wee face in her hands. ‘Oooh, you’re lovely …’ Then up to me: ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Henry. And he’s had breakfast, so don’t believe a word if he says he’s wasting away.’

  The bathroom door thunked open and Alice slouched out, dressed in mismatched tartan jammies, the top buttoned up all wrong, showing off a slice of stomach the colour of old yoghurt. Yawning and scratching, head looking like something horrible had happened to one of the hairier Muppets.

  Franklin stared at her, cheeks darkening as she abandoned Henry and stood. Brushed her hands down the front of her jacket. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know you had … company.’

  ‘Franklin, this is Dr McDonald: Lateral Investigative and Review Unit. Alice, this is DS Franklin: Misfit Mob.’