The Coffinmaker's Garden

by Stuart MacBride

  Disappointing.

  Still, if I couldn’t break the pair of them up, at least I’d had the pleasure of chucking Jennifer’s phone in the sea.

  Mind you, it probably hadn’t been the best of ideas, antagonising her like that. She wasn’t exactly renowned for her forgiving nature. And, while chucking her phone in the sea would get rid of the pictures she’d got from whichever O Division scumbag had leaked Smith’s Polaroids, there was no way she hadn’t backed them up. So a temporary fix at best. One that would come with a side order of Botox-faced vengeance.

  Lucky me …

  Too late to worry about it now, though. Have to—

  My phone launched into its generic ringtone. ‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’ filling the screen.

  I jabbed the button. ‘Leah?’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ A man’s voice, the words twisted by a heavy Orcadian accent. ‘Is Detective Inspector Ash Henderson there?’

  Damn it.

  Franklin looked at me, across the car, eyebrows raised.

  Shook my head at her. ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Thomas Sinclair, from the Land Registry Office? You wanted to know if there was any property in Stirling belonging to a Peter or Caroline Smith?’

  A row of ugly warehouses drifted by on the other side of the motorway.

  Nothing more from Thomas Sinclair.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, I was waiting on you. Anyway, we had a look and the answer is yes. Well, it is and it isn’t, if that makes sense?’

  Not even vaguely.

  ‘Obviously “Smith” is a very popular surname, so there’s quite a few properties in Stirling owned by various Smiths, but once we eliminated everyone with the wrong first name we ended up with six properties. Two Carolines, and four Peters.’

  You wee beauty.

  ‘Can you email me over the details?’

  Two minutes later I was scrolling through the addresses and Cumbernauld’s warehouses were a thin grey smear in the rear-view mirror.

  Time to go to work.

  The first Peter Smith on the list peered out at us through thick round glasses, no hair on his head, a threadbare cardigan on his back. ‘No, I’ve not got no brothers, and my wife’s called June. Do you need to talk to her? Hold on.’ He turned, raising his voice at the hallway. ‘JUNE! PEOPLE FROM THE SOMETHING-OR-OTHER WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU!’

  Caroline Smith curled her top lip, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, a Yorkshire terrier on her hip like a small child. Mid-thirties, and definitely not dead from bowel cancer. ‘Naw, never heard of them, like. Is this about them council bins that got set on fire? Cos I totally know who did that.’

  Peter Smith Number Two wasn’t in, but his husband was. A short man in tartan trousers and a biker jacket. Blond Andy Warhol bob, Gary Larson glasses, and a great big wine glass, half-full of red. He sniffed at the photo. ‘Naw, it’s not my Pete, my Pete’s in banking. But, you know, not in an evil money-grabbing bastard kind of way. Well, maybe a teensy bit.’ A smile. ‘I adore your hair, by the way. Wish I had hair like that.’

  Franklin’s cheeks darkened a fraction. ‘Yes, well, thank you for your time.’

  The second Caroline Smith owned a small boxy mid-terrace two-up two-down, opposite a playing field. She slouched against her doorframe, in a purple velour tracksuit, the top open to expose a T-shirt with ‘IN YOUR DREAMS, LOSER!’ on it. Her shock of cherry-red curls going grey at the roots. She squinted at the picture of Gordon Smith in Franklin’s hand, then shook her head. ‘Sorry, love, I’d really like to help, but I’ve never seen the man. And my husband’s called Bob: he’s in the RAF.’

  I leaned back against the car, phone clamped to my ear as Shifty moaned and whined.

  ‘Utter bunch of useless bollocks. Tramped about five miles through these bloody woods already today and what have we found so far?’

  Franklin was off talking to a short ugly man with taxi-door ears and the kind of face you could use to frighten small children. Standing on his doorstep with her arms folded. Body language about as defensive as it got.

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘We’ve found three shopping trollies, a bunch of dead dogs, and a massive pile of fly-tipped medical waste. I’ll be washing the smell out for bloody weeks. And is McEwan appreciative of all our efforts? Is he buggery!’

  ‘No sign of Toby Macmillan, then?’

  ‘Oh, didn’t I mention that? We found him half an hour in, he’s back with his mum and dad right now, eating ice cream and dancing the bastarding fandango!’ A small pause. ‘Of course we didn’t find him. There’s miles and miles of these bloody woods, how am I supposed to find one little boy in all this?’

  ‘So delegate. Go speak to Alice and see if you can’t actually achieve something today.’

  ‘And, of course, it’s all my fault we haven’t found anything. I didn’t even want to come out here, it was that idiot DCI Poncy Powel’s idea to search the woods, but shite never sticks to …’ A groan. ‘Sodding hell. Sorry, got to go. We’re getting another “motivational” speech from McEwan. If I get any more motivated I’m going to swing for someone!’

  Shifty hung up and I settled back to enjoy the sun on my face. You wouldn’t think it’d been thumping down with rain all week.

  ‘OK, thanks anyway.’ Franklin sagged when the ugly man’s front door shut, turned, and slumped her way up the garden path and out onto the street again. ‘Feel like I’ve just stepped in something.’

  Henry beamed up at her, tail going like a windscreen wiper on full.

  ‘How’d you get on?’

  ‘Nothing doing.’ She dropped down into a squat and Henry flopped over on his back, exposing his black hairy tummy for her to rub. Tart that he was. ‘Tell you, that Peter Smith had “welcome to the Sex Offenders’ Register” written all over him in magic marker. Stared at my breasts the whole time I was talking to him. Barely even looked at the photo.’

  ‘Yup, perverts will do that.’

  She stood, wiping her tummy-rubbing hand on her trouser leg. ‘One more Peter Smith to go.’ A long hissing breath. ‘This is another complete waste of time, isn’t it?’

  ‘Come on then, we’ll get him done, then it’s lunchtime.’

  ‘Naw, sorry.’ Our last Peter Smith of the day shook his head, setting long straight dark hair swinging like a curtain across his white-painted face. Piercings glinting in his ears and nose. Lots of leather. Couldn’t be a day over twenty-two.

  Franklin took a step back and peered up at the big gothic townhouse on the outskirts of Stirling. Large, gated garden. Lots of trees and lawn. A small black cat washing its bum on the rim of an ornamental fountain, completely ignoring Henry. ‘Do you really own all this?’

  He nodded. ‘Six numbers and the bonus ball.’

  ‘OK. Thanks anyway.’

  We headed down the gravel drive, through the wrought-iron gates, and over to our manky pool car. I opened the back door and let Henry hop inside. ‘So much for that.’

  Franklin stared back across the road. ‘I’d love a house like that.’

  ‘Lunch?’

  ‘How come I never win the lottery?’ She climbed in behind the wheel.

  ‘Do you actually play the lottery?’ I got into the passenger side.

  ‘That’s not the point. So, where are we lunching?’

  ‘You know, I think Pasty Peter The Goth fancied you, so if you want to go back and chat him up, he’d probably let you have it in the divorce settlement.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me.’ She started the car and headed back towards the main road. ‘I feel like a nice big salad. Think there’s a good salad place in Stirling?’

  Sitting in their rancid-yellow Golf, Helen MacNeil and Jennifer Prentice watched us go by, then pulled out after us. Couldn’t have been the most exciting of days for them, following us around. But at least they’d—

  ‘Ash! Salad places: Stirling.’

  ‘No idea. Has to be somewhere, though. Failing that … curry?’

 
‘For lunch? That Prentice woman was right, you really are off your head. It’s—’

  My phone belted out ‘I Am the Walrus’, so I answered it. ‘Sabir. Have you got some good news for me, for a change?’

  ‘Oh, I got some good news for youse indeed. That Sabir is the King of Tech. High priest of Databases. Emperor of the Digital World!’

  ‘You missed out Lord of the Pies.’

  Franklin took a right, making for the centre of town.

  ‘Was that you cracking a joke? Dear God, there’s a ferst. You had a head injury, or summat?’

  ‘What do you want, Sabir?’

  ‘You was after a guesstimate, remember? Where Leah MacNeil was when she called you this morning, but didn’t stay on long enough to trace? Well, I’ve done it. Call came from somewhere in the vicinity of the Sainsbury’s on, and I kid you not, “Back O’ Hill Road”. Website says it’s on “Drip Road” which is equally as bad, but you can’t even get into it from there, it’s all fenced—’

  ‘How big an area are we talking about?’

  ‘Within four to five hundred metres. So draw yourself a circle a kilometre wide around the supermarket and she was calling from somewhere inside that.’

  ‘And let me guess, the Sainsbury’s has a petrol station?’

  ‘El Bingo, signor.’

  ‘So why do you sound so bloody smug? That’s next to sod-all use to me.’

  ‘Because Sabir is Emperor of the Digital werld. And his imperial majesty went and did some searching, and guess what he terned up within that kilometre circle? Pauses for applause …’

  ‘All right, stop milking it.’

  ‘There’s an industrial estate round the back of the supermarket, on Glendevon Drive. And one of the warehouses there is owned by this production company that puts on loads of pantomimes all over the UK. They use it to store props and scenery. You know, in case yer wanting to put on Cinderella and can’t be arsed making your own pumpkin coach, like. And I was thinking, who do we know that might have access to a pantomime scenery store?’

  ‘I take it all back, Sabir. You’re a certified genius!’

  ‘First sensible thing I’ve heard from your tartan-munchin’ mouth all year.’ And with that he hung up.

  Franklin frowned at me. ‘You’re doing that creepy smile thing again.’

  Oh yes.

  Ridiculous though it sounded, Back O’ Hill Industrial Estate was pretty aptly named. Being as it was around the back of the dirty-big hill that Stirling Castle sat on top of. Although the castle wasn’t visible from down here. What was visible was a small collection of Portakabins, lockups, and old-fashioned warehouses – the single-storey kind with brick walls and corrugated metal cladding.

  Franklin drove us into the compact warren of streets and buildings, hunched over the steering wheel and gazing up at the signage as we drifted deeper and deeper inside. ‘What’s it called?’

  I checked Sabir’s text. ‘“Williamson and Norris Theatrical Logistics Limited”. Bit of a mouthful.’

  We turned another corner, and there it was, lurking at the end of the road. A long double-width warehouse with twin rust-red roofs and grey harled walls – bearing a very understated sign with the company name on it. Bars in all the windows. Shuttered loading bay that looked big enough to take an articulated lorry.

  Had to admit, it didn’t exactly reek of pantomime magic.

  Franklin parked in the empty row of spaces in front of the small office. ‘No lights on. Think anyone’s in?’

  ‘One way to find out.’

  The air was sharp, but seasoned with the deep-mahogany scent of onions fried in burger fat, coming from a bright red food van with ‘FIONA’S FANTASTIC FRIED-FOOD EMPORIUM!’ in gold lettering down the side, parked outside a shuttered unit. A line of blokes in oily overalls queueing in front of the open hatch.

  Nick James’s fusty Volkswagen Golf pulled up on the far side of it, Helen and Jennifer sitting there, watching as we locked the pool car and tried the warehouse’s main door.

  The handle rattled when Franklin jiggled it up and down, but that was it. She cupped her hands against one of the office windows and peered inside. ‘Can’t see anyone.’

  ‘OK.’ Back to Sabir’s email. In addition to the company name, address, and for some unknown reason its VAT registration, he’d included a phone number with an Edinburgh dialling code. ‘We give them a call …’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Unless you want to boot in the door? I would, but,’ pointing at my foot with the walking stick, ‘bullet hole.’

  ‘Without a warrant?’ She pulled her chin in. ‘Might be how they did things back when you were in the job, but we don’t pull that crap any more. Can you imagine Gordon Smith getting away with everything because we screwed up on a technicality?’

  Think the body we dragged out of his garden in a holdall might carry the day on that front, but what the hell. ‘Fine. You call the company, then we go grab lunch.’

  ‘So much for a nice big salad.’ Franklin ripped another bite out of her bacon-and-cheese haggis-burger, chewing as she rested her bum against the pool car’s bonnet. Face upturned to the sun.

  ‘It’s got salad in it, doesn’t it?’ I scooped a sporkful of glistening grey-and-brown stovies from my squeaky polystyrene tray. Not bad. Needed pepper, though. And pickled beetroot.

  ‘Two slices of tomato and some iceberg don’t count.’

  ‘Surely chips count.’

  ‘Only in Glasgow.’ But that didn’t stop Franklin munching her way through them all, then polishing off her burger while Henry sat at her feet, gazing up at her as if he was in love. Especially when she dropped him the occasional scrap of burger, bun, or bacon.

  She wiped her mouth and hands clean on a napkin, then popped her wrist out from its starched white cuff and peered at her watch. ‘One forty-two. Shouldn’t be long now.’

  Helen and Jennifer still hadn’t moved. Still sitting there, in a dead journalist’s car. Still scowling through the windscreen. Watching us.

  To be honest, given Helen’s reputation, it was amazing she had this much patience. Jennifer, on the other hand, would probably be using the time to plot her revenge.

  Well, tough. She deserved all she’d got.

  I scooped up the last mouthful of mystery meat and potatoes. ‘Wonder why Smith took Leah here, to the warehouse.’ Sooked the memory of stovies off my plastic spork. ‘Collecting something? Dropping something off? Or checking something was still where he’d left it?’

  ‘You know what I’ve been wondering?’ Franklin pulled a small container of hand sanitiser from her jacket and pumped a couple of squirts onto a palm. Had a good scrub with it. ‘Why did Gordon Smith leave his Polaroid photos behind? Why not take them with him?’

  ‘Hmph. Alice asked the same thing.’

  ‘Well, they’re not hard to transport, are they? You could pop the lot in your pocket and no one would even know they’re there.’

  As was evidenced at the Winslow’s supermarket checkout on Friday night.

  She folded her arms. ‘I’ve read the profile your Dr McDonald wrote: Gordon Smith’s meant to be a “collector”. So why leave his collection behind?’ A frown. ‘Or maybe it was only the old Polaroids he left behind? Maybe he took the newer ones with him?’

  ‘What age are you?’

  Franklin stared at me. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because back in the bad old day, before your time, if you wanted to take photographs you had three choices: build your own darkroom, develop and print them yourself; take the film down to Boots and get them to do it for you; or buy a Polaroid camera. Gordon Smith wants a photo to remember his victims by: option one’s a pain in the backside, number two will get him arrested, but number three’s nice and easy.’

  ‘Come on then, Methuselah, out with it.’

  ‘Fast forward ten, maybe fifteen years and domestic video cameras are affordable. You don’t need static images any more.’

  ‘You can film everything you’re doing and watch it back to
your dirty little heart’s content.’ She nodded. ‘Makes sense. Then, before you know it, you’ve got a smartphone and everyone’s a documentary filmmaker. You can carry your entire collection of homemade torture porn in your pocket.’

  ‘He left the Polaroids behind, because he’s got copies on his phone.’ Only he didn’t have to do it, in a rush, in the pitch-dark, while the bloody house crumbled into the North Sea.

  ‘Maybe we can …’ She stared over my shoulder.

  A grey two-seater sports car had turned into our dead-end street, top thrown back, a grinning man in a flat cap behind the wheel. It growled into the parking space two down from our manky Ford Focus, as if it was worried about catching something.

  He gave us a wave with his tan-leather driving gloves and buzzed the roof up again, before getting out and marching around. Not the tallest – barely scraping five feet, if that – the slightly bandy legs probably didn’t help. His yellowy-tartan hoodie was unzipped, showing off a T-shirt with ‘HE’S BEHIND YOU!’ on it, and when he whipped off his bunnet a shock of bright-orange hair stuck up at the front of a bald head so shiny it looked as if it’d been polished. He performed an elaborate bow for Franklin, snatching up her hand to kiss it. ‘My dear Officer Franklin, you’re even more delightful in person than you sounded on the phone.’

  And before she could say anything, or punch him, he skipped away and grabbed my hand for shaking instead.

  ‘Louis Williamson, Panto McHaggis Productions! Delighted, etc.’ Pumping my arm up and down. ‘I understand you’d like a wee tour of our prop-and-set store?’ He pulled a knot of keys from his pocket and jangled them all the way to the door. Unlocked it. Then turned, arms out, blocking the way. ‘Lemme see your warrant, coppers!’

  Franklin blinked at him, then at me, then back at him again.

  OK, I’ll bite: ‘Do we need a warrant, Mr Williamson?’

  ‘Not really, I just love it when they say that on the telly. Ooh, and: “you’ll never take me alive, you doity rats!”’ He turned and skip-hopped over the threshold. ‘Shall we?’