Strip lights pinged and flickered into life as I stepped inside – revealing rows and rows and rows of metal shelving towering over us. Each unit packed with labelled boxes and crates.
Signs dangled from the rafters, dividing the place up like the aisles of a supermarket, each one marked with the name of a show: ‘CINDERELLA’, ‘ALADDIN’, ‘MOTHER GOOSE’…
Henry’s claws clicked on the concrete floor, Franklin bringing up the rear, closing the door behind her.
‘I’ve always wanted to do a panto version of The Maltese Falcon, but apparently you can’t get the rights for love nor money.’ He cast a furtive glance up and down the aisle, then hauled on a stage whisper. ‘Strictly entre nous, we’re in talks with Ian Rankin’s people. Early days yet, but fingers crossed!’ A wink, then Louis Williamson swept his arms up and out. ‘Anyway, welcome to my emporium of theatrical delights!’
‘We’d like to talk to you about Gordon Smith.’
‘Ah …’ His arms fell back to his sides. ‘Yes, I heard about that unfortunate business with his house and that poor reporter who died. Tragic, simply tragic.’
‘And all the murders, of course.’
‘Quite.’ He wrinkled his nose, as if he’d caught scent of something rancid. ‘Well, Gordon has worked with us since mine dear papa ran the operation. He’s a dab hand at stage sets, every single panto we put on is designed by Gordon Smith.’ Pointing down the aisles. ‘Would you like to see them? It’s no trouble, really.’ And with that Louis did an about-face hop and led the way down ‘DICK WHITTINGTON’ and along ‘SWEENEY TODD’ to the breeze-block wall that marked the join between the two warehouses. ‘Here we go.’ Performing another low bow for Franklin as he ushered her through the open double doors.
She kept her hands clutched up by her chest, where he couldn’t grab and kiss them again.
‘Sorry, the lights don’t work, I’m afraid. I’ve called and called and called the maintenance company, but will they send anyone out?’ He flicked the switch up and down a few times, to demonstrate. ‘Of course they won’t.’
It wasn’t completely dark in here – a thin greasy light oozed in through grubby skylights in the corrugated roof, barely bright enough to make small gloomy islands beneath them. Back in the prop store, it’d been difficult to get a sense of how big the place was – all carved up into segments by the rows of shelving, like that – but this one was huge.
The same set of signage hung from the rafters, but ninety percent of it was illegible in the dismal light. No shelving, instead clumps of metal cages and racks holding sections of scenery and rolls of backdrops, lurked in the shadows – their flat-pack villages and laundries and caves and castles and forests fading into murky silhouettes.
‘This might help.’ Louis picked a handlamp from a shelf by the doors, banging it a couple of times against his palm until a hard white beam lanced out into the dusty air. ‘Please, do feel free to look around. I shall hover nearby ready to assist, should I be needed. Rub the lamp three times and, as if by magic, Louis shall appear!’
‘Thanks.’ You utter freak.
Franklin accepted the proffered handlamp and we wandered away into the racks of scenery, Henry scampering off ahead, then rushing back to run circles around us and off he went again. Happy gunshot barks in the darkness.
She kept her voice down to a whisper, swinging the torch beam across what looked like the disassembled walls of a teeny Post Office. ‘What are we looking for?’
‘Something out of place. Something weird. I don’t know.’
‘Everything in here looks weird.’ Her torch drifted past a huge dragon’s head.
‘Gordon Smith didn’t pop past for old times’ sake. He came here for a reason. And Leah said he did something terrible last night. Maybe this is where he did it.’
We made our way past Cinderella’s kitchen, Aladdin’s cave, and what looked like a steam train, if steam trains came in kit form.
‘Could’ve been lying low? He knows we’re looking for him, so he steers clear of the hotels and B-and-Bs. Doesn’t want to get recognised.’
‘Possible … What’s that over there?’
In my day, pantomime had been Dick Whittington, Aladdin, Cinderella, and Jack and the Beanstalk, or if you were really unlucky: Mother Goose. But Panto McHaggis Productions had branched out into previously uncharted territory.
A partially constructed set sat in the back corner, furthest away from the door we’d come in through. Details sprang into life as Franklin played her torch over it, then faded away into darkness again. It was big and gothic, with chipboard flying buttresses and painted-on gargoyles. A big slab-like table in the middle, flanked by the kind of Van de Graaff generators that featured in many an old-fashioned horror film. Bulky lumps of fake machinery with oversized cogs and levers. And right at the back, a workbench covered in vials and retorts and distillation equipment. It looked as if they’d been full once, but now the glass bore coloured tidemarks where the liquid inside had evaporated. Cobwebs everywhere.
Shelves lined the fake granite wall above the glasswork, each one home to rows and rows of glass jars that glittered in the torchlight.
‘Holy mother of God …’ Franklin’s torch froze.
The small jars had rubber spiders and things floating in yellowy liquid, but the bigger ones contained something a lot more horrible and a lot more real.
She licked her lips. ‘Can you see what I’m seeing?’
Row upon row of severed human heads.
29
‘Jesus …’ There had to be two, maybe three dozen of them up there, squashed into large screw-top jars.
Franklin dragged her eyes away from the collection and yanked out her phone, fumbling with the screen. ‘I’ll call it in.’
‘Hello.’ Louis stepped out from behind an oversized coffin. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’
I turned, holding a hand up at chest height. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to step back, sir. This is now an active crime scene.’
‘It is? How exciting!’ He pursed his lips as he looked around the set. ‘Why?’
Seriously?
‘Who else has keys to the warehouse? Does Gordon Smith have keys?’
‘Well, of course he does. He’s working on this, right now. Well, he was, anyway. Before all the … unpleasantness.’ A big smile as Louis gazed at the set. ‘You have to admit, though, he’s one hell of an artist!’
Franklin turned her back on us, one finger in her ear. ‘Mother? It’s me, we need an SOC team down here, ASAP. And a pathologist, Procurator Fiscal, the whole shooting match.’
‘This is slated for His Majesty’s Theatre in Aberdeen, next Christmas: Frankenstein and the Christmas Monster Mash. It’s a working title.’ He stepped onto the set. ‘We’ve got a heap of original songs being written and you should see the special effects.’
‘I don’t know, at least … thirty, maybe more. Severed heads.’ Franklin’s back stiffened. ‘No, I haven’t been drinking! … Why would I make something like that up?’
‘Ah.’ Louis raised a finger. ‘I think there might be a misunderstanding.’ As he scuttled over to the workbench.
‘Step away from the evidence!’
He smiled at me. ‘It’s not what you think.’
‘Of course I’m serious! For God’s sake, Mother: there’s about thirty severed heads down here in—’
‘No! No, they’re not real! They’re not: look!’ Louis scrambled up onto the bench, and grabbed one of the jars off its shelf before I could grab him. ‘It’s me, see? It’s my face. They’re part of the set dressing.’ Holding it out.
Oh.
Up close it definitely was him, nose pressed against the glass, bright-orange shock of hair on top of … The head didn’t actually have a top, it had a thin circular rim instead.
Louis pulled another from the shelf. ‘They’re really easy to make. All you do is you squish your nose against a window and take three pictures – two profiles, one full-face – and you stic
k them together in Photoshop, then you print them out on waterproof stock, and you slip them into a head-sized jar full of water and some food colouring. Look: there’s nothing else in there.’ He tilted the jar in his hands, showing off the bottom. Nothing inside but the printout.
Franklin paced back and forth in front of the Van de Graaff generators. ‘I don’t know. Far as we can tell Gordon Smith must’ve been keeping them down here for years. It’s an extension of—’
I cleared my throat. ‘Franklin?’
‘—horrific collection. The Polaroids weren’t enough any more, so he’s—’
‘FRANKLIN!’
She turned and glared at me. ‘Do you mind? I’m trying to—’
‘It’s all make-believe.’ I unscrewed the jar with Louis’s head in it and pulled the printout free. Held it there, dripping on the warehouse floor. ‘They’re fakes.’
Her face creased shut, jaw clenched as she curled up at the knees for a moment. Then stood. Eyes closed, free hand clasping her forehead. ‘No, I’m still here, Mother. I …’ Deep breath. ‘There’s been a misunderstanding.’
‘Now this one, right here is the holy grail, as far as I’m concerned.’ Louis held up another head-in-a-jar. Fiddled about with the lid. Then beamed with pride as the head inside blinked then started to sing. The words coming out all muffled and tinny:
‘Frankenstein’s a friend of mine,
Although he fed me strychnine,
And pickled my poor head in brine
We’re still chums and it’s all fine …’
‘Got a prototype manufactured by this wonderful boutique electronics firm in South Korea – semi-flexible curved screen that takes pre-filmed footage on USB and displays it. Bluetooth to the theatre sound system. Cost an absolute fortune to develop, but can you imagine a dozen of them singing along while the monster dances for the kiddies?’ He clicked the thing off and tucked it under his arm. ‘What a show!’
I stared up at the shelf with its collection of heads. Then raised an eyebrow at Franklin. ‘Just to be on the safe side?’
She rolled her eyes, huffed out a breath, but clambered up onto the bench anyway and clinked her way through the jars. Taking each one off its shelf, turning it upside down, then putting it back again. ‘All fakes.’
Louis shrugged. ‘Not sure if I should say “sorry” or not. I mean, I’m sorry it got everyone so worked up, but on the other hand, it’s nice they’re not real, isn’t it?’
She climbed down again, brushing dust and fake cobwebs off the knees of her suit trousers. ‘So why was Gordon Smith here last night?’
‘I honestly and truly have no idea.’
Franklin’s feet left scuff marks in the dust as we followed her torch in a slow-motion tour of the warehouse, stopping to examine each cluster of scenery. ‘Of course, Mother now thinks I’m an idiot.’
‘No one thinks you’re an idiot.’ I raised my voice. ‘HENNNNNRY?’ His name echoed back at me from the corrugated metal roof. ‘Where are you, you horrible stinker? HENNNNNNNRY?’
She glanced over her shoulder, in the vague direction of where we’d left Louis Williamson, by the Frankenstein set. ‘So we’re right back where we started from.’
‘Smith was here for a reason.’
‘How am I supposed to be taken seriously when I’m calling my DI and banging on about severed heads in jars? Mother thought I was making it all up!’ Franklin’s shoulders drooped as she swung the torch around another pile of scenery. This one looked like it might fit together into a barber’s shop, complete with an oversized leather chair that had more than a whiff of the dentist about it and a big set of hinges at the back. ‘Taken me three years to prove I’m rehabilitated enough to transfer out to another team, and now I look like a cast-iron grade A …’ She stopped.
I limped past a couple of feet, then turned. ‘No one thinks you’re an idiot, OK? Now, can we get on with—’
‘This “something strange” we’re looking for.’ She wobbled the torch beam around in a small circle. ‘Would it be something like that?’
It was the bedroom scene from Goldilocks and the Three Bears, partially erected against the wall, in a gap between two racks of flat-pack trees, mountains, and a gingerbread house. And someone had clearly been sleeping in all three of the beds – the covers rumpled and pulled back, indentations in the pillows where their heads had been.
‘OK, so what do we do now?’ Franklin stayed where she was as I hobbled closer.
Three beds. Gordon Smith, Leah MacNeil, and the unknown woman from the car? Assuming she was even real, of course. Or maybe, if Leah was Smith’s twisted idea of a substitute wife, he’d found a fresh victim for them to torture and kill together?
She did say he’d done something terrible last night …
‘We need to get an SOC team down here after all – test the beds, see if we can get a DNA match.’
Franklin groaned. ‘Bit of a comedown, isn’t it? Severed heads to a couple of unmade beds?’
Henry’s bark rattled back from the roof and walls, before fading away into silence.
‘Could be worse: at least we found something.’
‘And can you imagine what Mother’s going to say when I call her?’ Franklin pulled out her phone and grimaced at it. ‘“Are you sure you’re not making it up this time as well, Rosalind? Only you got rather overexcited about the heads-in-jars thing, remember?”’
Another bark from Henry. Then the skitter of his little clawed feet on the concrete as he scampered in out of the gloom to wheech around me twice then drop a manky tennis ball at my feet. The thing was almost bald, what was left of its bright-yellow fur stained a grimy brown. Glistening with slavers.
Well if he thought I was picking that up and throwing it for him, he was in for a disappointment.
Another bark, then Henry snatched it up in his mouth and disappeared off in the direction he’d just come from.
Thick as mince.
I gave Franklin a shrug. ‘Three beds: Gordon Smith, Leah MacNeil, and, potentially, a new victim. Do we have a choice?’
‘God’s sake.’ She poked at her phone, then held the thing to her ear. Sighed. ‘Mother? It’s Rosalind. I need an SOC team … Yes, very funny, but— … No. No, this isn’t the same thing as last time …’
I limped after Henry, pulling out his lead.
Probably best not to have him charging about the place compromising any evidence. Assuming it really had been Gordon Smith and Leah MacNeil in Daddy and Mummy Bears’ beds, and not some lazy night watchman.
‘Henry? Come on, you wee sod, time for you to go back in the car.’
Another bark, up ahead in the gloom.
Took out my phone and started the torch app, its small circle of cold white light dissipating after only a couple of feet. Limping past bits of a library – all the books painted on – and what might have been the bow of a pirate ship.
‘Henry! Get your hairy arse back here.’
Two small spheres glowed in the darkness, a couple of feet above the ground: Henry’s eyes.
‘You’re a massive pain in my backside, you know that, don’t you?’
A bark.
He was turning tight circles in front of yet another lump of disassembled scenery, only this one was covered in a huge blue plastic tarpaulin. And the thing he was circling was that manky tennis ball. Still, at least it kept him where he’d be easy to grab.
My phone ding-buzzed in my hand.
ROBOSABIR:
>>Target Phone Activation Detected
>>Requesting Location Data
Leah had turned her mobile on again.
Ding-buzz.
ROBOSABIR:
>>Triangulating Source
>>Pending
Maybe this time we’d get lucky?
Henry hunkered down, forelegs extended towards me, bum in the air, tail whooshing from side to side. Then he snatched up the vile tennis ball in his gob, turned, and off he went, scurrying away into the depths of the warehouse
again. Little idiot.
‘HENRY! STOP BUGGERING ABOUT! HEEL!’
Bark.
Knew we should’ve got a cat.
Pretty certain he’d found something unwholesome to roll in as well, given the horrible sour sausagey odour he’d left behind. Well, it was either that, or my fault for letting him eat all that crap over the last two days. God knew Henry could fart with the best of them.
I hobbled after him, into the darkness.
Well from now on he was getting nothing but dog food till his digestion settled down. No more treats.
Ding-buzz.
ROBOSABIR:
>>Target Phone Located
>>56.678808, -2.876107
>>56.678892, -2.875771
>>56.678982, -2.875412
What was that meant to be, some sort of error message?
And then it dawned – latitude and longitude. They were map coordinates.
When I copied and pasted the first one into my phone’s map, it jumped straight to the A90, north of Forfar. The second one took it slightly further along the road. As did the third.
Which meant Gordon Smith was either heading for Oldcastle or Aberdeen.
I killed the torch app, plunging the surrounding stage sets into gloom again, and called Mother.
‘If you’re calling about your unmade beds, it’s—’
‘Leah’s on the move. Sabir’s got her mobile signal heading north on the A90.’
‘It is? Why didn’t we …’ The sound went all muffled again. ‘John, what’s happening with Leah MacNeil’s mobile phone? … Well find out! Ash says she’s being tracked right now! … Go! Quick, quick!’
My phone ding-buzzed again. Another text from RoboSabir with three lots of coordinates in it, and this time when I pasted the first set into my map, it came up with the slip road onto the A9402. So definitely heading for Oldcastle. ‘You need to get an Armed Response Unit ready.’
‘Thank you, Ash “I Was A DI Before You Were” Henderson, but this isn’t my first psychotic maniac.’ A scrunching noise as she put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Amanda! I need a dog unit and a firearms team, ASAP! Oh, and an OSU as well, might as well go in mob-handed. Then get the car: we’re going hunting!’
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