The Coffinmaker's Garden

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Good. Franklin and I can be with you in—’

  ‘You’ve got an SOC team on the way, remember? You need to be there for chain of evidence. Or have you completely forgotten what being a police officer involves?’

  Damn it.

  A muffled voice in the background – and whiny with it, so probably DC Watt. ‘I’ve got them sending me live updates on Leah’s phone’s location. See?’

  ‘Right, I have to go.’

  ‘Let me know how it …’ But the line was silent. She’d hung up.

  Thank you, Ash. You’ve done a great job, Ash. We couldn’t have caught him without you, Ash.

  Hmm … This was probably how Sabir felt.

  My phone ding-buzzed again with three more coordinates, marking Leah’s course towards Oldcastle.

  Had to admit, it hurt to be left out at the grand finale. Would’ve been nice to be there while Gordon Smith resisted arrest. And maybe pile in to help subdue him. In a proportional-and-appropriate-level-of-force kind of way, of course. With a few sneaky kicks in the balls for luck.

  Henry was doing his circular dance again when I caught up with him, next to Cinderella’s kitchen – going by the laminated sign – but this time, as he tried to scurry off, I grabbed the smelly sod by the collar and snapped on his lead.

  Ding-buzz.

  Didn’t seem to faze him any, though, he just grinned at me, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

  ‘You’re a stinky idiot, you know that, don’t you?’

  Weird: up close he didn’t smell nearly as bad.

  Must’ve been a bout of post-haggis-burger flatulence, then.

  I let him pick up his vile tennis ball and we made our way back through the mounds of disassembled scenery.

  Ding-buzz.

  That nasty sausage-like smell was still there as we passed the tarpaulin-covered rack.

  ‘How does one wee dog manage to produce a lingering …’

  But what if it wasn’t Henry?

  None of the other sections of scenery were covered with tarpaulin, they were all open to the dusty warehouse air.

  Yeah …

  Ding-buzz.

  I hooked his lead around the metal upright of the nearest rack and left him there.

  Took hold of the tarpaulin’s bottom corner.

  Hauled it up and to the side. Flinging it back.

  The breath turned to concrete in my throat as I stared at what’d been hidden underneath.

  Now I knew what Gordon Smith had been doing here last night.

  30

  ‘But …’ Franklin stood there, mouth hanging open. ‘There’s … I mean, are we sure this isn’t another, you know, prop?’ Sounding hopeful.

  Couldn’t blame her.

  It was a cobbled-together version of the far wall in Gordon Smith’s kill room. Shackles, for the wrists and ankles, fixed to chains that were bolted to a makeshift frame. Only this time the poor bastard he’d tortured was still hanging there.

  Or at least, what was left of them.

  Which explained that sour meaty smell.

  She whistled out a breath. ‘That’s a lot of blood.’

  The body’s feet were twisted over onto their sides, in a wide plastic tub, submerged nearly up to their ankles in dark shiny viscous liquid.

  This time, instead of ding-buzz, my phone went pop-ding. The text-alert noise I’d set for Leah.

  I don’t no what to do!!! He’s always been

  grandad 2 me but he’s so so scary now

  I wanted 2 stop him but I couldn’t I just

  want 2 cry all the time

  Please help me!!

  Scary?

  Scary didn’t even begin to describe what Gordon Smith had done to the poor sod in front of me.

  ‘What have you found this time?’ Louis Williamson came bounding up, performing an OTT skip-and-a-hop, elbows out, as he came to a halt. As if he was on stage. ‘Is this …’ Then his eyes went wide and he lurched back a couple of steps. Grabbed hold of the nearest rack of scenery with one hand, the other clasped over his mouth. ‘Oh Jesus …’

  I turned, arms out, doing my best to block his view. ‘Mr Williamson, I’m going to have to ask you to back away from the—’

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it: that drama student who went missing? It was on the local radio this morning, his mum was frantic …’

  ‘Drama student?’

  ‘David something or other, didn’t come home last night. He’s … He was missing. Oh …’ Louis swallowed. Shook his head. ‘I think I’m going to be—’ Both hands covered his mouth now, as he hurried away into the gloom.

  I turned to Franklin.

  She grimaced. Pulled out her phone. ‘I know, I know. I’ll call it in.’

  Didn’t take long for C Division to send out its best and brightest. Now the warehouse rang to the echoes of bodies in SOC suits rustling around, shouting at and to each other. Camera flashes flickering back from the surrounding scenery, lighting up the gloom like a mini thunderstorm. The clack and whine merging into the background noise.

  Ding-buzz.

  RoboSabir again. Only this time there was only the one coordinate. And according to my map it was halfway down Kittiwake Avenue in Logansferry. Looked as if Leah and Gordon Smith had finally got where they were going. I forwarded the text to Mother. Along with:

  They’ve stopped moving – Watt should

  have an address by now.

  Have you got your teams ready to go in?

  SEND.

  Not long to go before all this was over. Bit of an anti-climax, to be honest.

  I called up Leah’s contact and sent her one as well:

  You have to be strong, Leah. We know

  where you are and we’re on our way. It’ll

  all be over very, very soon!

  My finger hovered over the ‘SEND’ icon.

  What if she wasn’t the only one reading her texts? What if Smith had got access to her phone? He’d probably slit her throat and run for it, before Mother and her team could get there. We’d never get another chance like this. Was it really worth the risk?

  I deleted everything but the first sentence and tried again:

  You have to be strong, Leah.

  We WILL find you and Gordon Smith won’t

  be able to hurt you, or anyone else, ever

  again.

  SEND.

  One more for good luck:

  But I need you to tell me what happened

  last night. We found a young man’s body

  today. His mum and dad have a right to

  know what happened to him.

  SEND.

  Well, it was worth a try, anyway.

  ‘Milk, no sugar.’ Franklin wandered over and handed me a polystyrene cup full of something beige. ‘They didn’t have decaf.’

  ‘Scuse me, coming through, beep beep.’ A pair of techs trundled a portable generator past on squeaky wheels, closely followed by another pair carrying big work lights on bigger stands.

  ‘Thanks.’ It tasted every bit as nasty as it looked.

  She took a sip of whatever it was she’d got herself. ‘I miss anything?’

  ‘Not yet, but that might change.’ Pointing in the direction the techs had disappeared, as a figure in the full Smurf outfit zwip-zwopped their way towards us.

  Stopped and pulled her facemask down. Her accent was semi-posh southern English, with a slight hint of Essex about it. ‘Which one of you’s the senior officer?’ The words spat out hard and fast. Like a typewriter.

  Franklin stood up straighter. ‘I am.’ Stuck her hand out for shaking. ‘Detective Sergeant Rosalind Franklin. This is Ash Henderson, he’s a consultant.’

  ‘Ex-DI.’ In case anyone cared.

  The newcomer snapped off her nitrile gloves and gave Franklin’s hand a brief up-and-down. ‘DCI Jane Jopson.’ Pulled back her hood, revealing a long ash-blonde bob. Flashed the kind of smile that showed off a good chunk of gum above her top teeth. ‘Well, we’ll need the
family to ID his body, assuming the mortuary can make it presentable …’ She glanced back, over her shoulder. ‘Which doesn’t seem likely, given the state of it. But I think it’s safe to say our victim’s David Quinn. Sixteen. His parents reported him missing last night when he didn’t come home from a friend’s house.’ Jopson tapped the side of her neck. ‘Port stain birthmark.’

  The chuff-chuff-chuff of a generator starting came from behind her, rattling up to a diesel growl. Then those big work lights flickered into life, bouncing off the roof, spreading enough illumination to see by, even all the way over here.

  ‘Any idea where our victim was abducted?’

  Jopson looked at me, as if I’d slithered out from under a rock. ‘Before we go any further, let’s get one thing clear, ex-DI Haroldson—’

  ‘Henderson.’

  ‘Whatever. This, right here?’ Describing a circle with one finger. ‘Is my investigation. I’m the one running it. And even if you were still in the job, I’d outrank you. So for now, I’ll be the one asking the questions.’ Another smile, but this one cold and sharp. ‘Let’s start with: what makes you think this was your “Coffinmaker”?’

  ‘The MO, ma’am.’ Franklin was actually standing to attention now. ‘It’s virtually identical, all except for leaving the body behind. Normally he buries them in his garden.’

  ‘I see. What’s his usual abduction methodology?’

  ‘Unknown, ma’am. The most recent victim we know about is from sixteen years ago.’

  ‘Well, that’s not entirely true, is it?’ I leaned back against the nearest chunk of scenery. ‘We know he befriends them first. Otherwise he couldn’t get them to pose for their photographs the way he does.’ Because ex-DI Haroldson wasn’t an idiot.

  Franklin’s cheeks darkened. ‘Well, yes. There is that. He takes photos of his victims before he abducts them, ma’am. And photos of them after he’s … finished with their bodies.’

  ‘I see.’ Jopson nodded. ‘And this “Coffinmaker”, Gordon Smith, he worked here, did he?’

  ‘All over the country. Designing sets for theatrical productions.’ Franklin pointed. ‘He did all these.’

  ‘Right, well thank you for your help, DS Franklin. Ex-DI Haroldson. I’ll be in touch if we need anything else. In the meantime, you can give Sergeant Marland your statements. And shoes.’ And with that, she turned her back and zwip-zwopped away again.

  I turned to Franklin. ‘You total, and utter, crawler.’

  Those cheeks darkened again. ‘I am not a crawler.’

  ‘“Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. Look at me, all standing to attention and being efficient, ma’am.”’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with being efficient!’

  Couldn’t keep the smile hidden any longer. ‘Crawler.’

  ‘Hmph.’ She folded her arms, then looked left and right. ‘Any idea where this Sergeant Marland’s—’

  My phone burst into song. ‘DI MALCOLMSON’, according to the screen. ‘Mother?’

  ‘All right, I said I’d keep you in the loop, so consider yourself looped.’ The sound was a bit tinny, with an underlying growl to it, as if she was in a car.

  Franklin leaned closer. ‘Have they got him?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Back to the phone. ‘You got all your teams?’

  ‘Shockingly enough, yes. Dogs, Guns, and Thugs. Did think about holding off and doing it in the wee small hours, but what if Smith moves on? Or goes out?’

  ‘Or kills Leah MacNeil.’

  ‘That’s the scenario I’m trying not to think about, thank you very much.’ The engine got louder. ‘Here we go …’

  A wee man in a double-breasted three-piece pinstriped suit that gave him the air of a 1920’s gangster, lumbered out from behind a lump of scenery. His arms were a lot longer than they had any right being as well. As if an orangutan had escaped from the zoo by dressing like a bank manager. Hair slicked into a severe side parting. And when he smiled no two of his teeth pointed in the same direction. ‘DS Franklin?’

  I pointed at her.

  Scrunching noises came down the line, followed by the whoomph, whoomph, whoomph, of Mother’s breath as she ran.

  The splintering boom of a door being whacked off its hinges by a big red door key.

  Muffled voices in the background: ‘GO, GO, GO!’

  ‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’

  Whoomph, whoomph, whoomph …

  ‘DS Franklin, I’m DS Marland, but you can call me Colin, if you like? Good. Yes.’

  ‘LIVING ROOM: CLEAR!’

  ‘Now, the chief tells me you’re the ones who discovered the body, is that right?’ Pulling out a black police-issue notebook. ‘I’d like you to take me through the series of events, starting from how you found yourself at the warehouse, here.’

  I stuck a finger in my other ear and limped away a dozen paces.

  ‘KITCHEN: CLEAR!’

  More banging and crashing.

  Whoomph, whoomph, whoomph …

  Thumba-thumba-thumba-thumba …

  Was that feet, thundering up a set of wooden stairs?

  My phone announced an incoming text with that strange pop-ding again.

  LEAH MACNEIL:

  Am I going 2 have 2 go 2 prison? He

  made me watch I didn’t want 2 but he

  made me & it was horrible & I can’t stop

  shaking

  Another splintering boom – the noise tinny, because I didn’t have the phone to my ear.

  ‘YOU ON THE GROUND! ON THE GROUND NOW!’

  A woman’s voice, high-pitched and trembling. ‘I’m on the toilet!’ Was that Leah? It sounded too old to be her, though. And the accent wasn’t right, either.

  ‘BEDROOM ONE: CLEAR!’

  Whoomph, whoomph, whoomph …

  Crashing. Something heavy hitting the floor.

  ‘YOU: DON’T MOVE! MOVE AND I WILL SHOOT YOU!’

  A man’s voice. ‘I don’t understand, why are you—’

  ‘HANDS ON YOUR HEAD! KNEEL! KNEEL ON THE BLOODY FLOOR, NOW!’

  They’d got him.

  Then Mother’s voice, loud and clear. ‘Let me through, come on, Dougie, move your bottom, there’s a good boy.’

  ‘Please, I don’t know why you’re—’

  ‘SHUT UP! I SAID HANDS ON YOUR HEAD, BEFORE I BLOW IT OFF!’

  ‘All right, Keith, you can stop …’ The silence seemed to stretch for a week. Then, ‘Keith?’

  ‘Yes, Mother?’

  ‘Who the hell is this?’

  Oh, for the love of Christ. I slapped my free hand over my eyes. They’d raided the wrong house.

  Chaos on the other end of the phone. Lots of banging and crashing and swearing. Most of which seemed to be coming from Mother.

  I left Franklin telling DS Marland how we’d entered the warehouse, and wandered away through the door to the prop store.

  Along ‘JACK AND THE BEANSTALK’, past the office where Louis Williamson was scrunched up in a swivel chair, elbows on his knees, bald head in his hands, that tuft of bright-orange hair poking out between his clenched fingers.

  The expensive prototype head-in-a-jar was on the desk behind him, still singing away to itself:

  ‘Frankenstein he is a mate,

  And though you’d think that we’d all hate,

  The man who did decapitate,

  Us all, but we still think he’s great!’

  I stepped into the darkening afternoon. Only half three, but already the sun was nearly at the horizon, painting the clouds that hunkered there in shades of violent pink and eggshell blue. Our manky pool car had been joined by half a dozen others, and a trio of patrol cars too – their reflective livery glowing in the fading light. And a surprisingly clean Transit van, with SOC techs humping blue plastic crates from the back doors and into the warehouse.

  No sign of the national press yet, but that would change soon enough.

  Pop-ding.

  Another text cut through the tinny shouting coming out of my phone’s spe
aker.

  LEAH MACNEIL:

  I didn’t want the boy 2 die I didn’t want

  grandad 2 kill him

  But I didn’t no how 2 stop him I wish

  I did I really really wish I did

  Henry was on his hind legs in the back of our dirty Ford Focus, nose making pale snotty smears across the glass. Happy barking as I got closer.

  Mother’s voice came down the line. ‘Well this is an unmitigated cocking shambles, isn’t it?’

  Then someone else – might have been DC Watt, it was certainly whiny enough. ‘It’s not my fault! This is the address the phone coordinates pointed at. Look!’

  ‘Have you tried next door?’

  ‘Give me a minute, Ash, I have to provide a modicum of encouragement and guidance to my team member here.’ She cleared her throat. ‘HOW THE HELL DID WE MANAGE TO COCK THIS UP SO BADLY?’

  ‘It wasn’t me!’

  My thumbs poked at the screen:

  The boy’s name was David Quinn, he was

  only 16. He had parents and friends and a

  family who loved him.

  I need you to tell me where Gordon

  abducted him from.

  SEND.

  ‘Maybe … maybe, I don’t know, but … maybe they were here, but they’ve gone now? … Or something?’

  ‘AAAAAAAAAARGH!’

  LEAH MACNEIL:

  Grandad drove 2 a graveyard up by the

  castle & I’m so so sorry I didn’t want

  nothing 2 happen 2 David & I just want 2

  die

  ‘Or maybe the guy’s lying and he knows Gordon Smith? Maybe he’s … an accomplice!’

  ‘John, you know I mean this in the nicest possible way, but you should really shut up now, before I do something you’ll regret!’

  ‘No, look: I’ll call her mobile. Hold on …’

  The sound of some boy band burst into life in the background, getting louder.

  ‘It’s coming from downstairs!’

  And they were off and running again.

  31

  Mother called me back, ten minutes later. ‘You still there, Ash?’

  I hobbled on a couple of paces, Henry’s lead and my walking stick in one hand, phone in the other. ‘Just about.’ The sun was a fierce yellow smear on the horizon, the sky above turning to ink. Stars struggling to shine through as the cloud thickened and the wind picked up again.