The Coffinmaker's Garden

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘We found Leah MacNeil’s mobile. It was in the householder’s jacket pocket.’

  ‘So Watt was right for a change. They were co-conspirators?’

  ‘Householder swears he doesn’t know Gordon Smith, he’s never met Gordon Smith, and he wouldn’t recognise Gordon Smith if he got in the bath with him.’ A pause. ‘Which struck me as a rather strange metaphor, but there you go.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘Says he was in Stirling for work, stopped at the petrol station this morning to fill up, and that was all he knew till we smashed his door down and caught his wife on the toilet. We checked with his work – he installs and maintains poles for pole dancing – he was at a pole-dancing-for-fitness-and-wellbeing place, which is apparently a thing now. Our hypothesis is that Smith must’ve slipped it into his pocket while he wasn’t looking.’

  ‘And let me guess, he bought petrol from the Sainsbury’s supermarket.’

  ‘Kept the receipt so he could claim it back on expenses.’

  ‘Can you email me a photo? Well, two photos: one of the guy and one of the receipt?’

  I’d got to the edge of the police cordon, where a bored PC in a fluorescent-yellow padded jacket stood, huffing warm breath into his hands and stomping his feet, behind the line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape.

  And there was Helen MacNeil, standing at the open hatch to ‘FIONA’S FANTASTIC FRIED-FOOD EMPORIUM!’ clutching a polystyrene cup of something and a thing in a roll. Staring at me. No sign of her horrible companion, so I gave her a small wave and a tight smile. Then went back to the phone.

  ‘I’m starting to think things might not be as straightforward as they seemed.’

  A moment’s silence. Followed by, ‘Straightforward? Have you been working on a different case, because the one I’m investigating has been a great big bucket of slithering venomous snakes since the start!’

  ‘No, I meant …’ Yeah. ‘Look, I’ve got to go: Helen MacNeil’s here.’

  ‘Have you told her about her granddaughter?’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘No.’ And with that, Mother hung up.

  I thumbed out a reply to Leah’s latest text.

  Where are you? How can you be texting

  me, when the police have got your phone?

  SEND.

  Helen MacNeil stomped over to the cordon, chewing on her butty. ‘You found something.’

  I nodded towards the manky yellow Golf. Couldn’t tell if anyone was inside, the industrial estate’s lights sucked the colour out of everything and the rusty hatchback’s windscreen was opaque in the gloom. ‘You didn’t ditch Jennifer, then.’

  ‘Is it Leah? Is she in there? Did he kill her?’

  ‘She’s using you, Helen. And once she’s done, she’ll dump you and move on to the next sucker.’

  Helen’s butty stabbed towards the warehouse. ‘IS MY GRANDDAUGHTER IN THERE?’

  ‘No, OK? She’s not.’ I closed my eyes for a second, took a breath, and tried for that reassuring-police-officer voice again. Maybe this time it’d work? ‘Shouting the odds isn’t helping you any, Helen. Go home. We’ll be in touch if—’

  ‘What home? You mean the one that’ll fall into the North Sea, soon as the next storm front hits? The one I’ve been thrown out of by the bastarding council, who want sixteen grand to tear it down first? That home?’

  Pop-ding.

  ‘Investigations like this take time. We—’

  ‘HE KILLED MY DAUGHTER!’ Hurling her polystyrene cup to the ground, where it exploded in a spray of beige.

  The PC shuffled over. ‘All right, let’s all calm down.’

  ‘DON’T YOU TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!’ Helen glared at him, hard enough to make him back off a pace.

  ‘It’s all right, Constable, she’s with me.’ I ducked under the cordon and grabbed her arm, pulling her along. ‘Why don’t we have a nice walk?’

  Pop-ding.

  Soon as we were out of listening range: ‘Will you stop acting like a psycho for two sodding minutes?’

  Helen shook her arm free. ‘Gordon Smith killed my—’

  ‘I know. And what do you think’s going to help catch him: shouting the odds, or letting us do our jobs?’

  ‘YOU’RE DOING BUGGER ALL!’

  Henry hunkered down and growled at her.

  ‘We’re working. And you’re not the only one who’s lost a child.’

  She scowled back at me. ‘Six million.’

  ‘It’s not—’

  ‘Don’t pretend you’ve never taken a bung, because I know you have.’

  ‘That wasn’t—’

  ‘Six million pounds and all you’ve got to do is give me an hour alone with him, somewhere out of the way. Somewhere no one can hear him screaming.’ She stepped in closer, till our noses were almost touching. ‘One parent to another. Because the bastard killed my child, same as some bastard killed yours. And he deserves to suffer.’

  Had to admit, she had a point …

  The last glimmer of sun disappeared below the cold blue horizon. Clouds thickening overhead. Wind picking up enough to send a ceilidh of crisp packets whirling into a reel that swept across the road as I ducked back under the cordon of ‘POLICE’ tape again and pulled out my phone.

  Checked the two text messages from Leah:

  U found my phone? Cool!!!!

  I lost it ages ago 6 weeks had 2 blagg

  this 1 off my mate coz she was getting a

  upgrade but it’s knowhere near as good

  And:

  I don’t no how grandad knew David but

  they were all happy & friendly when he

  got in the car so I thought they was

  friends

  But they wasn’t friends later

  Bit of an understatement, given what Gordon Smith had done to him.

  It explained Mother’s phone cock-up, though. If Leah had lost it six weeks ago, that would be one week before she disappeared. Only she hadn’t lost it at all – Smith had taken it. Planning ahead. Knowing we’d probably try to trace Leah through her phone, and that he could use that to throw us off track.

  Like I told Franklin: you don’t get away with killing people for fifty-six years by being an idiot.

  Which meant we’d need a new warrant to track the phone she was actually using, and Watt was a complete and utter moron. And I’d take great pleasure pointing that out to him the next time we met.

  Henry went back in the car, then I lumbered through the prop warehouse to the scenery one. It looked as if Franklin had finished her statement, because DS Marland was getting her to sign it in his notebook.

  Marland held up a finger. ‘Ah, ex-DI Henderson, shall we …?’ A frown. ‘Er … Mr Henderson? Hello?’

  But I didn’t stop, I hobbled straight past, making for the heart of the huge open space, where the diesel generator’s growl was the loudest.

  Those two big work lights glared down on David Quinn’s tattered remains, making every drop of scarlet sparkle as if it’d been wired up to the mains. It was impossible to tell which of the white SOC-suited figures was DCI Jopson – they all looked the same with their facemasks and safety goggles on.

  But I was about a dozen feet away when one of them looked up at me and froze. Then hurried in my direction, arms held out trying to block my way:

  A man’s voice, so definitely not DCI Jopson, only slightly muffled by the facemask. ‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?’

  ‘Where’s Jopson?’

  He kept coming. ‘THIS IS A CRIME SCENE, YOU MORON! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!’

  ‘Jopson, I’ve got—’

  His hand slammed into my chest, forcing me back a step. ‘BUGGER OFF OUT OF IT, YOU’RE CONTAMINATING—’

  The SOC suit crinkled as I grabbed a fistful and hauled, pulling the dick off his feet and hurling him face-first into the rack containing Widow Twanky’s laundry. He bounced off it, setting the metalwork ringing, then crashed backwards onto the
concrete floor with a breath-robbing whoomph.

  Looked as if he was about to struggle to his feet and have another go, so I thunked the rubber tip of my walking stick hard into his stomach, and, as he folded up, jabbed it into his chest and forced him down again.

  ‘I discovered the body, you absolute muppet. My DNA and fibres are already all over the scene.’ And limped on past. ‘Which one of you is Jopson?’

  The entire group had turned to gawp at me, but a figure over by the body raised a hand. ‘Ex-DI Haroldson.’

  Close enough.

  ‘I’ve got an abduction point for you. And you’ll want to pull the CCTV from the Sainsbury’s petrol station as well.’

  ‘Oh, will I now?’ It sounded as if she was trying to hide the amusement in her voice, but not doing a very good job of it. ‘And would you like me to do this before or after you’ve beaten up the rest of my team?’

  Shrug. ‘I’m easy.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ She pointed. ‘But we’re still going to need your shoes.’

  ‘Ah, here you are.’ DCI Jopson had changed out of her white SOC suit into something a bit less rustly: dark trousers and a black padded jacket that acted like camouflage in the graveyard’s darkness, leaving her head to float, disembodied, five feet above the ground. ‘How are the wellies?’

  ‘Rubbish.’ But at least it was better than being up here in nothing but my socks.

  Most of Stirling was hidden from view: a wee chunk of the castle poking out on the left, a short line of houses – lights shining in their windows – the Church of the Holy Rood’s dark medieval bulk on the right, bordered by a sliver of the town that was more rooftops than streets. A band of trees rustling in the groaning wind. Headlights on a distant road.

  Five o’clock and the place was dead. Which was appropriate.

  ‘We’ll send your shoes back to Oldcastle when Forensics have finished with them. You can keep the wellies, though – souvenir of your time in beautiful Stirling.’ Jopson turned and looked out over the graveyard, its headstones little more than indistinct lines in the gloom. ‘I used to come here every lunchtime. Take Lottie for a walk. You know what cockapoos are like – adorable ninety percent of the time, but if they get bored it’s like sharing an office with an extremely annoying toddler.’

  ‘Why did you stop?’

  ‘Turns out people don’t like dogs weeing on their relatives’ graves.’

  ‘True.’ It hadn’t stopped Henry from cocking his leg on the odd Burgess of Trade on the way up here, though.

  ‘If anyone asks, I gave you a proper bollocking for putting DI Erskine on his arse, back there. But, between you and me, he’s a massive tosspot, so I quite enjoyed the floorshow.’ She produced an iPad from a huge handbag and flipped open the cover. The light from its screen bloomed in the darkness, showing off another half-gum-half-tooth smile. ‘Apparently he bruised his coccyx when he hit the floor. With any luck he won’t be able to sit straight for a month.’ She logged in and brought up a video. Passed the iPad to me as she dipped back into her bag again and emerged with a pre-wrapped sandwich. Tore her way into the cardboard triangle, setting free the sulphurous scent of eggs. ‘Normally it takes hours and hours to work our way through CCTV footage, but as you had the time and date on the petrol receipt …’

  The Sainsbury’s petrol station filled the screen, taken from one of the cameras mounted on the awning that covered the forecourt. ‘This is your man, here.’ Pointing her sandwich at a long-limbed bloke in jeans and a thick sweater. He finished filling up an ugly four-by-four, hung the pump up, then set off towards the shop to pay. About eight foot from the door, someone bumped into him, then both did the standard I’m-so-sorry-no-my-fault-after-you dance, and disappeared inside.

  Jopson chewed her way through one triangular, overstuffed half, getting mayonnaise on her cheek. ‘Don’t look at me like that, I skipped lunch. Some antisocial sod found a tortured teenager in a warehouse, remember?’ Then she launched into the other half.

  She was sooking her fingers clean by the time the man who’d bumped into Mother’s householder emerged on screen again.

  Jopson tapped the screen, freezing the image, then zoomed in. Leaving twin greasy smears on the glass.

  Bit grainy, but the guy did look a lot like Gordon Smith – the same high forehead and Santa beard.

  ‘Gets into a grey BMW and drives off towards the industrial estate next door.’

  So he’d ditched the ancient Mercedes, because he knew we’d be looking for it.

  She spooled the footage back to the two men bumping into each other, at the same increased magnification. ‘Smith definitely slips something into your boy’s jacket pocket.’

  The phone he’d stolen from Leah.

  Mother’s householder was telling the truth.

  I turned to Jopson. ‘Can I ask a question?’

  ‘You can try.’

  ‘Why are you showing me this?’

  A shrug. ‘You could call it my kind and generous nature, or you could call it your boss’s boss’s boss calling my boss and asking us to play nice and coordinate our inquiries. Seeing as we’re both after the same killer.’ Jopson shut that video and started another one. This time it was a narrow cobbled road, the colours turned monochrome in the streetlights. A BMW came chuntering up the street. ‘This is from a CCTV camera, outside the Old Town Jail. About a two-minute walk, that way.’ Pointing in the vague direction of the medieval steeple.

  The footage was grainy and badly lit. Impossible to tell if there was anyone but the driver in the car.

  ‘There’s meant to be cameras in the church grounds, but they got vandalised in September and they’ve still not fixed them. But half an hour later …’

  The footage jumped under her sooked finger, and there was the same BMW heading off down another cobbled street, past an old-fashioned-looking building with a saltire flag flying above its front door. Again, no way to tell if Gordon Smith had passengers or not.

  ‘We’ve got his car at the roundabout before Sainsbury’s, then on CCTV inside the industrial estate. Got some bodies going around to see if any of the businesses in the area caught it on the way in or out, but I’m not holding my breath.’

  ‘What about David Quinn?’

  Jopson shook her head. ‘Too dark. There’s a few possibles, but they’re all wearing hoodies, so they could be Lord Lucan, for all we know.’ A shrug. ‘Far as we can tell, the last person to see David alive, other than Gordon Smith, was the friend he’d gone round to study with.’ She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, away from the graveyard and towards those narrow cobbled streets. ‘Shall we go pay the young man a visit?’

  ‘I don’t really know.’ Bailey White’s cheeks flushed even darker as he sneaked glances at Franklin’s chest. ‘It … We never … I don’t know …’ Somehow, blushing made the pimples that speckled his face look even angrier.

  It was your standard teenaged boy’s bedroom, small and cramped, with piles of clothes in the corners and posters of bands you’ve never heard of on the walls. That funky feet-and-armpit smell. A carpet that would probably light up like a Jackson Pollock painting under a UV lamp.

  Crowded too, what with Bailey, DCI Jopson, Franklin, and me, all squeezed in here. But at least Henry had elected to stay in the car.

  Jopson had draped her padded jacket over the back of a dining chair, brought through from the flat’s tiny dining kitchen, revealing a stripy red-and-blue top. ‘Think carefully, Bailey, it’s important.’

  His eyes drifted to her chest, then on to Franklin’s again. He blinked a couple of times, cheeks going nuclear, before looking away. ‘I … don’t know.’

  I leaned back against the built-in wardrobe. ‘Maybe it’d help if we all had a nice cup of tea? Help jog the old grey cells.’ Jerking my head towards the door. ‘Think you and the Detective Chief Inspector could sort something out, DS Franklin?’

  The pair of them turned to stare at me.

  ‘You know, a nice cup of tea?’ Doing the
whole raised eyebrows thing as I mouthed, ‘Go away!’ at them.

  Then the penny must have dropped, because they both stood and bustled out of the room. ‘Yes, good idea.’ ‘Everything’s better with a cup of tea.’ Leaving me and Bailey alone in his smelly teenager’s den.

  Soon as the door shut he hissed out a breath and sagged, eyes wide. ‘Wow.’ Then up at me. ‘You work with her all the time? Detective Sergeant Franklin? She’s gorgeous! Could be on Love Island, or a porn star, or anything!’

  The dining chair creaked as I settled into it. ‘Right, now the women aren’t here whipping up your hormonal porridge, you can tell me why you’re lying.’

  That blush was back. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Come on, Bailey, it’s just us in here. When David left your house, he went up to the graveyard. We both know it’s not on his way home.’

  ‘I …’ Bailey shrugged one shoulder. ‘He …’ Deep breath, staring down at his bitten fingernails. ‘He was really excited about meeting someone. Someone he fancied.’ The blush deepened. ‘David’s been …’ He cleared his throat. ‘David’s mum and dad think he’s like this straight-A student and totally normal and everything, but they don’t know he’s bi.’ Another lopsided shrug. ‘Bisexual. He told me last year.’ Bailey held up a hand. ‘I mean, I’m not, you know, gay or anything like that, I definitely like women, with boobs and stuff. But David fancies men and women.’

  ‘And that’s who he was going up to the graveyard to meet? A man?’

  ‘Didn’t say, but he had that … spark in his eyes, you know?’ Bailey raised his head and stared out of the bedroom window at the darkness beyond. ‘We’ve been best friends since primary two. We’re doing the same exams so we can go to Art School together. Study drama and filmmaking.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  His shoulders curled forwards and he nodded. Wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you? About David being bi? He never came out, because it’d kill his mum and dad.’

  Poor wee sod.

  Both of them.

  David wouldn’t get to be himself, not even in death. And Bailey?

  I levered myself out of the chair. ‘My best friend’s gay; he told me years before he finally came out and left his wife. It’s not easy, being responsible for someone else’s secrets.’ I gave Bailey’s hunched shoulder a squeeze. ‘You’ve been a good friend to David. Don’t let it eat you.’