The Coffinmaker's Garden

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Is he now.’ Jacobson’s face pinched. ‘Well, I think he’s going to find his time inside very uncomfortable indeed. If I’ve got anything to say about it, anyway.’

  Sounded as if torturing Kenneth Dewar was going to be a team sport and, while I wasn’t normally a team player, that sounded like something I could definitely get behind.

  Jacobson nodded. ‘Speaking of Alice, any more news?’

  Shifty shook his head. ‘No change. They have to wait till she wakes up.’

  ‘Damn it. Well, if there’s anything I can do, you …’ He raised an eyebrow as a dark Fiat Panda rattled its way up the street towards us. ‘Ash, you might want to brace yourself.’

  The Panda screeched to a halt outside the cordon and one of the PCs hurried over, holding his arms out to block the way.

  Mother scrambled from the car, leaving the engine running as she marched for the ‘POLICE’ tape. She didn’t bother flashing her ID, instead Mother stuck two hands against the PC’s high-viz chest and shoved him into next door’s garden. Flat on his back in the rose bushes as she ducked under the barrier, stormed right up to me, eyes hard and round, mouth a small tight circle with gritted teeth in the middle. Her right hand flashed up, the slap hard enough to snap my head to the left, leaving the skin hot and stinging as she grabbed me by the lapels. ‘WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU WERE PLAYING AT?’ Then let go and wrapped me in a serious bearhug, setting the ribs squealing all down one side where Francis punched me last night. ‘We were worried sick!’

  ‘It wasn’t—’

  ‘You’ve got some explaining to do, young man!’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Sending all those, “life can’t go on” texts – you said you were going to kill yourself! What were we supposed to think when your pool car turned up in the Cromarty Firth?’

  Sod.

  So much for sneaking back to Oldcastle and keeping everything secret.

  45

  Well, Mother didn’t need the whole truth, did she? Just the bits that wouldn’t get me arrested.

  ‘Gordon Smith attacked me at the farm, after I called you.’ Unzipping my new leather jacket to show off the bloodstained shirt, and neck covered in bruises. Then pulling my bandaged hand from my pocket. ‘He set fire to the place. I barely got out alive. Smith must’ve taken my phone and my pool car.’

  She pulled her chin in, doubling, then tripling it. ‘But how did you get back to Oldcastle?’

  Good question.

  Come on then, answer it.

  ‘I’m … not entirely sure, I’ve been kind of disorientated. Probably in shock from being strangled and all the blood loss.’ Holding up my bandages again. ‘He cut my finger off.’

  That should hold her.

  And not a single mention of Helen or Leah MacNeil.

  Mother’s face softened and she gave me another hug – not so rib-crushing this time. ‘Go home. You look exhausted. It’s—’

  ‘Sir? Ma’am?’ One of the PCs came huffing up the pavement at a run, face red above her fluorescent-yellow padded jacket, one hand holding the bowler hat on her head. Stopping in front of us with her back to the wind. ‘I’ve found Dewar’s car!’ Pointing over her shoulder. ‘Bonnet’s all dented and there’s what looks like blood in the wheel arch. Silly bugger didn’t even put it through the carwash, ma’am.’

  ‘Good work.’ Mother patted her on the shoulder. ‘Now off you go and call for a full SOC team, I want this place—’

  Jacobson cleared his throat. ‘As senior officer, and someone who’s actually on the Gòrach investigation, perhaps you’d let me be in charge of my own crime scene? After all, DI Malcolmson, I believe you’ve still got a killer of your own to catch?’

  Pink flushed Mother’s cheeks. ‘Only trying to help.’ She stuck her nose in the air. ‘And as Ash is seconded to my team, I’m sending him home.’ She made shooing gestures at me. ‘Go on, off you go.’

  ‘While Mr Henderson is indeed seconded to your team, he remains an active member of mine. And as he’s now caught the man who abducted and killed four children, I’m going to need him to give a statement before he goes anywhere.’

  How lovely, two bosses fighting over me. Be still, my girlish heart.

  Didn’t matter anyway, whatever happened here, I wasn’t done for the night. Not by a long way.

  Sitting on the other side of the interview table, Rhona opened her mouth wide in a jaw-cracking yawn that was disturbingly infectious. Hers finished with a small burp and a shudder. Then she turned her notebook around and pushed it across the table towards me. ‘Sign and date it at the bottom there.’

  Soon as I’d done that, she clicked off the recording equipment.

  They’d done up Interview Room Three at some point, replaced the sagging stained ceiling tiles with fresh white ones; swapped the tatty blue carpet tiles for hardwearing grey; given it a fresh lick of magnolia and a new Formica table – still bolted to the floor; but they hadn’t managed to shift the lingering scent of sweaty feet and boiled cabbage.

  She took her notebook back, pursed her pale lips at it for a moment, then flipped it shut and slipped it into her pocket. ‘And that’s everything that happened, is it?’

  ‘Scout’s honour.’

  Well, I might have left a couple of bits out. Like torturing Chris McHale. And trying to drown Kenneth Dewar as he lay there bleeding to death. And buying a black-market handgun with the intention of blowing lots and lots of holes in the aforementioned Kenneth Dewar’s face, Your Honour. But other than that, my statement was more-or-less the truth.

  Oh, and I might have left out the fact that I had an app on Alice’s phone that could locate Leah MacNeil and Gordon Smith, but that was understandable, wasn’t it? What with being in shock because of all the strangling and blood loss I’d suffered.

  Amazing I’d managed to make a statement at all …

  Rhona stared at me in silence. Letting it stretch long beyond the point where it became uncomfortable.

  She was getting better at this interviewing game, but I’d taught her all the tricks she was currently using, so it was easy enough to sit here looking open and innocent.

  At last, she nodded. ‘I take it you and Shifty worked this story out between you?’

  ‘Story, Detective Sergeant Massie? I have no idea what you mean.’

  ‘Right then. As long as you both stick to it, you’ll be fine.’ She stood. ‘You did a good thing tonight, Ash. Dewar would’ve kept on killing kids if you hadn’t stopped him.’ Rhona placed a hand on my shoulder, on the way past. ‘However you did it.’ Then walked out of the room and closed the door behind her.

  I let out a long dry breath.

  Got away with it.

  I pulled out Alice’s phone and opened the tracking app. The ‘word’ ‘FONEZFINDR!’ flashed up on the screen – so I’d been right about the awful spelling – with a couple of setting options and three numbers listed under the heading ‘PHONES YOU ARE TRACKING’. No idea who the other two were, but my mobile was top of the list.

  When I selected it, a stopwatch appeared, the hands turning in one direction while a progress bar rotated around it going the other way.

  Please don’t be switched off.

  Please don’t be dumped in a bin or some sucker’s pocket.

  Please be—

  WE’VE FOUND YOUR PHONE!

  Click on the link below to view on a map!

  Here we go.

  It brought up a map of Scotland, then zoomed in on a red arrow pointing at the east coast, Oldcastle getting bigger on the left of the screen, then disappearing as Clachmara filled its centre. The map wasn’t quite up-to-date – it still included the houses that’d fallen into the sea because of Storm Trevor – but if the arrow wasn’t pointing directly at Helen MacNeil’s house, I’d buy a hat and eat it.

  Maybe this was Gordon Smith sending a message? Dumping my phone back where it all began. Showing off for the dress circle.

  Or maybe he really was arrogant enough to
think he could go back there and we wouldn’t notice?

  Suppose I’d find out soon enough.

  But, in the meantime, probably best to throw some blood in the water, see if I could distract the sharks. A quick text should do it.

  And soon as it was sent, I gathered up my stuff and left.

  Shifty was waiting for me when I stepped out of the interview room, leaning back against the wall and playing something on his phone. He barely looked up. ‘Give your statement?’

  I hauled on my new jacket. ‘Where’s the rucksack?’

  ‘In my locker.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I know where Leah MacNeil is. Or, at least, I know where she might be.’ I held up my unruined hand. ‘And before you say anything: yes, I know, I should tell Mother so she can get the heavy mob sent in. But we spent all that money on a gun …’

  Shifty nodded. ‘Shame to let it go to waste. We’ll need a vehicle too. Something we can burn afterwards.’

  ‘Helen MacNeil’s Renault’s still parked up the Hospital. No one’ll miss it.’

  ‘Works for me.’ He pushed off the wall. ‘You want—’

  A voice boomed down the corridor. ‘Gentlemen!’ And there was Chief Superintendent McEwan, marching towards us with his sidekick, Samson, scurrying along behind him. They were both in civvies – jeans and a sweatshirt for Samson, tan chinos and blue polo shirt for McEwan. As if he’d only ever seen people wearing casual clothes in eighties catalogues.

  McEwan stopped right in front of us and patted Shifty on the shoulder. ‘DI Morrow! David. Excellent work, really excellent.’ I got a pat too. ‘And you, of course, Ash. Well done. This is magnificent news: the Oldcastle Child-Strangler in custody!’ A frown clouded his features. ‘Of course, it’s a shame you couldn’t save Toby Macmillan, but the important thing is our man’s off the streets. Isn’t that right, Alan?’

  Samson nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We’re arranging a press conference for first thing tomorrow – want to stay ahead of the news cycle, don’t we? Yes. It’s going to be good to stand up there and rub all their noses in it. O Division’s full of useless tossers, is it? Ha! And there’ll be a commendation going into your file, DI Morrow, don’t you worry about that.’ Another pat on the shoulder. ‘So, I want you in here, booted and suited, and ready for the cameras by half seven.’ Then McEwan’s eyes drifted back to me. Taking it all in: the black eyes, the bruised throat, the bandaged hand … He bit his top lip and furrowed his brow. ‘Actually, Ash, maybe you should sit this one out and get some rest. Might not be the best optics, you sitting there looking as if you’ve gone the wrong way through a threshing machine. Got Police Scotland’s reputation to think about, after all.’

  Like I gave a toss about its reputation or his press conference.

  ‘Anyway, I want to congratulate you both again for the sterling work you’ve done!’ Then he turned on his heel and marched off.

  Samson hesitated a moment, his granite slab of a face working its way into a smile. ‘That was some serious coppering you two did tonight. The boss is right, you—’

  McEwan’s voice boomed down the corridor again. ‘Oh, do keep up, Alan. And make sure my dress uniform is cleaned and pressed for tomorrow’s briefing!’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Samson sagged, stared at the ceiling, took a deep breath, then turned and hurried after the Chief Super. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Poor sod.

  Soon as they were gone, Shifty cricked his head from side to side. ‘Where we off to? And can we please get something to eat on the way? I’m not—’ His phone rang, getting louder and louder in the corridor. ‘Sorry.’ He pulled it out and answered. ‘DI Morrow.’ Scrunched his forehead up and closed his eyes, listening. Then, ‘No, Russell, I don’t … Are you deaf as well as Hobbit sized? I’m not commenting on an ongoing— … I don’t care what the rumour mill says, “no comment” … OK, I’m hanging up now.’ He did, then hissed out a breath. ‘Bloody journalists. Someone’s leaked we caught the Oldcastle Child-Strangler.’

  I checked my watch. ‘Didn’t take them long.’

  ‘Bet it’s that moron Blakey. Wouldn’t trust him to—’ Shifty’s phone went again and he peered at the screen with his one good eye. ‘Jennifer Prentice? Don’t think so. Decline.’ Poking the button. ‘They’re going to be at this all night, aren’t they?’

  ‘Probably.’ The frenzy would be gathering outside Kenneth Dewar’s house, cameras focused on his front door, working out how much moral outrage they could whip up. Or doorstepping Dewar’s victims’ parents, milking their grief for a ninety-second slot on the morning news.

  On the plus side, it meant that they’d abandon Clachmara for a while. Leaving it all nice and quiet for Shifty and me to rock up and make sure Gordon Smith and Leah MacNeil got exactly what was coming to them.

  Strange what one little text can do.

  Shifty switched his phone off and put it away. ‘OK. Food first, then murder. Can’t be killing people on an empty stomach.’

  The scent of onions, garlic, and slow-cooked lamb mince filled Helen’s manky Renault as Shifty finished his extra-large doner with yoghurt and chilli sauce. Parked here, at the brow of the wee hill, headlights off, engine running, looking down over what was left of Clachmara as Storm Victoria hammered into it. Rain clattering against the car’s roof.

  Helen’s street shivered in the darkness, bushes whipping back and forth, lampposts swaying. And not a single press vehicle to be seen.

  Even the Mobile Incident Unit had been pulled back, away from the advancing cliff edge. The safety barrier had retreated with it. Now the sections of temporary fencing didn’t cut through the garden between Helen’s house and the one next door – both had been placed on the sacrificial altar of coastal erosion. An offering to the howling gods of wind and rain.

  Shifty smacked his lips and sooked the milky-pink juices from his fingers, before scrunching up the waxy paper his kebab came in and chucking it in over his shoulder.

  Well, we were going to burn the car anyway, what was the point keeping it tidy?

  He scrubbed his face with a napkin. ‘Any joy?’

  I put Alice’s phone back in my pocket. ‘No change. Doctor says she’s stable.’

  Shifty nodded. ‘But that’s good, right? Stable? Means nothing’s gone wrong.’

  ‘Yeah …’

  Wind tore at the car, rocking it on its springs, screaming around the doorframes, groaning through the gap between the chassis and the potholed road. As if the dying town was crying out in pain.

  Shifty’s napkin joined the kebab wrapper. ‘You sure they’re here?’

  ‘Nope. But my phone is.’

  He nodded. ‘Maybe it’s a trap?’

  ‘How could it be a trap? They think I’m dead. And they don’t know about the tracker app.’ I pulled my new Minion rucksack through from the back, unzipped it, and pulled out the gun. Small and black against the pale grey shape of my gloved hand. The nitrile surface sticky and squeaking against the grip as I held the .22 up. ‘Besides, we’ve got this.’

  ‘Still think we’d be better with baseball bats.’ But he put the Renault in gear anyway, drifting down the hill, nice and slow. Shame we couldn’t have the headlights on: it might have meant not crunching and lurching through every single sodding pothole on the way down. ‘Can’t see another car, can you?’

  Apart from the MIU, the road was empty. Even Helen’s caravan was gone.

  ‘Maybe they parked somewhere else and walked?’

  ‘In this?’ Shifty peered out through the rain-lashed windscreen. ‘You’d have to be off your bloody head.’ He slowed to a halt, two houses back from the new fence line. ‘And so do we.’

  The safety notice had broken loose from its bottom moorings, leaving the sign to hinge up and clang back down against the chain-link, setting the metal rattling. ‘WARNING! ~ COASTAL EROSION ZONE ~ NO ENTRY ~ DANGER OF DEATH’

  ‘You ready?’

  He reached behind his seat and came ou
t with an extendable baton, then into his jacket for a palm-sized can of pepper spray. Flicked the cover off, gave the thing a shake, then flicked the cover back on again. ‘Ash?’

  ‘Shifty.’ I pulled the gun’s slide back, racking a round into the breech. Joseph was right – it was easy enough for someone with ‘restricted hand mobility’.

  ‘It’s … you know?’ Shifty wriggled in his seat. ‘We’ve never killed anyone before. Not killed, killed. Pretty much everything, but.’ A long breath. ‘I guess I’m a bit—’

  ‘So give me the keys and stay in the car.’

  ‘Really?’ Looking at me, face sagging at the edges. ‘And let you walk in there, alone? With no backup?’ He turned the engine off. ‘How’s the saying go? A friend will help you move house; a real friend will help you kill a pair of murdering scumbags, dispose of their bodies, and wheech a security van full of stolen artworks out from under the nose of a psychotic religious nutjob.’ A nod, then he opened his car door, letting in the outraged bellowing of Storm Victoria.

  I struggled out the other side, clutching onto the car door as the wind tried to tear it from my bandaged fingers. Struggling to hold it and the gun and my walking stick all at the same time. Might be better to stick the safety on again and put the .22 in my pocket. At least till we were inside. Rain battered its frozen nails into my face, sparking like fireworks against my jacket as I lurch-staggered my way along the wet pavement to the security fence.

  Shifty got there first, huge round shoulders turned against the storm, water running off his big bald head. He grabbed the two nearest sections of fence and pulled at them – the padlocked chain held them too close to get through.

  OK, so Gordon and Leah wouldn’t have cut the chain somewhere obvious, like here, they would’ve done it somewhere out of the way, somewhere less easily spotted.

  I worked my way left, along the line, testing as I went. Through the gap between the two houses – caught in a sudden and blissful stillness as they acted as a windbreak – still nothing. Then along the waist-high wall separating their back gardens. Curling forwards into the wind again.