Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

Stopped dead.

Helen MacNeil stood under the tiny porch, wrapped up in a thick waterproof, dripping as the wind clawed at her. Staring at me with puffy, bloodshot eyes. ‘You said you’d help find my granddaughter.’

Of course I did. Because I’m far too soft for my own good.

I held out the bolt cutters. ‘Thanks for the loan.’

She tucked them under one arm, then dug into her waterproof and came out with a picture frame, about the size of a paperback book. Pressed it into my hands. Voice cracking over the words. ‘She wouldn’t run away, I know she wouldn’t, not after Sophie... Something’s happened to her.’

Don’t look at Gordon Smith’s house. Keep your eyes on Helen MacNeil. Try for a reassuring smile. ‘She’s... probably staying with friends. There’s no need to—’

‘I spoke to all her friends, they haven’t heard from Leah in weeks.’

Alice tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Ash?’

‘Not now.’ Back to Helen, softening my tone as she wiped a hand across her glistening cheeks. ‘You say Leah wouldn’t run away, why not?’

‘Because her mother left us.’ Helen turned her face away. ‘She left us.’

‘That doesn’t mean she—’

‘SHE TOOK HER OWN LIFE! OK? SHE KILLED HERSELF!’ And there was the Helen MacNeil everyone had always been so afraid of — those bloodshot eyes blazing, mouth a hard vicious line. The woman who could batter a rival firm’s drug dealer to death with a pickaxe handle. ‘And you promised you’d help!’

Yeah, I kinda did.

Alice frowned at the rear-view mirror as the little Suzuki lurched its way out of Clachmara. ‘He killed her, didn’t he? Gordon Smith took Leah MacNeil down to his horrible basement and... did things to her.’

‘We don’t know that.’ The car lumped through another pothole. ‘Will you keep your eyes on the road! I’m losing fillings here.’

The windscreen wipers’ squeal-thunk added a rhythm section to the blowers’ roar — enough condensation coming off all three of us to mist-up the windscreen and windows, the air heady with the grubby-animal scent of soggy Scottie dog.

‘Why didn’t you tell Helen—’

‘Because until we know for sure, there’s no point making things worse for her. “Oh, yeah, your granddaughter’s probably been tortured to death...”’ A lump twisted inside my throat. Wouldn’t go away when I swallowed. So I cleared it. ‘Right now she thinks Leah might come home. At least she’s got hope.’

Alice nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

Everyone always was, even after all this time. ‘Let’s just... change the subject.’

‘OK. Yes. Changing the subject it is.’ Alice shifted her hands on the steering wheel. ‘The photographs we saw in Gordon Smith’s basement are indicative of a collective personality. Putting them on display like that allows him to relive the hunt and the kill. Burying the bodies in the garden is about keeping them close. He needs to have them with him.’

‘Why would he—’

‘Gordon Smith’s house is right on the coast — well, even more so now the headland’s disintegrating — if you want to dump a body there’s plenty of places you could chuck it in the sea and off it goes. He’s burying them in the garden because he’s a collector, it’s the same deal with the photographs.’ Alice hunched forwards and rubbed her hand across the fogging windscreen, clearing a porthole. ‘He won’t have begun there, though. He’d want to keep them closer than that. In the house. I bet that basement wasn’t concreted when he moved in, he’s done that bit by bit over the years. Probably only started burying them in the garden because he’d run out of room.’

‘Thought that was Rose and Fred West?’

The car thumped through yet another bloody pothole.

‘The question is, why did he leave his beloved photographs behind? Why not take his collection with him? He can’t take their bodies , but the photos would be easy enough...’

‘Your suspension’s going to be ruined, by the way.’ As we thunked into three potholes in a row.

‘He must have copies, I’d take copies if I was him, I mean think of the nostalgia value when you’re reliving past glories and flicking through the souvenirs of all the people you tortured to death, but he’s left his kill room behind, hasn’t he, so maybe that’s because he’s been told his house is going to fall into the sea any minute now and in a way that’s kind of sexy, isn’t it, knowing all this incriminating evidence is sitting right there, but no one can ever lay their hands on it, because A: they don’t know it exists, and B: everything’s going to be washed away in the next big storm.’ Alice nodded, agreeing with herself. ‘It’s all about risk, thrill, and control.’

‘You think that’s sexy?’ I shook my head. ‘You forensic psychologists are weird .’

‘And did Gordon Smith kill them on his own? I mean, it’d be really hard to hide that from your wife, wouldn’t it? You can’t turn your basement into a torture chamber and graveyard without your other half noticing, can you? How would you explain all the screaming?’

I pulled out my phone. Five percent battery left. A quick scroll through my contacts brought up the one marked ‘SHIFTY’ and set it ringing. ‘Not our problem any more. It’s DI Malcolmson’s case, remember?’

‘I wonder if there was a drop in the murders after his wife died? Couples who kill tend to get caught before one of them drops dead of natural causes.’

A hard Oldcastle accent barked out of the earpiece. ‘Detective Inspector David Morrow’s phone?’

‘Rhona? It’s Ash. Is Shifty there?’

The voice softened. ‘Hey, Ash. The big man’s interviewing a nonce — you remember Willie McNaughton? Used to flog—’

‘Hardcore German porn to school kids, I remember. Listen—’

‘And now they can get it all, online, for free. That’s progress for you.’

‘Rhona, I need a favour. Leah MacNeil — her gran reported her missing a month ago. Has anything been done about it? And if not, can you get Shifty to kick someone’s arse for them till they do? I’ve got a recent photo, if they need one.’ After all, you never knew. Maybe she really had run away? Fingers crossed anyway.

‘Hold on.’ The broken-teeth rattle of Rhona battering the living hell out of her keyboard joined our symphony for windscreen wipers and blowers.

At long last, the potholed horror of Clachmara faded behind us as Alice took a left onto a good old-fashioned crappy B road, heading back towards Oldcastle.

‘And while you’re at it, have a dig into what happened to her mum.’

‘You’re not shy, are you?’

‘Nope. And make sure...’ Silence on the other end. ‘Rhona? Hello?’

The screen was black, and poking the fingerprint reader on the back did nothing to change that. Phone was dead.

Alice glanced across the car at me. ‘Problem?’

‘Don’t have a phone charger in here, do you?’

‘Back at the flat. Anyway, as I was saying, normally when you’ve got a couple who kills, one’s dominant and one’s subservient: Rose to Fred West, Myra to Ian Brady. The dominant partner wants to kill, the subservient partner goes along with it to keep the love of their life happy. So what happens when one of them dies?’

‘The world becomes a much better place.’

Wasn’t even the third week in November yet, and the big Winslow’s in Logansferry already had chocolate Santas, mince pies, and Christmas pudding for sale. An entire shelf dedicated to reduced Halloween tat. And a confusing array of mobile phone charging cables.