Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

PC Thingy whistled. ‘Poor wee sod...’

‘Another thing: Andrew Brennan suffered multiple broken ribs. Our killer knelt on top of him while he strangled him. No broken ribs on Oscar Harris, and most of the bruising is around the front of the neck, so I think he was probably standing or kneeling behind Oscar while he strangled him. And Lewis Talbot has broken ribs again.’

Outside, in the corridor, someone laughed as they thumped past with a couple of their mates. It faded away like blood down the mortuary drain.

‘Anything else?’

Sheila curled her top lip. ‘Only that there’s evidence of abuse on all three victims. Physical on Andrew and Lewis, but Oscar Harris was definitely sexually abused at some point. Here’s the thing though, it was before they were killed. And I don’t mean immediately before, I mean weeks, possibly months. No sign of semen or penetration of any kind on the bodies.’

Jacobson cleared his throat. ‘Thank you, Sheila. Alice?’

Alice shuffled forward in her soggy red Converse trainers, one arm wrapped around herself, the other hand fiddling with the curls by her ear. ‘We’re seeing a definite progression in his behaviour. Andrew is a victim of chance — he, I mean, our killer ...’ A frown. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I think we need a name for him. Otherwise, it’s all going to get pretty confusing on the pronoun front.’

‘I have a suggestion,’ Huntly straightened his cuffs, a nonchalant wobble to his head, ‘Cronus.’ He turned to Sheila. ‘He was the first of the Titans, in Greek mythology, father of Zeus. Ate his own children, because—’

Sheila hit him. ‘We know who Cronus is, you patronising wankspasm.’

‘Did you know he castrated his own dad, Uranus, from inside his mother’s womb? That would rather put the scuppers on a romantic evening, don’t you think? You’re getting all hot and bothered, next thing you know—’

Jacobson rapped on the whiteboard again. ‘All right, if we can stick to the topic in hand?’

‘Well...’ Alice tilted her head on one side, still twiddling with her hair. ‘I suppose we could go with Cronus, but our killer isn’t actually eating these boys and it sounds too much like we want him to seem cool when it’s probably better if we pick a name that’s not going to be something to live up to, if that makes sense, so why don’t we call him... Gòrach? Which is Gaelic for stupid, so we’re not putting him on some sort of pedestal, or making people think he’s in any way special, which I think we can all agree is counterproductive, and Bernard got to name the last person we were after, so I think it’s only fair I get a turn.’ She printed the name up on the board in squeaky green marker pen.

Sabir clicked some buttons and the camera zoomed in on his eye. ‘Go-rat-ch?’

‘No, “Gòrach”. That back-tick above the “O” is a grave, so you pronounce it “aw”, like in caught, or bought, or thought, and the “CH” at the end is an unvoiced dorsal velar non-sibilant fricative, like in “loch”.’

‘An unvoiced McWhatnow?’

‘Imagine making a guttural hissing sound at the back of your throat, like an espresso machine, and you’ll be halfway there. Ooh: or if you’ve ever watched Star Trek , the Klingons do it all the time. “Chhhhhhh...”’

‘Gow-ra-chhhhhhhhhhhh?’

Jacobson pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, face creased up. ‘I think we’re straying from the point. Again .’

‘Yes. Sorry.’ Alice went back to playing with her hair. ‘Anyway, Gòrach has fantasised about killing a small boy for a long, long time, and then he sees Andrew and he’s not prepared for it or anything, but Andrew’s there, and no one’s looking and this is his chance to finally do what he’s been dreaming about. Only it’s nothing like how he imagined it and it’s messy and Andrew’s struggling and Gòrach’s panicking and he just wants to get it over with and what if someone sees him and oh my God it was meant to be so much better than this... So he abandons the body and runs.

‘Andrew’s discovered a couple of hours later and it’s on the news and in every paper and Gòrach’s panicking for real now — they’re going to find him, they’re going to catch him and he’ll go to prison with the perverts and he can’t take that, he can’t, he’d rather kill himself than go to prison.’ She tilted her head to the other side. ‘It’s all so horrible and scary but, now that he’s done it, he can’t stop thinking about the power and he’s reassessing the experience; maybe it wasn’t so bad after all, maybe it was exciting , and he’s using it to reinforce the fantasy and he’s masturbating with the same hands he used to strangle a wee boy, and over the next two months he’s convincing himself that it’ll be perfect next time, because he knows what he’s doing now.’

PC Thingy shifted in her seat, face pulled down around the edges, as if she’d trod in something warm and squishy.

‘So now Gòrach’s looking for the next child to be perfect with and he sees Oscar Harris and this time he’s going to get it right and he abducts him and takes him deep into the woods and strangling Andrew with his hands was too scary to do it again and he doesn’t want Oscar looking at him, so he uses the boy’s own belt and he does it from behind and maybe he doesn’t do it right, and Oscar’s still breathing, so he tries again, but Oscar still won’t die — why won’t the little bastard die? — so one last time and this time Oscar’s dead and how did he manage to make such a mess of it and he’s ashamed, so Gòrach hides the body under a rhododendron bush and slinks away.’

Jacobson nodded. ‘So he’s experimenting?’

‘He’s learning . This time he goes home and watches the media and there’s Oscar Harris’s parents on TV crying because their son’s missing and maybe Gòrach likes that, likes seeing the pain in their eyes and knowing he’s the one who did that, that he’s got the power of life and death, not just over the children, but over their families too, maybe even the whole city? And he relives killing Oscar and Andrew, over and over, and he takes the best of both murders and puts them together to make a new and better fantasy that builds and grows till it’s all he can think of, which is when he goes out and abducts Lewis Talbot.’ Alice frowned at the whiteboard with the crime-scene photos on it, in all their horrible technicolour glory. ‘It’s not perfect, but then nothing ever is, but he’s in control this time, he takes the silk rope with him, probably carries it about in his pocket for days beforehand, running his fingers over it and daydreaming about that wonderful moment when he finally gets to use it, and when he finds Lewis he’s prepared, he takes him out to the middle of nowhere, deep in the woods, where no one will ever find them and Gòrach strangles and resuscitates him and strangles and resuscitates, because he has the power of death and life, and what’s one without the other, only now he knows he likes the look of fear in his victim’s eyes, he wants to see it as he kills and brings back and kills and brings back... that beautiful moment when the light flickers out, only to come back on again, so he can snuff it out one more time.’

Silence.

‘Andrew was a victim of chance. Oscar was on purpose.’ Alice let go of her hair. ‘Lewis was the culmination of the first two murders, a return to all the things he loved about killing those little boys.’

‘Yawn.’ Huntly stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle, exposing a swathe of bright-purple socks. ‘This is all very touchy-feely, but — and I hope I’m not speaking out of turn here — perhaps we could have some sort of revelation that actually helps us catch him?’