Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

Henry let loose a whimper and Alice rubbed the fur between his ears. ‘Which house was Andrew Brennan’s?’

Huntly consulted his phone. ‘That one, there.’ Pointing down the hill, to the back of William Terrace. ‘Mother, younger brother, Andrew, and a succession of the mother’s boyfriends. Three of whom are currently taking their ease at Her Majesty’s pleasure for extortion, aggravated assault, and domestic violence, respectively. The local numpties interviewed all of her beaux, but to no avail.’

I tilted my head back, let the rain patter against my cheeks and chin. ‘Let’s say he knows Andrew. Let’s say he’s watched him play here in the past, what’s different about this time?’

‘Hmph. I’ll let the good doctor take that one.’

Alice cleared her throat. ‘Well, I mean, you could look on it as a crime of opportunity, like I said this morning, because he’s always fantasised about it and the question then has to be why would no one know about the murder, because all it would take is someone looking out of their back window and they’d see you there, strangling a wee boy, wouldn’t it?’

Huntly went back to his phone. ‘According to the report, the mother called the police when Andrew didn’t come in for his dinner. That was a little after five o’clock.’

Back under my umbrella again, I nodded towards the skeletal trees and spiny bushes. ‘I checked the weather reports: eighteenth of June, the city was thick with haar. Down here, in the gloom? You’d be lucky to see your hand in front of your face.’

Alice nodded. ‘Do you think I could talk to the mother, Ash? Would that be OK?’

‘Don’t see why not.’

Huntly leaned on the bell, setting its high-pitched trill ringing on and on and on and on.

The building must have been impressive in its day: a grand mid-terrace home with its garden out front, tiled entrance hall, and mahogany staircase, but carving the thing up into six small flats had turned its sweeping grandeur into a claustrophobic warren. The lighting wasn’t on in the communal stairwell, hiding things in the darkness.

And still the bell trilled.

Alice’s boxy wee Suzuki sat at the kerb outside, Henry’s nose pressed against the passenger window as the car slowly steamed up, marinating the interior in the stink of wet Scottie dog.

Finally, a man’s voice grumbled through the door to Flat 1L, getting louder. ‘God’s sake, buncha bastards...’ Then the door burst open, revealing a tousle-haired bloke in his mid-forties with tattoos visible on his arms and neck where they poked out of a pink towelling dressing gown two sizes too small for him. Puffy eyes. Chin blue with stubble. A droopy moustache. Squint teeth on show as he bellowed at us. ‘STOP RINGING THAT BELL!’ Jabbing a hand back inside the flat. ‘YES, I WAS ASLEEP: I’M ON BLOODY NIGHTS!’

Huntly took his thumb off the bell. ‘So sorry to wake you.’ Not sounding in the least bit genuine. ‘Is Mrs Brennan home?’

‘Why?’ The man tucked his chin in, creating a roll of fat around his neck as he looked the pinstriped tit up and down. Clenched his fists. ‘You some sort of lawyer ?’ Making that last word sound as if it was code for intestinal parasite.

Alice got herself between the two of them, and gave him a wave. ‘Hello, I’m Dr McDonald, but you can call me Alice, if you like, and we’re looking to speak to Mrs Brennan, because we’re trying to help the police find out what happened to Andrew and why it happened, and who made it happen, of course — that’s the really important thing, isn’t it — so if you can help us to help them, that’ll really help, OK?’

The rolls of fat got deeper. ‘Mary’s not here.’

‘Oh, right, can we come in and wait, because it’s—’

‘What part of, “I’m on nights” did you not get?’ Closing the door on us. ‘She’s up the church. Been going there every morning since... you know, Andrew.’

‘Yes, right, well we can—’

‘Hang on.’ I stuck the tip of my walking stick in the gap, stopping the door from shutting. ‘What lawyers are these, then? The ones you were expecting.’

He stared at his bare feet. ‘I need to get back to bed.’

‘Professor Huntly, would you be so kind as to lean on this gentleman’s bell again?’

A raised eyebrow. ‘I hope that’s not a euphemism...’ But Huntly did as he was asked and that irritating trill rang out once more.

‘All right, all right!’ Our sleepy friend scrubbed his hands across his face. Sagged. ‘It’s Mary’s ex, Billy’s dad. The wanker who broke her arm and knocked out two of her teeth. He’s suddenly decided he wants visitation rights.’

Huntly raised the other eyebrow. ‘But he’s in prison .’

‘Yeah, but he wants Billy to visit him there. And Billy’s only fourteen months, so Mary would have to go with him. And that means Charlie Mitchell gets to screw with her head again. It’s all about control with tossers like that.’ The man tightened his too-short pink dressing gown about his middle. ‘Now, if you don’t mind: bugger off so I can go back to sleep.’

‘What do you reckon to our sleepy friend, then?’ Water gushed down the gutters on Denholm Road, rain drumming on the roofs and bonnets of the cars, bouncing off the overflowing municipal wheelie bins, as we slogged our way uphill.

Alice peered out from beneath her ladybird umbrella. ‘As a suspect? Possible, I suppose — clearing the nest, getting rid of any offspring sired by Mary Brennan’s former partners so he can repopulate it with his own, but it doesn’t really fit, I mean, why would he go after Oscar Harris and Lewis Talbot as well?’ She frowned. ‘Unless they were killed by someone else, but then we wouldn’t see such a clear progression of MO, would we, so on balance I don’t think it’s likely and anyway wouldn’t local police have interviewed him already?’

‘Ah, my dear Doctor,’ Huntly gave her one of his more patronising smiles, ‘you’re forgetting one very salient point: the local police are morons.’

Bit harsh, but not necessarily untrue.

The road curved around to the right, coming to a halt at a roundabout circled by shuttered shops. A lone newsagent’s was still operating, the sandwich board outside it proclaiming, ‘BOY’S BODY FOUND IN WOODS ~ PHOTO EXCLUSIVE!’

From here, Banks Road climbed away on the left, an arched bridge taking it over the raised railway lines. And down below, in the hollow beneath both, lurked the dark grey lump of Saint Damon of the Green Wood. Its jagged spire barely reached road level, the roof done with semicircular slate tiles, like fish scales. Miserable gargoyles. Stained glass that looked as if it’d never seen sunlight or soapy water. A steep set of stairs curled away down into the gloom.

‘Well, that’s not depressing in any way, shape, or form, is it?’ Huntly peered over the railings that separated the pavement from the near-vertical drop to the graveyard, fifty feet below. ‘What a silly place to put a church.’

A pair of stone pillars stood amongst the headstones, holding up the railway line, a vast bowed arc of steel allowing it to span the main body of the church, another set of pillars on the far side of its sharp pitched roof.

Alice wrapped an arm around herself. ‘Can you imagine being buried down there?’

Not yet.

‘Come on: less melodrama, more work.’ I opened the gate and led the way, descending the slippery steps. A drift of rubbish had built up at the base of the steep drop, empty crisp packets and plastic bottles mingling with wilting newspapers and takeaway containers, stretching out to touch the nearest gravestones.

She was right about not wanting to be buried down here, though. Felt as if we were already halfway to hell, without being another six feet closer.