Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

Jennifer looked me up and down, as if assessing the damage. ‘So how’s it going with you and Whatshername: the Detective Superintendent woman?’

‘None of your business.’ Besides: that wound was much too raw for prodding.

‘Oh, I am sorry.’ A shrug. ‘You never return my calls, Ash. A girl might begin to think you didn’t like her.’

A ‘girl’ would be right.

‘What do you want, Jennifer?’

‘Aren’t you going to ask me how I found you?’

And give her the satisfaction of showing off? ‘Nope.’

‘Used to think that strong-silent act of yours was quite sexy. Now? I’m not so sure.’ Nudging me with her shoulder. ‘A tiny birdie tells me you’re the man to talk to about,’ she left a pause, leaning in closer, as if that was going to build up dramatic tension, ‘ The Coffinmaker .’

I held up my middle finger. ‘One: sod off.’ Index finger next, flipping her the ‘V’s. ‘Two: never even heard of “The Coffinmaker”.’ The third finger went up. ‘And three: you really think I’m going to talk to you after what you did?’

A pout. ‘All I did was write a book about the Birthday Boy, Ash. I was there too, remember?’ Another nudge. ‘But I’m really pleased you read it.’

‘You turned my daughter’s murder into torture porn!’

‘Ah...’ She wilted a bit under my stare. Shrugged. ‘OK, so I had to take some artistic liberties with events, but my editor insisted. What’s a girl to do?’ She was probably going for a contrite expression, but with half her face immobilised, it didn’t really work.

How did I ever think it’d be a good idea to cheat on my wife with someone so shallow and greedy and vile? What the hell was wrong with me?

‘Go away, Jennifer.’

‘And “The Coffinmaker” is what we’re calling Gordon Smith. From Clachmara? The man with the “Kill Room” in his basement?’ She took her hand from her pocket and slipped it through the crook of my arm. As if we were dating. ‘I’ve been talking to the neighbours. Did you know he’s a set designer? Worked for theatres all over the UK — the new Sherlock Holmes thing on at the King James? That’s one of his. Anyway,’ lowering her voice, as if the graves on all sides were full of eavesdroppers, ‘whenever some neighbour-kid’s pet died, he’d build a small coffin for it out of plywood, paint it up all fancy, so the kid could have a proper funeral. Course, everyone thought he was being a sweet, thoughtful old guy, but now? Creepy as hell, don’t you think?’ She leaned back again, flashing a smile that barely moved her frozen face. ‘Hence, “The Coffinmaker”.’

God save us from tabloid hacks with overactive imaginations.

A magpie landed on the edge of the sludge-filled fountain, cackling at us, as if we were responsible for the horrible weather. Beady black eyes staring. Head tilted to one side as it popped down onto the gravel path.

‘Ash?’ Jennifer gave my arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve heard rumours you were in Smith’s basement. That you’ve got films and photographs. Of the victims.’

The magpie found the crushed triangular box of a prepacked sandwich, bashing its beak against the crumpled plastic window, trying to get at whatever was left inside.

‘And I was thinking, obviously we couldn’t publish the photos themselves, not with us being a family newspaper and everything, but there’s definitely a book in it, right? “Kill Room: the hunt for the Coffinmaker.” You and me could do that.’ Her words, soft and warm against my ear as she leaned in again. ‘We could do all sorts of things. Like we used to, remember?’

A final jab and the plastic ruptured, spilling toenails of brown crust out onto the gravel as wind whipped the container away.

Jennifer pulled herself closer, till the warmth of her body leached through into my ribs. ‘I could do that thing you like?’

I’d rather swallow a pint of bleach.

‘Well? What did the Wicked Witch of the Wank want?’ Shifty emerged from the shadow of a mausoleum, his one remaining eye narrowed to a suspicious slit.

‘Chucking in the river.’ Turning out to be a bit of a theme today.

He followed me back down the path and out through the big iron gates. Into the full force of the howling wind. High overhead, pale grey clouds snaked across the sky, but down here it was strong enough to turn the simple task of heading for the pool car into an undignified lurch.

Didn’t make getting the Vauxhall’s doors open exactly easy, either.

We tumbled inside, the wind slamming them shut.

Shifty wriggled in his seat. ‘How’d she know we were here?’

‘No idea. And I don’t care.’

He started the engine. ‘Can’t believe you used to shag that. Lucky your poor wee willy didn’t shrivel up and drop off with the cold.’ A three-point turn. ‘We finished now? Can I go back to my actual job?’

‘Yeah.’

Half of St Bartholomew’s Road had already been converted into the kind of luxury flats that cost more than most police officers would earn in ten years, the billboards outside advertising, ‘SPACIOUS EXECUTIVE APARTMENTS WITH RIVER VIEWS!’

‘Shifty?’ I cleared my throat. Watched the unsold flats go by. ‘Thanks. For taking me to see Rebecca.’

‘You’re a daft bugger, you know that, don’t you?’ His hand left the gearstick and thumped down on my arm. Gave it a squeeze. ‘How long we been best friends for, thirty years? No way I’d let you go on your own.’

Even after everything we’d been through.

Couldn’t help smiling. ‘You’ll have me welling up in a minute.’ The flats gave way to unconverted warehouses and rat-infested alleyways. ‘Actually, speaking of best friends, any chance you can give me a lift out to Clachmara?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake...’

The pool car rocked on its springs as we crested the hill and looked down on what was left of Clachmara. About another twenty foot of headland had disappeared, swallowed by the North Sea. Waves smashed against what was left, sending up massive spumes of white that were slammed away by the howling wind.

Half of Gordon Smith’s house had gone, the roof caved in on most of what was left.

No rain this time, instead we were greeted by blue skies and churning grey sea. Crumbling yellow-green gardens. The houses looking every bit as depressing in daylight as they had last night. The road was a lot busier, though.

That manky Mobile Incident Unit had been shifted back a couple of houses — now a large white van sat in front of it, while little figures in high-viz outfits and hardhats struggled a new line of temporary fencing into place. Dragging segments from the back of a dirty-big flatbed truck. Looked as if Helen MacNeil’s place was no longer considered safe. She’d love that. Wonder what poor sod had to break the news?

The caravan that’d sat on the drive had followed the MIU inland. Now it sat in the driveway of a boarded-up house, two doors down. Well, where else was she going to go?

This side of the Mobile Incident Unit, a couple of patrol cars were parked sideways across the road, holding back a knot of four-by-fours and hatchbacks. The familiar cluster of outside broadcast vans had relocated here from Divisional Headquarters, ready to give Clachmara its miserable turn in the spotlight.

‘Wow...’ Shifty peered out at the crumbling village and shook his head, setting his jowls wobbling. ‘What a shitehole.’ Weaving the pool car through the minefield of potholes. ‘And you were in that last night?’ Pointing through the windscreen at the remains of Gordon Smith’s house. ‘You’re dafter than you look. And that’s saying something.’

He took us past the outside broadcast vans, the four-by-fours, and hatchbacks — where telephoto lenses were jabbed out through hastily opened windows in our direction — and up to the patrol-car barrier. Flashed his warrant card at the PC behind the wheel of the nearest one, and hooked a thumb off to the side.