Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

A nod, and the Constable reversed far enough to let us squeeze through.

‘Don’t say I’m never good to you.’ Shifty pulled up behind the Mobile Incident Unit.

Would’ve thought all that rain last night might have scrubbed it clean, but the thing was even mankier today — its white walls stained a dirty beige.

‘Thanks, Shifty.’ I unclipped my seatbelt, grabbed my walking stick.

‘Hoy, Ash!’ He leaned across the car as I shoved my way out into the wind. ‘You’ll have to speak to Alice at some point. Might as well put on your big boy pants and do it sooner rather than later.’

‘Bye, Shifty.’ Let the wind slam the car door for me. Staggered over to the kerb as he turned the fusty Vauxhall round and headed back towards town.

Right, time to get out of this howling-bastard gale. Every single window in the MIU was steamed up, but the door wouldn’t budge. Thumping the handle up and down didn’t help either. So I hammered on the door with the head of my walking stick. ‘OPEN UP, YOU LAZY BUNCH OF SODS!’

‘Excuse me, sir?’ It was the patrol car’s driver — the one who’d reversed out of the way — clasping his peaked cap to his head, leaning into the gusts, high-viz vest snapping and crackling against his stabproof. ‘Sorry, sir, but they’re not in there.’ Pointing across the road with his free hand, towards a cheerless bungalow. ‘Said the wind was making it impossible to get anything done.’

Course it was.

Mildew filled the gloomy living room with its ancient eldritch scent, fighting against whatever horrible aftershave DC Watt splashed on all over this morning. Mother’s team had kitted the place out with two whiteboards — propped against the peeling wallpaper — and a TV on a stand. They’d even brought in the handful of cheap office chairs that came free with the Mobile Incident Unit, and a solitary Formica desk. Three ancient laptops grumbled away on top: screens glowing, fans whirring. Other than that, the room was empty. Even the carpet was gone, leaving behind an expanse of grubby floorboards that creaked and groaned beneath my feet. The houses on this street must’ve been built from the same set of plans, because a rectangle of solid wood sat in the middle of the floor: a trapdoor down to the basement.

Wonder if anyone had thought to check it for bodies yet?

Mother fiddled with a remote control, frowning as she jabbed it at the black TV screen. Getting nothing back for her efforts. ‘Work, you horrible piece of nonsense...’

I cleared my throat and she turned.

Favoured me with a not-quite-smile. ‘Ash. Detective Superintendent Jacobson said you might be joining us for a while. Are you any good with TVs?’

A snort from Watt as he stuck an A3 printout to the wall with a handful of thumbtacks. ‘Laying low, is what I heard. And I don’t see why we need some civilian screwing up our investigation.’

‘You know John, of course,’ pointing her remote at the weaselly pube-bearded git, ‘and this is DS Dorothy Hodgkin.’

A middle-aged woman in a wheelchair gave me a cheery wave. Black leather jacket on over a thick red shirt, blue jeans rolled up and pinned where her legs came to an abrupt halt — not much above the knee. Long brown hair coiling down either side of a round face. Big grin. ‘But you can call me “Dotty”.’

‘Ash.’

Watt stepped back to admire his handiwork. ‘There we go.’

It was a photograph — head and shoulders of a man with a wide easy smile, wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that looked as if he’d done a lot of laughing over the last six or seven decades. Grey hair, just about clinging to the fringes of a high forehead, eyebrows that sprouted outwards in curling tufts. A neatly trimmed Santa beard.

Watt produced a pen and printed, ‘GORDON SMITH (75)’ across the bottom of the picture.

Mother nodded. ‘Very good, John.’

‘Got it from the theatre — it’s in the programme for that Sherlock Holmes panto.’ He stuck another printout next to it: an old-fashioned boxy grey Mercedes. Watt had added a mock-up of Smith’s number plate underneath the photograph, along with the car’s make and model details.

‘Well done. Very thorough. Now, I think we should...’ Light bloomed in the gloomy room as the bare bulb above our heads stuttered into life.

Call Me Dotty punched the air. ‘ Yes! ’

A woman peered in through the living room door — tall, with broad shoulders and a long rectangular face; strawberry blonde hair down past her shoulders, that somehow managed to look expertly styled, even though it was blowing a force nine outside. Striking blue-green eyes, twinkling as she mugged a huge grin. Dark, fitted suit. Soft Invernesian accent. ‘Talked the electricity board into plugging us back in again.’

‘Lovely.’ Dotty spun her wheelchair around. ‘Any chance of a cuppa, then? I’m gasping.’

Mother brought the remote to bear again. ‘Ash, this is Detective Constable Elliot. Amanda, and everyone else, this is ex-Detective Inspector Ash Henderson from the Lateral Investigative and Review Unit.’ Giving Watt a pointed look. ‘Mr Henderson has worked on a lot of serial killer investigations. He’s going to be joining the team for a while, as a consultant.’

DC Elliot held her hand out for shaking. Had a grip on her that could crush a concrete bollard. ‘Mr Henderson. Mother told me all about your trip into Gordon Smith’s basement. That took some guts!’

Gritted my teeth. ‘Any chance I can have my fingers back in one piece...?’ It was as if she’d wrapped each of my knuckles in the heating-element-wire from a toaster and set it to eleven.

‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ Pink rushing up her neck, setting her pale cheeks glowing.

I stuffed the crushed paw under my armpit. ‘Arthritis.’

‘God, I’m such a klutz .’

Mother handed her a mug with ‘WORLD’S GREATEST DETECTIVE INSPECTOR’ on it. ‘Amanda, if you’re making, I’d love a coffee, and I’m sure Mr Henderson would like one too.’

‘Yes, right. Coffee.’ She turned and marched from the room, thumping the door closed behind her.

‘You’ll have to excuse DC Elliot, Ash, she doesn’t know her own strength sometimes.’ Mother jabbed the remote at the blank TV again. Slumped. Held it out in my direction. ‘Don’t suppose you know anything about these things, do you?’

With the curtains shut, the room was plunged into darkness, the only light coming from the TV screen as everyone perched on their plastic chairs, staring as what I’d recorded in Gordon Smith’s basement played out in all its shaky horrible glory. Yet again.

Alice’s voice crackled out of the TV’s speaker: ‘What the hell is this place?’

The picture swam into a gloomy sea of grey-black pixels, then back to the light again as a string of Polaroids came into focus, the colours blown out by the glow from Alice’s phone. Taking in one torture scene after another.

‘Ash?’

My voice sounded weird. Higher than normal, a little shaky. ‘It’s a kill room.’

‘Oh God. Ash, they’re—’

A muffled rumble and the Polaroids shook, faded out of focus into a grainy scrabble of blacks and greys. Henry’s barks stabbed out like gunshots and the screen went dark.

The distorted double-echo of my phone recording its own generic ringtone.

‘Hello?’

Mother shifted in her seat, grimacing as a tinny version of her own voice burst into the room. ‘GET OUT OF THERE NOW! THE HEADLAND’S GOING!’

Then it all became a confused smear of barely visible shapes rushing across the screen.

Me: ‘Quick! Outside!’

Alice: ‘No, no, no, no, no...’ The screen darkened as she ran away, taking the light with her.