Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

We abandoned the small waiting room, Franklin simmering away behind me, glowering at everything and everyone as we followed the bloke down grey concrete corridors that stank of fresh paint.

‘We’re having a spruce up: going for something a bit more cheery.’ A hand came out to wave at the bland walls. ‘This’ll all be bright primary colours when it’s done. I wanted a mural, but there wasn’t the budget.’ A combination of ID card and pincodes got us through a series of thick doors with safety-glass inserts, opening and closing to a running commentary on what colour what wall was going to end up.

Not sure if he was nervous, or really liked the sound of his own voice.

‘And this is us, here.’ He ushered us through into a small meeting room.

No windows. Instead, a watercolour painting of Edinburgh Castle — as imagined by a six-year-old with no artistic skill whatsoever — took pride of place on the far wall. A lone pot plant sagged in the corner, its plastic leaves drooping. One manky coffee table, and four uncomfortable-looking chairs upholstered in vile patterned fabric.

Two occupants: a prison officer, every bit as over-muscled as our guide, leaning with her back against the wall, off-blonde hair pulled into a saggy ponytail; and a man in his late sixties, early seventies. He looked up from a plastic cup of something brown, ran his deep-set eyes across me, then did the same with Franklin.

Leered.

‘Hello, darling . You’re a vision to warm a man’s heart, aren’t you?’ He had a sharp face, not helped by the pointy goatee dangling off the end of his chin. He’d swept his grey hair forward, probably thought it covered that bald shiny crown, but it gave him a look of Nero’s pervier uncle. Prison sweatshirt and jogging bottoms. A pair of white trainers that had never seen the outside world. And never would. ‘Tell you, this place is full of poofs and wankers, so it does a body good to see a real woman for a change. Instead of these muscly dykes.’ He turned his smile on the prison officer. ‘No offence, Shona.’

Shona narrowed her eyes, but didn’t say anything. Not while there were witnesses present, anyway.

There was a pause as Franklin’s cheeks darkened. Winding herself up to a proper explosion.

OK. Time to be the grown-up again.

‘Mr Smith.’ I settled into one of the other chairs. ‘You know why we’re here?’

‘Oh aye: saw it on the lunchtime news. My wee brother’s been a naughty boy, has he?’

‘Runs in the family.’ A smile. ‘Detective Sergeant, would you care to refresh everyone’s memory?’

Franklin pulled a printout from her suit pocket. ‘Peter Smith, currently serving sixteen years in Saughton—’

‘Actually,’ our guide raised a hand, ‘the official name is HMP Edinburgh, so if you don’t mind...?’

Her back stiffened. ‘ Fine .’ That one word making it clear it really wasn’t. ‘Serving sixteen years in “HMP Edinburgh” for murdering a GP. According to the file, you stabbed her thirty-two times.’

Smith shrugged. ‘Tempers became heated.’

‘Then there’s the three years you did in Oldcastle for aggravated assault, the stint for attempted abduction, and a four-year stay at Peterhead Prison for sexually assaulting a pregnant schoolteacher.’

A wistful look slid its way across his face. ‘I’ve led quite the colourful life, haven’t I?’

‘Not to mention the four allegations of rape.’

Another shrug.

I hooked my walking stick over the back of the chair next to mine. ‘Tell us about your brother, Peter. What’s Gordon like?’

‘Now you’re asking.’ He sat back, knees spread far apart, crotch pointing in Franklin’s direction. ‘You heard about the coffins, yes? Making them for the kids if their pets died? Aye, that’s not new, Gordy’s been doing that all his life. Turned out a lovely one to bury the neighbour’s Dachshund in, painted it like a racing car and everything.’ Smith shook his head. ‘Course the dog wasn’t dead. At least, not when it went into the coffin. Could hear it whining as Gordy shovelled the soil in on top. Ashes to ashes, and all that.’

No one said anything.

‘Always thought it was a bit of a cliché, myself, but that was Gordy for you. And he learned to hide it well, had to give him that. By his eighth birthday, you’d never have known how screwed up he was inside. Always smiling, singing happy tunes to himself. Course I knew about the humane traps he used on the mice in the basement.’ Smith winked at Franklin. ‘Oh yes, the traps were humane, but what he did to those wee mice when everyone went to sleep? That wasn’t humane at all...’

Our guide cleared his throat. The prison officer, Shona, shifted against the wall, fidgeting with her keys. The central heating pinged and gurgled.

‘Poor wee Gordy never was... robust like me. He let it get to him. So Dad used to batter the living hell out of us, so what? Even the sexual stuff, you don’t have to let that define you, do you? Bet there’s millions of people out there been interfered with and never killed anyone.’

I sat forward. ‘ You killed someone.’

‘That’s not the same thing at all: Dr Griffiths had it coming. If she’d been any sort of real doctor, she would’ve caught Caroline’s cancer before it was too late to do anything about it, wouldn’t she?’ He poked his cheek out with his tongue, head wobbling in faux-modesty. ‘When you think about it, I did the NHS a favour, taking that useless cow out of the gene pool.’

Now that was interesting...

I threw Franklin a glance to see if she’d spotted it, but she was still busy with her scowling.

‘Anyway,’ Smith waved away the notion, ‘that stuff with the animals: Gordy’s way of coping, wasn’t it? I’m sure he had nothing to do with all those alleged dead bodies you say you found, but can’t produce. Because “the nasty storm’s eaten them all”.’ Smith wasn’t making a very good job of hiding his smile. ‘Allegedly. If they ever existed in the first place.’

Sometimes, all you needed to do was leave a long enough gap in an interview, and the suspect would scramble to fill it with something incriminating. But when I gave it a go, Peter Smith settled back in his seat, hands behind his head, legs out, ankles crossed.

OK.

‘Tell me about your croft...?’ I raised my eyebrows at Franklin.

She checked her notes. ‘Wester Brae of Kinbeachie.’

‘Not much to tell. Ninety-three acres, most of it bog and reeds. Loads of gorse. And it’s a farm , not a croft.’ He sniffed, pursed his lips. ‘Inherited it off an uncle. He was “hands on” with wee boys too. Suppose it must’ve run in the family...’ Smith frowned down at his hands. The fingers seemed to have worked themselves into a knot. He unlaced them, one by one. ‘To be honest, it’s amazing Gordon and me turned out as well as we did.’

Talk about setting a low bar.

‘And who’s looking after this “farm” while you’re in here?’

‘Nah,’ he waved that away, ‘nothing worth looking after. Animals all died years ago. Nothing left but weeds and mud and a farmhouse you wouldn’t keep dogs in. Whole place needs burning to the ground.’ A smile. ‘No point salting the earth, though, sod all grows there anyway.’

Franklin pulled her chin up. ‘And where do you think your brother is now?’

That leer returned. ‘He’d like you.’

‘He’s not at your so-called farm, we checked. So where is he?’

‘See, we share a taste in women, Gordon and me.’ Peter sat forward. ‘Young and tight. Bet you know how to treat a man, don’t you? With your low-cut top and pert firm breasts.’

That imminent-explosion look was back on Franklin’s face again.