Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

Henry’s claws clicked on the concrete floor, Franklin bringing up the rear, closing the door behind her.

‘I’ve always wanted to do a panto version of The Maltese Falcon , but apparently you can’t get the rights for love nor money.’ He cast a furtive glance up and down the aisle, then hauled on a stage whisper. ‘Strictly entre nous , we’re in talks with Ian Rankin’s people. Early days yet, but fingers crossed!’ A wink, then Louis Williamson swept his arms up and out. ‘Anyway, welcome to my emporium of theatrical delights!’

‘We’d like to talk to you about Gordon Smith.’

‘Ah...’ His arms fell back to his sides. ‘Yes, I heard about that unfortunate business with his house and that poor reporter who died . Tragic, simply tragic.’

‘And all the murders, of course.’

‘Quite.’ He wrinkled his nose, as if he’d caught scent of something rancid. ‘Well, Gordon has worked with us since mine dear papa ran the operation. He’s a dab hand at stage sets, every single panto we put on is designed by Gordon Smith.’ Pointing down the aisles. ‘Would you like to see them? It’s no trouble, really.’ And with that Louis did an about-face hop and led the way down ‘DICK WHITTINGTON’ and along ‘SWEENEY TODD’ to the breeze-block wall that marked the join between the two warehouses. ‘Here we go.’ Performing another low bow for Franklin as he ushered her through the open double doors.

She kept her hands clutched up by her chest, where he couldn’t grab and kiss them again.

‘Sorry, the lights don’t work, I’m afraid. I’ve called and called and called the maintenance company, but will they send anyone out?’ He flicked the switch up and down a few times, to demonstrate. ‘Of course they won’t.’

It wasn’t completely dark in here — a thin greasy light oozed in through grubby skylights in the corrugated roof, barely bright enough to make small gloomy islands beneath them. Back in the prop store, it’d been difficult to get a sense of how big the place was — all carved up into segments by the rows of shelving, like that — but this one was huge .

The same set of signage hung from the rafters, but ninety percent of it was illegible in the dismal light. No shelving, instead clumps of metal cages and racks holding sections of scenery and rolls of backdrops, lurked in the shadows — their flat-pack villages and laundries and caves and castles and forests fading into murky silhouettes.

‘This might help.’ Louis picked a handlamp from a shelf by the doors, banging it a couple of times against his palm until a hard white beam lanced out into the dusty air. ‘Please, do feel free to look around. I shall hover nearby ready to assist, should I be needed. Rub the lamp three times and, as if by magic, Louis shall appear!’

‘Thanks.’ You utter freak.

Franklin accepted the proffered handlamp and we wandered away into the racks of scenery, Henry scampering off ahead, then rushing back to run circles around us and off he went again. Happy gunshot barks in the darkness.

She kept her voice down to a whisper, swinging the torch beam across what looked like the disassembled walls of a teeny Post Office. ‘What are we looking for?’

‘Something out of place. Something weird. I don’t know.’

‘ Everything in here looks weird.’ Her torch drifted past a huge dragon’s head.

‘Gordon Smith didn’t pop past for old times’ sake. He came here for a reason. And Leah said he did something terrible last night. Maybe this is where he did it.’

We made our way past Cinderella’s kitchen, Aladdin’s cave, and what looked like a steam train, if steam trains came in kit form.

‘Could’ve been lying low? He knows we’re looking for him, so he steers clear of the hotels and B-and-Bs. Doesn’t want to get recognised.’

‘Possible... What’s that over there?’

In my day, pantomime had been Dick Whittington, Aladdin, Cinderella , and Jack and the Beanstalk , or if you were really unlucky: Mother Goose . But Panto McHaggis Productions had branched out into previously uncharted territory.

A partially constructed set sat in the back corner, furthest away from the door we’d come in through. Details sprang into life as Franklin played her torch over it, then faded away into darkness again. It was big and gothic, with chipboard flying buttresses and painted-on gargoyles. A big slab-like table in the middle, flanked by the kind of Van de Graaff generators that featured in many an old-fashioned horror film. Bulky lumps of fake machinery with oversized cogs and levers. And right at the back, a workbench covered in vials and retorts and distillation equipment. It looked as if they’d been full once, but now the glass bore coloured tidemarks where the liquid inside had evaporated. Cobwebs everywhere.

Shelves lined the fake granite wall above the glasswork, each one home to rows and rows of glass jars that glittered in the torchlight.

‘Holy mother of God...’ Franklin’s torch froze.

The small jars had rubber spiders and things floating in yellowy liquid, but the bigger ones contained something a lot more horrible and a lot more real.

She licked her lips. ‘Can you see what I’m seeing?’

Row upon row of severed human heads.

‘Jesus...’ There had to be two, maybe three dozen of them up there, squashed into large screw-top jars.

Franklin dragged her eyes away from the collection and yanked out her phone, fumbling with the screen. ‘I’ll call it in.’

‘Hello.’ Louis stepped out from behind an oversized coffin. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’

I turned, holding a hand up at chest height. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to step back, sir. This is now an active crime scene.’

‘It is? How exciting !’ He pursed his lips as he looked around the set. ‘Why?’

Seriously?

‘Who else has keys to the warehouse? Does Gordon Smith have keys?’

‘Well, of course he does. He’s working on this, right now. Well, he was, anyway. Before all the... unpleasantness.’ A big smile as Louis gazed at the set. ‘You have to admit, though, he’s one hell of an artist!’

Franklin turned her back on us, one finger in her ear. ‘Mother? It’s me, we need an SOC team down here, ASAP. And a pathologist, Procurator Fiscal, the whole shooting match.’

‘This is slated for His Majesty’s Theatre in Aberdeen, next Christmas: Frankenstein and the Christmas Monster Mash . It’s a working title.’ He stepped onto the set. ‘We’ve got a heap of original songs being written and you should see the special effects.’

‘I don’t know, at least... thirty, maybe more. Severed heads.’ Franklin’s back stiffened. ‘No, I haven’t been drinking!... Why would I make something like that up?’

‘Ah.’ Louis raised a finger. ‘I think there might be a misunderstanding.’ As he scuttled over to the workbench.

‘Step away from the evidence!’

He smiled at me. ‘It’s not what you think.’

‘Of course I’m serious! For God’s sake, Mother: there’s about thirty severed heads down here in—’

‘No! No, they’re not real! They’re not: look!’ Louis scrambled up onto the bench, and grabbed one of the jars off its shelf before I could grab him . ‘It’s me, see? It’s my face. They’re part of the set dressing.’ Holding it out.

Oh.

Up close it definitely was him, nose pressed against the glass, bright-orange shock of hair on top of... The head didn’t actually have a top, it had a thin circular rim instead.

Louis pulled another from the shelf. ‘They’re really easy to make. All you do is you squish your nose against a window and take three pictures — two profiles, one full-face — and you stick them together in Photoshop, then you print them out on waterproof stock, and you slip them into a head-sized jar full of water and some food colouring. Look: there’s nothing else in there.’ He tilted the jar in his hands, showing off the bottom. Nothing inside but the printout.