Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

Franklin paced back and forth in front of the Van de Graaff generators. ‘I don’t know. Far as we can tell Gordon Smith must’ve been keeping them down here for years. It’s an extension of—’

I cleared my throat. ‘Franklin?’

‘—horrific collection. The Polaroids weren’t enough any more, so he’s—’

‘FRANKLIN!’

She turned and glared at me. ‘Do you mind? I’m trying to—’

‘It’s all make-believe.’ I unscrewed the jar with Louis’s head in it and pulled the printout free. Held it there, dripping on the warehouse floor. ‘They’re fakes.’

Her face creased shut, jaw clenched as she curled up at the knees for a moment. Then stood. Eyes closed, free hand clasping her forehead. ‘No, I’m still here, Mother. I...’ Deep breath. ‘There’s been a misunderstanding.’

‘Now this one, right here is the holy grail, as far as I’m concerned.’ Louis held up another head-in-a-jar. Fiddled about with the lid. Then beamed with pride as the head inside blinked then started to sing. The words coming out all muffled and tinny:

‘Got a prototype manufactured by this wonderful boutique electronics firm in South Korea — semi-flexible curved screen that takes pre-filmed footage on USB and displays it. Bluetooth to the theatre sound system. Cost an absolute fortune to develop, but can you imagine a dozen of them singing along while the monster dances for the kiddies?’ He clicked the thing off and tucked it under his arm. ‘What a show!’

I stared up at the shelf with its collection of heads. Then raised an eyebrow at Franklin. ‘Just to be on the safe side?’

She rolled her eyes, huffed out a breath, but clambered up onto the bench anyway and clinked her way through the jars. Taking each one off its shelf, turning it upside down, then putting it back again. ‘All fakes.’

Louis shrugged. ‘Not sure if I should say “sorry” or not. I mean, I’m sorry it got everyone so worked up, but on the other hand, it’s nice they’re not real, isn’t it?’

She climbed down again, brushing dust and fake cobwebs off the knees of her suit trousers. ‘So why was Gordon Smith here last night?’

‘I honestly and truly have no idea.’

Franklin’s feet left scuff marks in the dust as we followed her torch in a slow-motion tour of the warehouse, stopping to examine each cluster of scenery. ‘Of course, Mother now thinks I’m an idiot.’

‘No one thinks you’re an idiot.’ I raised my voice. ‘HENNNNNRY?’ His name echoed back at me from the corrugated metal roof. ‘Where are you, you horrible stinker? HENNNNNNNRY?’

She glanced over her shoulder, in the vague direction of where we’d left Louis Williamson, by the Frankenstein set. ‘So we’re right back where we started from.’

‘Smith was here for a reason .’

‘How am I supposed to be taken seriously when I’m calling my DI and banging on about severed heads in jars? Mother thought I was making it all up!’ Franklin’s shoulders drooped as she swung the torch around another pile of scenery. This one looked like it might fit together into a barber’s shop, complete with an oversized leather chair that had more than a whiff of the dentist about it and a big set of hinges at the back. ‘Taken me three years to prove I’m rehabilitated enough to transfer out to another team, and now I look like a cast-iron grade A...’ She stopped.

I limped past a couple of feet, then turned. ‘No one thinks you’re an idiot, OK? Now, can we get on with—’

‘This “something strange” we’re looking for.’ She wobbled the torch beam around in a small circle. ‘Would it be something like that?’

It was the bedroom scene from Goldilocks and the Three Bears , partially erected against the wall, in a gap between two racks of flat-pack trees, mountains, and a gingerbread house. And someone had clearly been sleeping in all three of the beds — the covers rumpled and pulled back, indentations in the pillows where their heads had been.

‘OK, so what do we do now?’ Franklin stayed where she was as I hobbled closer.

Three beds. Gordon Smith, Leah MacNeil, and the unknown woman from the car? Assuming she was even real, of course. Or maybe, if Leah was Smith’s twisted idea of a substitute wife, he’d found a fresh victim for them to torture and kill together?

She did say he’d done something terrible last night...

‘We need to get an SOC team down here after all — test the beds, see if we can get a DNA match.’

Franklin groaned. ‘Bit of a comedown, isn’t it? Severed heads to a couple of unmade beds?’

Henry’s bark rattled back from the roof and walls, before fading away into silence.

‘Could be worse: at least we found something.’

‘And can you imagine what Mother’s going to say when I call her?’ Franklin pulled out her phone and grimaced at it. ‘“Are you sure you’re not making it up this time as well, Rosalind? Only you got rather overexcited about the heads-in-jars thing, remember?”’

Another bark from Henry. Then the skitter of his little clawed feet on the concrete as he scampered in out of the gloom to wheech around me twice then drop a manky tennis ball at my feet. The thing was almost bald, what was left of its bright-yellow fur stained a grimy brown. Glistening with slavers.

Well if he thought I was picking that up and throwing it for him, he was in for a disappointment.

Another bark, then Henry snatched it up in his mouth and disappeared off in the direction he’d just come from.

Thick as mince.

I gave Franklin a shrug. ‘Three beds: Gordon Smith, Leah MacNeil, and, potentially, a new victim. Do we have a choice?’

‘God’s sake.’ She poked at her phone, then held the thing to her ear. Sighed. ‘Mother? It’s Rosalind. I need an SOC team... Yes, very funny, but—... No. No, this isn’t the same thing as last time...’

I limped after Henry, pulling out his lead.

Probably best not to have him charging about the place compromising any evidence. Assuming it really had been Gordon Smith and Leah MacNeil in Daddy and Mummy Bears’ beds, and not some lazy night watchman.

‘Henry? Come on, you wee sod, time for you to go back in the car.’

Another bark, up ahead in the gloom.

Took out my phone and started the torch app, its small circle of cold white light dissipating after only a couple of feet. Limping past bits of a library — all the books painted on — and what might have been the bow of a pirate ship.

‘Henry! Get your hairy arse back here.’

Two small spheres glowed in the darkness, a couple of feet above the ground: Henry’s eyes.

‘You’re a massive pain in my backside, you know that, don’t you?’

A bark.

He was turning tight circles in front of yet another lump of disassembled scenery, only this one was covered in a huge blue plastic tarpaulin. And the thing he was circling was that manky tennis ball. Still, at least it kept him where he’d be easy to grab.

My phone ding-buzzed in my hand.

ROBOSABIR:

>>Target Phone Activation Detected

>>Requesting Location Data

Leah had turned her mobile on again.

Ding-buzz .

ROBOSABIR:

>>Triangulating Source

>>Pending

Maybe this time we’d get lucky?

Henry hunkered down, forelegs extended towards me, bum in the air, tail whooshing from side to side. Then he snatched up the vile tennis ball in his gob, turned, and off he went, scurrying away into the depths of the warehouse again. Little idiot.