Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

where you are and we’re on our way. It’ll

all be over very, very soon!

My finger hovered over the ‘SEND’ icon.

What if she wasn’t the only one reading her texts? What if Smith had got access to her phone? He’d probably slit her throat and run for it, before Mother and her team could get there. We’d never get another chance like this. Was it really worth the risk?

I deleted everything but the first sentence and tried again:

You have to be strong, Leah.

We WILL find you and Gordon Smith won’t

be able to hurt you, or anyone else, ever

again.

SEND.

One more for good luck:

But I need you to tell me what happened

last night. We found a young man’s body

today. His mum and dad have a right to

know what happened to him.

SEND.

Well, it was worth a try, anyway.

‘Milk, no sugar.’ Franklin wandered over and handed me a polystyrene cup full of something beige. ‘They didn’t have decaf.’

‘Scuse me, coming through, beep beep.’ A pair of techs trundled a portable generator past on squeaky wheels, closely followed by another pair carrying big work lights on bigger stands.

‘Thanks.’ It tasted every bit as nasty as it looked.

She took a sip of whatever it was she’d got herself. ‘I miss anything?’

‘Not yet, but that might change.’ Pointing in the direction the techs had disappeared, as a figure in the full Smurf outfit zwip-zwopped their way towards us.

Stopped and pulled her facemask down. Her accent was semi-posh southern English, with a slight hint of Essex about it. ‘Which one of you’s the senior officer?’ The words spat out hard and fast. Like a typewriter.

Franklin stood up straighter. ‘I am.’ Stuck her hand out for shaking. ‘Detective Sergeant Rosalind Franklin. This is Ash Henderson, he’s a consultant.’

‘Ex-DI.’ In case anyone cared.

The newcomer snapped off her nitrile gloves and gave Franklin’s hand a brief up-and-down. ‘DCI Jane Jopson.’ Pulled back her hood, revealing a long ash-blonde bob. Flashed the kind of smile that showed off a good chunk of gum above her top teeth. ‘Well, we’ll need the family to ID his body, assuming the mortuary can make it presentable...’ She glanced back, over her shoulder. ‘Which doesn’t seem likely, given the state of it. But I think it’s safe to say our victim’s David Quinn. Sixteen. His parents reported him missing last night when he didn’t come home from a friend’s house.’ Jopson tapped the side of her neck. ‘Port stain birthmark.’

The chuff-chuff-chuff of a generator starting came from behind her, rattling up to a diesel growl. Then those big work lights flickered into life, bouncing off the roof, spreading enough illumination to see by, even all the way over here.

‘Any idea where our victim was abducted?’

Jopson looked at me, as if I’d slithered out from under a rock. ‘Before we go any further, let’s get one thing clear, ex-DI Haroldson—’

‘Henderson.’

‘Whatever. This, right here?’ Describing a circle with one finger. ‘Is my investigation. I’m the one running it. And even if you were still in the job, I’d outrank you. So for now, I’ll be the one asking the questions.’ Another smile, but this one cold and sharp. ‘Let’s start with: what makes you think this was your “Coffinmaker”?’

‘The MO, ma’am.’ Franklin was actually standing to attention now. ‘It’s virtually identical, all except for leaving the body behind. Normally he buries them in his garden.’

‘I see. What’s his usual abduction methodology?’

‘Unknown, ma’am. The most recent victim we know about is from sixteen years ago.’

‘Well, that’s not entirely true, is it?’ I leaned back against the nearest chunk of scenery. ‘We know he befriends them first. Otherwise he couldn’t get them to pose for their photographs the way he does.’ Because ex-DI Haroldson wasn’t an idiot.

Franklin’s cheeks darkened. ‘Well, yes. There is that. He takes photos of his victims before he abducts them, ma’am. And photos of them after he’s... finished with their bodies.’

‘I see.’ Jopson nodded. ‘And this “Coffinmaker”, Gordon Smith, he worked here, did he?’

‘All over the country. Designing sets for theatrical productions.’ Franklin pointed. ‘He did all these.’

‘Right, well thank you for your help, DS Franklin. Ex-DI Haroldson. I’ll be in touch if we need anything else. In the meantime, you can give Sergeant Marland your statements. And shoes.’ And with that, she turned her back and zwip-zwopped away again.

I turned to Franklin. ‘You total, and utter, crawler.’

Those cheeks darkened again. ‘I am not a crawler.’

‘“Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. Look at me, all standing to attention and being efficient, ma’am.”’

‘There’s nothing wrong with being efficient!’

Couldn’t keep the smile hidden any longer. ‘Crawler.’

‘Hmph.’ She folded her arms, then looked left and right. ‘Any idea where this Sergeant Marland’s—’

My phone burst into song. ‘DI MALCOLMSON’, according to the screen. ‘Mother?’

‘All right, I said I’d keep you in the loop, so consider yourself looped.’ The sound was a bit tinny, with an underlying growl to it, as if she was in a car.

Franklin leaned closer. ‘Have they got him?’

‘Not yet.’ Back to the phone. ‘You got all your teams?’

‘Shockingly enough, yes. Dogs, Guns, and Thugs. Did think about holding off and doing it in the wee small hours, but what if Smith moves on? Or goes out?’

‘Or kills Leah MacNeil.’

‘That’s the scenario I’m trying not to think about, thank you very much.’ The engine got louder. ‘Here we go...’

A wee man in a double-breasted three-piece pinstriped suit that gave him the air of a 1920’s gangster, lumbered out from behind a lump of scenery. His arms were a lot longer than they had any right being as well. As if an orangutan had escaped from the zoo by dressing like a bank manager. Hair slicked into a severe side parting. And when he smiled no two of his teeth pointed in the same direction. ‘DS Franklin?’

I pointed at her.

Scrunching noises came down the line, followed by the whoomph, whoomph, whoomph , of Mother’s breath as she ran.

The splintering boom of a door being whacked off its hinges by a big red door key.

Muffled voices in the background: ‘GO, GO, GO!’

‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’

Whoomph, whoomph, whoomph ...

‘DS Franklin, I’m DS Marland, but you can call me Colin, if you like? Good. Yes.’

‘LIVING ROOM: CLEAR!’

‘Now, the chief tells me you’re the ones who discovered the body, is that right?’ Pulling out a black police-issue notebook. ‘I’d like you to take me through the series of events, starting from how you found yourself at the warehouse, here.’

I stuck a finger in my other ear and limped away a dozen paces.

‘KITCHEN: CLEAR!’

More banging and crashing.

Whoomph, whoomph, whoomph ...

Thumba-thumba-thumba-thumba...

Was that feet, thundering up a set of wooden stairs?

My phone announced an incoming text with that strange pop-ding again.

LEAH MACNEIL:

Am I going 2 have 2 go 2 prison? He

made me watch I didn’t want 2 but he

made me & it was horrible & I can’t stop

shaking

Another splintering boom — the noise tinny, because I didn’t have the phone to my ear.

‘YOU ON THE GROUND! ON THE GROUND NOW!’