Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

‘Yeah, but the guy’s buzzer isn’t working, and if I don’t deliver his meal they’re going to take it out my wages. Come on, be a mensch.’

‘Gah... Fine.’ A grumbling metal noise, then click , the door was unlocked.

Worked every time. Well, almost.

I pushed inside, Shifty following me up the dark winding stairs to the first floor.

Flat Four had a bicycle chained up outside it, seat and handlebars removed. A small plastic plaque on the scuffed brown door: ‘C MCHALE ESQ’ so an even bigger prick than he’d sounded on the phone.

Shifty pulled on his own pair of nitrile gloves. ‘What if he’s got someone living with him, or a visitor?’

‘Then they get to have a horrible evening too.’

‘Fair enough.’ Shifty put one fat thumb over the spyhole and knocked with his other hand. Raised his voice for, ‘Deliveroo!’ Knocked again. ‘I wasn’t kidding, by the way, that jacket’s hideous and it stinks of weed.’

‘My own coat’s covered in blood, OK? It was this or looking like something off the Texas Chainsaw Massacre .’

Shifty gave the door another knock, louder and harder this time. ‘Not sure it’s much of an improvement.’ Deep breath, another thumping knock. ‘DELIVEROO!’

A thin metallic rattling noise, then the door popped open a crack and a sliver of puffy face glowered out at us. ‘You’ve got the wrong—’

Shifty rammed his shoulder into the door, ripping the security chain from its moorings, as he lumbered in over the threshold.

The man stumbled back, one hand clutching his face. A short bloke, pale and overweight, hair swept up at the front into a greying quiff, wearing tartan lounging trousers and a faded ‘STEAMPUNK SEX TOY ~ WORLD TOUR 2013!’ T-shirt. ‘You can’t—’

A right hook to the uncovered side of his head sent him crashing against the wall, then slithering down till he was slumped against the skirting board. Shifty stood over him, flexing that big fist.

‘Chris McHale?’

He wobbled where he sat. No reply.

‘Fine.’ Shifty grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him upright. ‘Let’s find your bathroom, shall we? See if you float.’ Opening doors at random, then shoving McHale inside.

While the sound of water splashing into the bath echoed out into the hall, I checked the rest of the flat. It had the clinical tidiness of a neat-freak who lived alone and didn’t get out much. A big collection of vinyl records, all in alphabetically labelled shelving. The same with DVDs. Widescreen TV and a turntable. Bedroom was every bit as neat, and so was the kitchen. A selection of coats and jackets on hangers in a hallway alcove, shoes and boots lined up in pairs beneath them. Which only left the bathroom.

Not quite so tidy in here. Not with Chris McHale cowering next to the toilet, while Shifty filled the bath.

I leaned against the doorframe. ‘You’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you, Chris?’

‘You can’t... I didn’t...’ Deep breath. ‘Please! This isn’t—’

‘Going to give you one chance, then it’s face down in the bath you go.’

‘ Please! I don’t know what she’s told you, but I never touched her, I swear! She’s a lying bitch, you know that. All she ever does is lie!’

‘You greasy bastard.’ A nearly-full bottle of Alberto Balsam Sunkissed Raspberry shampoo didn’t weigh all that much, but if you hurled it with enough force, at someone’s face...

McHale shrieked, flinching back against the cistern, hand coming up to cover his left eye. ‘I didn’t touch her! She was playing on the swings and she fell off and I helped her up, that’s all! I didn’t mean to see her knickers.’

Ah. So he wasn’t talking about Alice, then?

The matching raspberry conditioner felt as if it had a bit more heft to it. ‘Dr McDonald. She interviewed you this morning: one o’clock.’

‘Doctor...? This isn’t about Tracy Fordyce?’ A small laugh. ‘It’s not about her. I didn’t—’

The conditioner battered into his forehead, hard enough to split the plastic and send a gush of sweet-smelling pink out across his chest and the wall behind.

‘Aaaaaaaargh!’

‘You followed Alice after she left here, didn’t you, Chris?’

‘Please, please I don’t—’

‘You followed her and somehow you got her out of her car, and then you ran her over.’

‘That’s not—’

‘She’s in Intensive Care , you little shite!’

Shifty turned off the taps and hauled Chris McHale from his hiding place. ‘Time for swimming.’ Then whacked him against the side of the bath and shoved his head under the steaming water.

Arms and legs thrashing, or at least until Shifty knelt one leg across the guy’s calves.

‘Think that’s enough?’

I held out my good hand, fingers counting down to a clenched fist.

McHale surfaced, bringing an arc of raspberry-scented water with him. Coughing and spluttering between the sobs.

‘What did you do with her car, Chris?’

‘I... I didn’t... didn’t do... anything... to her! I... I swear! On... my mother’s... grave ... I never... touched her.’

‘Under you go.’ Shifty put his weight behind it this time, grinding McHale’s face into the bottom of the tub. ‘What if the wee shite’s telling the truth?’

‘Alice said there might be a paedophile ring operating in Kingsmeath. Can you think of a better cover than being a Court-Appointed Mentor? Your charges come pre-messed-up, who’s going to notice them going slightly further off the deep end, because you’re fiddling with them too?’

‘And he’s seen this Tracy girl’s knickers.’ A frown. ‘That’s probably enough.’ Shifty hauled him back above the waterline.

‘AAAAAARGH!’ More coughing, followed by a lot of retching.

‘ Quiet! ’ Shifty slapped him, hard. ‘Want me to give you something to scream about?’

‘Please!... I swear... she... she came and... and asked her... questions... and wrote it all down... then... then she left!’

I picked up a pumice stone — that would do a fair chunk of damage at high velocity. ‘What did she ask you?’

‘I don’t... I think it was... mostly stuff about Toby Macmillan and did... did he have any friends and... what was his family really like... Because they all pretend they love him when the cameras are on, don’t they? But his stepdad liked to... to use the top of his head as an... ashtray, didn’t he? And they broke... broke his arm when... when he was three. And... and his mum’s... doing eighteen months... for neglect.’

Poor wee sod.

‘What else?’

McHale blinked at me, tears and snot mingling with the water running from his flattened quiff. ‘I don’t know .’

‘Time for another dunk?’ Shifty tightened his grip. ‘In you—’

‘No! I...’ Biting his lip. ‘I don’t... She went really weird and quiet... towards the end. Kept flipping back through her notes and staring at something. Underlining bits.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know! Please, I promise you, I don’t. I was telling her about Toby’s mum appealing against her sentence, and that’s when she stopped paying attention. Said she had to go walk her dog. Then she left. I swear that’s all that happened!’

Shifty raised the eyebrow above his eyepatch. ‘Once more for luck?’

Shook my head. ‘No. I think he’s telling the truth.’

‘Oh, thank God...’ It was as if all the bones had been removed from McHale’s body, leaving nothing but a soggy limp slough of skin behind. ‘I never touched her.’

‘Now then,’ Shifty’s massive paw wrapped itself around McHale’s face, thumb and fingers digging into the cheeks, forcing the lips out into a chicken’s-bum pout, ‘just so we’re clear, I ever hear that you’ve been looking funny at a wee girl you’re supposed to be mentoring? I’m going to come back here and they’re going to find what’s left of you floating in this bathtub. Am I clear?’