Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

The door opened and a blurry figure stood there, blinking out at us. Oily coils of whisky oozed out with him, leaving one of his knees locked and the other one wobbly. Wrapped in a towelling dressing gown, brawny arms poking out of the short sleeves. ‘What?’ Voice all slurred. ‘I was... was in the bath...’

Broad shoulders. Thinning hair, swept back from a tanned scalp. Strong jaw and muscular neck. But it was the eyes that gave it away: bright sapphire, with a dark border.

He was the solicitor I’d met at HMP Oldcastle: the one having a weep, round the side, by the bins; the one who said we could probably buy Steven Kirk off with eight to ten grand, so he wouldn’t press charges.

Shifty gave him a goooood long look up and down. A half smile. ‘Kenny.’

Kenneth Dewar’s bottom lip wobbled for a moment, then tears spilled out of those wolf’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

I banged the tip of my cane on the door. ‘Much though I hate to break the sexual tension, you had an appointment with Dr Alice McDonald at noon.’

He nodded. Palmed the tears from his eyes. ‘I heard on the news. I’m so, so sorry.’

Shifty rubbed his hands together. ‘Look, can we come in? It’s Baltic out here.’

Another nod, then he turned and led the way into a living room festooned with old magazines and empty takeaway containers. Many of which harboured things well on the evolutionary route to sentience. The whole place smelled like a bin bag that’d been left in the sun.

So much for ‘completely shaggable’ — Kenneth Dewar was a slob.

He scooped armfuls of yellowed newspapers off a cheap couch and waved us to sit. Wiped away the tears again. ‘How can I help?’ Sounding slightly more sober now.

When he dumped his hoarded newspapers behind the couch there was a Father Jack clatter of empty bottles.

A quick peek over the back revealed that most of them were supermarket own-brand whisky. So not just a slob, a functioning-alcoholic slob.

Given the state of the place, it was probably more hygienic to stay standing. ‘We need to know what you and Alice talked about.’

‘Yes. Of course.’ Dewar gave a deep, shuddering breath, looking at the floor beneath his wet feet — drips of soapy water soaking into newsprint, turning it a darker shade of grey. ‘She was lovely. She really was. Wanted to know all about Oscar and Lewis and Toby and Andrew. And... she was so easy to talk to, you know?’ Dewar folded his thick arms around himself, muscles rippling beneath the hairy skin. ‘I’ve never met anyone so sympathetic to other people’s problems.’

‘And what problems were those, Mr Dewar?’

His shoulders came up. ‘Sheriff, Gerrard, and Butler do mostly corporate work, but the partners think it’s important to have a presence in the courts as well. And I’m always the one who ends up lumbered with the scumbag defendants — the wife beaters and the sex offenders.’

Sounded familiar. ‘Because there are enough fascist states in the world without us being one of them?’

Another nod. ‘You think it’s easy? Walking into those interview rooms, knowing your client is a rancid piece of shit who ruins everything, every life , they touch? Dr McDonald understood .’ Dewar bit his bottom lip, those wolf’s eyes spilling tears down his cheeks. ‘She gave me her card, for... She said I might benefit from therapy. And now...’

That was Alice, always trying to help the broken and the lonely.

Shifty pulled a face, raising his eyebrows as Dewar stood there and sobbed.

Well what the hell was I supposed to do about it?

I cleared my throat. ‘Do you need us to call someone?’

Dewar scrubbed at his face again. ‘Sorry. You don’t need to see this.’

‘It’s OK.’

Another shuddering breath, then what was probably meant to be a smile. ‘Sorry. I’d better get dressed. Standing here like an idiot. Please,’ pointing at the tip he lived in, ‘make yourselves at home. I’ll only be a minute.’

Then he turned and slumped from the room, one hand over his face, shoulders trembling. Then the heavy damp slap - slap - slap of his feet, climbing the stairs.

‘Jesus.’ Shifty puffed out his cheeks. ‘What a mess.’

Difficult to tell if he was talking about the house or the man.

‘Think you dodged a bullet, there.’

‘Yeah, probably.’

Upstairs, a door clunked shut.

I leaned back against the wall — it was the only clean surface in the room. ‘So Alice comes here, she asks Dewar about all the victims, offers him therapy, then heads off to her next appointment: Chris McHale.’

Shifty checked his watch. ‘Maybe we should’ve tried Ditchburn Road, instead?’

Outside, the first spots of rain clicked against the living room window.

A big tabby cat slunk its way through the front garden, across the empty parking bay, then up the waist-height brick wall and down into next door’s.

Empty parking bay.

Surely someone working for a hotshot corporate law firm would have a car? So where was it? And back at the prison, he’d said he was working on an appeal by a prisoner who’d beaten up the mother of his child, and now wanted access to the kid. Bet that kid was Andrew Brennan’s baby brother.

Alice said there was a paedophile ring operating in Kingsmeath, but what if it wasn’t a ring? What if it was one man?

‘Shifty?’

He puffed his cheeks out at me. ‘I think we should go eat before we interview anyone else.’

‘Oscar Harris’s uncle, the DJ with the neckbeard — you said he gave you an alibi then got his lawyer involved. Who was the lawyer?’

Shifty’s finger came up to point to the ceiling above our heads. ‘Like he said, he has to represent all the dodgy scumbags, so...’ Shifty’s eyes widened.

I followed his gaze to the light fitting. Water oozed out around where the thing fixed to the plasterboard, trickled down the plastic cable and dripped off the lightbulb. Pattering down on the already wet newspapers where Dewar had been standing.

‘Move!’

Out the living room door, lumbering up the stairs, Shifty hard on my heels.

The landing handrail was festooned with clothes, the carpet sticky as I lurched past an open bedroom door — another tip — to the closed bathroom. The handle rattled as I gripped and twisted, but didn’t open.

Locked.

‘Shifty!’

He barged past and slammed his shoulder into the door. It boomed and rattled. So he did it again, only this time the thing smashed inwards, the lock ripping from the doorframe, bottom hinges giving way so the door sagged like a twisted sail.

Water covered the bathroom floor, spilling out over the sides of an overfilled bath.

And there was Kenneth Dewar, lying naked in it, both arms stretched out in front of him, slashed from elbow to wrist the flesh inside dark — pulsing deep-red swirls out into the tub. A serene smile on his face. ‘I’m sorry...’ as his head fell back to thunk against the mould-blackened tiles.

‘Bastard!’ I grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved his head under the water.

‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Shifty tugged at my arms. ‘Get off him!’

I let go with my bad hand and threw an elbow backwards. It thumped into something solid, but Shifty didn’t let go.

‘It was him ! He hit Alice with his car — that’s why it’s not parked outside! Hiding the evidence. He’s Gòrach.’

‘If he’s Gòrach, he’s the only one who knows where Toby Macmillan is, you idiot!’

Oh for...

Shifty was right.

I hauled Dewar out of the bath and onto the bathroom floor, bringing a tidal wave of pink-tinged water with him. ‘We need tourniquets!’