Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

‘On it.’ Shifty lurched out to the landing and returned seconds later with a T-shirt from the railing and a pair of jeans. He twisted the T-shirt into a thick cord and tied it around Dewar’s upper arm, as close to the elbow as possible, tendons straining in his neck as he pulled it tight enough to make the stitches creak. ‘Come on, come on, come on. Stop bleeding, you wanker...’

It was the jeans next: twisting one leg then tying it around Dewar’s other arm.

Sat back on his haunches. ‘Not great, but it’ll have to do.’

I curled a hand into a fist. ‘Only needs to last till he tells us where Toby Macmillan is. Then he dies.’

Shifty shook his head. ‘Are you off your head? If he dies now , he dies pissed on whisky — anaesthetised, feeling no pain, and by his own hand. Thought you wanted to make him suffer?’

My mouth opened, then closed again.

Had to admit it: Shifty had a point.

He took hold of Dewar’s ankles and dragged him out onto the landing, making for the stairs. ‘This bastard’s going to hospital, and when he gets better, he’s going to prison, where we’ll make sure every single day is like the Marquis de Sade’s worst nightmare.’ Shifty paused, frowning down at the pale naked body — the lolling head, open mouth, and closed eyes. ‘Well, as long as he doesn’t die on the way to A-and-E.’

‘We need to question him before we call an ambulance.’ Not that he looked in any fit state to be interviewed. Better get his attention first — wake him up a bit. I limped forward onto my bullet-holed right foot, took the weight, then smashed my left heel down on the bastard’s balls.

He sat upright, howling, elbows coming in towards his groin — the arms and hands dangling from them already going a blueish grey.

I squatted down beside him. Slapped him hard enough to shut him up.

He blinked back at me, mouth a trembling wet line. ‘I’m sorry...’

‘It was you, wasn’t it? You killed Andrew Brennan and Oscar Harris and Lewis Talbot and Toby Macmillan. It wasn’t a paedophile ring, it was you . You had access to every one of those little boys, because you represented their abusers, didn’t you?’

‘I...’

‘But Alice was on to you, wasn’t she? So you tried to kill her.’ I grabbed a handful of that thinning hair and yanked his head back, glared down into his bloodshot eyes. ‘Two questions. One: where’s Toby Macmillan? And two: WHERE’S MY FUCKING DOG?’

The paramedic hissed out a breath, shook her head, then tutted. Clunked the ambulance’s back door shut. ‘He’s made a right mess of himself, hasn’t he?’ A nod set bright ginger curls bobbing. ‘Still, he was lucky you were here! Be dead otherwise.’

We stood back as the ambulance pulled away, lights flickering blue-and-white, siren rising in harsh electronic pulses that faded into the distance.

Two patrol cars sat outside the house, parked half on the kerb.

Our backup.

One pair of PCs, in the full high-viz kit, were out setting up a cordon of ‘POLICE’ tape big enough to take in Kenneth Dewar’s semi and the house next door too. Struggling as the wind tried to snatch the tape from their hands, setting it burrrring and whirring .

The second pair of uniforms were on the other side of the road, getting stuck into the door-to-doors, dragging people out of bed at quarter to one in the morning.

Wouldn’t be long before some concerned householder got in touch with the media and the street would be swarming with outside broadcast vans and cameras and microphones and reporters. Doing bits to camera. Asking the neighbours what Kenneth Dewar was like, and had they any idea he was a child-murdering bastard? Oh no, he was always so quiet and polite, kept himself to himself. Same thing everyone said when they lived next to a monster, because if they admitted knowing he was a wrong-un all along, that made them guilty of keeping quiet about it and letting four little boys die.

Shifty stepped back into the doorway, out of the wind and rain. ‘Absolutely starving.’

‘Not much we can do about that now.’

His big round shoulders drooped. ‘Probably not.’

A boxy Range Rover growled its way along Corriemuir Place, parking outside the cordon. Wouldn’t have thought journalists would’ve got here so fast... But it wasn’t a journalist who climbed out of the big ugly car, it was Detective Superintendent Jacobson, wearing his trademark brown leather jacket and pelt-like hair. Holding a hand above his eyes, like the bill on a baseball cap, to keep the rain off his glasses.

He flashed his ID at one of the uniforms and ducked under the cordon. Marched over to us, trying to look stern and serious, while the corners of his mouth twitched. ‘DI Morrow, Ash, you got him?’

Shifty pointed at me. ‘Figured it out.’

All pretence at hiding the smile vanished and Jacobson play-punched me on the arm. ‘Knew there was a reason I keep you on the books! You look like crap, by the way.’ Beaming as he stared up at Dewar’s house. ‘What about Toby—’

‘He buried Toby Macmillan in Camburn Woods, round the back of those abandoned World War Two barracks.’ I tucked my throbbing left hand into my pocket before Jacobson could see it and start asking awkward questions. ‘Doesn’t know exactly which one, but won’t be hard to find with a dog unit.’

‘Oh...’ Jacobson’s smile disappeared, a pained expression blossoming like a gunshot wound. ‘Poor wee sod. Thought we might actually manage to save this one.’ A nod, trying to sound upbeat again: ‘Still, at least we got the guy, right? He won’t be hurting anyone else.’

Shifty jerked his chin up, setting his jowls wobbling. ‘He’s the one who tried to kill Alice.’

‘Is he now.’ Jacobson’s face pinched. ‘Well, I think he’s going to find his time inside very uncomfortable indeed. If I’ve got anything to say about it, anyway.’

Sounded as if torturing Kenneth Dewar was going to be a team sport and, while I wasn’t normally a team player, that sounded like something I could definitely get behind.

Jacobson nodded. ‘Speaking of Alice, any more news?’

Shifty shook his head. ‘No change. They have to wait till she wakes up.’

‘Damn it. Well, if there’s anything I can do, you...’ He raised an eyebrow as a dark Fiat Panda rattled its way up the street towards us. ‘Ash, you might want to brace yourself.’

The Panda screeched to a halt outside the cordon and one of the PCs hurried over, holding his arms out to block the way.

Mother scrambled from the car, leaving the engine running as she marched for the ‘POLICE’ tape. She didn’t bother flashing her ID, instead Mother stuck two hands against the PC’s high-viz chest and shoved him into next door’s garden. Flat on his back in the rose bushes as she ducked under the barrier, stormed right up to me, eyes hard and round, mouth a small tight circle with gritted teeth in the middle. Her right hand flashed up, the slap hard enough to snap my head to the left, leaving the skin hot and stinging as she grabbed me by the lapels. ‘WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU WERE PLAYING AT?’ Then let go and wrapped me in a serious bearhug, setting the ribs squealing all down one side where Francis punched me last night. ‘We were worried sick!’

‘It wasn’t—’

‘You’ve got some explaining to do, young man!’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Sending all those, “life can’t go on” texts — you said you were going to kill yourself! What were we supposed to think when your pool car turned up in the Cromarty Firth?’

Sod.

So much for sneaking back to Oldcastle and keeping everything secret.