The Coffinmaker's Garden Page 9

  Sheila hit him. ‘We know who Cronus is, you patronising wankspasm.’

  ‘Did you know he castrated his own dad, Uranus, from inside his mother’s womb? That would rather put the scuppers on a romantic evening, don’t you think? You’re getting all hot and bothered, next thing you know—’

  Jacobson rapped on the whiteboard again. ‘All right, if we can stick to the topic in hand?’

  ‘Well …’ Alice tilted her head on one side, still twiddling with her hair. ‘I suppose we could go with Cronus, but our killer isn’t actually eating these boys and it sounds too much like we want him to seem cool when it’s probably better if we pick a name that’s not going to be something to live up to, if that makes sense, so why don’t we call him … Gòrach? Which is Gaelic for stupid, so we’re not putting him on some sort of pedestal, or making people think he’s in any way special, which I think we can all agree is counterproductive, and Bernard got to name the last person we were after, so I think it’s only fair I get a turn.’ She printed the name up on the board in squeaky green marker pen.

  Sabir clicked some buttons and the camera zoomed in on his eye. ‘Go-rat-ch?’

  ‘No, “Gòrach”. That back-tick above the “O” is a grave, so you pronounce it “aw”, like in caught, or bought, or thought, and the “CH” at the end is an unvoiced dorsal velar non-sibilant fricative, like in “loch”.’

  ‘An unvoiced McWhatnow?’

  ‘Imagine making a guttural hissing sound at the back of your throat, like an espresso machine, and you’ll be halfway there. Ooh: or if you’ve ever watched Star Trek, the Klingons do it all the time. “Chhhhhhh …”’

  ‘Gow-ra-chhhhhhhhhhhh?’

  Jacobson pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, face creased up. ‘I think we’re straying from the point. Again.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’ Alice went back to playing with her hair. ‘Anyway, Gòrach has fantasised about killing a small boy for a long, long time, and then he sees Andrew and he’s not prepared for it or anything, but Andrew’s there, and no one’s looking and this is his chance to finally do what he’s been dreaming about. Only it’s nothing like how he imagined it and it’s messy and Andrew’s struggling and Gòrach’s panicking and he just wants to get it over with and what if someone sees him and oh my God it was meant to be so much better than this … So he abandons the body and runs.

  ‘Andrew’s discovered a couple of hours later and it’s on the news and in every paper and Gòrach’s panicking for real now – they’re going to find him, they’re going to catch him and he’ll go to prison with the perverts and he can’t take that, he can’t, he’d rather kill himself than go to prison.’ She tilted her head to the other side. ‘It’s all so horrible and scary but, now that he’s done it, he can’t stop thinking about the power and he’s reassessing the experience; maybe it wasn’t so bad after all, maybe it was exciting, and he’s using it to reinforce the fantasy and he’s masturbating with the same hands he used to strangle a wee boy, and over the next two months he’s convincing himself that it’ll be perfect next time, because he knows what he’s doing now.’

  PC Thingy shifted in her seat, face pulled down around the edges, as if she’d trod in something warm and squishy.

  ‘So now Gòrach’s looking for the next child to be perfect with and he sees Oscar Harris and this time he’s going to get it right and he abducts him and takes him deep into the woods and strangling Andrew with his hands was too scary to do it again and he doesn’t want Oscar looking at him, so he uses the boy’s own belt and he does it from behind and maybe he doesn’t do it right, and Oscar’s still breathing, so he tries again, but Oscar still won’t die – why won’t the little bastard die? – so one last time and this time Oscar’s dead and how did he manage to make such a mess of it and he’s ashamed, so Gòrach hides the body under a rhododendron bush and slinks away.’

  Jacobson nodded. ‘So he’s experimenting?’

  ‘He’s learning. This time he goes home and watches the media and there’s Oscar Harris’s parents on TV crying because their son’s missing and maybe Gòrach likes that, likes seeing the pain in their eyes and knowing he’s the one who did that, that he’s got the power of life and death, not just over the children, but over their families too, maybe even the whole city? And he relives killing Oscar and Andrew, over and over, and he takes the best of both murders and puts them together to make a new and better fantasy that builds and grows till it’s all he can think of, which is when he goes out and abducts Lewis Talbot.’ Alice frowned at the whiteboard with the crime-scene photos on it, in all their horrible technicolour glory. ‘It’s not perfect, but then nothing ever is, but he’s in control this time, he takes the silk rope with him, probably carries it about in his pocket for days beforehand, running his fingers over it and daydreaming about that wonderful moment when he finally gets to use it, and when he finds Lewis he’s prepared, he takes him out to the middle of nowhere, deep in the woods, where no one will ever find them and Gòrach strangles and resuscitates him and strangles and resuscitates, because he has the power of death and life, and what’s one without the other, only now he knows he likes the look of fear in his victim’s eyes, he wants to see it as he kills and brings back and kills and brings back … that beautiful moment when the light flickers out, only to come back on again, so he can snuff it out one more time.’

  Silence.

  ‘Andrew was a victim of chance. Oscar was on purpose.’ Alice let go of her hair. ‘Lewis was the culmination of the first two murders, a return to all the things he loved about killing those little boys.’

  ‘Yawn.’ Huntly stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle, exposing a swathe of bright-purple socks. ‘This is all very touchy-feely, but – and I hope I’m not speaking out of turn here – perhaps we could have some sort of revelation that actually helps us catch him?’

  Tit.

  Alice pointed at the map that took up Whiteboard Number Four: where brightly coloured magnetic buttons marked the site of each abduction and dead body. ‘Andrew Brennan was playing under the railway lines in Kingsmeath when he was murdered. For him to be a victim of opportunity, Gòrach had to be there too. But he went hunting for Oscar in Castleview – picked somewhere new to decrease his chance of getting caught – changing things up, going for a slightly older boy from a more affluent family, using the belt instead of his hands, trying new things. But Lewis Talbot is Gòrach’s return to form. His return to Kingsmeath. Gòrach’s comfortable there, it’s his patch. He either grew up there and moved away, or he’s never left. He knows this place.’

  ‘Hmmph.’ Huntly shrugged. ‘It’s a start, I suppose.’

  ‘He has access to a vehicle – otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to take Lewis to where they found the body. He’s confident in himself, otherwise he wouldn’t have transported his victim so far away from where he abducted him. See, there’s that pronoun thing again. Gòrach’s either self-employed, or he works shifts, or maybe some job where he’s got a lot of autonomy? Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to hunt children during the day, and during the week.’

  Jacobson scribbled something down in his notebook, then looked up at her. ‘What about previous?’

  Alice shook her head, setting the curls bouncing. ‘He’s not had an outlet for these feelings. They’ve been brewing inside him for years but he hasn’t dared do anything about them. That’s why he doesn’t sexually assault his victims – it’s not about them as sexual beings, it’s about him and his fantasies. He’d rather go home and replay the murder and masturbate than actually do anything with their bodies. Probably thinks that kind of thing is perverted: beneath him.’

  ‘Because what the world really needs is more child-murdering tosspots with a well-developed sense of moral rectitude.’

  Alice’s shoulders curled up around her ears, eyebrows pinched. ‘One more thing: I think this two-month cycle he’s on is going to accelerate now he’s found what he likes. He took the time between Oscar
and Lewis’s murders to learn. Lewis died in October, it’s November now, he’s probably already hunting for victim number four. And he’ll be a lot better at it, this time.’

  ‘Groan! Sigh. Wilt …’ Huntly pulled himself up to his full height, in the back seat, then slumped again. ‘Why are we going so slowly?’

  I turned up the Suzuki’s radio – a boy band warbling their way through an autotuned cover of an old Led Zeppelin song. Awful, but with any luck it would drown him out.

  Instead, the annoying pinstriped git got louder. ‘And why is this car so small? It’s like something that comes with a Barbie playset. And it positively reeks of wet dog.’

  Henry’s glistening blackcurrant nose poked over the back seat, hairy eyebrows raised, mouth hanging open in a gaping grin, as if that’d been a compliment.

  I gave Professor Bernard Huntly a scowl in the rear-view mirror. ‘No one asked you to come.’

  ‘I know. Sadly, it’s my burden to be so incredibly useful that none can cope without my genius. So when I see a fair maiden in need, how can I possibly refuse to help?’

  Outside, the rush hour proved what an oxy-sodding-moron it was – nose-to-tail cars, vans, and lorries, crawling their way across Calderwell Bridge in the pelting rain, while an occasional taxi stuttered past in the empty bus lane. The thick grey river turned pewter by the thin greasy light.

  Huntly wriggled in his seat again, turned nearly sideways. ‘Honestly, I swear this thing wasn’t designed for full-sized human beings. Oompa Loompas, perhaps, but not human beings.’

  Alice shrugged when I transferred the scowl to her instead. ‘Well, what was I supposed to do? He annoyed Sheila all day yesterday, and it was Bear the day before that, so now it’s our turn. You’ve seen the roster.’

  We finally made it to the other side of the river, swinging around the roundabout and onto Montrose Road, heading east. The sign used to read, ‘WELCOME TO KINGSMEATH ~ OLDCASTLE’S FRIENDLIEST NEIGHBOURHOOD’, but the letters were barely visible under layers and layers of foul-mouthed graffiti.

  ‘Friendliest neighbourhood’ my arse.

  At least the traffic was a bit lighter here – most of it going the other way, trying to get out of Kingsmeath.

  Huntly leaned forwards again. ‘So, my dear Dr McDonald, have you a plan for when we visit our first deposition-slash-crime scene?’

  Alice fixed a smile in place. ‘I’m going to look at things.’

  ‘Ah, a very wise choice. I too have “looking at things” in mind.’ Huntly wriggled about some more, setting the tiny jeep rocking on its springs. ‘I know it’s five months since poor Andrew Brennan met his unfortunate end, and it’s unlikely anything will have survived the intervening period and this horrible weather, but we troupers must troupe, must we not?’

  ‘I say we pull over, chuck Huntly in the river, and swear blind we haven’t seen him.’

  ‘Ash!’ She shook her head. ‘We’re not throwing anyone in the river.’

  ‘How about we fill his pockets with bricks first?’

  The railway bridge lumped its way across Kings River on thick stone pilings, the heavy metalwork boxy and functional, rather than elegant and sculptured. It started climbing as soon as it made landfall at Kettle Docks, arching over the road in front of us – a lumpen granite bridge that hung with stalactites of rusting steel.

  ‘No one’s filling anyone’s pockets with bricks!’

  We passed through the gloomy archway, and Alice took a left onto Denholm Road. Heading uphill.

  The street had probably been quite grand in its day – sweeping terraces of sandstone townhouses, lined with trees and wrought-iron railings – before they built Castle View and all the smart money moved out, leaving this part of the city to the mercy of town planners, council housing, and tower blocks. Now, the once-fancy buildings of Denholm Road were carved up into multiple occupancy flats, stuffed full of people whose benefits wouldn’t stretch to anything less crappy. The trees reduced to vitrified stumps years ago, the railings long gone. The pristine sandstone striped with brown where its satellite-dish acne had rusted away. Blackened by decades of soot and grit and no one caring enough to clean it.

  Huntly tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Tell me, my dear ex-Detective Inspector, would you like to place a small wager on my turning something up here that will, as they say in the more excitable crime novels, “blow the case wide open”?’

  Kept my eyes front. ‘And would you like to wager that you’ll do something that earns you a punch on the nose before that happens?’

  ‘Oh, I do like a challenge!’

  Alice pulled the Suzuki in behind the crumbling remains of an outside catering van – a boxy trailer, no bigger than four portaloos strapped together, slouching on flat tyres, its wooden walls bloated and peeling. The words ‘SHAKY DAVE’S TATTIE SHACK’ sitting proudly above a serving hatch that gaped like a corpse’s mouth. She pointed at the junction with William Terrace. ‘There’s a way through, over there.’

  ‘You, my dear, Dr McDonald, shall be the banker for our bet, this rainy day. Here …’ He dug into his wallet and came out with a slithery plastic fiver. ‘This says I come up with some devastating insight into Gòrach’s actions before Mr Henderson deems it necessary to resort to physical violence due to his hyperactive amygdala and sluggish frontal lobe.’

  I turned in my seat. ‘Are you asking for a fist in the face before we’ve even left the car?’

  ‘But of course: I do like to make things spicy.’ A wink. ‘Now, is there any chance we can exit this two-door motorised sardine can before I lose all feeling in my legs?’

  ‘One punch and you’ll lose all feeling in your everything.’ But I got out anyway and folded the passenger seat forward so he could clamber into the rain like a pinstriped stick insect.

  Huntly pulled a rainbow-coloured golf brolly from the rear footwell and popped it open. Standing there, brushing at the damp shoulders of his jacket.

  I went back in for the two new-ish umbrellas I’d liberated from the station’s Lost-and-Found. Handed the collapsible one to Alice. ‘Here.’

  She pressed the button and it sprung out, the canopy opening with a whooomp. A big smile spread across her face. ‘It’s a ladybird!’ Bright red with black dots, a happy face, and sticky-out antennas that wobbled in the rain. It even had six short dangly legs.

  ‘Thought you’d like it.’ Mine was a plain black job.

  Huntly finished preening, then snapped his fingers. ‘Now, dear colleagues, join me at the crime scene, and witness the glory of my unfettered material-evidence genius!’ Marching off with his nose in the air.

  It was going to be a very long day.

  10

  ‘Well, isn’t this fun?’ Huntly hunched under his multicoloured brolly, face all puckered and lined, arms drawn in against his chest as he picked his way through the tussocks of pale-green and yellowy-brown grass and the rain hissed down. ‘Remind me: whose idiotic idea was it to come out here?’

  Our patch of waste ground made a gloomy strip, with the back of William Terrace and Denholm Road on one side, and the fifty-foot cliff that separated them from McArthur Drive on the other. The railway line soared above our heads, held aloft on substantial steel pillars painted in various shades of rust-flecked black. So thickly coated that the rivets were barely visible on some sections.

  A long line of bare branches stuck up above the garden fences – beech and sycamore, with broom spilling out in dark-green profusion. The grey ranks of dead nettles wrapped around with curled bramble barbed wire.

  Be a miracle if daylight ever made its way down here.

  What a horrible place to die …

  Alice wandered on ahead, her ladybird brolly thrumming in the downpour. Looking up and down, left and right, turning on the spot, then heading off again. Henry sulked along after her, tail down, whimpering and complaining on the end of his leash. Getting soggier and soggier.

  ‘First observation,’ Huntly pointed at the back of the buildings to our ri
ght, ‘the only way you’d know a child was playing here is if you saw them from the windows, there. Or you were here too.’

  I shook my head. ‘Alice already said that, back at the briefing.’

  ‘Has someone done door-to-doors?’

  ‘No, because not one police officer in Oldcastle has ever worked a murder investigation.’ I gave him the most sarcastic smile I could muster. ‘You muppet.’

  ‘Very well, I see I shall have to increase my levels of brilliance.’ His arm swept north, following the line of the tracks above. ‘The only entrances to this horrible strip of yuck are where we came in, and up there at Saint Damon of the Green Wood. And it’s not as if you’d use this as a rat run to or from anywhere. So why would you be here?’

  Should’ve gone with my first thought and thrown him in the river.

  ‘The answer, my dear ex-DI, is “illicit reasons”.’ Huntly picked his way across to the base of one of the pillars, running the toe of his polished black brogues through the grass around the base. ‘Which means the three “D”s: Drink, Drugs, and-slash-or Depravity.’

  A thin metallic pinging rang through the air above, getting louder, like a metal rod drawn down a piano wire. Then rattling. And the shadow of a train growled overhead, adding a small shower of dust and grit to the rain.

  I checked my watch: 08:32, so that would be the ten past eight to Aberdeen. Late again.

  Huntly pulled his shoulders in, squatting beneath his brolly as if trying to make himself as small a target as possible. Only standing up again once the train had passed. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but I’m never keen to be spattered with human sewage. And once the train has left the station …’ He scuffed his shoe through the grass again. ‘And while we’re on the subject, who ever heard of Saint Damon? No such beast exists, and I speak as someone who’s studied the Catholic faith fairly intensively.’

  ‘You’re a Catholic?’

  ‘Well, not any more, obviously – their views on homosexuality being somewhat Levitican – but I was quite the altar boy when I was younger. Had a singing voice that would put joy in the bleakest of hearts. Even yours.’ He shrugged. Curled his top lip. ‘That’s the trouble with Oldcastle, you lot have no respect for proper church procedures. You can’t just go about making up your own saints without formal permission. Saint Jasper, Saint Damon, Saint Ailsa of the Immaculate Death, Saint Whatever-That-Church-In-The-Wynd is called.’