God save us from tabloid hacks with overactive imaginations.
A magpie landed on the edge of the sludge-filled fountain, cackling at us, as if we were responsible for the horrible weather. Beady black eyes staring. Head tilted to one side as it popped down onto the gravel path.
‘Ash?’ Jennifer gave my arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve heard rumours you were in Smith’s basement. That you’ve got films and photographs. Of the victims.’
The magpie found the crushed triangular box of a prepacked sandwich, bashing its beak against the crumpled plastic window, trying to get at whatever was left inside.
‘And I was thinking, obviously we couldn’t publish the photos themselves, not with us being a family newspaper and everything, but there’s definitely a book in it, right? “Kill Room: the hunt for the Coffinmaker.” You and me could do that.’ Her words, soft and warm against my ear as she leaned in again. ‘We could do all sorts of things. Like we used to, remember?’
A final jab and the plastic ruptured, spilling toenails of brown crust out onto the gravel as wind whipped the container away.
Jennifer pulled herself closer, till the warmth of her body leached through into my ribs. ‘I could do that thing you like?’
I’d rather swallow a pint of bleach.
‘Well? What did the Wicked Witch of the Wank want?’ Shifty emerged from the shadow of a mausoleum, his one remaining eye narrowed to a suspicious slit.
‘Chucking in the river.’ Turning out to be a bit of a theme today.
He followed me back down the path and out through the big iron gates. Into the full force of the howling wind. High overhead, pale grey clouds snaked across the sky, but down here it was strong enough to turn the simple task of heading for the pool car into an undignified lurch.
Didn’t make getting the Vauxhall’s doors open exactly easy, either.
We tumbled inside, the wind slamming them shut.
Shifty wriggled in his seat. ‘How’d she know we were here?’
‘No idea. And I don’t care.’
He started the engine. ‘Can’t believe you used to shag that. Lucky your poor wee willy didn’t shrivel up and drop off with the cold.’ A three-point turn. ‘We finished now? Can I go back to my actual job?’
‘Yeah.’
Half of St Bartholomew’s Road had already been converted into the kind of luxury flats that cost more than most police officers would earn in ten years, the billboards outside advertising, ‘SPACIOUS EXECUTIVE APARTMENTS WITH RIVER VIEWS!’
‘Shifty?’ I cleared my throat. Watched the unsold flats go by. ‘Thanks. For taking me to see Rebecca.’
‘You’re a daft bugger, you know that, don’t you?’ His hand left the gearstick and thumped down on my arm. Gave it a squeeze. ‘How long we been best friends for, thirty years? No way I’d let you go on your own.’
Even after everything we’d been through.
Couldn’t help smiling. ‘You’ll have me welling up in a minute.’ The flats gave way to unconverted warehouses and rat-infested alleyways. ‘Actually, speaking of best friends, any chance you can give me a lift out to Clachmara?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake...’
The pool car rocked on its springs as we crested the hill and looked down on what was left of Clachmara. About another twenty foot of headland had disappeared, swallowed by the North Sea. Waves smashed against what was left, sending up massive spumes of white that were slammed away by the howling wind.
Half of Gordon Smith’s house had gone, the roof caved in on most of what was left.
No rain this time, instead we were greeted by blue skies and churning grey sea. Crumbling yellow-green gardens. The houses looking every bit as depressing in daylight as they had last night. The road was a lot busier, though.
That manky Mobile Incident Unit had been shifted back a couple of houses — now a large white van sat in front of it, while little figures in high-viz outfits and hardhats struggled a new line of temporary fencing into place. Dragging segments from the back of a dirty-big flatbed truck. Looked as if Helen MacNeil’s place was no longer considered safe. She’d love that. Wonder what poor sod had to break the news?
The caravan that’d sat on the drive had followed the MIU inland. Now it sat in the driveway of a boarded-up house, two doors down. Well, where else was she going to go?
This side of the Mobile Incident Unit, a couple of patrol cars were parked sideways across the road, holding back a knot of four-by-fours and hatchbacks. The familiar cluster of outside broadcast vans had relocated here from Divisional Headquarters, ready to give Clachmara its miserable turn in the spotlight.
‘Wow...’ Shifty peered out at the crumbling village and shook his head, setting his jowls wobbling. ‘What a shitehole.’ Weaving the pool car through the minefield of potholes. ‘And you were in that last night?’ Pointing through the windscreen at the remains of Gordon Smith’s house. ‘You’re dafter than you look. And that’s saying something.’
He took us past the outside broadcast vans, the four-by-fours, and hatchbacks — where telephoto lenses were jabbed out through hastily opened windows in our direction — and up to the patrol-car barrier. Flashed his warrant card at the PC behind the wheel of the nearest one, and hooked a thumb off to the side.
A nod, and the Constable reversed far enough to let us squeeze through.
‘Don’t say I’m never good to you.’ Shifty pulled up behind the Mobile Incident Unit.
Would’ve thought all that rain last night might have scrubbed it clean, but the thing was even mankier today — its white walls stained a dirty beige.
‘Thanks, Shifty.’ I unclipped my seatbelt, grabbed my walking stick.
‘Hoy, Ash!’ He leaned across the car as I shoved my way out into the wind. ‘You’ll have to speak to Alice at some point. Might as well put on your big boy pants and do it sooner rather than later.’
‘Bye, Shifty.’ Let the wind slam the car door for me. Staggered over to the kerb as he turned the fusty Vauxhall round and headed back towards town.
Right, time to get out of this howling-bastard gale. Every single window in the MIU was steamed up, but the door wouldn’t budge. Thumping the handle up and down didn’t help either. So I hammered on the door with the head of my walking stick. ‘OPEN UP, YOU LAZY BUNCH OF SODS!’
‘Excuse me, sir?’ It was the patrol car’s driver — the one who’d reversed out of the way — clasping his peaked cap to his head, leaning into the gusts, high-viz vest snapping and crackling against his stabproof. ‘Sorry, sir, but they’re not in there.’ Pointing across the road with his free hand, towards a cheerless bungalow. ‘Said the wind was making it impossible to get anything done.’
Course it was.
Mildew filled the gloomy living room with its ancient eldritch scent, fighting against whatever horrible aftershave DC Watt splashed on all over this morning. Mother’s team had kitted the place out with two whiteboards — propped against the peeling wallpaper — and a TV on a stand. They’d even brought in the handful of cheap office chairs that came free with the Mobile Incident Unit, and a solitary Formica desk. Three ancient laptops grumbled away on top: screens glowing, fans whirring. Other than that, the room was empty. Even the carpet was gone, leaving behind an expanse of grubby floorboards that creaked and groaned beneath my feet. The houses on this street must’ve been built from the same set of plans, because a rectangle of solid wood sat in the middle of the floor: a trapdoor down to the basement.