Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

Samson nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘We’re arranging a press conference for first thing tomorrow — want to stay ahead of the news cycle, don’t we? Yes. It’s going to be good to stand up there and rub all their noses in it. O Division’s full of useless tossers, is it? Ha! And there’ll be a commendation going into your file, DI Morrow, don’t you worry about that.’ Another pat on the shoulder. ‘So, I want you in here, booted and suited, and ready for the cameras by half seven.’ Then McEwan’s eyes drifted back to me. Taking it all in: the black eyes, the bruised throat, the bandaged hand... He bit his top lip and furrowed his brow. ‘Actually, Ash, maybe you should sit this one out and get some rest. Might not be the best optics, you sitting there looking as if you’ve gone the wrong way through a threshing machine. Got Police Scotland’s reputation to think about, after all.’

Like I gave a toss about its reputation or his press conference.

‘Anyway, I want to congratulate you both again for the sterling work you’ve done!’ Then he turned on his heel and marched off.

Samson hesitated a moment, his granite slab of a face working its way into a smile. ‘That was some serious coppering you two did tonight. The boss is right, you—’

McEwan’s voice boomed down the corridor again. ‘Oh, do keep up, Alan. And make sure my dress uniform is cleaned and pressed for tomorrow’s briefing!’

‘Wonderful.’ Samson sagged, stared at the ceiling, took a deep breath, then turned and hurried after the Chief Super. ‘Yes, sir.’

Poor sod.

Soon as they were gone, Shifty cricked his head from side to side. ‘Where we off to? And can we please get something to eat on the way? I’m not—’ His phone rang, getting louder and louder in the corridor. ‘Sorry.’ He pulled it out and answered. ‘DI Morrow.’ Scrunched his forehead up and closed his eyes, listening. Then, ‘No, Russell, I don’t... Are you deaf as well as Hobbit sized? I’m not commenting on an ongoing—... I don’t care what the rumour mill says, “no comment”... OK, I’m hanging up now.’ He did, then hissed out a breath. ‘Bloody journalists. Someone’s leaked we caught the Oldcastle Child-Strangler.’

I checked my watch. ‘Didn’t take them long.’

‘Bet it’s that moron Blakey. Wouldn’t trust him to—’ Shifty’s phone went again and he peered at the screen with his one good eye. ‘Jennifer Prentice? Don’t think so. Decline.’ Poking the button. ‘They’re going to be at this all night, aren’t they?’

‘Probably.’ The frenzy would be gathering outside Kenneth Dewar’s house, cameras focused on his front door, working out how much moral outrage they could whip up. Or doorstepping Dewar’s victims’ parents, milking their grief for a ninety-second slot on the morning news.

On the plus side, it meant that they’d abandon Clachmara for a while. Leaving it all nice and quiet for Shifty and me to rock up and make sure Gordon Smith and Leah MacNeil got exactly what was coming to them.

Strange what one little text can do.

Shifty switched his phone off and put it away. ‘OK. Food first, then murder. Can’t be killing people on an empty stomach.’

The scent of onions, garlic, and slow-cooked lamb mince filled Helen’s manky Renault as Shifty finished his extra-large doner with yoghurt and chilli sauce. Parked here, at the brow of the wee hill, headlights off, engine running, looking down over what was left of Clachmara as Storm Victoria hammered into it. Rain clattering against the car’s roof.

Helen’s street shivered in the darkness, bushes whipping back and forth, lampposts swaying. And not a single press vehicle to be seen.

Even the Mobile Incident Unit had been pulled back, away from the advancing cliff edge. The safety barrier had retreated with it. Now the sections of temporary fencing didn’t cut through the garden between Helen’s house and the one next door — both had been placed on the sacrificial altar of coastal erosion. An offering to the howling gods of wind and rain.

Shifty smacked his lips and sooked the milky-pink juices from his fingers, before scrunching up the waxy paper his kebab came in and chucking it in over his shoulder.

Well, we were going to burn the car anyway, what was the point keeping it tidy?

He scrubbed his face with a napkin. ‘Any joy?’

I put Alice’s phone back in my pocket. ‘No change. Doctor says she’s stable.’

Shifty nodded. ‘But that’s good, right? Stable? Means nothing’s gone wrong.’

‘Yeah...’

Wind tore at the car, rocking it on its springs, screaming around the doorframes, groaning through the gap between the chassis and the potholed road. As if the dying town was crying out in pain.

Shifty’s napkin joined the kebab wrapper. ‘You sure they’re here?’

‘Nope. But my phone is.’

He nodded. ‘Maybe it’s a trap?’

‘How could it be a trap? They think I’m dead. And they don’t know about the tracker app.’ I pulled my new Minion rucksack through from the back, unzipped it, and pulled out the gun. Small and black against the pale grey shape of my gloved hand. The nitrile surface sticky and squeaking against the grip as I held the .22 up. ‘Besides, we’ve got this.’

‘Still think we’d be better with baseball bats.’ But he put the Renault in gear anyway, drifting down the hill, nice and slow. Shame we couldn’t have the headlights on: it might have meant not crunching and lurching through every single sodding pothole on the way down. ‘Can’t see another car, can you?’

Apart from the MIU, the road was empty. Even Helen’s caravan was gone.

‘Maybe they parked somewhere else and walked?’

‘In this ?’ Shifty peered out through the rain-lashed windscreen. ‘You’d have to be off your bloody head.’ He slowed to a halt, two houses back from the new fence line. ‘And so do we.’

The safety notice had broken loose from its bottom moorings, leaving the sign to hinge up and clang back down against the chain-link, setting the metal rattling. ‘WARNING! ~ COASTAL EROSION ZONE ~ NO ENTRY ~ DANGER OF DEATH’

‘You ready?’

He reached behind his seat and came out with an extendable baton, then into his jacket for a palm-sized can of pepper spray. Flicked the cover off, gave the thing a shake, then flicked the cover back on again. ‘Ash?’

‘Shifty.’ I pulled the gun’s slide back, racking a round into the breech. Joseph was right — it was easy enough for someone with ‘restricted hand mobility’.

‘It’s... you know?’ Shifty wriggled in his seat. ‘We’ve never killed anyone before. Not killed , killed. Pretty much everything, but.’ A long breath. ‘I guess I’m a bit—’

‘So give me the keys and stay in the car.’

‘Really?’ Looking at me, face sagging at the edges. ‘And let you walk in there, alone? With no backup?’ He turned the engine off. ‘How’s the saying go? A friend will help you move house; a real friend will help you kill a pair of murdering scumbags, dispose of their bodies, and wheech a security van full of stolen artworks out from under the nose of a psychotic religious nutjob.’ A nod, then he opened his car door, letting in the outraged bellowing of Storm Victoria.

I struggled out the other side, clutching onto the car door as the wind tried to tear it from my bandaged fingers. Struggling to hold it and the gun and my walking stick all at the same time. Might be better to stick the safety on again and put the .22 in my pocket. At least till we were inside. Rain battered its frozen nails into my face, sparking like fireworks against my jacket as I lurch-staggered my way along the wet pavement to the security fence.