Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

Fair point.

‘Ash?’ She cast a sideways glance across the car at me. ‘Have you thought about what you want to do tomorrow? You know, as it’s—’

‘Can we not talk about this right now?’

‘It’s perfectly natural to feel—’

‘I’m fine.’ Which was a lie. ‘And we’ve got a job to do.’ I clicked off my seatbelt and turned, reaching into the back of the car. Ruffled the fur between Henry’s ears. ‘You look after the jeep, OK?’ He gazed up at me with his gob hanging open, wee pink tongue lolling out, nose all shiny and black like a fruit pastille. ‘Bite anyone who tries to steal it.’

Alice groaned. ‘Stop changing the subject. Tomorrow’s a—’

‘Don’t interrupt: I’m arming the Scottie Dog Vehicle Defence System.’ Henry’s head got another pat, his grin widened. ‘Who’s a vicious little monster? You are. Yes , you are.’

‘But—’

‘For a forensic psychologist, you’re really bad at picking up on the subtle signals people give out, aren’t you?’

A bright smile. ‘Oh, I pick them up fine, I’m just choosing to ignore them. For your own good.’

‘Lucky me.’ I grabbed my walking stick from the footwell. ‘Come on: we’ll do our civic duty then go grab a pizza or something.’ The wind tried to rip the door from my hand as I opened it — stinging needles of rain jabbing into my face.

Alice clambered out the other side, head buried in the periscope hood of her coat. ‘Can we have a sitty-inny instead of takeaway for a change?’

‘Got a child-killer to catch, remember?’ Hurpling up the puddled driveway to the front door, where a small wooden overhang offered almost no shelter from the rain. The guttering was broken on one side, letting loose a waterfall to splash down the grubby harling.

Her voice took on a distinct whiny tone. ‘I’m tired of everything we eat coming out of greasy cardboard boxes. Or plastic tubs.’

‘Stop moaning and ring the bell.’

She did, leaning on the button till a harsh drrrrrrrrrrrrrrinnnnnnnnnnnnnnng sounded on the other side of the wasp-eaten door. ‘Forgotten what plates and cutlery look like.’

‘I think we should take another look at Steven Kirk. Haul him in and rattle his dentures till something falls out.’

‘And it’s not exactly healthy, is it? When did we last have a salad?’

‘I’m not buying his whole, “I was caring for my dying mother at the time” shtick. Once a nonce, always a nonce.’

‘Or broccoli!’ Alice made a thin keening squeaky sound from deep within her hood. ‘I miss broccoli.’

‘Not as if he couldn’t...’

The door swung open and a greasy-looking bloke with floppy brown hair, a cheap suit, and ginger-pube beard scowled out at me. ‘Took your time.’ One of his eyes didn’t quite point in the same direction as the other, as if he’d put it in squint.

‘DC Watt. Nice to see your winning personality hasn’t deserted you.’

A grunt, then he turned on his heel and marched down the hallway. The move showed off a palm-sized bald patch at the back of his head, complete with thick U-shaped scar, the skin dented inward around it, as if a section of his skull was recessed. ‘Mother’s in the kitchen.’

Alice followed me inside and unzipped her padded jacket, revealing yet another exhibit from her black-and-white-stripy-top collection, teeny red Converse trainers squeaking against the damp linoleum as we made our way into a steamed-up room at the back of the house, redolent with the welcoming scent of mince and tatties.

A heavily pregnant woman sat at the table, with a small boy on her knee, holding him close as he made a pig’s arse of colouring a triceratops in horrible shades of puce and turquoise.

Mother’s wide back was turned towards us, frizzy Irn-Bru hair spilling across the shoulders of her black police-issue fleece. She’d pulled the sleeves up, exposing two large pale forearms clarted with tattoos of roses and thistles. ‘And you’re sure they weren’t animal bones, or something like that?’

The pregnant woman rolled her eyes. ‘I should be graduating with a degree in forensic anthropology tomorrow, but I drank too much prosecco at my birthday party and here we are.’ Pointing at her swollen belly. ‘I know human anatomy, and those bones were definitely human.’

DC Watt cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, Guv, but that’s the LIRU lot here.’ Pronouncing ‘LIRU’ as if it were a venereal disease.

Mother turned and raised an eyebrow at us. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Ash Henderson. Returned to the land of the living?’

I nodded back. ‘Detective Inspector. You know Dr McDonald?’

Alice scampered forward like an excitable spaniel, hand out for the shaking. ‘Actually, we haven’t met, DI Malcolmson, but please call me “Alice” — I’ve heard a lot about you, it’s a pleasure, and don’t worry, we’re not here to take over your case, we’ve only come because you said you needed our help, well, probably not our help, but Ash’s help anyway and I came along because he can’t really drive, what with his foot and everything.’ All delivered in one long machinegun breath. ‘And I was wondering about your nickname, why do people call you “Mother”, is that because you’re a nurturing influence, which I know is a repressive societal stereotype imposed on the female psyche by the repressive forces of a dictatorial patriarchy, “oh women are so nurturing and soft, they can’t possibly compete with men,” but sometimes that really is the case, isn’t it, well the nurturing bit, not the competition thing, and is that a pot of tea, I’d love a cuppa if there’s one going spare?’

Mother’s eyebrow went up even further. ‘Is she always like this?’

‘More than you could possibly believe.’ I stuck my hands in my pockets. ‘Now, can we get this over with? Alice and I have a child-murdering...’ my eyes flitted to the small boy, staring up at me from his badly coloured dinosaur, ‘naughty man to catch.’

‘I dare say you do.’ Mother waved at Watt. ‘John, be a dear and stay with Miss Compton. Mr Henderson and I need to go check something.’ And with that, she was squeezing her way past me and out into the hall. Hauling on a large wax Barbour jacket. Pausing at the front door. ‘You don’t mind making a wee detour before we get down to it, do you?’ She didn’t bother giving me time to answer that. ‘No? Good. Come on then.’

She flipped her hood up and stepped out into the howling gale. Round shoulders hunched against the wind as she picked her way down the path, between the puddles.

Alice pouted at me. ‘Do you think I made a bad first impression there, because I think I made a bad first impression and I really didn’t want—’

‘No point us both getting soaked. You stay here with DC Watt and the witness. Maybe, if you’re lucky, she’ll give you some mince and tatties. On proper plates. With cutlery.’

‘Be careful, OK?’

‘Promise.’ The horrible weather wrapped itself around me like a fist as I limped after Mother. Down the path and out onto the pockmarked tarmac. Struggling to keep up. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Well, we can hardly take a civilian’s word for it, can we? Even one who almost has a degree in forensic anthropology.’ She pulled out a torch, sending its beam sweeping across the gardens to either side as we made our way towards the end of the road. Raising her voice over the howling wind. ‘We used to come here when I was a wee girl. Every Easter, Mum and Dad would take a cottage down by the beach and we’d play in the dunes and build sandcastles and chase other people’s dogs.’ She stepped over a small picket fence and scuffed her way through wind-whipped clumps of yellowing grass. ‘I remember Clachmara was really pretty, till the old part fell in the sea. Still, that’s climate change for you, isn’t it?’