Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

‘What?’ Franklin looked at the proffered currywurst as if it’d recently come out the back end of an Alsatian.

‘You’d rather have the bratwurst?’

‘We pull the CCTV from when Gordon Smith was spotted and we have a look. We see anything, we alert local plod and get them to launch a proper manhunt.’

Gave the sausage a waggle. ‘You wanting this, or not?’

She rolled her eyes, then accepted the thing as if she was doing me a favour. Slathered it in tomato sauce and yellow mustard from the squeezy plastic bottles by the till. First thing she’d done all day that wasn’t annoying.

I followed her lead. ‘According to Mother, Gordon was spotted at two fifteen, near the helter-skelter.’

‘That’s how you know this is bollocks.’ Franklin took a bite off the end of her sausage, getting a mustard moustache for her troubles as we wandered down the aisle between two rows of stalls. Talking with her mouth full. ‘He’s on the run from the police, no way he’s stopping off here to play on the slides.’

True.

The bratwurst snapped between my teeth, setting free an explosion of meaty smoky goodness, sweet and sharp at the same time. ‘Might as well go see if anyone down there recognises him. We’re here anyway.’

So we dawdled through the ‘Nutella and crepes’ section, the tower cakes, the scented candles, munching our way through a very late lunch.

The Scott Monument loomed above us, in all its grim gothic glory.

I stopped. Frowned up at it.

Moved over to the left.

Then forward a couple of paces.

Far as I could tell, this was exactly where Gordon Smith must’ve been standing when he took that Polaroid — the one with the bearded man in it, arms wide, head thrown back, laughing. You didn’t pose like that for a stranger, did you? No, whoever took the photo, they had to be someone you knew. Someone you felt comfortable with.

Franklin seemed to realise I wasn’t with her any more, because she turned and stomped back towards me. ‘Thought we were supposed to be working , not sightseeing.’

‘You do realise, now I’ve bought you a sausage, you have to be less of a grumpy tosser, don’t you?’

Franklin wiped the splodges of red and yellow from her cheeks and chin. ‘I am not a grumpy tosser.’

‘You’ve had a massive retractable bollard up your backside since I met you, and I’m renowned for my charming wit.’ Sort of. On a good day. ‘So come on, then: why the grump?’

She tossed her napkin into the nearest bin. ‘Do you have any idea how hard it is to be a woman in the police force? Try being black on top of that. So far this week I’ve been propositioned four times, groped once, called a “coloured monkey bitch”, a “fascist darkie”, and told to go back where I came from. Which, for the record, is about a twenty-five-minute bus ride that way.’ Pointing in the vague direction of Waverley Station. ‘And let’s not forget the eighty-two-year-old woman who used the N-word so much she must’ve got a discount for bulk, and spat on me for daring to suggest she couldn’t put rat poison down for her neighbour’s dog, even if it does crap on her lawn. So you’ll excuse me if I’m a bit less than sodding cheerful about it!’

Jesus...

‘I’m sorry.’ It’d be nice to think Scotland was better than that. That we were more enlightened and accepting and welcoming. That we were just a wee bit brighter. Always depressing to be reminded we had our fair share of thick-as-pig-shit racist wankers, same as everywhere else. ‘Did you arrest her? The old lady?’

Franklin gave a snort. ‘She’s eighty-two, what are the courts going to do?’

True.

‘Give me her address, then: I’ll go round and crap on her lawn myself.’

That almost got me a smile.

We took the steep, leaf-slippery slope down at the end of the fake street.

The sky was dark as ink, our breaths glowing in the light of the yellow-and-red helter-skelter — tall as a four-storey building, ringed around with flickering bulbs. A carousel sat next to it, slowly rotating to the sound of ‘Scotland the Brave’, played on an oom-cha organ, wooden horses rising and falling, taking squealing children round and round in the flash of two dozen parents’ phones.

Franklin’s face softened. ‘I used to love those when I was little...’

‘Don’t see why not. Once we’ve checked with the helter-skelter people.’

She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at me. And I swear to God, that was almost a smile playing at the corner of her lips. ‘I’m a grown woman.’

‘Never too old to play on a wooden horsey, though, are you.’

There was a queue outside the helter-skelter: people in padded jackets snaking their way up a set of wooden steps to where a fat man in a black bomber jacket and Santa hat was checking tickets, before letting them inside to climb to the top.

Franklin pulled out her warrant card and flashed it at the tourists. ‘Police, we need to get past. Excuse me. Thank you. Police.’ Working her way up the stairs with me limping along behind. ‘Sorry, police business. Thank you. Sir? I need you to step out of the way for a moment. Thanks.’ Until we were face to face with our bouncer in a jolly hat.

He gave her a scowl. ‘No swicking the queue.’

‘Police.’ She stuck her warrant card under his podgy nose. Then dug into her pocket and pulled out a folded A4 sheet. Stuck that under his nose instead. ‘Have you seen this man?’

A frown. Mouth pursed and pulled to one side as he examined the printout.

An impatient tut from the woman next to me. Checking her watch.

But the man in the bomber jacket wasn’t to be rushed.

Eventually he shook his head, setting the white furry bobble on the end of his Santa hat wobbling. ‘Sorry.’

I peered over Franklin’s shoulder. ‘You been on shift all afternoon?’

A nod, setting the bobble going again. ‘Since one.’

She gave the sheet another go. ‘And you’re certain ?’

‘Oh aye, I’m good with faces, me. That bloke’s no’ been on my ride the day.’

Ah well, it’d been worth a try.

We thumped our way down the stairs again and out onto the path.

She put her printout away. ‘So what now?’

‘You want a go on the carousel before or after we check for CCTV?’

A wistful look slid across Franklin’s face as she turned to gaze at the merry-go-round, its flashing lights playing across her skin, sparkling in her eyes. ‘I’m a grown woman, and we’re supposed to be working, so—’

‘Both it is, then.’

A white picket fence separated the thing from the walkway, with a perky middle-aged woman, dressed as an elf, in charge of the gate. ‘Hello.’ Beaming like hers was the best job in the world. ‘Are you here to ride the carousel?’

‘Come on, Mr Henderson, we don’t have time to—’

‘One adult, please.’

‘This is ridiculous, I’m not going to—’

‘Listen up, Detective Sergeant: life is fleeting, short, and horrible. Take whatever joy you can, where you can.’

The elf put a hand on her heart. ‘Oh, that’s so true...’ Then did her perky thing again. ‘Now, have you got a token? Because, if you don’t, there’s a machine up by the—’

‘Tenner. No questions asked. And failing that,’ pulled out my old warrant card — the one I should’ve handed back years ago, ‘police business.’

‘Done.’ She opened the gate and waved Franklin through. Throwing in an elaborate bow for good measure as she swept a hand towards the shiny wooden horses. ‘This way, my lady, your noble steed awaits!’

First time around the circuit, Franklin looked vaguely embarrassed, sitting there on her filigreed golden horse with red and blue swirls. The second revolution brought a smile with it. And by the third time around she was grinning away as ‘Flower of Scotland’ omm-cha’d out of the carousel’s organ.