Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

And you know what? There were worse ways to have spent a tenner.

Maybe now she’d be less of a pain in my—

Tchaikovsky’s ‘Danse des Mirlitons’ blared out in my pocket, clashing with the merry-go-round soundtrack.

Alice.

Reject, or take the call?

My shoulders drooped.

Shifty was right, I’d have to speak to her sooner or later.

I moved away from the picket fence, shouldering my way through the crowds to a quieter spot. Hit the green button. ‘Alice.’

‘Ash?’ Sounding breathless, as if she was walking fast. ‘I can’t talk for long. Listen, I’m really, really, really sorry.’

A Japanese family lumbered past, almost swallowed in their huge padded coats, hoods up like gnomes. Then a couple of Eastern-European men in Manchester United replica shirts, their bare arms semi-blue with cold and pebbled with goose bumps.

‘Ash? Did you hear, I really am sorry.’

‘So you should be.’

‘Oh, Ash...’

‘It hurts every time you do it, but today? ’

A couple of the local plod smiled and nodded their way through the crowds, conspicuous in their high-viz waistcoats, stabproof vests and peaked caps.

‘I know, I’m an idiot... David tells me you went to see her. Rebecca.’

Or what was left of her.

‘Yeah.’

The Christmas Market was a sea of faces. Happy people, bored people, families, couples, none of whose lives had been torn apart one bloodied Polaroid at a time.

‘We don’t have to talk about it right now, but you know I’m here for you. If you want me to be?’

A sigh dragged my shoulders down. ‘Yeah.’

‘I wanted you to know that I’ve... had a word with Steven Kirk. He’s...’ She cleared her throat. ‘I told the investigating officer that he... attacked me on the waste ground. That he had... a knife. That you were only trying to protect me.’

‘You didn’t have to lie, it’s—’

‘It’s my fault you did what you did, Ash. If I hadn’t... used Rebecca’s death like that—’

‘Yeah. Well.’ Deep breath. ‘Thanks for trying to fix it.’

A gaggle of Aberdonians posed for selfies with the helter-skelter in the background, pouting like constipated ducks. Three Brummies laughed their way past, sharing a plastic tray of something cheesy. Those two police officers stopped for photos with a group of Americans.

‘And I really am so, so sorry... Henry misses you.’

I puffed out a breath. ‘Look, as it’s nine years since we started catching bad guys, maybe we should go somewhere fancy for dinner. I could...’

Hold on a minute.

‘Ash?’

There — in the swarm of faces, gazing along the row of fairground attractions and off towards the line of stalls. A young woman: heart-shaped face, broad forehead, long sharp nose. Wisps of bright-violet hair sticking out from the edge of her hoodie.

Nah. It couldn’t be.

‘Ash, I’ve got to go, Bear’s got a press—’

I hung up, slipped the phone back in my pocket.

Maybe it was?

Shouldered my way through a group of German tourists, waiting to get on the waltzers. Dodged a gaggle of septuagenarians dressed up as schoolgirls and rattling a collection bucket.

The young woman looked away, but those wisps of hair fluoresced in the harsh festive lighting.

Past a young family trying to get their toddler to stop screeching his head off, a cloud of candyfloss grounded on the tarmac at his feet.

Closing the gap.

It couldn’t be her. But if it was...

I slipped around a couple arguing over the head of a miserable-looking young girl in a wheelchair.

Reached out. And grabbed the young woman’s arm.

She spun to face me.

‘Leah? Leah MacNeil?’

And at that her eyes went wide. ‘Shit...’

It was her.

‘Your gran’s been worried sick, she needs—’

‘GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU PERVERT!’ Leah wrenched her arm free, and she was off.

‘Leah!’

She barged through a knot of tourists, sending plastic cups of Glühwein and paper cartons of bratwurst flying. ‘HE’S TRYING TO TOUCH ME! HELP!’

God’s sake...

I lumbered after her, but the crowd was turning. Staring at me.

‘KEEP AWAY FROM ME YOU RAPIST BASTARD!’

I shoved through the same group but someone shoulder-checked me on the way. Got my walking stick slammed in his guts in return.

He doubled over, staggered out of the way, but Leah was widening the gap.

‘HELP! HELP, POLICE!’

Over by the candyfloss stall, that pair of uniformed officers meerkated above the crowds, and both of them were definitely looking in my direction.

‘LEAH! I NEED TO TALK TO YOU!’ Shoving past the idiots blocking my way.

Only good thing about this was: she had to wade through the sea of people too. If it wasn’t for the crowd she’d be long gone by now.

‘HE TOUCHED MY BREASTS! POLICE!’

A bellowing Edinburgh accent burst across from the uniforms. ‘HOY, YOU! COME BACK HERE!’

She’d made it as far as the ramp leading up to where the market’s edge ran along the side of the Royal Scottish Academy, its sandstone façade stained in shades of red, yellow, and green in the flashing festive lights.

‘LEAH! YOUR MOTHER DIDN’T KILL HERSELF! SHE—’

‘HE’S A PERVERT! STOP HIM! HELP ME!’

People had their phones out now, filming as I struggled after her.

A woman’s voice, cutting through the press of duffel coats and parkas: ‘You should be ashamed of yourself! Leave that poor girl alone!’

‘STOP, POLICE!’

No chance.

An overweight bloke in an ill-fitting Santa suit stepped out in front of me, shoulders back, chest out, chin up. ‘You going nowhere , mate! You’re—’ My right knee smacked him right in the balls and he collapsed, both hands clutching himself as he retched.

Another stepped up — American, going by the stars-and-stripes puffa jacket and buzzcut. ‘We don’t take kindly to perverts.’

‘I’m not a pervert, you moron.’ I shoved him out of the way, hurrying after her. ‘LEAH!’

A hand grabbed the collar of my coat. So I threw an elbow back, felt it connect with something solid as a grunt burst out behind me and the hand let go.

‘LEAH!’

Through to a gap in the crowds, limping as fast as humanly possible up the ramp, every other step jarring steak knives through my stupid foot.

She was frozen, outside the stall with that ‘HANDMADE ARTISANAL CHEESES!’ sign over it. Staring at me. Must’ve heard what I’d said about her mother. It wasn’t—

Something solid slammed into the small of my back and that was it — my walking stick went flying as I, and whoever tackled me, crashed to the soggy grey carpeting. Another grunt.

Bloody Americans never could take a telling, could they?

I snapped another elbow back, aiming high this time. The jarring thud resonated through my arm as it landed. With any luck, breaking the bugger’s nose.

The weight reared off me, then someone else piled on. Hands scrabbling for my left wrist. That same Edinburgh accent: ‘LIE STILL! YOU’RE UNDER ARREST!’

‘Get off me you idiot!’

And Leah just stood there, staring.

‘I SAID LIE STILL!’

They twisted my left hand back, putting on the pressure, dragging the arm with it as barbed wire screamed through the wrist joint. Going for the classic hammer-lock-and-bar.

‘I’m working for the police!’ The words shoved out through gritted teeth as they upped the pressure on my arm. It wasn’t too late, though: I dug my right hand into my jacket pocket and hauled out that wodge of LIRU business cards.