Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

‘Hmph...’

The Forth Bridge loomed into view on the right, like three skeletal Apatosaurus wading their way across the water, brown-red silhouettes in the reflected glow of the city’s lights, caught against an angry, burnt-umber sky. And between us and it, the lonely stick figure of the Forth Road Bridge. Hanging there like a pale ghost. Empty, while we drudged our way through a slow-motion contraflow.

Franklin chewed on her lip, wrinkles bunching up between her neatly plucked brows in the beams of advancing headlights. ‘Maybe we should get onto Interpol? See if he’s gone abroad somewhere?’

‘Maybe. It’s worth a—’

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Text message.

Sabir4TehPool:

Still running those Polaroids against the

misper DBs. No results yet. But I got

locations for most of them if UR

interested?

Solid pain in my Arsenal BTW

& where’s my cost code?!?!?!?!?!

Franklin looked at me. ‘Something important?’

‘Not really.’

I thumbed out a reply.

Finger out, Sabir. I’ve told everyone you’re

an IT whizz kid with superhuman powers.

Making me look bad here!

SEND.

He’d like that. Be a bit of motivation for him.

The first of the bridge’s towers crawled past, its cables stretched out like the sail of a ship.

‘You know what worries me?’ I stuck my phone on the dusty dashboard. ‘Leah MacNeil just happens to be in Edinburgh when we are. Where we are. That not strike you as a massive coincidence?’

‘Not really. When I worked for E Division, mispers were always turning up there. You’ve run away from home, where are you going to go: Dundee? Aberdeen? Fraserburgh? Oldcastle? No, you head to the capital city, where the streets are paved with opportunities and tourists.’

My phone buzzed again.

Sabir4TehPool:

Cheeky jock haggis-munching

wankmonkey!

U should be made up I’m helping U at all!

At least it gives U idiots somewhere 2

look!!!!!

Ah, got to love the wit and wisdom of lazy IT people.

Again: making me look bad here, Sabir. I

need names for those faces. Poor sods

deserve that much, don’t they?

We owe it to them and their families.

Might be laying it on a smidgeon too thick there, but what the hell.

SEND.

‘Besides, the Christmas Market’s bound to be a draw, isn’t it? All those flashing lights. Half the smackheads, stoners, and junkies in the city will be like moths round a porch light.’

‘True.’

And on the traffic crawled.

Just after six, time for the news.

I reached for the radio, clicked it on. ‘What did Mother say when you told her Leah MacNeil was alive?’

A woman’s voice crackled out of the speaker. ‘... four Federal buildings, claiming it was “America’s punishment for supporting the rights of gays and coloureds.” The White House issued a statement...’

‘Ah, about that.’

‘You did tell her, didn’t you?’

‘... retribution would be both swift and disproportionate. ~ Reality TV star and tabloid journalist Marian Shires has been found guilty of murdering Kelly Strickland in a drunken brawl outside notorious Glasgow nightclub...’

Franklin kept her eyes front, mouth closed.

‘Why didn’t you tell her?’

‘Well, I... didn’t see Leah, did I? Not personally.’

‘... sentencing later this month. ~ The hunt continues for the man thought to be responsible for the death of at least twenty people in Oldcastle today, after human remains were spotted as Storm Trevor made landfall to the east of the city...’

‘You think I’m making it up ?’

‘Well, maybe not “making it up”, but I didn’t—’

‘I bought you a sausage, and a go on the carousel!’

‘... police are keen to trace the whereabouts of Gordon Smith, last seen in Clachmara four weeks ago. ~ BBC Scotland has announced a major new crime drama to be shot in the picturesque northeast town of Portsoy. Based on the novels of J.C. Williams, PC Munro and the Poisoner’s Cat will...’

‘I thought you’d like to tell her yourself, without me taking credit?’

Aye, right.

‘I was not making it up.’ Pulled out my phone and picked ‘DI MALCOLMSON’ from the list. Listened to it ringing. ‘Thought you and I had actually managed to—’

‘Ash?’

‘... Justice Secretary, Mark Stalker, continues to deny any wrongdoing after...’

I clicked the radio off. ‘Leah MacNeil’s alive. I saw her at the Christmas Market, but a pair of Edinburgh’s finest tackled me before I could get to her.’

‘Oh, that is good news! I was certain she’d be one of Gordon Smith’s victims. Her gran’s going to be delighted.’

‘You need to get a warrant sorted for whoever Leah’s mobile phone provider is: get her location tracked.’

We finally reached the other side of the bridge and Franklin wove us through another traffic-cone chicane. The space between vehicles opened up as people accelerated.

Still nothing from Mother.

‘Hello, you there?’

Maybe reception wasn’t good in Fife?

‘Ash, if Leah’s alive — and I’m very glad she is — then it’s exactly what officers thought in the first place: she’s not been murdered or abducted, she’s left home. And she’s an adult, so she’s perfectly within her rights to do that. We don’t have any grounds for a warrant.’

‘Her mum’s been killed by the serial killer living next door, don’t you think she deserves to know?’

A long pause was followed by what might have been a groan. ‘I do, but she has rights . No judge is going to give us a warrant for that. Let’s be happy she didn’t end up in Gordon Smith’s torture basement.’ A strangled straining noise came down the line. ‘Not that there’s much of it left; lost another dozen feet of headland today. And these idiot journalists are still sneaking through the safety fence, trying to get photos! It’s pitch-black out there, what are they going to see?’

She was probably right about the warrant, but that didn’t make it any less crap.

‘You’ll tell Helen MacNeil her granddaughter’s OK?’

More silence.

We overtook an articulated lorry — ‘MRS LOVETT’S FABULOUS FAMILY PIES ~ PACKED FULL OF DELICIOUSNESS!’ — following the signs for Perth and Dundee.

‘Hello? Are you still—’

‘Actually, Ash, given that you’ve got such a good rapport with her—’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

‘I think it might be better coming from you.’

Because we’d got on so well this morning, outside Divisional Headquarters.

Looked as if someone up there hated me almost as much as I hated them...

Oh for...

Just when things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

Helen MacNeil was framed, dead centre, in the pool car’s headlights, standing in the middle of the road, right in front of the Mobile Incident Unit, hands wrapped around the throat of some idiot in a Barbour jacket, while a soundman tried to prise her off and a cameraman filmed it.

I undid my seatbelt. ‘Out, now!’

Franklin and I both scrambled from the car — the howling wind slamming against my chest, ripping the car door from my fingers. She ducked into the back seat for a moment and came out with an extendable baton, clacking it out to full length as we closed the gap.