Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

‘It’s...’ I went for that reassuring-police-officer voice again: ‘I’ve asked for a warrant to track her phone.’ Which was true. Helen didn’t need to know that Mother had turned me down flat.

‘Your weird girl was right: I should’ve put a tracking app on Leah’s mobile when I had the chance. But it’s too late for that. I need you to find her!’

‘We’re doing everything we can.’ Trying to sound sincere and convincing. ‘But you know what police budgets are like. Maybe you could try getting a private detective? Johnston and Gench, in Shortstaine are good. Or there’s McLean and McNee, in Logansferry?’

She let go and stepped back. ‘You’re not going to help me, are you?’

I raised my eyebrows at Franklin, but she just stood there. Then seemed to twig, because she made a great show of looking at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs MacNeil, but Mr Henderson and I are late for our morning briefing. We’ve got a killer to catch.’

‘I’ll chase up the lookout request and make sure Edinburgh are still on it. I promise.’

Franklin took hold of my sleeve. ‘We really do have to go.’

Helen glowered at me. ‘Leah’s all I’ve got left.’

‘I know. But in the meantime, I’m going to try catching the bastard who murdered your daughter.’

‘Any questions?’ Mother folded her thick arms and leaned back against the windowsill. Behind her, that line of pale blue had reached up the sky, a smear of red replacing it on the horizon. The outside broadcast vans had arrived at last, bringing with them a flotilla of hatchbacks and four-by-fours. All ready for the media circus to kick off once more.

Especially now one of their own had died.

The team was gathered in their cheap and nasty plastic chairs, Henry curled up at my feet — making tiny whimpery noises as his paws twitched. Chasing something in his dreams.

DC Elliot put her hand up. ‘Simpson Kinkaid: are we going public with that? And if we are, has anyone delivered the death message to his next of kin? Or are we holding off telling them?’

‘Official line from on high is: we’re holding off for now.’ She pointed. ‘You look like you’ve got one, John.’

He arched an eyebrow and tilted his head towards the window. ‘Who’s handling the press?’

Mother stretched out her jaw, as if she was having difficulty swallowing something. ‘Our beloved leader will be addressing the nation this morning. And, in the absence of any real bones to throw them, and after what happened last night, I expect we’ll get a bit of a kicking.’

‘Speaking of bones,’ Elliot again, ‘what about the post mortem?’

‘Nine sharp. Anyone want to volunteer and join me? Anyone? Hello?’

No one made eye contact.

‘Of course you don’t, because you all want to sod off on a jolly, don’t you?’ She chewed on her lip for a moment. ‘Bunch of ingrates.’ Pointed at me. ‘Ash?’

I produced the printout of Sabir’s locations. ‘The only place we can’t ID is the bicycle-and-hedgerow picture. Other twelve range from Tiree to Malaga.’

Mother folded her arms. ‘And before anyone asks: no. You can’t go to Malaga.’

‘Awww...’ Dotty slouched in her wheelchair.

‘Pick up your assignments from Rosalind on the way out. And don’t—’

The living room door creaked open and in strode a large man in the full Police Scotland black, peaked cap tucked under one bulky arm. Face like a slab of granite that’d been carved by a sadist. Inspector’s pips. ‘As you were.’

Henry scrabbled to his feet, claws clicking on the bare wooden floorboards as he turned to face the newcomer.

Mother tried for a smile, but it wasn’t very convincing. ‘Inspector Samson, to what do we owe this—’

‘The Chief Superintendent would like a word.’ Making it sound like a death sentence.

‘I see.’ She dusted herself down. ‘Right, well, let me tidy up here and—’

‘With all of you.’

Right on cue, in stalked Chief Superintendent McEwan. Ducking slightly to get through the doorway without banging his head. Military moustache drawn in a hard sharp line above a hard sharp mouth. He removed his peaked cap — revealing a shiny pate surrounded by close-cropped grey hair — and handed it to Samson.

The pair of them were bookends, more like bouncers than police officers.

McEwan took his time to glare at everyone in the ensuing silence. Then turned to Mother, voice a deep rumbling baritone, calm and flat, as if nothing at all was wrong in the world. ‘Detective Inspector Malcolmson, would you be so kind as to explain to me why I’ve got half the world’s press CRAWLING UP MY ARSEHOLE WITH HOBNAIL BOOTS ON?’

Henry scrabbled around behind me, peering out past my legs. Tail down.

Give Mother her due, she didn’t even flinch. ‘Perhaps this isn’t the—’

‘I know we don’t expect much of your team. But Divisional Investigative Support is supposed to do precisely what its name suggests: support investigations, NOT GET JOURNALISTS KILLED!’ Going redder and redder.

‘Now that’s not fair, we—’

‘Have you any idea how difficult you’ve made my job? You.’ Jabbing his finger at her. ‘All of you! YOU’RE A BLOODY DISGRACE!’

Mother pulled her chin in, shoulders back. ‘My team has done nothing wrong. You can criticise me all you like, but—’

‘Nothing wrong ? Your team does nothing but wrong! If they were capable of anything else, they wouldn’t be in your team!’ He was actually trembling now, flecks of spittle glowing in the light of that one bare bulb. ‘You’re an unprofessional—’

I thumped my walking stick down on the desk, making the collection of paperwork dance. ‘Shut up, you bloviating, half-arsed, jumped-up, overbearing PRICK!’ Because he wasn’t the only one who could do the shouting thing.

A pause, then Henry found his courage again, popping out from behind me to growl at McEwan.

The head of Oldcastle police stared at me. Eyes growing wider. Mouth curdling. ‘How dare you talk to me like—’

‘Oh, fuck off. You were an arsehole when I was in the Job and you’re an even bigger arsehole now.’ Closing the gap between us to poking distance. Jabbing a finger in his pompous chest. ‘DC Watt, DS Franklin, and DI Malcolmson risked their lives last night, trying to save a moron journalist who wouldn’t take a telling and stay away from the cliffs!’

‘The media have been very clear that—’

‘So what if the press are crawling up your backside? So what if they’re screaming for scapegoats?’

‘This isn’t—’

‘Your job isn’t to help them , your job is to stand behind your bloody officers! No, you know what: it’s to stand in front of your officers and take the flack so they can keep on DOING THEIR BLOODY JOBS!’ Another poke, hard enough to send him flinching back a step. ‘SO GROW A PAIR OF BALLS, GO OUT THERE, AND DO YOURS!’

His eyes bulged, white teeth bared, moustache twitching.

Then Inspector Samson cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, sir, but we’re live on the BBC in two minutes.’

Some more twitching and glowering.

Henry barked at him.

‘Sir?’

McEwan’s nostrils flared as he stuck his nose in the air, then he turned and marched from the room, snatching his hat out of Samson’s hands as he went.

The inspector shook his head. Hissed out a long slow breath. ‘Between you and me? That probably wasn’t a great idea.’

I gave him the benefit of a cold shark smile. ‘You can tell your boss: he briefs against the Misfit Mob, I’ll go straight to the press and tell them all about Deborah Stalker.’