Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

I settled back against the wall. ‘What does Kirk want?’

‘You know what the rest of my morning looks like? Helping a man who murdered his wife and two daughters rehearse for a “diminished-responsibility” plea, on the grounds that he thought one of the girls wasn’t his, so they all had to die. Then prepare some sort of argument so a complete animal can get visiting rights to his toddler, even though he beat the living crap out of its mother. Short break for lunch. Followed by a woman who filmed herself abusing and killing a wee boy. She wants to sue the prison for not letting her publish the slash-fic novel she’s written about Jimmy Bloody Savile granting wishes at Hogwarts...’ Dewar’s shoulders slumped, head thrown back to stare up at the cold blue sky. ‘Should’ve listened to my mother and gone into the priesthood.’

A seagull screeched by, overhead.

‘Nah.’ I gave him a small smile. ‘If you did that, you’d still have to deal with paedos, rapists, and freaks, only you’d have to absolve them of their sins, then send them off on their merry way, safe in the knowledge they were going to do it all over again. Imagine having that on your conscience.’

He let his head fall forward, staring at his cup of vending-machine brown as he nodded. ‘True.’ Took a sip. ‘Steven wanted to press charges for assault, even though Dr... McDonald is it?’

I nodded.

‘Even though Dr McDonald claims he assaulted her and you were only trying to save her.’ Another bitter laugh. ‘Which you and I know is utter bollocks. You gave Steven Kirk a good kicking, because he deserved one.’ Dewar took a deep breath. ‘So here’s what I’m going to propose: you make a full and sincere apology. Police Scotland — or your LIRU lot, don’t care which — make a modest financial settlement to acknowledge his pain and distress. Somewhere in the ballpark of eight to ten grand should do it. And I talk Steven into dropping the charges. Mary Brennan’s screaming for his head on a spike now she knows he was cosying up to her in church. That should give us some leverage.’

Eight to ten grand. Not sure if Detective Superintendent Jacobson would go for that, but you never knew...

‘Thank you.’

‘Yeah.’ Dewar took another sip. ‘And in return, I need you do me a favour, OK?’

The silence stretched.

That gull soared past once more, bringing a couple of squawking friends with it.

Outside the high fences, a car horn brayed.

‘You’re supposed to ask what the favour is.’

‘OK... What is it?’

Kenneth Dewar downed the last of his drink and flipped the empty wax-paper cup into the nearest bin. ‘Steven Kirk didn’t kill Andrew Brennan, or any of those other wee boys — he’s got an alibi that I can’t tell you about. A proper one. Nothing to do with looking after his dying mother.’

‘Something that violates his SRO?’ AKA: something that could get him wheeched right back to prison for being a sketchy child-molesting bastard.

‘That would be one possible interpretation, but I can’t confirm or deny it, because even a perverted monster like Steven Kirk is covered by client confidentiality.’ Deep breath. ‘But I want something in return.’

‘What, in addition to your cut of the eight grand?’ I took out one of Alice’s business cards, scored out her mobile number and printed my own in its place. Held it out. ‘In case you change your mind about that client confidentiality. Off the record, of course. Anonymously, if you like?’

‘I want you to promise me you’ll find the man who killed those wee boys.’ Dewar bit his bottom lip and nodded. ‘You find him, and you make him pay .’

‘ How much?’ Jacobson sounded as if I’d just stabbed him.

‘Eight. Well, eight to ten.’ I shifted the phone to the other ear as the pool car thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thumped its way across the Tay Road Bridge. The river sparkled in the sunlight, a massive slab of slate grey, scarred by the passage of an RNLI lifeboat. A handful of Jackup rigs reaching their latticework ladders into a dull-blue sky.

‘Thousand pounds?’

‘No, jelly babies.’

A smile played at the edge of Franklin’s mouth, but she kept her face front, following a wee sandwich van with ‘BINGO BRENDA’S BAPS, BUTTERIES, & BRIDIES!’ on it, at a stately fifty miles per hour.

‘I don’t think you’re in any position to be sarcastic, do you?’

‘Kenny Dewar is adamant Steven Kirk isn’t our boy. He was doing something else at the time. Something that breaches his Sexual Risk Order.’

‘Ten thousand pounds! Do you have any idea what that’ll do to my budget?’

‘Kirk’s not going to make something like that up, is he? Well, maybe to get away with abduction and murder...’

‘How can you not take this seriously?’

Thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thump.

‘Look, it happened, and I’m sorry, but it happened.’ I sagged back in my seat. ‘Kirk weaselled his way into Saint Damon’s, got himself a nice little volunteer job where he could slither up to Mary Brennan. It all kind of... happened.’

‘Thought you said you went for him because he attacked Alice?’

‘That happened after.’ Almost. From my slouched position, the road behind us was dead centre in the rear-view mirror. A wee open-topped sports car, driven by a wrinkly old lady with wild grey hair. A dumpy Mini the colour of dung. A dull-yellow Volkswagen Golf clarted in rust. And behind them the grey swathe of Dundee as it faded into the distance behind us.

Say what you like about the place, at least it was trying — with its V&A museum and redevelopment and infrastructure plan. More than Oldcastle was doing.

‘Ash?’

Oh, right. Jacobson.

‘Look, we’ve got personal liability insurance, haven’t we? Use that.’

Silence from the other end of the phone.

Thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thump.

Then, ‘How do you manage to be the biggest ache in my rectum, Ash? You’re in a team with Professor Bernard Huntly, for God’s sake, you shouldn’t even come close!’

‘And see if you can chase up Sabir, eh? He’s had his eight hours — about time he produced the goods and got us some IDs.’

‘The ice is thin, Ash, and you’re skating very, very heavily.’

‘Yeah.’ I hung up and put my phone away. ‘I know.’

Franklin held up her printout of the young woman standing on one leg, then shuffled around until the real-life bandstand lined up with the one in the photograph. In the picture, a blob of pink flowers and a wavy line of red and yellow ones punctuated the grass, but here, in the middle of November, Haugh Park was all faded yellows and browns. No leaves on the trees.

She nodded. ‘Definitely the same place.’

Sabir was good for something, then.

We wandered back up the path, Henry having a good sniff at everything, past some sort of memorial statue, and stopped at the roundabout.

‘What now?’ Franklin pointed left, where the road curved past a big sandstone lump of a building. ‘Police station’s that way. Go have a dig through their missing persons’ database?’

‘Would be sensible.’ I limped across to the other side of the roundabout, Henry trotting along at my side, tail up and waving. Making for Cupar town centre. ‘So, you nip off and do that.’

She hurried after me, rolled her eyes. ‘Come on then, out with it.’

‘Nothing at all. It’s the sensible thing to do. Like I said.’

‘And what will you be doing, while I’m digging through fifty-six years’ worth of misper records?’