Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

That was the trouble with a walking stick. It was good for belting people with, but after a while the whole ‘hobbling about’ thing set every other muscle in my body squint and aching.

‘Hmmph!’

‘Look, if I buy you a sausage butty when we get to Glasgow, will that cheer you up?’ Reclining my seat even further, till I could see the motorway behind us in the rear-view mirror. ‘Getting to be a bit of a habit.’

‘Oh ha-ha.’

Yup — it was definitely still there. ‘Can you see what I see?’

‘I’m not playing I Spy with you.’

‘No, you twit. Three cars back: Rusty VW Golf.’

‘Yellow?’

‘Been following us since we left Cupar.’

Franklin shrugged. ‘So what? Lots of people drive to Glasgow. Even Fifers.’

‘It followed us across the Tay Road Bridge, too.’

She pulled herself closer to the mirror, squinting at it. ‘Can’t see the number plate... Journalists?’

‘Maybe.’ Or maybe not.

‘Want me to lose them?’ Tightening her grip on the steering wheel. No doubt looking forward to another go at ‘FIVE DEAD IN MOTORWAY PILEUP HORROR’.

‘Nah. Let’s see if we can’t front them up when we get to Glasgow.’

Franklin’s shoulders dipped an inch and she loosened her grip. ‘Suppose...’

Yeah, I was no fun.

We stood in the shadow of the Nelson Monument — a stubby dirty Cleopatra’s needle that didn’t provide nearly enough shelter from the wind whipping in up the Clyde. Bringing with it the peppery-ozone scent of impending snow.

Detective Chief Inspector McManus nodded her head towards the squat glazed bulk of the People’s Palace — a silvered jellyfish, washed up in the middle distance — then held up the printout in a gloved hand. She had a large, powerful frame; hair scraped back from a high forehead; small piercing eyes. Voice trying hard to lose the tenement twang and almost succeeding. ‘That’s it there, just visible between the carousel horses.’

Sabir and his magic algorithms strike again.

‘Any idea who they are?’

Something chugged by on the river behind us, accompanied by the faint bmmtssshhh - bmmtssshhh - bmmtssshhh of dance music played too loud on cheap speakers.

I turned, but McManus was staring off in the opposite direction. Watching as Franklin and Henry wandered through a double avenue of trees, the wee lad’s nose down and tail up. ‘She’s very pretty.’

‘She’s a he . Scottie dog.’

That got me a withering look. ‘Not the terrier, the Detective Sergeant.’

‘Oh, you soon get over that if you have to spend any time with her.’ I poked the printout in McManus’s hand. ‘Who are they?’

‘Hmm?’ McManus dragged herself back to the photo: a man and a woman, waving at the camera as their carousel horses galloped by. He had sideburns and a leather waistcoat, one of those flouncy ceilidh shirts unlaced far enough to expose a ‘V’ of pelt-covered chest, shoulder-length brown hair bouncing out behind him. Maybe mid-twenties. The woman was a good five or six years younger, mousy-blonde hair in a bulbous bob, wide white smile stretching her happy round face. Long, floaty, floral-print dress, ridden up at the side showing a flash of pale thigh. ‘No idea.’

McManus lowered the printout. ‘One of our history buffs managed to date the picture, though. Going by the fairground, the positioning of the stalls, and the terrible fashion sense, this was taken forty-two years ago, sometime between the fifteenth and twenty-first of April. Circus was in town. I’ve got people going through the archives for all missing person reports within a three-month window.’

‘Let me guess,’ I leaned back against the monument, ‘stacks and stacks of dusty boxes?’

‘It’s like that scene at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark . And every time I even suggest getting everything digitised?’

‘Budget cutbacks?’

‘Can barely afford to police the streets as it is.’

‘You should get yourself some interns.’

Franklin and Henry made one more pass around the trees and headed back towards us.

McManus stared at them, a slightly droopy wistful look on her face. ‘Course, there’s no guarantee they were even reported missing here. People come on holiday to Glasgow all the time. Could’ve been from anywhere.’

True.

I dug my hands deeper into my pockets. ‘You want some unsolicited advice?’

‘Not really.’ Curling her lip.

‘The last senior officer who perved on DS Franklin ended up with a broken nose. Ask E Division.’

‘I do like a challenge...’ McManus returned the printout. ‘Where you off to next?’

‘Bute. Smith photographed his brother and a young woman on a putting course.’

‘Oh, shame.’ Clearing her throat as Franklin and Henry got closer. ‘I could’ve come with you. You know... to help facilitate access and interdivisional cooperation with local resources, but that’s K Division’s patch.’

Aye, and there were no prizes for guessing whose inter-divisional cooperation Detective Chief Inspector McManus was trying to access. Standing up straighter and smiling as Franklin finally arrived with the wee hairy boy.

No prizes at all.

The pool car passed under a raised walkway, and the landscape opened out to the right — the wide River Clyde a choppy blue smear with hills and mountains disappearing into the lowering sky on the other side — while we roared along the dual carriageway.

‘Tell you, it’s an absolute nightmare. ’ Rhona gave a disgusted grunt. ‘ Soon as Toby Macmillan was reported missing: total media feeding frenzy. “Is missing five-year-old the latest Oldcastle Child-Strangler victim?” Second editions are all “picture exclusive, pages four to nine”, and opinion pieces from every mouth-breathing halfwit who ever wanked into a sock. Shifty looks like his head’s going to pop like an over-ripe pluke any second now. Doesn’t help that your wee friend’s hungover as hell. Been sick three times already this morning.’

‘Do me a favour and keep an eye on Alice, OK?’

Rhona groaned. Then, ‘OK, OK. But if she pukes all over me, you’re for it.’

Franklin overtook a big green articulated lorry with the ScotiaBrand Tasty Chickens logo down the side, and, ‘ONLY A CLUCKING IDIOT WOULDN’T LOVE SCOTIABRAND CHICKEN MACSPORRANS!’ Someone had finger-painted, ‘VEGAN REVOLUTIONARY ARMY!!!’ and ‘MEAT IS MURDER!!!’ underneath, in the grime.

‘And while you’re there, chase up Edinburgh plod for me, will you? Supposed to have a lookout request on the go for Leah MacNeil. Make sure they’re not sat on their arses twiddling their thumbs.’

‘Yeah. You’ll have to wait till I’m done here, though. Got a media briefing in five. Hopefully I won’t be spending most of it holding Her Ladyship’s hair back as she barfs all over the front row.’ The smile in Rhona’s voice was loud and clear. ‘Not that most of them wouldn’t deserve it, mind. Then it’s back to interviewing nonces for the rest of the day. Which is about as—’

‘Thanks, Rhona.’ I hung up. Tapped the phone against my palm. Might be worth tuning in to listen. Then again, if Alice really was in that bad a state, maybe better not.

We passed a minibus full of grumpy-faced pensioners. A taxi with a sobbing man in the back. A Transit with two blokes singing along to something in the front. An ancient Ford towing a trailer full of logs.

Then a wide stretch of nothing but us and the river and the hills.

Franklin risked a glance back over her shoulder, even though there was a perfectly good rear-view mirror, right there. ‘They still following us?’