Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

‘Will you keep your eyes on the road?’

‘I can’t see them, maybe they’ve... No. Rusty yellow Volkswagen Golf at twelve o’clock.’

I tried not to grimace, I really did. ‘Of course they’re at twelve o’clock, they’re following us.’ Poked at the screen on my phone, bringing up the web browser and scrolling down the Calmac timetable. ‘OK, we’ve missed the twelve fifteen, and the next ferry’s not till one.’

She glanced at the dashboard clock. ‘Plenty of time.’

‘Ah... According to this, we need to be there twenty minutes before it sails.’

‘Going to be tight, then.’ The car’s engine changed pitch as she put her foot down and the needle crept up to eighty. ‘Can’t believe we didn’t make the Golf, back in Glasgow.’

I slithered down in my seat. Three cars back, the Volkswagen accelerated to match our speed, pulling out to overtake the red van in front of it.

Gotcha.

Sat up straight again, turned in my seat and pointed my phone’s camera at the rear windscreen.

And immediately, Henry popped up like a gopher, big happy head filling the picture. ‘Get down, you daft lump.’

He stayed where he was, but his expression got even more glaikit.

Took hold of his collar and pulled him into the footwell. ‘Stay!’ Then took the shot. Turned and faced the front again.

‘You get them?’

‘Find out soon enough.’ Calling up the photo showed it wasn’t great, but there was just enough grainy detail when I zoomed in to make out the number plate. Right. Rhona was already doing me a favour, so I texted the pic to Shifty instead.

Run this through the PNC for me.

I need an ID, address, and anything else

you can get on the driver.

They’ve been following us.

SEND.

The response was surprisingly prompt, given he was meant to be giving a media briefing.

SHIFTY:

I am not your bloody skivvy! I’m running a

bloody murder inquiry here! I’ve got three

dead kids and one missing!!!!!!!

Which was actually a fair point. He really did have more important things to do.

I smiled across the car at Franklin. ‘You haven’t got DC Watt’s mobile number, have you?’

Franklin stood at the front rail, peering down into the ferry’s loading bay. The huge metal prow was raised, like the open beak of a vast blue-and-white metal parrot, banging and clanging coming from below as the last of the vehicles was driven on board. ‘Any sign of it?’

Wind grabbed at her hair, making it stream out to the side, water breaking in spumes of white against the dock’s pilings. Henry scuttered up and down on the end of his leash, ears flapping.

‘Over there.’ I raised a finger and pointed, past the apron with its twelve lines reserved for vehicles waiting to board — two of which were already full, ready for the next sailing — to the parking area away to the right, down by the pebbly shore. Where that rusty yellow Golf now lurked. ‘Must’ve missed the loading cut-off, so they either abandon the car, or abandon the chase.’

‘Hmmm...’ She narrowed her eyes at it. ‘So they’re definitely on board.’

‘Came a hell of a long way to give up now.’

Franklin turned, resting her back against the rail instead, looking up at the wheelhouse as it towered over us. Picking the hair out of her mouth and setting it free to writhe in the wind again. ‘Still nothing from John?’

‘Useless as he is ugly.’ I tried to flex out the knots in my right leg. ‘You want to run the PNC check instead?’

‘I’m not your—’

‘Do it myself, but they tend to frown on members of the public hacking into the Police National Computer.’

She made a pained expression, then slumped. ‘Fine, but you owe me a sausage butty, remember?’

‘Deal.’ I handed her Henry’s lead and sodded off inside.

‘Thanks.’ I pocketed my change, picked up the cardboard coffee-holder thing and the wee paper bag with the not-sausage-butties in it.

The ferry was busier than you’d think, for the one o’clock sailing on a blustery Sunday in November. The outside seating area at the stern was virtually empty, though. Instead people were clustered inside, on the rows of vinyl seats or around the puggy machines — feeding in their money and pressing buttons to a soundtrack of dings, tweedles, and flashing lights.

A couple of fake-tan tourists in neon hiking gear were going pale and sweaty as the ferry forged its way against the wind. Deck rising and falling, wallowing from side to side. Making limping anywhere with two decaf lattes and a pair of pre-packaged cake slices even more difficult than usual.

Should’ve been paying more attention to where I was going, but I was more concerned with not falling on my backside, and thumped sideways into a fat bearded bloke in a stripy top. ‘Sorry.’

‘Sorry.’ An apologetic shrug, even though I was the one who’d barged into him.

Still, at least...

‘Are you all right?’ He put a hand on my arm. ‘Only, you look like you’ve seen a—’

‘Hold this.’ I thrust the coffees and cakes at him, then pushed past, heading for the narrow passageway through to the other seating area.

Rows of angled seats, a couple of small tables, lots of bored-looking people, and a handful of screaming children running in circles. Piles of luggage against the bulkheads — wheelie cases and cardboard boxes of things.

Where the hell was...

There: by the window, staring out at the darkening sky.

I limped straight over, thumped a hand down on her shoulder. ‘What’s the matter, couldn’t get your car on the boat?’

Helen MacNeil froze for a moment, then turned and scowled at me. ‘It’s a free country.’

‘I told you I’d chase up that lookout request, and I did. They’re looking for her.’

Franklin burst into the passenger area, dragging Henry with her, making a beeline for me. ‘Ash: you’ll never guess who owns that yellow...’ She stopped and stared at Helen.

‘You’re too late. I already know.’ Pointing.

‘What’s she doing here?’ Franklin stepped closer. ‘What are you doing here, Mrs MacNeil?’

Wait.

I looked at Franklin. ‘It’s her car.’

‘No, it belongs to Nick James, the journalist who got washed away yesterday.’

Great. Of course it did.

‘You stole a dead reporter’s car?’

Helen opened her mouth, but a voice behind me got there first, ‘ Technically , we borrowed it.’ No need to turn around to know who that was: Jennifer Bloody Prentice.

I turned on my heel, and limped off. Pausing only to retrieve my coffees and cakes from the confused-looking bearded bloke.

Jennifer’s voice brayed out behind me. ‘Oh come on, Ash, don’t be like that!’

‘... all drivers return to their vehicles...’ The nasal announcement echoed through the metal stairwell as I hobbled down to the car deck, the air thick with the scent of diesel. Walking stick clanging on the steps.

Franklin was waiting for me, leaning on the roof of our manky Ford Focus, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed. Voice hard and clipped. ‘Like to tell me what that was all about?’

‘No.’

She climbed inside. Pulled on her seatbelt as I settled into the passenger seat. Radiated Arctic cold at me. ‘So, according to Ms Prentice, she had an arrangement with Nick James, where she could use his car if she needed to go incognito.’

‘And you believed her? That woman could lie for Scotland. If they ever make it an Olympic sport, she’d beat Donald Trump.’

Henry scrabbled his way between the front seats, covering the handbrake and grinning up at me with his tongue hanging out. That was the trouble with Vera giving the greedy wee sod a sausage.