Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

‘What happened?’

A gull worried away at a discarded polystyrene container, chips spilling out into the gutter.

Henry rushed at it, firing out sharp-edged barks till the lead brought him up short.

Unimpressed, the gull stared back and kept on pecking.

‘Well, by the time an Armed Response Unit got there, Adam had barricaded himself in the golf pro’s office, with his wife and a bottle of Glenfarclas he’d liberated from the club bar.’

‘This doesn’t have a happy ending, does it?’

‘Hell no.’ We followed the road, around the castle. ‘Took the crime-scene cleaners four days to dig all the tiny bits of skull out of the wooden panelling. So, no: I’m not keen on a game of putting.’

A wet popping wheezing noise gurgled out of Franklin and she rubbed at her stomach. ‘You still owe me that sausage butty.’

I leaned on the windowsill, rolling my right ankle in small clicking circles. That’s what I got for walking all the way to Rothesay Police Station from the putting course.

Our meeting room was pretty much identical to the ones you’d find in any Police Scotland building. Someone had tried to glam it up with a series of ugly watercolours and a wilting pot plant, but it hadn’t really worked.

Pulling back the vertical blinds had revealed a view out across a twenty-foot strip of flat roof and over the road to a weird boxy building in pink granite with a sign fixed to its black front door: ‘CARPET SHOP BEHIND CHURCH ’.

What the hell was it with Rothesay and carpet shops? How much carpet did one small town need?

Henry had found himself a spot by the radiator, curled up and dead to the world, making wheezy snoring noises as we waited. And waited. And waited.

I checked my watch: twenty past two. ‘I’m giving it five more minutes, then sod the lot of them.’

‘Absolutely starving...’ She slumped back in her chair at the empty meeting table. Stared at the ceiling. ‘How long’s it been?’

‘Over half an hour.’

‘And not so much as a biscuit.’

‘Ah, now you mention it.’ I dug into my jacket pocket and came out with the two pre-packaged slices of cake I’d bought on the ferry. Each about the size of a small remote control. Held them out. ‘You want a cranberry-and-pistachio slice, or rocky road?’

‘Yes!’ She took both. Ripped open the plastic and tore a big bite out of the knobbly chocolate slice. The words all mushy as she chewed. ‘So are you going to tell me what it was Jennifer Prentice did?’

‘No.’

More chewing. ‘She showed me a text from Nick James saying she could borrow the car whenever she liked.’

‘Probably nicked his phone and sent it to herself.’

Franklin chomped on another mouthful. ‘You really don’t like her, do you?’

‘That woman’s a complete—’

The meeting room door creaked open and in marched a stiff-backed bald bloke in the full Police Scotland black. Three pips on his epaulettes and a full-bore Highlands and Islands accent that lilted higher than expected. ‘I understand you’re...’ His face pulled in around his scrunched lips. ‘Is that a dog ? We don’t allow dogs in the station.’

Henry stayed where he was, but Franklin stood to attention. Hiding the rocky road slice behind her back. ‘Sir.’

Another uniform hurpled in after him, this one a good head shorter than his boss, his official-issue T-shirt stretched over a decent-sized beer belly. A thick brown beard covering his cheeks and chin. Saggy eyes. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting...’ All smiles and handshakes.

His fingers lingered over Franklin’s.

She slid her hand free and wiped it on her trouser leg, soon as he wasn’t looking.

The Chief Inspector stuck his nose in the air. ‘Detective Sergeant Rosalind Franklin, I understand you want to search through all of our historical missing person reports?’

‘Yes, sir.’

A cold fish eye swivelled in my direction. ‘And this is?’

‘Mr Henderson. He’s with the Lateral Investigative and Review Unit. We’re—’

‘While I’m quite happy to allow police officers access to our records, I draw the line at civilians. And dogs.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Sergeant Campbell will assist you. Sergeant Campbell, please make sure you escort Mr Henderson from the premises first.’ He turned on his heel, as if it was a parade ground manoeuvre, and marched from the room, head up, shoulders back.

Prick.

Sergeant Campbell grimaced. ‘Sorry about that. The Chief can be a tad... brusque?’ He placed a hand on Franklin’s shoulder. ‘But I’m sure we’ll get on like the best of friends.’ Rounding it off with a greasy smile.

Yeah, he was going to end up with a broken nose, like her old boss in Edinburgh.

‘Here we go, son. You want any sauces or mustard wi’ that?’ The woman in the black shirt and red waistcoat — both of which were too small for her — clinked the plate down on the table in front of me. Then brushed the grey hair from her eyes and leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘And I’ve got the chef to do a cheeky sausage for yer dug, too.’ Wink.

‘Thanks. This’ll be great.’

She squatted down to pet Henry. ‘Who’s a lovely wee boy, then? Oh, you’re just pure gorgeous , so you are.’

Our table was next to the window, with a view out over the castle’s remains, moat glinting in the golden light as the sun sank lower in the sky. More seagulls strutting about on the pavement, looking for an unsuspecting tourist to mug.

One more ruffle, then the waitress straightened up, beaming down at the lad. ‘Oh, he’s smashing.’

I dipped into my pocket and came out with the printout — Peter Smith and the unknown woman, standing together on the putting course. Passed it across. ‘Don’t suppose you recognise either of them, do you?’

‘Hold on...’ She produced a pair of reading glasses and perched them on the end of her nose, peering at the photograph. ‘Shell suits? Before my time, son, I’ve only been here thirty years. I can ask the chef, though? She’s been here since the dawn of time.’

‘That would be great.’

She plucked Henry’s sausage from the plate and tossed it to him. Smiling like a proud granny as the wee lad snatched it out of the air. ‘Clever boy!’

Then she was off, taking the printout with her, while I dipped a chip in my tiny dish of mayonnaise and Henry scarfed his cheeky sausage.

Sitting on the tabletop, my phone dinged and buzzed.

RHONA:

Chased up E Division — they’ve done

posters.

Beat cops & cars keeping an eye out.

Maybe they’ll get lucky & find Leah?

Doubt it though.

So did I.

Bit awkward: poking out a reply one-handed, but it left the other one free to scoop up my burger with chargrilled halloumi and mushrooms. Chewing while I texted.

Thanks Rhona. How’s Shifty holding up?

SEND.

Good burger. Have to make sure and tell Franklin all about it. She’d like that...

Having a late lunch with Henry: very nice

food.

Have you punched Sergeant Campbell in

the face yet? Twat that he is.

SEND.

I’d barely managed another bite before the phone ding-buzzed again.

DS FRANKLIN:

WHAT AN UTTER WASTE OF TIME!

They’ve brought every missing person file

out from storage going back to Noah’s Ark.

It’ll take DAYS to go through this lot!

Buzz-ding .

DS FRANKLIN:

And I’m starving. They haven’t even

offered me a cup of tea, and we’ve been

here for ages!