Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

Leah, I need you to keep your phone

switched on for me, so we can trace your

location. Turn the volume and the vibrate

setting off, and leave the phone switched

on.

We’ll find you, I promise!

SEND.

Soon as it went, I called Mother.

‘DI Malcolmson?’

‘It’s Ash. Remember...’

Helen MacNeil was staring at me.

By rights, I should go over there and tell her.

Tell her what? That her granddaughter isn’t safe and laying low in Edinburgh after all? That she’s been grabbed by Gordon Smith, and can’t get away because she’s terrified of him? That we had no idea where she was now? How exactly was that going to help?

Yeah. Maybe not.

I gave Helen a small wave instead and limped off down the High Street, towards the ferry terminal.

‘Ash? Remember what?’

Keeping my voice low, in case Helen decided to follow. ‘You really need to get that warrant out for Leah MacNeil’s mobile phone. She’s been in touch: Leah’s with Gordon Smith.’ I ducked around the corner — sheltering in the lee of an off-licence — out of the wind and Helen’s line of sight. ‘You still there?’

‘Ash, I hate to be a cynical Charlotte, but some might think this was a bit convenient, given your—’

‘Fine: I’ll forward you the texts. Hold on.’ I did, sending my replies on too. ‘She’s with him and she’s scared. If you get a warrant, we get her . And if we get her...?’

‘We get him.’ The sound went all scrunched, as if Mother had put a hand over her phone’s microphone. ‘John, whatever you’re doing, stop it and get a warrant for Leah MacNeil’s mobile phone location!’

DC Watt’s reply was too muffled to make out. Probably whingeing, knowing him.

And Mother was back. ‘Any luck IDing the Bute victim?’

‘Had to leave that to Franklin and a sergeant. The local Chief Inspector doesn’t think civilians should have access to missing person archives. Doesn’t allow dogs in his station, either.’

‘He sounds lovely.’

‘Nothing’s been digitised. It’s going to take them a long time to wade through everything. And the last ferry back to the mainland’s at seven.’

‘Hold on...’

‘Anything from Dotty and Elliot?’

Silence.

A couple of Russian tourists trundled their wheelie suitcases past, arguing about something.

A taxi stopped to let an old man, bent like a question mark, hobble into the off-licence behind me. Techno music vibrating out through the car windows.

‘I’m sorry if I’m boring you, but—’

‘There’s another ferry. If you go up to... Rhubodach? Am I saying that right? Last one from there sails at nine. Think Rosalind could be finished by then?’

‘No idea. Maybe?’

‘Let me know if not and we’ll get a B-and-B sorted. And keep all your receipts!’ With that, she hung up.

Henry thumped down at my feet, staring up at me as if I was the divine provider of sausages.

‘Better hope she gets us somewhere that takes greedy hairy monsters, or you’re sleeping in the car tonight.’

That didn’t seem to dent his enthusiasm any, instead his tail wagged even harder.

‘Scuse me?’ It was the waitress from the restaurant, arms wrapped around herself, grey hair flailing in the wind.

‘I put the money on the counter.’

‘Oh, I know, thanks. No, you left this behind.’ Holding out the printout of Peter Smith and the young woman. ‘I asked Elsie, but she doesn’t recognise either of them, so I showed it round all the staff and customers.’ Her mouth made a creased zigzag. ‘Sorry. Maybe someone else knows who they are though?’ She pointed across the square, at a narrow street between a jewellery shop and a red-painted bar with a couple of Tennent’s ‘T’s hanging outside. ‘You could try the Black Bull? The library’s got a book group, meets there on Sunday evenings: seven for half seven. Mostly gossipy auld wifies and nosy auld mannies, but that’s maybe what you’re after, son?’

Worth a go.

Till then, probably better make myself useful.

Thick, muggy air followed me out into the cold and wind. Lingering for a second as the pub door shut behind me, before the wind snatched it away.

Streetlights gleamed against the raven darkness, illuminating the curling seafront, headlights sweeping their way along the road as the occasional figure hurried somewhere warmer.

Henry cocked his leg against a downpipe, then we headed off along the pavement, following the map on my phone to the next location. Past shuttered cafés and antique shops.

The scent of hot fat and sharp vinegar drifted after us — the siren call of an empty chippy — as my phone launched into its default ringtone, the words, ‘DS FRANKLIN’ replacing the map. ‘Hello?’

‘This is an absolute nightmare. There’s a huge stack of boxes left, and we’ve only got as far as 1970!’

‘You’re having fun then?’

She sounded muffled and distant, as if she had the phone on the table and her head in her hands. ‘Only upside is Sergeant Campbell clocked off at five, on the dot, so I don’t have to put up with his sleazy gitbaggery any more.’

‘Mother wants to know if you’ll be done in time for us to catch the nine o’clock ferry from Rhubodach.’

‘Nine tonight? Not a chance in hell.’

Bed-and-breakfast in sunny Rothesay for us, then.

‘I’m going to be stuck here for hours .’ A groan rumbled down the phone. ‘And while I’m slogging my way through three tons of missing person reports, what are you—’

‘Pub crawl. Well, technically it’s a “pub limp”, but you get the picture.’

Franklin’s voice got a lot louder. ‘Oh for God’s—’

‘Teetotal, remember? Pills. I’m showing that photo of Peter Smith and the girl to anyone old enough to remember shell suits being a thing. Every bar and hotel I can find. And failing that, there’s a book club meets in one of the bars at half seven. Meant to be full of oldies.’

‘Worth a try, I suppose.’

Henry and I kept going.

‘You were right in the first place: when we were on the putting course. This is a complete waste of time.’

‘Yup.’ I paused outside a little place advertising Karaoke and Tennent’s Lager. The muffled sound of someone slaughtering a country-and-western tune oozed out through the pub windows, rising to a horrible blare as the door banged open and a couple of middle-aged women scurried out in a fit of the shrieking giggles. They huddled in the lee of a parked Transit van and lit a couple of cigarettes, eyeing me as they smoked — like I was a piece of meat, found at the back of the fridge, with a dodgy sell-by date.

‘You know what we should’ve done? We should’ve gone back to HMP Edinburgh and shoved that photo in Peter Smith’s face. Demanded to know who she was.’

‘Yeah. But he’d just sit there and deny everything, wouldn’t he? All we’d achieve is giving him something else to wank about after lights out.’

‘Thanks for that image.’

‘Give me a shout when you’re ready to pack it in for the night.’ I put the phone away and pushed through into yet another noisy crowded bar.

It would’ve been classified as a ‘light drizzle’, if it hadn’t been jabbed in like needles on a howling wind, as Henry and I struggled our way back along Argyle Street. The warmth of tea and a Jaffa Cake at the Robertson Hotel a swiftly fading memory.

Which meant we’d tried every hotel on the seafront, every bed-and-breakfast, and every bar. Except one.