Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

And on, and on, and on they went, as I drank my decaf tea and finished the remaining biscuit.

Soon as I was done, I dug out the printout and levered myself to my foot — keeping the right one off the tartan carpet, so it wouldn’t sting so much. ‘Speaking of murder investigations,’ I flashed my expired warrant card at them, ‘do any of you recognise the people in this picture?’

The woman with the lacquered hair pursed her lips and glared at me, clearly not happy at being interrupted mid-rant about how terrible it was that anyone could enjoy a book where children got murdered.

Tough.

Welcome to the real world.

I passed the picture to Maureen. ‘Take your time, this would have been in the 1980s.’ Gave the rest of the room a bit of serious eye contact. ‘Anyone remember a young woman going missing back then?’

The librarian fiddled with her lanyard. ‘My cousin ran off with an American tourist. And there was Sheila Fraser — everyone thought her dad did her in and got rid of the body. Or Effie Parsons?’

One of the auld mannies shook his head, setting his combover bouncing. ‘Naw, that was in the seventies — having an affair with that Glaswegian artist bloke who used to come here and paint nudie women all the time.’

‘Sorry, never seen her before.’ Maureen handed the printout to the next table.

They all huddled over it, muttering away to each other.

‘All right, not Effie Parsons then.’ The librarian creased up her forehead. ‘What about Georgina Kerr? The police searched every house, bothy, shed, and outbuilding on the island, looking for her.’

The picture had nearly made it all the way around the book club.

Still, it’d been worth a try.

My phone ding-buzzed, deep in my damp pocket. When I pulled it out the screen was misted up. Had to wipe the condensation off with my shirt.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

I have 2 hide my phone! If he finds it I

don’t no what he’ll do

Please save me!!! I want 2 go home!!!

Damn.

I nodded at the book club. ‘Excuse me a minute.’

Slipped from the tartan nook, then out the back door. Into that narrow street that the waitress from lunch had pointed to. Into the drizzle too.

Quick hobble across the road, to shelter in a shop doorway. Somewhere nice and secluded to poke out a reply.

Leave your phone on, Leah — we need to

latch onto the mobile signal so we can find

out where you are and come get you.

Be brave!

SEND.

Ding-buzz .

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

I’ll try!!! But don’t no how much charge

I’ve got left

Time to give Mother a kick up the backside.

She answered on the third ring. ‘Ash? Have you—’

‘What’s happening with that warrant?’

‘Were you always this rude, because—’

‘Leah’s been in touch again: she’s going to leave her phone on so we can trace it. Now where’s that warrant?’

‘John’s trying to serve it now.’ Mother sounded as if she was deflating. ‘Of course, at this time on a Sunday evening, chances are her mobile provider won’t be—’

‘You’ve got till Leah’s phone runs out of battery to find her. Gordon Smith’s not going to let her recharge the damn thing — we’ve got one chance and that’s it!’

‘I know, I know... We’re pushing as hard as we can, Ash, we really are.’

‘Then push harder .’ I hung up. Stuffed the phone back in my pocket. Slumped against the shop’s doors, staring up at the black wooden ceiling.

Smith hadn’t hurt Leah yet, but that couldn’t last. It wasn’t as if he’d had any qualms butchering her mum, and he’d been like a grandfather to her too.

‘Erm, excuse me?’ Woman’s voice.

When I looked down, there was one of the Rothesay Library crime book club’s members. One who’d sat quietly through most of it, nursing a large glass of white wine.

‘Sorry. Erm, hi, I’m Aileen. Aileen McCaskill?’ She tried on a pained smile. Her wrinkled waterproof and creased forehead made it look as if she’d shrunk into herself over the years, thin jowly neck protruding from the cowl of a thick orange jumper like a turtle. Watery blue eyes blinking up at me in the gloom of the shop doorway. ‘Told everyone I was off for a cigarette.’ She pulled out a pack, fingers covering the graphic warning image as she opened the top and offered me one.

‘Thanks, but I don’t.’

‘Quite right too. Filthy habit.’ But she lit one anyway, sucking on it with her eyes closed, setting the tip glowing a hot orange. Then letting out a lungful of smoke in a juddery breath. Another couple of puffs. ‘I...’ She cleared her throat. Looked away, down the street, towards the square. ‘That woman in the picture. With the man? I think it might be my sister.’

She huffed out a breath, smoke-free this time. ‘Linda was... could be difficult. Oh God, could she ever.’ Aileen bit her lips together. Shook her head. Stubbed her cigarette out, even though she’d barely touched it. ‘Drinking, boys, staying out late, failing all her O levels. Broke...’ Deep breath. ‘Broke my mum’s heart when Linda left: up and walked out one morning, didn’t even say goodbye. At least, that’s what we thought .’ Aileen dug into her waterproof and produced a tatty leather wallet. Clutching it in trembling fingers. ‘Was my dad’s.’ She flipped the thing open and held it up to the greasy streetlight, revealing a faded photograph of two teenaged girls: one in pastel-green trousers; the other, pastel yellow; matching baggy grey-and-blue jumpers with the popped collars of their shirts sticking out the neckholes. Big hair.

When I looked up from the photo, Aileen was staring at me, her eyes a lot waterier than before, a lot more needy, the tip of her nose pinkening.

She pointed at the girl in green trousers. ‘That’s Linda. You see?’ She reached out and took hold of my sleeve. ‘It’s her , isn’t it? The girl in your photo, with the ugly man in the shell suit? It’s my sister...’

Had to admit, it looked a lot like the woman in the photo with a young Peter Smith.

‘When did she go missing?’

‘June twelfth, 1985. It was my seventeenth birthday...’ A small, sour laugh. ‘Always thought she’d picked the date just to spite me. It’s not my fault I was a year older, is it? That I got new stuff and she had to make do with my hand-me-downs. God, how she hated that.’ Aileen let go of my arm and wiped the tears from her cheeks. ‘But she... she didn’t, did she?’ The words coming quicker and quicker. ‘She didn’t run away. If she’d run away, you wouldn’t be here, showing her photo round. It was him, wasn’t it? The man in the picture did something to her.’

Something horrible.

If it was her.

The date was about right, going by the clothes and the haircuts. And the resemblance to the young woman in the photo was undeniable. But without a body or any forensic evidence to compare? With nothing but two stills taken from mobile phone footage in a darkened basement? Impossible to know for sure.

Aileen stared up at me, her father’s wallet clutched to her chest, bottom lip wobbling as her eyes filled up again.

What was better: false hope, or certainty and closure?

That whole year when I’d thought Rebecca had run away from home, when in reality she was already long dead. Hoping she’d walk in the door one day as if nothing had ever happened. Then that first homemade birthday card landed on the doormat and I found out what had really happened to my little girl.

But Aileen deserved the truth, didn’t she? No matter how much it hurt.

I nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’