Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

I hauled on my left sock, then worked the right one over the puckered circle of scar tissue that marked the middle of my right foot. Smiling as the room’s TV screen filled with bare-arsed people — all of whom had anti-government slogans scrawled across their chests and backs, while someone at the BBC blurred out all their naughty bits.

‘... amongst growing calls for the Justice Secretary, Mark Stalker, to resign in light of allegations he...’

Shoes next. Then shirt. Tucking it into my trousers as the photo of a small boy appeared on the screen: blond curly hair, blue eyes, chubby cheeks, cheeky smile as he mugged for the camera, clutching a guinea pig.

‘Fears are growing for missing five-year-old, Toby Macmillan, as police teams search woodland in Oldcastle. We go live, now, to Hugh Brimmond at the scene. Hugh?’

Toby and his guinea pig disappeared, replaced by a shot of a parking area in what was probably Moncuir Wood. Headlights pierced the darkness: a couple of patrol cars blocked the road, with two police Transit vans and a trio of minibuses sitting behind a cordon of blue-and-white tape. SOC-suited figures milling about, like pale grey ghosts in the middle distance, waiting for the sun to rise so they could get started.

The camera panned around until the standard BBC roving reporter was onscreen, hunched up in a padded jacket, breath clouding in the camera lights. ‘Thank you, Siobhan. Tragedy shrouds the deep dark woods here in Oldcastle...’

My phone buzzed on the bedside table, turning on the varnished wood, then the opening guitar chugs of ‘Eye of the Tiger’ burst out of the speaker. That would be Shifty, then.

I grabbed the remote and muted the TV as Hugh from the BBC launched into some bollocks about symbolism and fairy tales and children going missing in the woods.

‘Shifty?’

‘I swear to God, I’m going kill someone before this morning’s out.’

‘Going well, then.’

‘Is it buggery. I put in a request for a helicopter and thermal-imaging camera, you know what they said? They said, “Sod off, Oldcastle, we’ve only got one helicopter and Strathclyde needs it.” How the hell am I supposed to find Toby Macmillan if they don’t give me the right kit?’

I settled on the edge of the bed and ruffled Henry’s furry head. ‘If it’s any consolation, you’re on telly right now.’ After all, one of those small figures in the white suits was probably him.

‘You hear that?’ There was a moment’s silence, then what sounded like the far-off pounding whirrrrrrrrr of someone trying to beat partially-set concrete with an electric whisk. ‘Sky News have got a bloody helicopter. The BBC have got a bloody helicopter. Everyone’s got a bloody helicopter except the poor sod who actually needs one: me!’

‘Well... what about drones, then? Surely someone at the university’s got a few they can lend you. Part of a research project or something?’

‘If this was America, I could shove my badge in the pilot’s face and say, “I’m commandeering this helicopter!” And if he said no, I could shoot the bastard.’

‘No luck with your sex offenders, then?’

‘Why does everything have — to — be — so — bloody — hard? Why can’t I get an easy case for a change?’

I stood and pulled on my jacket. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I’m heading down for a massive hotel-breakfast fry-up.’

‘No, it doesn’t. And we’ve been through every nonce, stott, and greasy bastard in Oldcastle already. Twice.’

‘Then stop being a dick and go talk to Alice. She thinks this guy’s not on the Sex Offenders’ Register, because he’s never done anything like this before. He’s learning as he goes.’

‘Aaaaargh... How’s that supposed to help me? Instead of a finite pool of known kiddie fiddlers, I’ve got to interview every tosser in the whole place? This isn’t... God’s sake, what now ?’

It went quiet for a bit, some muffled conversation barely audible in the background.

On the screen, Hugh the roving reporter marched across the car park, to the cordon. Where Chief Superintendent McEwan and his sidekick, Inspector Samson, were standing, in full dress uniform, with clipboards out and chins up. Soon as the other news crews got there, McEwan nodded and launched into a speech. No idea what he was saying, but it’d be the usual platitudes and look-at-me-being-all-in-charge bollocks he always came out with at these things. Not worth unmuting him for, anyway.

Then, Shifty was back: ‘Look, I’ve got to go. Apparently no one can find their arse with both hands unless I’m there to show them the bloody way!’ And with that, he hung up.

Say what you like about being kicked off the force, at least it meant I didn’t have to run around after tosspots like Chief Superintendent McEwan.

‘Right,’ I pointed at Henry, ‘if you stay here, and you’re a good boy, I’ll bring you back something greasy from the breakfast buffet.’

He grinned back at me.

Little sod was going to be the size of a beach ball by the time we got home.

The sun had barely cleared the horizon as Henry and I wandered along the promenade. Four big fat seals rolled in the gilded water, gulls wheeling overhead. Bit of a nip in the air, but at least it’d stopped raining. Should be a nice day, for a change.

Monday morning rush hour was in full swing. Which in Rothesay wasn’t saying much. A half dozen cars, the odd taxi. That open-topped bus again. Ten past eight — not even the carpet shops would be open yet.

I nipped across the road to a café, bought a decaf latte, then went back to the promenade to drink it. Chucking a tatty old tennis ball for Henry to fetch. The wee man scurrying about on clockwork legs, tail thumping back and forth like this was the best day of his life.

Ah, to be a daft, slightly stinky, Scottie dog.

My phone launched into a weird unfamiliar ringtone and I dragged it out, leaning against the blue railings, watching a couple of tiny fishing boats puttering out into the morning light. The words, ‘LEAH MACNEIL’ sat in the middle of the screen.

I jabbed the button. ‘Leah? It’s Ash Henderson, are you OK?’

Nothing from the other end.

‘Hello?’

A scrunching, popping noise, then a voice so muffled it was barely audible: ‘I’m frightened... He’s... I love him, but... he did something last night, something... something terrible . He’s... he’s scaring me so much...’

‘Leah?’

She didn’t sound like an eighteen-year-old, she sounded like a terrified child.

‘He’s in paying for the petrol and I don’t know what to do.’

‘Get out of there, Leah. Get out of there and run!’

‘I can’t.’

‘Is there another car at the petrol station? Someone you could go to?’

‘He’s locked the car and I can’t get out... Please help me!’

Come on, Ash, think .

‘OK, where are you?’

‘I don’t know, he... We’re... it looks like a supermarket, maybe?’

‘What kind? Can you see any road signs? Landmarks? Anything that’d help us find you?’

‘Oh God, he’s coming back!’ Her voice getting even harder to make out. As if she’d stuck her phone in a pocket, or something.

Then a clunk, a thump, and the sound of something crackling.

A man’s voice, talking at full volume. ‘Sorry, Caroline, they didn’t have any of the jelly beans you like, so I got jelly babies instead. Hope that’s OK?’

A click.

The man again: ‘What? No, I don’t think so. It’s too dangerous.’