Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

‘Go away, Jennifer.’

‘One million pounds each. Think what you could do with the money: retire, have a decent holiday for a change. You could finally marry off that daughter substitute you’ve been hauling around since Katie died.’

I had to squeeze the words out through clenched teeth: ‘You remembering I’m a feminist?’

‘You’re not going to hit me, Ash. Not unless I hit you first — you’re sweetly old-fashioned that way. I know you, remember?’

Through the doors and into the outside seating area at the back of the boat, looking out over the shining blue water and the purpled hills.

‘We had some lovely times, didn’t we, Ash? When things weren’t going well with you and your wife, I didn’t put any pressure on you, did I? Didn’t make scenes or demands. It was simple, uncomplicated, sweaty... fun .’ She scooted around in front of me, backing towards the handrail. The twin red-and-black exhausts towering overhead, keeping the diesel fumes away from the passengers. ‘We could have that again. No judgement, no pressure, no commitments.’

The metal handrail was cold against my forearms. Leaning on it, taking the weight off my foot. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’

‘Like the Energiser Bunny,’ Jennifer licked her lips and winked, ‘remember?’

Yeah.

She linked her arm through mine. ‘It wasn’t all bad, was it?’

I puffed out a breath. ‘No. Suppose not.’

‘There you go.’ Bumping her shoulder into mine. ‘Not such a grumpy Gus, after all.’

We stood there in silence, or at least what passed for it with the ferry’s massive diesel engine making the deck vibrate beneath us.

‘This book you’re writing...’

‘“Garden of Bones”, brackets, “hunting Scotland’s most notorious serial killer: The Coffinmaker”.’ A frown tried to force its way onto her frozen forehead. ‘Or is the subtitle too long? Putting his name on the end there seems to undermine the drama, doesn’t it? But readers need to know who it’s about when they see it in the supermarket.’

‘It’d be... tasteful’s the wrong word, but you know what I mean?’

She squeezed my arm harder. ‘No lurid prose. No lingering on the grisly details.’ A my-hands-are-tied shrug. ‘The publishers will probably insist on photographs, you know what they’re like, but it’ll be a proper piece of investigative journalism. Not sensationalist in any way. Respectful to the victims and their families.’

I nodded. ‘OK.’

Jennifer pressed her lips against my cheek, breathing deep. ‘I have missed you, you know. Even if you were horrid to me.’

‘Come on then.’ I turned my back to the railing and pulled out my phone. Called up the camera app and set it to selfie mode. ‘Squeeze in.’

An actual, real smile broke across her lower face. It might not have moved the rest of it, but it sparkled in her eyes as she huddled in and pouted for the camera.

I pressed the button.

Frowned at the screen. ‘Think my camera’s buggered...’

‘Here,’ she pulled out her phone instead — something fancy in a jewelled case — held it out and up, pouted again. ‘Say cheese.’

Click .

‘Can I see?’

‘Course you can.’ Jennifer passed me her phone, and there we were, the pair of us together again. Side by side at the ferry’s railing. Her nestled in under my arm, pulled in tight, as if we were still lying sticky with sweat in that Travelodge on Greenwood Street, the duvet rumpled around our ankles. She looked really, really happy.

I turned and hurled her phone — not straight back, where it might crash down onto the car deck, but at the perfect angle to send it sailing over the side, twirling end-over-end. Didn’t see it hit the water, but it was enough to know it did.

‘MY PHONE!’ Jennifer stared at me. Then gripped the railing and looked out at the point where her phone and its fancy jewelled case had disappeared. ‘ARE YOU OFF YOUR BLOODY HEAD?’

I leaned in close. Kept my voice nice and friendly. ‘You shouldn’t have shown Helen MacNeil the photo of what Gordon Smith did to her daughter. You — repulsive — fucking — vulture.’

Then turned on my heel and limped away.

Jennifer’s voice boomed out behind me, getting higher and sharper with every word. ‘THIS ISN’T OVER, ASH HENDERSON! IT’S NOT OVER BY A LONG WAY! I’LL MAKE YOU WISH YOU WERE NEVER BORN!’

She could join the queue.

The pool car roared past the Cumbernauld junction, Franklin keeping the needle hovering around seventy-five. Snarling as she overtook cars and lorries as if their merely being on the road this morning was a personal affront to her.

I reclined my seat far enough to check the rear-view mirror.

Yup, Nick James’s fusty yellow Golf was still there. Only now Jennifer wasn’t trying to hide the fact. And she wasn’t alone in the car, so it looked as if Helen hadn’t told her what she could do with her self-serving exploitative bollocks after all.

Disappointing.

Still, if I couldn’t break the pair of them up, at least I’d had the pleasure of chucking Jennifer’s phone in the sea.

Mind you, it probably hadn’t been the best of ideas, antagonising her like that. She wasn’t exactly renowned for her forgiving nature. And, while chucking her phone in the sea would get rid of the pictures she’d got from whichever O Division scumbag had leaked Smith’s Polaroids, there was no way she hadn’t backed them up. So a temporary fix at best. One that would come with a side order of Botox-faced vengeance.

Lucky me...

Too late to worry about it now, though. Have to—

My phone launched into its generic ringtone. ‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’ filling the screen.

I jabbed the button. ‘Leah?’

‘Oh, sorry.’ A man’s voice, the words twisted by a heavy Orcadian accent. ‘Is Detective Inspector Ash Henderson there?’

Damn it.

Franklin looked at me, across the car, eyebrows raised.

Shook my head at her. ‘Speaking.’

‘Thomas Sinclair, from the Land Registry Office? You wanted to know if there was any property in Stirling belonging to a Peter or Caroline Smith?’

A row of ugly warehouses drifted by on the other side of the motorway.

Nothing more from Thomas Sinclair.

‘And?’

‘Oh, sorry, I was waiting on you. Anyway, we had a look and the answer is yes. Well, it is and it isn’t, if that makes sense?’

Not even vaguely.

‘Obviously “Smith” is a very popular surname, so there’s quite a few properties in Stirling owned by various Smiths, but once we eliminated everyone with the wrong first name we ended up with six properties. Two Carolines, and four Peters.’

You wee beauty.

‘Can you email me over the details?’

Two minutes later I was scrolling through the addresses and Cumbernauld’s warehouses were a thin grey smear in the rear-view mirror.

Time to go to work.

The first Peter Smith on the list peered out at us through thick round glasses, no hair on his head, a threadbare cardigan on his back. ‘No, I’ve not got no brothers, and my wife’s called June. Do you need to talk to her? Hold on.’ He turned, raising his voice at the hallway. ‘JUNE! PEOPLE FROM THE SOMETHING-OR-OTHER WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU!’

Caroline Smith curled her top lip, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, a Yorkshire terrier on her hip like a small child. Mid-thirties, and definitely not dead from bowel cancer. ‘Naw, never heard of them, like. Is this about them council bins that got set on fire? Cos I totally know who did that.’

Peter Smith Number Two wasn’t in, but his husband was. A short man in tartan trousers and a biker jacket. Blond Andy Warhol bob, Gary Larson glasses, and a great big wine glass, half-full of red. He sniffed at the photo. ‘Naw, it’s not my Pete, my Pete’s in banking. But, you know, not in an evil money-grabbing bastard kind of way. Well, maybe a teensy bit.’ A smile. ‘I adore your hair, by the way. Wish I had hair like that.’