Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

Franklin’s cheeks darkened a fraction. ‘Yes, well, thank you for your time.’

The second Caroline Smith owned a small boxy mid-terrace two-up two-down, opposite a playing field. She slouched against her doorframe, in a purple velour tracksuit, the top open to expose a T-shirt with ‘IN YOUR DREAMS, LOSER!’ on it. Her shock of cherry-red curls going grey at the roots. She squinted at the picture of Gordon Smith in Franklin’s hand, then shook her head. ‘Sorry, love, I’d really like to help, but I’ve never seen the man. And my husband’s called Bob: he’s in the RAF.’

I leaned back against the car, phone clamped to my ear as Shifty moaned and whined.

‘Utter bunch of useless bollocks. Tramped about five miles through these bloody woods already today and what have we found so far?’

Franklin was off talking to a short ugly man with taxi-door ears and the kind of face you could use to frighten small children. Standing on his doorstep with her arms folded. Body language about as defensive as it got.

‘Go on then.’

‘We’ve found three shopping trollies, a bunch of dead dogs, and a massive pile of fly-tipped medical waste. I’ll be washing the smell out for bloody weeks. And is McEwan appreciative of all our efforts? Is he buggery!’

‘No sign of Toby Macmillan, then?’

‘Oh, didn’t I mention that? We found him half an hour in, he’s back with his mum and dad right now, eating ice cream and dancing the bastarding fandango!’ A small pause. ‘Of course we didn’t find him. There’s miles and miles of these bloody woods, how am I supposed to find one little boy in all this?’

‘So delegate. Go speak to Alice and see if you can’t actually achieve something today.’

‘And, of course, it’s all my fault we haven’t found anything. I didn’t even want to come out here, it was that idiot DCI Poncy Powel’s idea to search the woods, but shite never sticks to...’ A groan. ‘Sodding hell. Sorry, got to go. We’re getting another “motivational” speech from McEwan. If I get any more motivated I’m going to swing for someone!’

Shifty hung up and I settled back to enjoy the sun on my face. You wouldn’t think it’d been thumping down with rain all week.

‘OK, thanks anyway.’ Franklin sagged when the ugly man’s front door shut, turned, and slumped her way up the garden path and out onto the street again. ‘Feel like I’ve just stepped in something.’

Henry beamed up at her, tail going like a windscreen wiper on full.

‘How’d you get on?’

‘Nothing doing.’ She dropped down into a squat and Henry flopped over on his back, exposing his black hairy tummy for her to rub. Tart that he was. ‘Tell you, that Peter Smith had “welcome to the Sex Offenders’ Register” written all over him in magic marker. Stared at my breasts the whole time I was talking to him. Barely even looked at the photo.’

‘Yup, perverts will do that.’

She stood, wiping her tummy-rubbing hand on her trouser leg. ‘One more Peter Smith to go.’ A long hissing breath. ‘This is another complete waste of time, isn’t it?’

‘Come on then, we’ll get him done, then it’s lunchtime.’

‘Naw, sorry.’ Our last Peter Smith of the day shook his head, setting long straight dark hair swinging like a curtain across his white-painted face. Piercings glinting in his ears and nose. Lots of leather. Couldn’t be a day over twenty-two.

Franklin took a step back and peered up at the big gothic townhouse on the outskirts of Stirling. Large, gated garden. Lots of trees and lawn. A small black cat washing its bum on the rim of an ornamental fountain, completely ignoring Henry. ‘Do you really own all this?’

He nodded. ‘Six numbers and the bonus ball.’

‘OK. Thanks anyway.’

We headed down the gravel drive, through the wrought-iron gates, and over to our manky pool car. I opened the back door and let Henry hop inside. ‘So much for that.’

Franklin stared back across the road. ‘I’d love a house like that.’

‘Lunch?’

‘How come I never win the lottery?’ She climbed in behind the wheel.

‘Do you actually play the lottery?’ I got into the passenger side.

‘That’s not the point. So, where are we lunching?’

‘You know, I think Pasty Peter The Goth fancied you, so if you want to go back and chat him up, he’d probably let you have it in the divorce settlement.’

‘Don’t tempt me.’ She started the car and headed back towards the main road. ‘I feel like a nice big salad. Think there’s a good salad place in Stirling?’

Sitting in their rancid-yellow Golf, Helen MacNeil and Jennifer Prentice watched us go by, then pulled out after us. Couldn’t have been the most exciting of days for them, following us around. But at least they’d—

‘Ash! Salad places: Stirling.’

‘No idea. Has to be somewhere, though. Failing that... curry?’

‘For lunch ? That Prentice woman was right, you really are off your head. It’s—’

My phone belted out ‘I Am the Walrus’, so I answered it. ‘Sabir. Have you got some good news for me, for a change?’

‘Oh, I got some good news for youse indeed. That Sabir is the King of Tech. High priest of Databases. Emperor of the Digital World!’

‘You missed out Lord of the Pies.’

Franklin took a right, making for the centre of town.

‘Was that you cracking a joke ? Dear God, there’s a ferst. You had a head injury, or summat?’

‘What do you want, Sabir?’

‘You was after a guesstimate, remember? Where Leah MacNeil was when she called you this morning, but didn’t stay on long enough to trace? Well, I’ve done it. Call came from somewhere in the vicinity of the Sainsbury’s on, and I kid you not, “Back O’ Hill Road”. Website says it’s on “Drip Road” which is equally as bad, but you can’t even get into it from there, it’s all fenced—’

‘How big an area are we talking about?’

‘Within four to five hundred metres. So draw yourself a circle a kilometre wide around the supermarket and she was calling from somewhere inside that.’

‘And let me guess, the Sainsbury’s has a petrol station?’

‘El Bingo, signor.’

‘So why do you sound so bloody smug? That’s next to sod-all use to me.’

‘Because Sabir is Emperor of the Digital werld. And his imperial majesty went and did some searching, and guess what he terned up within that kilometre circle? Pauses for applause...’

‘All right, stop milking it.’

‘There’s an industrial estate round the back of the supermarket, on Glendevon Drive. And one of the warehouses there is owned by this production company that puts on loads of pantomimes all over the UK. They use it to store props and scenery. You know, in case yer wanting to put on Cinderella and can’t be arsed making your own pumpkin coach, like. And I was thinking, who do we know that might have access to a pantomime scenery store?’

‘I take it all back, Sabir. You’re a certified genius!’

‘First sensible thing I’ve heard from your tartan-munchin’ mouth all year.’ And with that he hung up.

Franklin frowned at me. ‘You’re doing that creepy smile thing again.’

Oh yes.

Ridiculous though it sounded, Back O’ Hill Industrial Estate was pretty aptly named. Being as it was around the back of the dirty-big hill that Stirling Castle sat on top of. Although the castle wasn’t visible from down here. What was visible was a small collection of Portakabins, lockups, and old-fashioned warehouses — the single-storey kind with brick walls and corrugated metal cladding.