Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

Helen’s butty stabbed towards the warehouse. ‘IS MY GRANDDAUGHTER IN THERE?’

‘No, OK? She’s not.’ I closed my eyes for a second, took a breath, and tried for that reassuring-police-officer voice again. Maybe this time it’d work? ‘Shouting the odds isn’t helping you any, Helen. Go home. We’ll be in touch if—’

‘What home? You mean the one that’ll fall into the North Sea, soon as the next storm front hits? The one I’ve been thrown out of by the bastarding council, who want sixteen grand to tear it down first? That home?’

Pop-ding .

‘Investigations like this take time. We—’

‘HE KILLED MY DAUGHTER!’ Hurling her polystyrene cup to the ground, where it exploded in a spray of beige.

The PC shuffled over. ‘All right, let’s all calm down.’

‘DON’T YOU TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!’ Helen glared at him, hard enough to make him back off a pace.

‘It’s all right, Constable, she’s with me.’ I ducked under the cordon and grabbed her arm, pulling her along. ‘Why don’t we have a nice walk?’

Pop-ding .

Soon as we were out of listening range: ‘Will you stop acting like a psycho for two sodding minutes?’

Helen shook her arm free. ‘Gordon Smith killed my—’

‘I know. And what do you think’s going to help catch him: shouting the odds, or letting us do our jobs?’

‘YOU’RE DOING BUGGER ALL!’

Henry hunkered down and growled at her.

‘We’re working . And you’re not the only one who’s lost a child.’

She scowled back at me. ‘Six million.’

‘It’s not—’

‘Don’t pretend you’ve never taken a bung, because I know you have.’

‘That wasn’t—’

‘Six million pounds and all you’ve got to do is give me an hour alone with him, somewhere out of the way. Somewhere no one can hear him screaming.’ She stepped in closer, till our noses were almost touching. ‘One parent to another. Because the bastard killed my child, same as some bastard killed yours. And he deserves to suffer .’

Had to admit, she had a point...

The last glimmer of sun disappeared below the cold blue horizon. Clouds thickening overhead. Wind picking up enough to send a ceilidh of crisp packets whirling into a reel that swept across the road as I ducked back under the cordon of ‘POLICE’ tape again and pulled out my phone.

Checked the two text messages from Leah:

U found my phone? Cool!!!!

I lost it ages ago 6 weeks had 2 blagg

this 1 off my mate coz she was getting a

upgrade but it’s knowhere near as good

And:

I don’t no how grandad knew David but

they were all happy & friendly when he

got in the car so I thought they was

friends

But they wasn’t friends later

Bit of an understatement, given what Gordon Smith had done to him.

It explained Mother’s phone cock-up, though. If Leah had lost it six weeks ago, that would be one week before she disappeared. Only she hadn’t lost it at all — Smith had taken it. Planning ahead. Knowing we’d probably try to trace Leah through her phone, and that he could use that to throw us off track.

Like I told Franklin: you don’t get away with killing people for fifty-six years by being an idiot.

Which meant we’d need a new warrant to track the phone she was actually using, and Watt was a complete and utter moron. And I’d take great pleasure pointing that out to him the next time we met.

Henry went back in the car, then I lumbered through the prop warehouse to the scenery one. It looked as if Franklin had finished her statement, because DS Marland was getting her to sign it in his notebook.

Marland held up a finger. ‘Ah, ex-DI Henderson, shall we...?’ A frown. ‘Er... Mr Henderson? Hello?’

But I didn’t stop, I hobbled straight past, making for the heart of the huge open space, where the diesel generator’s growl was the loudest.

Those two big work lights glared down on David Quinn’s tattered remains, making every drop of scarlet sparkle as if it’d been wired up to the mains. It was impossible to tell which of the white SOC-suited figures was DCI Jopson — they all looked the same with their facemasks and safety goggles on.

But I was about a dozen feet away when one of them looked up at me and froze. Then hurried in my direction, arms held out trying to block my way:

A man’s voice, so definitely not DCI Jopson, only slightly muffled by the facemask. ‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?’

‘Where’s Jopson?’

He kept coming. ‘THIS IS A CRIME SCENE, YOU MORON! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!’

‘Jopson, I’ve got—’

His hand slammed into my chest, forcing me back a step. ‘BUGGER OFF OUT OF IT, YOU’RE CONTAMINATING—’

The SOC suit crinkled as I grabbed a fistful and hauled, pulling the dick off his feet and hurling him face-first into the rack containing Widow Twanky’s laundry. He bounced off it, setting the metalwork ringing, then crashed backwards onto the concrete floor with a breath-robbing whoomph .

Looked as if he was about to struggle to his feet and have another go, so I thunked the rubber tip of my walking stick hard into his stomach, and, as he folded up, jabbed it into his chest and forced him down again.

‘I discovered the body, you absolute muppet. My DNA and fibres are already all over the scene.’ And limped on past. ‘Which one of you is Jopson?’

The entire group had turned to gawp at me, but a figure over by the body raised a hand. ‘Ex-DI Haroldson.’

Close enough.

‘I’ve got an abduction point for you. And you’ll want to pull the CCTV from the Sainsbury’s petrol station as well.’

‘Oh, will I now?’ It sounded as if she was trying to hide the amusement in her voice, but not doing a very good job of it. ‘And would you like me to do this before or after you’ve beaten up the rest of my team?’

Shrug. ‘I’m easy.’

‘Fair enough.’ She pointed. ‘But we’re still going to need your shoes.’

‘Ah, here you are.’ DCI Jopson had changed out of her white SOC suit into something a bit less rustly: dark trousers and a black padded jacket that acted like camouflage in the graveyard’s darkness, leaving her head to float, disembodied, five feet above the ground. ‘How are the wellies?’

‘Rubbish.’ But at least it was better than being up here in nothing but my socks.

Most of Stirling was hidden from view: a wee chunk of the castle poking out on the left, a short line of houses — lights shining in their windows — the Church of the Holy Rood’s dark medieval bulk on the right, bordered by a sliver of the town that was more rooftops than streets. A band of trees rustling in the groaning wind. Headlights on a distant road.

Five o’clock and the place was dead. Which was appropriate.

‘We’ll send your shoes back to Oldcastle when Forensics have finished with them. You can keep the wellies, though — souvenir of your time in beautiful Stirling.’ Jopson turned and looked out over the graveyard, its headstones little more than indistinct lines in the gloom. ‘I used to come here every lunchtime. Take Lottie for a walk. You know what cockapoos are like — adorable ninety percent of the time, but if they get bored it’s like sharing an office with an extremely annoying toddler.’

‘Why did you stop?’

‘Turns out people don’t like dogs weeing on their relatives’ graves.’

‘True.’ It hadn’t stopped Henry from cocking his leg on the odd Burgess of Trade on the way up here, though.

‘If anyone asks, I gave you a proper bollocking for putting DI Erskine on his arse, back there. But, between you and me, he’s a massive tosspot, so I quite enjoyed the floorshow.’ She produced an iPad from a huge handbag and flipped open the cover. The light from its screen bloomed in the darkness, showing off another half-gum-half-tooth smile. ‘Apparently he bruised his coccyx when he hit the floor. With any luck he won’t be able to sit straight for a month.’ She logged in and brought up a video. Passed the iPad to me as she dipped back into her bag again and emerged with a pre-wrapped sandwich. Tore her way into the cardboard triangle, setting free the sulphurous scent of eggs. ‘Normally it takes hours and hours to work our way through CCTV footage, but as you had the time and date on the petrol receipt...’