Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

The Sainsbury’s petrol station filled the screen, taken from one of the cameras mounted on the awning that covered the forecourt. ‘This is your man, here.’ Pointing her sandwich at a long-limbed bloke in jeans and a thick sweater. He finished filling up an ugly four-by-four, hung the pump up, then set off towards the shop to pay. About eight foot from the door, someone bumped into him, then both did the standard I’m-so-sorry-no-my-fault-after-you dance, and disappeared inside.

Jopson chewed her way through one triangular, overstuffed half, getting mayonnaise on her cheek. ‘Don’t look at me like that, I skipped lunch. Some antisocial sod found a tortured teenager in a warehouse, remember?’ Then she launched into the other half.

She was sooking her fingers clean by the time the man who’d bumped into Mother’s householder emerged on screen again.

Jopson tapped the screen, freezing the image, then zoomed in. Leaving twin greasy smears on the glass.

Bit grainy, but the guy did look a lot like Gordon Smith — the same high forehead and Santa beard.

‘Gets into a grey BMW and drives off towards the industrial estate next door.’

So he’d ditched the ancient Mercedes, because he knew we’d be looking for it.

She spooled the footage back to the two men bumping into each other, at the same increased magnification. ‘Smith definitely slips something into your boy’s jacket pocket.’

The phone he’d stolen from Leah.

Mother’s householder was telling the truth.

I turned to Jopson. ‘Can I ask a question?’

‘You can try.’

‘Why are you showing me this?’

A shrug. ‘You could call it my kind and generous nature, or you could call it your boss’s boss’s boss calling my boss and asking us to play nice and coordinate our inquiries. Seeing as we’re both after the same killer.’ Jopson shut that video and started another one. This time it was a narrow cobbled road, the colours turned monochrome in the streetlights. A BMW came chuntering up the street. ‘This is from a CCTV camera, outside the Old Town Jail. About a two-minute walk, that way.’ Pointing in the vague direction of the medieval steeple.

The footage was grainy and badly lit. Impossible to tell if there was anyone but the driver in the car.

‘There’s meant to be cameras in the church grounds, but they got vandalised in September and they’ve still not fixed them. But half an hour later...’

The footage jumped under her sooked finger, and there was the same BMW heading off down another cobbled street, past an old-fashioned-looking building with a saltire flag flying above its front door. Again, no way to tell if Gordon Smith had passengers or not.

‘We’ve got his car at the roundabout before Sainsbury’s, then on CCTV inside the industrial estate. Got some bodies going around to see if any of the businesses in the area caught it on the way in or out, but I’m not holding my breath.’

‘What about David Quinn?’

Jopson shook her head. ‘Too dark. There’s a few possibles, but they’re all wearing hoodies, so they could be Lord Lucan, for all we know.’ A shrug. ‘Far as we can tell, the last person to see David alive, other than Gordon Smith, was the friend he’d gone round to study with.’ She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, away from the graveyard and towards those narrow cobbled streets. ‘Shall we go pay the young man a visit?’

‘I don’t really know.’ Bailey White’s cheeks flushed even darker as he sneaked glances at Franklin’s chest. ‘It... We never... I don’t know...’ Somehow, blushing made the pimples that speckled his face look even angrier.

It was your standard teenaged boy’s bedroom, small and cramped, with piles of clothes in the corners and posters of bands you’ve never heard of on the walls. That funky feet-and-armpit smell. A carpet that would probably light up like a Jackson Pollock painting under a UV lamp.

Crowded too, what with Bailey, DCI Jopson, Franklin, and me, all squeezed in here. But at least Henry had elected to stay in the car.

Jopson had draped her padded jacket over the back of a dining chair, brought through from the flat’s tiny dining kitchen, revealing a stripy red-and-blue top. ‘Think carefully, Bailey, it’s important.’

His eyes drifted to her chest, then on to Franklin’s again. He blinked a couple of times, cheeks going nuclear, before looking away. ‘I... don’t know.’

I leaned back against the built-in wardrobe. ‘Maybe it’d help if we all had a nice cup of tea? Help jog the old grey cells.’ Jerking my head towards the door. ‘Think you and the Detective Chief Inspector could sort something out, DS Franklin?’

The pair of them turned to stare at me.

‘You know, a nice cup of tea?’ Doing the whole raised eyebrows thing as I mouthed, ‘Go away!’ at them.

Then the penny must have dropped, because they both stood and bustled out of the room. ‘Yes, good idea.’ ‘Everything’s better with a cup of tea.’ Leaving me and Bailey alone in his smelly teenager’s den.

Soon as the door shut he hissed out a breath and sagged, eyes wide. ‘Wow.’ Then up at me. ‘You work with her all the time? Detective Sergeant Franklin? She’s gorgeous ! Could be on Love Island , or a porn star, or anything!’

The dining chair creaked as I settled into it. ‘Right, now the women aren’t here whipping up your hormonal porridge, you can tell me why you’re lying.’

That blush was back. ‘I’m not.’

‘Come on, Bailey, it’s just us in here. When David left your house, he went up to the graveyard. We both know it’s not on his way home.’

‘I...’ Bailey shrugged one shoulder. ‘He...’ Deep breath, staring down at his bitten fingernails. ‘He was really excited about meeting someone. Someone he fancied.’ The blush deepened. ‘David’s been...’ He cleared his throat. ‘David’s mum and dad think he’s like this straight-A student and totally normal and everything, but they don’t know he’s bi.’ Another lopsided shrug. ‘Bisexual. He told me last year.’ Bailey held up a hand. ‘I mean, I’m not, you know, gay or anything like that, I definitely like women, with boobs and stuff. But David fancies men and women.’

‘And that’s who he was going up to the graveyard to meet? A man?’

‘Didn’t say, but he had that... spark in his eyes, you know?’ Bailey raised his head and stared out of the bedroom window at the darkness beyond. ‘We’ve been best friends since primary two. We’re doing the same exams so we can go to Art School together. Study drama and filmmaking.’

‘I’m sorry.’

His shoulders curled forwards and he nodded. Wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you? About David being bi? He never came out, because it’d kill his mum and dad.’

Poor wee sod.

Both of them.

David wouldn’t get to be himself, not even in death. And Bailey?

I levered myself out of the chair. ‘My best friend’s gay; he told me years before he finally came out and left his wife. It’s not easy, being responsible for someone else’s secrets.’ I gave Bailey’s hunched shoulder a squeeze. ‘You’ve been a good friend to David. Don’t let it eat you.’

Then let myself out.

‘... really love that song. Kar Stanton and “She Can”. Think that’s got a real chance of being Christmas number one, this year...’

The A90 thrummed beneath the pool car’s tyres, oncoming headlights gleaming in the darkness.

‘We’ve got the news and weather coming up in twenty minutes, but first here’s Closed for Refurbishment and “Whatever She Wants” brackets, “She Can’t Have”!’