Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

We’d not long passed the sign for Glendoick Garden Centre when my phone pop-ding ed again.

LEAH MACNEIL:

I’m sorry I can’t leave my phone on it sets

off the car speakers & grandad would no I

had it & he will punish me

I don’t want 2 end up like David

Pop-ding .

LEAH MACNEIL:

We’ve stopped somewhere I think its the

countryside coz there’s no lights we’ve

been driving 4 ever I have to do what he

says & behave or he will punish me

Pop-ding .

LEAH MACNEIL:

Tell granny I love her & I’m sorry I wasn’t

a better granddaughter but I was selfish &

stupid & she was always there for me

when she wasn’t in prison

Pop-ding .

LEAH MACNEIL:

I don’t think grandad will ever let me go

home

One day I’ll make him angry & he will cut

me in2 tiny bits like all the others

I’m sorry 4 everything

I picked out a reply.

We’ll find you before he can hurt you,

Leah. You have to hold on and not give

up.

We WILL find you.

SEND.

And, hopefully, she’d still be in one piece when we did.

The song on the radio crash-bang-walloped to a halt, then was replaced by something equally shouty. I turned it down and called Mother.

‘Have you kicked Watt’s backside into orbit yet?’

A pause. ‘Ash, how nice to hear from you. Again.’ Didn’t sound like it.

‘How did he manage to get a trace set up on the wrong bloody mobile?’

‘Is there a point to this call? Because I’ve already had words with John and he’s getting a new warrant sorted out.’

‘I even forwarded you Leah MacNeil’s texts! How could anyone not spot they weren’t from the same phone number?’

‘This isn’t helping. Now do you have anything constructive to add to the investigation, or can I get back to slowly working on a stress-related aneurism?’

‘Has anyone looked into Gordon Smith’s sexuality?’

Franklin overtook a Luton Transit van, with ‘SAMMY’S MIDNIGHT FLIT ~ YOU’D BE NUTS TO TRUST ANYONE ELSE!!!’ and a grinning thumbs-up squirrel on the side.

Then, finally, Mother was back, voice cold and clipped. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Probably not, but our latest victim: David Quinn. He was bisexual and excited about meeting someone the night he died, which turned out to be Gordon Smith. Of course, he also wanted to study drama and filmmaking at university, so that might be how Smith manipulated him into going to the scenery warehouse. But if you’re looking for a mentor, would you really set up a meeting, at night, in a graveyard?’

‘Gordon Smith’s sexuality is immaterial. You want to know what is material? Catching him. Now how about trying to do that instead of casting aspersions on the LGBTQI community!’ Then complete silence from the phone. She’d hung up.

Lovely.

I looked across the car at Franklin, partially lit by the dashboard’s glow, and partially by the oncoming headlights. ‘Did any of what I said sound homophobic to you?’

‘Wasn’t paying attention. Now any chance we can have the radio up again? It’s been a long couple of days and I’d rather not fall asleep at the wheel on the way home.’

Franklin pulled in to the kerb on Guild Street, spitting distance from Divisional Headquarters. Cracked a yawn that showed off loads of perfect teeth with only a couple of fillings at the back. Then blinked a few times and slumped in her seat. ‘Right: what time tomorrow?’

‘Nine. Mother owes us a long lie-in after all that.’

A hollow laugh. ‘Yeah, right.’

I climbed out and collected Henry from the back seat. ‘Go home, clamber into a hot bath, and get some sleep. Get out of the bath first, though, unless you fancy drowning.’

She rolled her eyes and I thumped the car door shut. Waved as Franklin performed a three-point turn and headed off towards the town centre.

Wind chased the wee lad and me as we ducked around the corner onto Doyle Lane, borrowed wellies going week-wonk as I limped past two closed charity shops and a chipper with a bored-looking man slumped behind the counter. Then in through the hallowed portal of The Tartan Bunnet Café.

Condensation pewtered the windows, greasy with the scent of hot chip fat and generations-worth of fried bacon. The twin red lights atop Castle Hill Infirmary’s incinerator chimneys glowing like a pair of eyes through the misty glass. Small square tables draped with red-and-white checked plastic cloths; the squeezy kind of condiment containers that no one ever had in their home; and a TV on a shelf, up above the counter, the picture as indistinct as the outside world, obscured by its own patina of grease.

An old-fashioned bell tinkled, announcing our arrival to the gathered masses. Which, this evening, consisted of a fat man frowning away at the Castle News and Post ’s crossword, a uniformed PC with a squint face and a side parting, and Alice.

She looked up as I closed the door behind us, a large mug cradled in her hands. Smiled a thin, sad smile. Then she caught sight of Henry and scooted out of her chair, dropping to one knee and holding her arms out towards him. ‘Oh, I’ve missed you!’

‘Thanks a bunch.’ But I let go of the wee lad’s lead anyway and he scurried across the scarred lino to her, tail whumping away so hard his back end wasn’t really under control.

Sitting in the corner, the PC raised an eyebrow and his tea in salute, the crime-scene smears of a long-dead fry-up on the empty plate in front of him. Fiddling one-handed with his phone. He’d dumped his stabproof vest on the seat next to him, like a hollow companion keeping him company while he finished his dinner and wanked about on Facebook. What was his name again: MacAskill? MacAllister? Something like that. He hadn’t been around when I’d been a DI, anyway. Or even after they demoted me. Maybe he was one of Shifty’s team?

I gave him a nod in return and settled into the seat opposite Alice as she finished giving Henry the prodigal Scottie dog’s reception. Which genuinely took about five minutes — oohing and aahing over him while I sat there ignored like a boiled jobbie.

Finally, she surfaced from beneath the table. ‘Sorry, but I really have missed him.’

Her mug was warm to the touch, and when I gave it a sniff: coffee, without even a whiff of booze. It went back on the table. ‘And sober too?’

‘I listened to what you said, and I’m giving it a go.’ That sad smile again. ‘It’s that or retire. Pack in the behavioural evidence analysis game and go be...’ Her shoulders sagged. ‘I don’t know what I could be. I’ve never done anything else.’

A woman scuffed out from the back, her face as lined and saggy as an elephant’s scrotum, thin white hairs poking out from her chin and cheeks. A headscarf with wisps of grey escaping from underneath to stick to her shiny forehead. She thumped a mug down in front of me then cleared her throat — like someone rattling a tin can half-full of gravel. Her voice wasn’t much better. ‘Decaf tea, milk, no sugar.’

‘Thanks, Effie.’

‘You wanting food? Course you are, look at you, you need feeding up. I’ll do you some chips.’ Then turned and scuffed off back the way she’d come.

The tea was hot and bland and milky. ‘So how did you get on with your child-killer?’

Alice pulled a face. ‘Profiling sober isn’t the same at all. I miss the feeling of... I don’t know, invulnerability? Omnipotence? Instead I spent half the time second-guessing everything I’d done. Urgh...’

‘Couples who kill.’

‘And Bear’s still convinced that Gòrach’s someone on the Sex Offenders’ Register, so what’s the point of me even bothering? Could’ve spent the day reading a book instead.’