Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

That got his attention. ‘Six million ?’

‘Security van, stolen from Steve Jericho. Remember him? Owned Hallelujah Bingo? Twenty K in cash, the rest in half-inched artwork and jewellery. It’s buried under a stack of washing machines at Wee Free McFee’s place.’

‘Wee Free McFee?’ Shifty covered his face with his hands. ‘No...’

‘I’m going to buy a family hotel out on the west coast, and Alice is going to run retreats and things.’

‘Yeah, but Wee Free McFee !’

‘He’s the possible fourth person.’

An old woman clumped past the car, dragging a big fat Yorkshire terrier behind her. Pausing only to make ‘wanking’ gestures through the windscreen at us.

Off in the distance, a small motorbike revved and revved and revved its engine.

The streetlight we were parked under flickered off and on.

Shifty’s hands fell from his face. ‘You do know this plan is totally insane, don’t you?’

‘How about we don’t torture the people on Alice’s list, then? How about we interview them, like Alice did. Would that make you feel any better?’

‘You want to break into Wee Free McFee’s scrapyard and steal six million quid’s worth of swag from right under his nose, but you think not torturing people’s going to make me feel better?’ He stared up at the car’s roof. ‘I must be off my bloody head.’ But he put the car into gear anyway. ‘Where next?’

Meathmill House and Meathmill Park stood sentry on either side of the road, eighteen-storey tower blocks, with lights glittering in nearly every window. Monolithic and ugly, even in the darkness. The pool car slipped down the ramp between them, disappearing into the curved embankment and an underpass that was almost solid graffiti. Not the artistic kind, either — the concrete walls were caked in decades of tags and swearing and claims that X loves / shags / ‘takes it up the arse’ from Z, Y, and their own dad. Had to be a foot thick in places.

We emerged out the other side and there was the huge architectural monstrosity masquerading as Burgh Library, perched on top of its dumpy hill. All curved concrete walls and ceramic tiles and weird rooflines that dipped and rose like a sales graph. Far too much glass on show, and not enough taste. Most of the lights were off, leaving nothing but a faint orange glow on the ground floor.

Shifty pulled into the car park, and I pointed towards the far corner, where the CCTV cameras dangled from their mounts like rabbits hanging in a butcher’s shop window. That was the joy of the Kingsmeath side of things, anything designed to help law enforcement didn’t usually last long.

I undid my seatbelt. ‘Stay in the car.’

‘Humph.’ Shifty killed the engine. ‘That’ll be shining.’

‘And before you get all stroppy it’s for your own good.’

A small laugh. ‘Ash, there’s no way—’

‘I’m serious. In — the — car.’ The wind wasn’t bad down here, but the roar of traffic, wheeching its way around the top of the steep embankment, was pretty much constant. That’s what happened when you built your library right in the middle of a massive great roundabout. ‘And stay here till I get back.’

I thunked the door closed and hobbled off to stand with my back against a sign advertising upcoming author events and computer classes for the over-sixties. My breath plumed in the sharp peppery air.

Hand was starting to throb. That would be the local anaesthetic wearing off.

Come on, Joseph, finger out.

At least he had all of his.

Good job I’d scored a blister pack of Naproxen from Dr Fotheringham when she’d finished stitching me up. Two got forced down, dry. Could’ve gone for something stronger, but being semi-stoned was probably not the best idea for tonight.

Not given what I had planned for whoever put Alice in Intensive Care.

Her phone buzzed as I unlocked it: bang on quarter past eleven, according to the screen.

No text from Joseph or Francis, saying they’d be late.

You’d think gun-peddling-thugs-for-hire would have better manners than that.

There, nestled amongst the rows of apps that covered Alice’s screen, was one with a bullseye target and a big arrow pointing at the middle. It sat above Henry’s left ear, the wee lad grinning, tongue dangling out the side of his mouth like a big pink sock. Couldn’t remember what the app was called, probably something spelled with ‘Z’s instead of ‘S’s and a couple of numbers or unnecessary asterisks replacing random letters. The tracker app she’d installed on my phone.

Meaning there was no need to sod about with official channels to find Leah MacNeil and Gordon Smith. Assuming they hadn’t ditched my mobile somewhere.

My finger hovered over the icon.

Of course, what I really should do is call Mother. Find out where the app said my phone was and let her send in the heavy mob. An end to Gordon Smith’s fifty-six-year reign of horror. Picture in all the papers, commendation from the top brass. Closure for Smith’s victims’ families. And he’d spend the rest of his life in a padded cell with no hope of ever seeing the outside world again.

Yeah, but you promised Helen, didn’t you? As she died.

You promised her.

What about Leah? She’d probably get off on a diminished-responsibility plea: eight years, tops. Bet she’d be out in four. If that. And if I brought her in, she’d tell everyone what I’d done to Gordon Smith. And that would be me screwed, because there was no way I could let him live. He had to die, which meant she did too.

I’d made a promise.

And soon as I’d sorted out whoever it was that’d hurt Alice, I’d keep that promise.

Because what was the point of a man if he didn’t keep his—

Here we go.

A shiny black Range Rover growled its way up the ramp from the Blackwall Hill side, headlights sweeping the car park as it turned. I stepped out into the glow of a lamppost and raised a hand. The Range Rover swung towards me. Came to a halt, when I was level with the passenger window.

It buzzed down and Joseph smiled out, that lump of cotton wadding looking more than a bit ridiculous, perched at a jaunty angle on top of his scarred head, as he leaned on the sill. ‘Mr Henderson, while your choice of location is perhaps a touch less suitable for clandestine exchanges than the one proposed, I have to express my approbation for choosing a library. Bravo.’

Francis leaned over from the driver’s seat and gave me a nod. ‘’Spector.’

The thousand pounds made a disappointingly thin slab of slithery plastic and paper as I handed it over. ‘Count it.’

‘Oh, I trust you, Mr Henderson.’ Joseph slipped it into an inside pocket. ‘After all, we’re both gentlemen, are we not? Our word has value beyond the mere pursuit of Mammon’s favours. And in exchange, I give you this.’ He held out a small yellow-and-blue backpack, done up to look like a Minion, complete with one 3D eye-goggle and a big cheesy grin. ‘In case you’re interested in the details of such things, it contains a Walther P-Twenty-Two Q.D. renowned for its tactical styling, exquisite trigger, and second-strike capability. Holds ten rounds in the magazine, one in the breach, and the slide is textured — making it easier for someone with restricted hand mobility to “rack in a round” as our American cousins would say.’

Wouldn’t be surprised if he was sporting an erection at this point, going by the expression on his face.

‘I have furnished you with twenty-five rounds, which I believe should be sufficient for all but the most prolonged gun battles. Somehow I think you’re more inclined to precision than the “spray and pray” approach, but if you require an additional stock, please don’t hesitate to get in touch as our customer loyalty scheme is most generous.’