Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

She must’ve clocked the expression on my face because she rolled her eyes, arms hanging loose at her sides. ‘I said “sometimes”, OK? You don’t know what it’s like down in the trenches. You police kick in their doors, seize their property, and cart off their relatives — it’s us poor sods that have to try and stitch them back together. You know what Lewis had to look forward to? Poverty and abuse and no opportunities.’ Voice getting louder and more bitter with every word. ‘They wouldn’t let me put him into care because apparently there’s bugger all left in the budget this financial year. Who’d be a bloody social worker?’

The wail of a small child boomed out through the ceiling above.

Ann Tweedale glared at me, voice back to a harsh whisper again. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’

‘So what do you think?’ Shifty took us back under the railway bridge. ‘We any nearer to catching this bastard?’

‘Don’t know.’ I checked the list again. ‘What’s closest: Ditchburn Road, or Corriemuir Place?’

‘From here?’ His top lip curled. ‘Six of one.’ He reached out and clicked on the radio, landing us halfway through a song where some popstar tosser moaned about how unfair life was.

Take a number, mate, and get to the back of the queue.

‘Your choice, then.’ I pulled out Alice’s phone and called the hospital as Shifty headed east, back towards Kingsmeath, rather than Castleview. ‘Hello? I’m calling about Alice McDonald.’

The switchboard put me through to a woman with a lisp and a Geordie accent. ‘There’s no change at the moment, pet, but it’s early days. We’ll give you a call if anything happens, and you’ve got me word on that.’

‘Thanks.’

A glance from Shifty when I put my phone away. ‘No change?’

‘No change.’ My head fell back against the rest. For some reason, there were footprints on the inside of the pool car’s roof. Not shoeprints — bare feet. ‘Tell me about this “greasy vibe” you got, when you were interviewing someone about Oscar Harris?’

‘Hmmph. His uncle’s a DJ, does club nights at Bang-dot-Bang-dot-Cheese and the House of Ultimate Ding. Bloody places these days, whatever happened to sensible names? He’s one of those... neckbeard types, you know? The ones who don’t grow a moustache to go with it.’

‘Doesn’t make him a paedo.’

We drifted down Hillside Drive, past all the peaceful side streets with their trees and working streetlights.

‘Never trust anyone who doesn’t grow a moustache to go with their beard — man or woman. It’s a sign something’s very badly wrong in their heads. And you didn’t hear the way he talked about Oscar. Like the kid was a family pet.’ Shifty put on a faux-posh Oldcastle accent, stressing the vowels in all the wrong places. ‘“Such a clever boy.”, “He’s a good boy, yes he is. Very good.” And, like I said, soon as he trotted out his alibi he lawyered up. That says “dodgy bastard” to me.’ A small smile. ‘Even if his lawyer was a total shag.’

But then Shifty always did have terrible taste in men.

Left at the roundabout, onto Blackwall Avenue, heading back towards the library.

‘Think we should put some lost-dog posters up around Glensheilth Crescent? If Alice stopped to let the wee man have a pee, he might’ve run off.’

Shifty raised one big rounded shoulder. ‘Suppose it wouldn’t hurt.’

And then we sat in silence, all the way up Blackburgh Road, over the railway bridge. Nothing but the radio to cut through the disinterested growl of the pool car’s engine. One miserable song following another.

The DJ faded down the latest parade of whining as we pulled across the central reservation, turning right across the dual carriageway and into Kingsmeath again.

‘There we go, The Mighty Beetroot and “The Day My Heart Stopped Beating”, taking us up to the news and weather. It’s twenty past midnight and you’re listening to The Witching Hour with me, Lucy Robotham, on Castlewave FM.’

I cleared my throat. ‘You know, you could come with us, if you like? When we open this hotel. Get away from...’ indicating the rows of small houses on either side of the road, ‘all this.’

‘... seventy-year-old man has died as Storm Victoria works its way up through Great Yarmouth, creating havoc with high winds and heavy rain...’

Shifty’s voice was flat as an ironing board. ‘What, and throw away my stellar career with Police Scotland?’

‘... seen up to ten centimetres of rain in the space of two hours, and now severe weather warnings are in place for northeast England, the Central Belt, and eastern Scotland...’

‘You could take people shooting? Or do murder mystery weekends, ABBA tribute nights, Eurovision parties — you like that kind of thing, don’t you?’

‘What, because I’m gay?’

‘... hit Oldcastle at some point this morning. Bob Eason has had a setback in his bid to resurrect the Warriors, as council safety officers refuse him permission to reopen City Stadium for a charity concert. Local rap star Donny “Sick Dawg” McRoberts was rumoured to be headlining...’

I stared at him. ‘No, because you’ve got terrible taste. And it’s not just in men, you like all sorts of stuff that’s either crap or not good for you.’

‘... later this year. Police are appealing for witnesses, following a hit-and-run on Glensheilth Crescent earlier today. The victim, said to be—’ I switched off the radio.

Shifty nodded. ‘Alice is going to be OK, you know that, don’t you? She’ll pull through.’ His hand left the steering wheel to clamp down on my shoulder, voice going for cheery optimism and not exactly making it: ‘Besides, after all that booze, bet she’s pickled enough inside to last for generations.’ A sad smile. ‘You and me will be a thousand years dead, in our graves, and she’ll still be bumbling about, annoying everyone.’

Yeah...

Then why did I have this gaping hollow in the middle of my chest, that kept filling with scalding concrete?

Shifty took a right, onto a street with loads of tiny roads leading off both sides of it — each one only big enough for a dozen tiny houses and their tiny gardens. He pulled up about two thirds of the way along. ‘Number fifty-four.’

It wasn’t much to look at: a modest semi, the mirror image of the house it was attached to. No garage, just an empty off-road parking bay. Two windows downstairs, three up. Wooden cladding on the upper storey, as if someone had tried to make this part of the street look less depressing. And failed.

We climbed out.

He gave my shoulder another thump. ‘She’ll be OK.’

I pulled out Alice’s phone and checked her calendar again: ‘K DEWAR — TMM’S LAW’ which had to mean ‘Toby Macmillan’s Mother’s lawyer.’ The mother who broke her wee boy’s arm, invited an abusive stepdad into his life, and was currently appealing against her conviction for neglect.

And Ann Tweedale thought we didn’t know what it was like down in the trenches, as if we didn’t wade through them every single day.

Shifty sniffed as we made our way up to the front door of number fifty-four. ‘Any chance we can grab a bite to eat after this one? Haven’t had anything since lunchtime.’

Right on cue, my stomach growled like an angry bear. Had I eaten since breakfast? Don’t think so. And that was a long time ago. ‘Who’s still serving, after midnight?’

He leaned on the bell. ‘That chippy on Shand Street will be open. Or the Kebab shops down Holland Street.’ No sign of life from inside, so Shifty had another go on the bell. ‘Shawarma-Llama-Ding-Dong’s meant to be good and they don’t shut till the clubs turf out at three.’ The bell rang again. ‘Or we could get something from the big Winslow’s and take it back to—’