The Coffinmaker's Garden

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘And Portree, Kingussie, Clydebank, Hawick, Aberystwyth, Torquay, Billingborough, Methil … So if you can swing past and check, while you’re in the area, that’d be a great help.’

  Hard not to groan at that.

  ‘I know, I know, but it’s worth a try, isn’t it?’

  Not really. That was the trouble with police work, though. Ninety-six percent of it was a complete waste of time and the other four percent got you in trouble with Professional Standards.

  ‘Have the labs got back with anything from those Polaroids? The ones I gave DI Morrow?’

  ‘DI Morr …? Oh, you mean Shifty? No, not yet. John’s chasing them.’

  ‘Get them to compare any DNA, blood, or fingerprints with Peter Smith – Gordon’s brother. Doing a sixteen stretch in Saughton.’

  Silence from the other end of the phone.

  I leaned towards Franklin. ‘Better get in the right-hand lane, we’re going back to Edinburgh.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Make up your mind …’ But she yanked on the steering wheel anyway, sending the Ford Focus careening across the white rumble strip and inches from the rear end of an articulated lorry. A blare of horn from the white Transit we’d just cut in front of. Then out into the overtaking lane, accelerating past the lorry and up the hill, as if we hadn’t been seconds away from ‘FIVE DEAD IN MOTORWAY PILEUP HORROR’.

  I forced down the fizzy feeling that’d clamped onto my bowels. Went back to the phone. ‘You still there?’

  ‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Ash? Why all this interest in Gordon Smith’s brother?’

  ‘Call it ex-DI’s intuition. Now, where are we meant to be heading?’

  ‘You’ll like this: be a treat for you.’

  Why did that sound highly unlikely?

  ‘Well how was I supposed to know there wasn’t any parking?’ Franklin stomped past the National Gallery, moping her way between the waist-high sections of temporary fencing and into a world of glittering lights. The thick meaty scent of charcoal and sausages mingled with piped Christmas carols and the whirrrrrr of someone making Irn-Bru-flavoured candyfloss.

  ‘Can we get on with this, please?’

  The sky had gone from bright blue to a dark indigo as we’d tramped all the way from the multistorey round the back of the Traverse Theatre, down Lothian Road, and along Princes Street. Fighting our way through the seething swamp of bloody tourists and bloody-minded locals. Now a sliver of burning red lined the top of the surrounding buildings, doing nothing to compete with the twee gaudy horror of Edinburgh’s Christmas Market.

  Lines of small wooden stalls were arranged in three ‘streets’, bedecked with multicoloured lights, bells, stars, oversized candy canes, and bits of pine tree, as if Santa had vomited all over it. Stall after stall after stall, selling tat, tat, and more tat.

  Towering over everything, a slow-motion Ferris wheel glittered its way around, overshadowing the gloomy blackened spires of the Scott Monument. And everywhere you looked: fairy lights. Fairy lights and more bloody tourists.

  This early in the season, it shouldn’t have been busy, but it was. People jammed in everywhere, circulating at a snail’s pace. Taking selfies, blocking the way, drinking bargain-basement Glühwein from a stall manned by a bloke who wouldn’t have looked out of place on the Sex Offenders’ Register.

  Franklin stared at the seething masses, teeth bared. ‘This is a monumental waste of time.’

  ‘Of course it is. Even if Gordon Smith was here, he’ll be long gone by now.’ I gave her the side-eye. ‘Especially after your parking.’

  ‘That wasn’t my fault!’

  A stall down the end – past one selling socks and gloves, one selling ‘HANDMADE ARTISANAL CHEESES!’, one selling tea-lights in the shape of Edinburgh tenements, and one entirely dedicated to vile flavours of fudge – had a big circular metal grille suspended over a smouldering bowl of red-hot charcoal. An array of golden sausages drifted around in a lazy circle as the woman in charge poked at them with a set of tongs. The smell alone was enough to set my stomach growling. Been a long time since that bowl of salted porridge and cup of decaf tea.

  Franklin sniffed, did a three-sixty. ‘So where do we begin this utter waste of time?’

  I held up two fingers to the lady with the tongs. ‘One bratwurst, one currywurst. All the trimmings.’

  ‘Reet you are, pet.’

  Franklin stared up at the string of lights that looped from pole to pole, running the length of the fake street. ‘Think the market’s got CCTV? They have to have CCTV, right?’

  I took delivery of the sausages, smothered in sauerkraut and crispy onions. Handed over a tenner. Got very little of it back. ‘Here.’

  ‘What?’ Franklin looked at the proffered currywurst as if it’d recently come out the back end of an Alsatian.

  ‘You’d rather have the bratwurst?’

  ‘We pull the CCTV from when Gordon Smith was spotted and we have a look. We see anything, we alert local plod and get them to launch a proper manhunt.’

  Gave the sausage a waggle. ‘You wanting this, or not?’

  She rolled her eyes, then accepted the thing as if she was doing me a favour. Slathered it in tomato sauce and yellow mustard from the squeezy plastic bottles by the till. First thing she’d done all day that wasn’t annoying.

  I followed her lead. ‘According to Mother, Gordon was spotted at two fifteen, near the helter-skelter.’

  ‘That’s how you know this is bollocks.’ Franklin took a bite off the end of her sausage, getting a mustard moustache for her troubles as we wandered down the aisle between two rows of stalls. Talking with her mouth full. ‘He’s on the run from the police, no way he’s stopping off here to play on the slides.’

  True.

  The bratwurst snapped between my teeth, setting free an explosion of meaty smoky goodness, sweet and sharp at the same time. ‘Might as well go see if anyone down there recognises him. We’re here anyway.’

  So we dawdled through the ‘Nutella and crepes’ section, the tower cakes, the scented candles, munching our way through a very late lunch.

  The Scott Monument loomed above us, in all its grim gothic glory.

  I stopped. Frowned up at it.

  Moved over to the left.

  Then forward a couple of paces.

  Far as I could tell, this was exactly where Gordon Smith must’ve been standing when he took that Polaroid – the one with the bearded man in it, arms wide, head thrown back, laughing. You didn’t pose like that for a stranger, did you? No, whoever took the photo, they had to be someone you knew. Someone you felt comfortable with.

  Franklin seemed to realise I wasn’t with her any more, because she turned and stomped back towards me. ‘Thought we were supposed to be working, not sightseeing.’

  ‘You do realise, now I’ve bought you a sausage, you have to be less of a grumpy tosser, don’t you?’

  Franklin wiped the splodges of red and yellow from her cheeks and chin. ‘I am not a grumpy tosser.’

  ‘You’ve had a massive retractable bollard up your backside since I met you, and I’m renowned for my charming wit.’ Sort of. On a good day. ‘So come on, then: why the grump?’

  She tossed her napkin into the nearest bin. ‘Do you have any idea how hard it is to be a woman in the police force? Try being black on top of that. So far this week I’ve been propositioned four times, groped once, called a “coloured monkey bitch”, a “fascist darkie”, and told to go back where I came from. Which, for the record, is about a twenty-five-minute bus ride that way.’ Pointing in the vague direction of Waverley Station. ‘And let’s not forget the eighty-two-year-old woman who used the N-word so much she must’ve got a discount for bulk, and spat on me for daring to suggest she couldn’t put rat poison down for her neighbour’s dog, even if it does crap on her lawn. So you’ll excuse me if I’m a bit less than sodding cheerful about it!’

  Jesus …

  ‘I’m sorry.’ It’d be nice to think Scotland
was better than that. That we were more enlightened and accepting and welcoming. That we were just a wee bit brighter. Always depressing to be reminded we had our fair share of thick-as-pig-shit racist wankers, same as everywhere else. ‘Did you arrest her? The old lady?’

  Franklin gave a snort. ‘She’s eighty-two, what are the courts going to do?’

  True.

  ‘Give me her address, then: I’ll go round and crap on her lawn myself.’

  That almost got me a smile.

  We took the steep, leaf-slippery slope down at the end of the fake street.

  The sky was dark as ink, our breaths glowing in the light of the yellow-and-red helter-skelter – tall as a four-storey building, ringed around with flickering bulbs. A carousel sat next to it, slowly rotating to the sound of ‘Scotland the Brave’, played on an oom-cha organ, wooden horses rising and falling, taking squealing children round and round in the flash of two dozen parents’ phones.

  Franklin’s face softened. ‘I used to love those when I was little …’

  ‘Don’t see why not. Once we’ve checked with the helter-skelter people.’

  She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at me. And I swear to God, that was almost a smile playing at the corner of her lips. ‘I’m a grown woman.’

  ‘Never too old to play on a wooden horsey, though, are you.’

  There was a queue outside the helter-skelter: people in padded jackets snaking their way up a set of wooden steps to where a fat man in a black bomber jacket and Santa hat was checking tickets, before letting them inside to climb to the top.

  Franklin pulled out her warrant card and flashed it at the tourists. ‘Police, we need to get past. Excuse me. Thank you. Police.’ Working her way up the stairs with me limping along behind. ‘Sorry, police business. Thank you. Sir? I need you to step out of the way for a moment. Thanks.’ Until we were face to face with our bouncer in a jolly hat.

  He gave her a scowl. ‘No swicking the queue.’

  ‘Police.’ She stuck her warrant card under his podgy nose. Then dug into her pocket and pulled out a folded A4 sheet. Stuck that under his nose instead. ‘Have you seen this man?’

  A frown. Mouth pursed and pulled to one side as he examined the printout.

  An impatient tut from the woman next to me. Checking her watch.

  But the man in the bomber jacket wasn’t to be rushed.

  Eventually he shook his head, setting the white furry bobble on the end of his Santa hat wobbling. ‘Sorry.’

  I peered over Franklin’s shoulder. ‘You been on shift all afternoon?’

  A nod, setting the bobble going again. ‘Since one.’

  She gave the sheet another go. ‘And you’re certain?’

  ‘Oh aye, I’m good with faces, me. That bloke’s no’ been on my ride the day.’

  Ah well, it’d been worth a try.

  We thumped our way down the stairs again and out onto the path.

  She put her printout away. ‘So what now?’

  ‘You want a go on the carousel before or after we check for CCTV?’

  A wistful look slid across Franklin’s face as she turned to gaze at the merry-go-round, its flashing lights playing across her skin, sparkling in her eyes. ‘I’m a grown woman, and we’re supposed to be working, so—’

  ‘Both it is, then.’

  A white picket fence separated the thing from the walkway, with a perky middle-aged woman, dressed as an elf, in charge of the gate. ‘Hello.’ Beaming like hers was the best job in the world. ‘Are you here to ride the carousel?’

  ‘Come on, Mr Henderson, we don’t have time to—’

  ‘One adult, please.’

  ‘This is ridiculous, I’m not going to—’

  ‘Listen up, Detective Sergeant: life is fleeting, short, and horrible. Take whatever joy you can, where you can.’

  The elf put a hand on her heart. ‘Oh, that’s so true …’ Then did her perky thing again. ‘Now, have you got a token? Because, if you don’t, there’s a machine up by the—’

  ‘Tenner. No questions asked. And failing that,’ pulled out my old warrant card – the one I should’ve handed back years ago, ‘police business.’

  ‘Done.’ She opened the gate and waved Franklin through. Throwing in an elaborate bow for good measure as she swept a hand towards the shiny wooden horses. ‘This way, my lady, your noble steed awaits!’

  First time around the circuit, Franklin looked vaguely embarrassed, sitting there on her filigreed golden horse with red and blue swirls. The second revolution brought a smile with it. And by the third time around she was grinning away as ‘Flower of Scotland’ omm-cha’d out of the carousel’s organ.

  And you know what? There were worse ways to have spent a tenner.

  Maybe now she’d be less of a pain in my—

  Tchaikovsky’s ‘Danse des Mirlitons’ blared out in my pocket, clashing with the merry-go-round soundtrack.

  Alice.

  Reject, or take the call?

  My shoulders drooped.

  Shifty was right, I’d have to speak to her sooner or later.

  I moved away from the picket fence, shouldering my way through the crowds to a quieter spot. Hit the green button. ‘Alice.’

  ‘Ash?’ Sounding breathless, as if she was walking fast. ‘I can’t talk for long. Listen, I’m really, really, really sorry.’

  A Japanese family lumbered past, almost swallowed in their huge padded coats, hoods up like gnomes. Then a couple of Eastern-European men in Manchester United replica shirts, their bare arms semi-blue with cold and pebbled with goose bumps.

  ‘Ash? Did you hear, I really am sorry.’

  ‘So you should be.’

  ‘Oh, Ash …’

  ‘It hurts every time you do it, but today?’

  A couple of the local plod smiled and nodded their way through the crowds, conspicuous in their high-viz waistcoats, stabproof vests and peaked caps.

  ‘I know, I’m an idiot … David tells me you went to see her. Rebecca.’

  Or what was left of her.

  ‘Yeah.’

  The Christmas Market was a sea of faces. Happy people, bored people, families, couples, none of whose lives had been torn apart one bloodied Polaroid at a time.

  ‘We don’t have to talk about it right now, but you know I’m here for you. If you want me to be?’

  A sigh dragged my shoulders down. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I wanted you to know that I’ve … had a word with Steven Kirk. He’s …’ She cleared her throat. ‘I told the investigating officer that he … attacked me on the waste ground. That he had … a knife. That you were only trying to protect me.’

  ‘You didn’t have to lie, it’s—’

  ‘It’s my fault you did what you did, Ash. If I hadn’t … used Rebecca’s death like that—’

  ‘Yeah. Well.’ Deep breath. ‘Thanks for trying to fix it.’

  A gaggle of Aberdonians posed for selfies with the helter-skelter in the background, pouting like constipated ducks. Three Brummies laughed their way past, sharing a plastic tray of something cheesy. Those two police officers stopped for photos with a group of Americans.

  ‘And I really am so, so sorry … Henry misses you.’

  I puffed out a breath. ‘Look, as it’s nine years since we started catching bad guys, maybe we should go somewhere fancy for dinner. I could …’

  Hold on a minute.

  ‘Ash?’

  There – in the swarm of faces, gazing along the row of fairground attractions and off towards the line of stalls. A young woman: heart-shaped face, broad forehead, long sharp nose. Wisps of bright-violet hair sticking out from the edge of her hoodie.

  Nah. It couldn’t be.

  ‘Ash, I’ve got to go, Bear’s got a press—’

  I hung up, slipped the phone back in my pocket.

  Maybe it was?

  Shouldered my way through a group of German tourists, waiting to get on the waltzers. Dodged a gaggle of septuagenarians dressed up as schoolgir
ls and rattling a collection bucket.

  The young woman looked away, but those wisps of hair fluoresced in the harsh festive lighting.

  Past a young family trying to get their toddler to stop screeching his head off, a cloud of candyfloss grounded on the tarmac at his feet.

  Closing the gap.

  It couldn’t be her. But if it was …

  I slipped around a couple arguing over the head of a miserable-looking young girl in a wheelchair.

  Reached out. And grabbed the young woman’s arm.

  She spun to face me.

  ‘Leah? Leah MacNeil?’

  And at that her eyes went wide. ‘Shit …’

  It was her.

  ‘Your gran’s been worried sick, she needs—’

  ‘GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU PERVERT!’ Leah wrenched her arm free, and she was off.

  16

  ‘Leah!’

  She barged through a knot of tourists, sending plastic cups of Glühwein and paper cartons of bratwurst flying. ‘HE’S TRYING TO TOUCH ME! HELP!’

  God’s sake …

  I lumbered after her, but the crowd was turning. Staring at me.

  ‘KEEP AWAY FROM ME YOU RAPIST BASTARD!’

  I shoved through the same group but someone shoulder-checked me on the way. Got my walking stick slammed in his guts in return.

  He doubled over, staggered out of the way, but Leah was widening the gap.

  ‘HELP! HELP, POLICE!’

  Over by the candyfloss stall, that pair of uniformed officers meerkated above the crowds, and both of them were definitely looking in my direction.

  ‘LEAH! I NEED TO TALK TO YOU!’ Shoving past the idiots blocking my way.

  Only good thing about this was: she had to wade through the sea of people too. If it wasn’t for the crowd she’d be long gone by now.

  ‘HE TOUCHED MY BREASTS! POLICE!’

  A bellowing Edinburgh accent burst across from the uniforms. ‘HOY, YOU! COME BACK HERE!’

  She’d made it as far as the ramp leading up to where the market’s edge ran along the side of the Royal Scottish Academy, its sandstone façade stained in shades of red, yellow, and green in the flashing festive lights.

  ‘LEAH! YOUR MOTHER DIDN’T KILL HERSELF! SHE—’