When I was little I wanted 2 B a princess
then I grew up & then I wanted 2 B a vet
and work with all the lovely animals but
I’m 2 stupid 2 get in2 university
LEAH MACNEIL:
It doesn’t matter now because I’ll be dead
& no one will ever find me & that’s
probably OK because I don’t deserve 2 live
no more because of David
LEAH MACNEIL:
I keep thinking about how I could have
saved him how I maybe could have
stopped grandad before he did what he did
but I didn’t & I no its 2 late 2 change it
LEAH MACNEIL:
I hope you told my gran that I love her
and I’m sorry
It’s so cold and dark here
I think I will be dead soon
Thank you 4 trying
Goodbye
The texts had been sent over the space of fifteen minutes, at around three o’clock this morning. Should’ve been plenty of time for RoboSabir to track down where Leah’s texts were coming from. So why wasn’t there a single message from the damn thing giving me coordinates?
Well, don’t see why I should be the only one awake and worrying about it.
I called Sabir.
He answered on the second ring. ‘Not youse again! I’m werking on it, OK? Jesus. Hold on.’ Then the clickity rattle of a keyboard getting punished. ‘There.’
My phone ding-buzzed in my hand. An email, from Sabir, with three names and locations in it:
• TROY CULLEN [MALAGA]
• CHRISTOPHER MULVANEY [NEWCASTLE]
• KERRY DRYBURGH [FOCHABERS]
‘What the hell is this?’
‘What do you think it is? It’s three of yer unknown victims, all right? Thank you, Sabir, well done you true and trusty IT demigod. Have you got any idea how much digging I had to do to get them for ye?’
‘OK, OK. Thank you, Sabir. Now, can you please tell me why your stupid half-arsed phone trace thing doesn’t work any more? Leah MacNeil sent me a bunch of texts at three this morning and I’ve had no notifications about her location at all!’
‘Oh, for the love of Anfield … Hold on.’ More keyboard noises. ‘According to this, her phone’s sitting in your bloody Divisional Headquarters.’
Her phone was what?
I scrunched my eyes shut, making the stabbing pain behind them even worse. ‘That’s her old phone. It’s supposed to be tracing her new one!’
‘Well, how am I meant to know that? You buncha knobs never tell us anything, I’m not Fox Mulder here, Ash, you do have to actually tell us stuff!’
The window boinged as I thumped my forehead off it. ‘DC Watt got a new warrant.’
‘Good for DC Watt. But I’m still not feckin’ psychic.’
‘All right, all right, sorry. I’ll text you the number.’
‘Jesus, it’s like amateur hour at the clown college.’
‘Thanks, Sabir, I really …’ Silence from the other end: he’d hung up. ‘Appreciate it.’
At least the tramadol had started to kick in, that nice warm feeling dampening down the burning ache. Enough to try going back to bed, anyway.
The phone’s anonymous ringtone dragged me from one of those bad dreams that wasn’t so much scary as crushingly depressing. Any last wisps of it were battered into oblivion as the thumping headache started up again.
I fumbled my phone from the bedside table. Lay back with the other hand cupped over my throbbing eyes. ‘What?’
‘Ash? It’s Rosalind. I’m downstairs. Are we going to morning prayers or not?’
Oh, for God’s sake …
‘Thought we agreed on a lie-in?’
‘Are you OK? You sound all bunged up.’
Suppose there was no point fighting it.
‘Give me ten minutes.’
‘Rough night?’ The smile was loud and clear in her voice.
‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’
By the time I’d made it into some clothes, an old pair of trainers, and through to the living room, Alice was sitting on the couch, knees up to her chest, staring at the TV, thick black bags under her eyes.
‘… continues for missing five-year-old, Toby Macmillan. DI David Morrow says it’s too early to give up hope yet.’ And the screen cut to Shifty, in his best suit, standing in front of DHQ, caught in the flickering light of what had to be at least two dozen camera flashguns. Eyepatch giving him a slightly rakish air.
Putting on his serious voice: ‘We know Toby Macmillan is out there, and we will find him.’
Sooner or later.
And we knew from the first three victims what ‘later’ would look like.
I kissed Alice on top of the head, which was a stupid idea, because bending forward made my brain inflate like a balloon – slamming against the inside of my skull. ‘Ow …’
She looked up at me, grimaced. ‘You look terrible!’
Staying perfectly still till the room stopped lurching. ‘I have to go, Franklin’s outside.’
‘… vitally important anyone with information that might lead to us finding Toby Macmillan comes forward as soon as possible …’
‘You should be in bed.’ Rising up from the couch. ‘Don’t go. Call in sick. You are sick!’ Pointing at our reflections in the windows. ‘Look at yourself.’
‘No.’ Didn’t need to – I’d seen it in the bathroom mirror: the lines of sticking plaster across my nose, the cotton wadding jammed up both nostrils to keep it from setting even squinter than it already was. The map of blues, greens, and purples that covered my face from eyebrows to cheeks like a mask. Never mind that my ribs were one big bruise, all down the right-hand side. I winced my way into my jacket. ‘What are you up to today?’
‘Ash, please.’
‘Look, I’m going to morning prayers, and I’m going to try catching Gordon Smith before he kills Leah MacNeil. Poor cow’s convinced she’s already dead. How do I turn my back on that?’
Alice sagged. ‘Fine. I’m … I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go talk to some of the people Bear thinks aren’t worth interviewing. Maybe I’ll …’ A thin trembling groan wobbled its way out between her lips, then she curled forward, cradling her forehead. ‘Ash, I can’t stop thinking of what they did to Shifty. Every time I close my eyes, I see it …’
The man himself disappeared from the screen, replaced by the newsreader again.
‘Sport now, and the Scottish Premier League doping scandal has claimed another three clubs—’
I killed the TV. ‘Look, I’m sorry about last night. You shouldn’t have had to … I’m going to take care of it. I promise.’ Gave her a hug. ‘Still thinking about retiring?’
‘Actually,’ she let her head fall onto my shoulder, ‘I’ve been thinking about Gordon Smith.’
‘Because maybe going off and doing something else wouldn’t be a bad idea?’
‘The boy he killed in Stirling. I think he left the body in that warehouse because he didn’t have access to his usual disposal methods. Couldn’t bury him somewhere private. Somewhere … intimate. Couldn’t start a new collection.’
‘We could get ourselves a wee hotel on the west coast, with a cosy bar and a view of the sea.’ Or we could if I took Helen MacNeil’s two million.
‘What worries me is that he couldn’t wait. If he’d waited till he was somewhere he could safely kill and dispose of the body, we’d never have found out, would we? Everyone would’ve thought David Quinn had disappeared.’
‘Would you like that? Just you, me, and Henry? No more murderers and thugs and dead bodies.’
Alice gave my ribs a squeeze, sending icy knives slicing through the muscles. But the tramadol blunted their blades a bit. ‘I’d like that very, very, very much indeed.’ She huffed out a breath, then rested her head against my shoulder. ‘Gordon Smith’s been murdering people without a single slip-up for fifty-six years – we only discover
ed what he’s been up to because his garden fell into the sea. He knows he doesn’t have to hide it any more. Time’s running out, we’ll catch him eventually, so why not go out with a bang?’
God, that was comforting. ‘Maybe you’re the one who should stay home? Get some proper sleep instead of passing out after too much booze?’
‘He’s escalating.’
‘I know.’ I kissed her on the head again. And this time my brain didn’t quite feel as if it was about to burst out through my shattered skull. ‘Stay here. Keep Henry company.’
‘You’ve got Leah MacNeil to save, I’ve got Toby Macmillan.’ Another deep breath. ‘Anyway: better get going, that pretty DS will be waiting for you.’
‘Ten minutes, my arse. I’ve been waiting here for …’ Franklin stared, mouth hanging open, as I grimaced my way into the passenger seat. ‘What the hell happened to you?’
The streetlight’s jaundiced glow probably wasn’t helping any. ‘Henry’s spending the day with Alice.’
‘No, seriously, you look like someone threw you off the top of a tower block!’
Felt like it too.
‘Are we going or not?’
She shook her head. ‘What kind of person beats up an old man with a walking stick?’
An old man? I slumped back in my seat. Oh, today had got off to a flying start. ‘Just … drive.’
35
Mother stared at me in much the same way Franklin had. ‘No.’
‘What do you mean—’
‘I mean no! “N”, “O”, spells “no”.’ She pulled her chin up and in, eyebrows raised. ‘Bad enough you look more like a violent criminal than a police officer at the best of times, but now? There’s not a chance in hell I’m letting you loose on the public like that.’
The front room she’d commandeered to run the investigation had earned itself five or six more desks since Sunday morning, complete with cheap office chairs. The mildewed wallpaper almost completely hidden behind a plethora of printouts, maps, and actions. Including a brand-new section devoted to what was left of David Quinn. It was a safe bet that the team had grown too, but right now, it was only the three of us in here: Mother, Franklin, and me. So at least someone was out there getting on with catching Gordon Smith.
‘We’re supposed to be—’
‘How many different ways do I have to say this? No. Nein. Not in this life or the next.’ She folded her arms beneath her bosom and hiked it up about six inches. ‘And Rosalind, what were you thinking? You were meant to be in charge!’
Franklin shrugged. ‘Not my fault. He was like that when I picked him up this morning.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. This is—’
‘Well you should’ve thought of that before you did whatever it was you did to end up looking like Mr Blobby’s punchbag. And you’re hereby banned from taking a public-facing role till you stop looking like it. End - of - argument.’ She pointed at a subset of actions, pinned up on their own as if they’d got something infectious. ‘You can pick a task off the background-work list, and like it.’
Bloody hell.
‘Sorry.’ Franklin shrugged. ‘I’d fight your corner, but you don’t have Henry with you, so …’ And with that she swept out of the room.
‘I bought you a sausage and a go on the carousel!’ But the door closed without an answer.
Mother was staring at me again.
‘What?’
‘I really hope that wasn’t a euphemism …’
I limped over to the crap-jobs list. A bunch of them involved grubbing about in the Oldcastle Police archives, so no thank you. I’d been down there often enough and the entire system was a shambles. Another was chasing up every cast member who’d ever done a pantomime with a set designed by Gordon Smith – which I’m fairly certain was supposed to be DC Watt’s job. Another couple would mean spending the day chasing up other forces and lab results. And last but not least: ‘CHECK ON PETER SMITH’S FARM ~ BLACK ISLE (LEEAZE N DIVISION).’
What on earth did, ‘Leeaze’ mean?
And then it dawned – Watt’s spelling really was atrocious.
I ripped the sheet of paper from its thumbtacks, folded it, and stuck it in my pocket. Then turned to Mother. ‘OK, make-work it is. But I’ll need a pool car.’
It wasn’t a bad car. And at least it was an automatic. But the Misfit Mob’s ancient Ford Mondeo had the same funky smell that all pool cars got after a few years. The upholstery absorbing the kebab, burger, fish-and-chips, KFC, coffee, and BO of so many thousand hours of stakeouts and general wear – the rubbish and discarded wrappers only shovelled out when it officially constituted a public health hazard, or no one could see out the windscreen any more. The carpet mats were stickier than the Monk and Casket’s floorboards.
Alice’s voice crackled out through the car’s speakers. ‘Wait, you’re going where?’
‘Well, I didn’t have any choice, did I? It was this or sit on the phone all day, talking to morons.’
‘You could’ve stayed at home!’
‘So could you.’
‘Urgh …’
I took the turning for Tomintoul, abandoning the throbbing highway that was the A93 for the even more backwater A939 – according to the road sign, anyway. Scenery wasn’t bad. Nothing special, but there were hills and fields and trees and things, glowing in the morning light. A big green tractor thundered along the road ahead of me, great gobbets of mud flying from its oversized wheels. Might as well live dangerously …
Put my foot down as hard as its bullet hole would allow, and eased out onto the other side of the road.
‘Ash, are you driving? Are you talking to me on your phone and driving?’
‘Relax, bought one of those cheap hands-free kits from Tesco on the way out of town. Got about another two hours to go and the radio’s broken. Only entertainment I have is talking to you and trying to lose my tail.’
Past the tractor, back in again.
Clusters of long-dead ragwort peppered the fields to either side of the road, poisonous dark heads rattling atop poisonous grey stems.
‘You still there? Hello?’
Her voice was up nearly an octave, the words fast and shrill as a dentist’s drill: ‘Who’s following you? Is it them? Is it Joseph and Francis? Oh my God, they’re going to kill you! You have to lose them, Ash, you have to—’
‘Relax: it’s not them. Deep breaths. Calm.’ A quick glance in the rear-view mirror confirmed that the rusty blue Renault was still there, overtaking the tractor now. ‘It’s Helen MacNeil. So even if the pair of them did show up, they’d be the ones needing help.’
‘Oh.’
‘What about you? Anything exciting happening?’
‘Not really. Been speaking to Andrew Brennan’s mum’s social worker. Thought maybe there’d be a connection buried somewhere. Gòrach’s not been in trouble with the police, but he’s got to have had problems in childhood, you don’t wake up one morning and decide you’re going to start strangling small children, that kind of thing takes years, decades to work up to. And he’s got to be local too, otherwise he wouldn’t have seen Andrew playing under the railway line.’
‘So no joy.’
‘Not yet, but I’ve made a list. I’m positive someone knows something, they just don’t know that they know it. But maybe I’ll be able to draw it out of them? And we’ll find Toby Macmillan before Gòrach kills him and everyone will be happy and no one will have to die and I’ll not feel like such a useless failure.’
Not this again. ‘You aren’t a failure! You’ve put loads and loads of monsters behind bars, saved countless lives because of it.’
‘I couldn’t even last two nights sober, Ash.’
True. ‘You had a nasty shock last night, that’s all. Stop bashing yourself in the head with a mallet the whole time.’
The trees on either side of the road were sticks and bones, naked of leaves. More ragwort, standing guard along the banks of a swollen grey river.
Still nothing ba
ck from Alice.
‘Have another night off the booze tonight. Maybe see if you can last till Friday?’
‘I … I like the idea of running a hotel on the west coast. With a nice view. We could do writing and painting retreats and cookery courses and wine tasting, well maybe not wine tasting, and I could learn to bake bread and we’d be happy and away from all this … shite.’
There was Helen’s fusty blue Renault in the rear-view mirror again.
‘You’re sure that’s what you want?’
‘It has to be better than this, doesn’t it?’
Two million pounds.
‘OK. If you’re positive. That’s what we’ll do.’
‘We could call it Henry’s Hotel, and the sign would be a Scottie dog that looked exactly like him and we’d let people bring their pets when they visit!’
All I had to do was catch Gordon Smith, and let Helen MacNeil kill him.
A smear of snow coated the hills on either side of the Lecht, not enough to make the ski slopes useable, but Storm Victoria would probably take care of that.
I pulled off the road and onto the gravel parking area. Clambered out into the blustery morning and the whomp-whomp-whomp of the resident wind turbine. Held a hand up as Helen MacNeil’s rusty Renault puttered into view. Don’t think it enjoyed the long twisting slog up the hill as much my manky Mondeo had.
She frowned through the windscreen, then parked next to me. Stepped out, shoulders back, chin up, as if expecting a fight. Old denim jacket on over a Cannibal Death Ray T-shirt. ‘You look like shit.’
‘Nice to see you too.’ Stuck my hands in my pockets. Turned to face the hills, with their lines of pylons marching off into the distance – the chairlift’s hanging seats swaying as the wind howled down the hill. ‘Used to come here when I was a kid. My dad thought everyone should know how to ski.’
‘You’re going north.’
‘There’s this old cine footage of us, in our really horrible brightly coloured ski suit things. Green and orange and white. Must’ve looked like a right bunch of numpties.’
‘Has someone spotted him?’
‘Snowploughing down that teeny Robin run, squealing with excitement.’
Helen narrowed her eyes. ‘Where’s your copper friend, the young black one with the big boobs?’
The Coffinmaker's Garden Page 33