The Coffinmaker’s Garden

27

‘... unprecedented scenes in Holyrood as naked protestors stormed the Debating Chamber on Sunday...’

I hauled on my left sock, then worked the right one over the puckered circle of scar tissue that marked the middle of my right foot. Smiling as the room’s TV screen filled with bare-arsed people — all of whom had anti-government slogans scrawled across their chests and backs, while someone at the BBC blurred out all their naughty bits.

‘... amongst growing calls for the Justice Secretary, Mark Stalker, to resign in light of allegations he...’

Shoes next. Then shirt. Tucking it into my trousers as the photo of a small boy appeared on the screen: blond curly hair, blue eyes, chubby cheeks, cheeky smile as he mugged for the camera, clutching a guinea pig.

‘Fears are growing for missing five-year-old, Toby Macmillan, as police teams search woodland in Oldcastle. We go live, now, to Hugh Brimmond at the scene. Hugh?’

Toby and his guinea pig disappeared, replaced by a shot of a parking area in what was probably Moncuir Wood. Headlights pierced the darkness: a couple of patrol cars blocked the road, with two police Transit vans and a trio of minibuses sitting behind a cordon of blue-and-white tape. SOC-suited figures milling about, like pale grey ghosts in the middle distance, waiting for the sun to rise so they could get started.

The camera panned around until the standard BBC roving reporter was onscreen, hunched up in a padded jacket, breath clouding in the camera lights. ‘Thank you, Siobhan. Tragedy shrouds the deep dark woods here in Oldcastle...’

My phone buzzed on the bedside table, turning on the varnished wood, then the opening guitar chugs of ‘Eye of the Tiger’ burst out of the speaker. That would be Shifty, then.

I grabbed the remote and muted the TV as Hugh from the BBC launched into some bollocks about symbolism and fairy tales and children going missing in the woods.

‘Shifty?’

‘I swear to God, I’m going kill someone before this morning’s out.’

‘Going well, then.’

‘Is it buggery. I put in a request for a helicopter and thermal-imaging camera, you know what they said? They said, “Sod off, Oldcastle, we’ve only got one helicopter and Strathclyde needs it.” How the hell am I supposed to find Toby Macmillan if they don’t give me the right kit?’

I settled on the edge of the bed and ruffled Henry’s furry head. ‘If it’s any consolation, you’re on telly right now.’ After all, one of those small figures in the white suits was probably him.

‘You hear that?’ There was a moment’s silence, then what sounded like the far-off pounding whirrrrrrrrr of someone trying to beat partially-set concrete with an electric whisk. ‘Sky News have got a bloody helicopter. The BBC have got a bloody helicopter. Everyone’s got a bloody helicopter except the poor sod who actually needs one: me!’

‘Well... what about drones, then? Surely someone at the university’s got a few they can lend you. Part of a research project or something?’

‘If this was America, I could shove my badge in the pilot’s face and say, “I’m commandeering this helicopter!” And if he said no, I could shoot the bastard.’

‘No luck with your sex offenders, then?’

‘Why does everything have — to — be — so — bloody — hard? Why can’t I get an easy case for a change?’

I stood and pulled on my jacket. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I’m heading down for a massive hotel-breakfast fry-up.’

‘No, it doesn’t. And we’ve been through every nonce, stott, and greasy bastard in Oldcastle already. Twice.’

‘Then stop being a dick and go talk to Alice. She thinks this guy’s not on the Sex Offenders’ Register, because he’s never done anything like this before. He’s learning as he goes.’

‘Aaaaargh... How’s that supposed to help me? Instead of a finite pool of known kiddie fiddlers, I’ve got to interview every tosser in the whole place? This isn’t... God’s sake, what now?’

It went quiet for a bit, some muffled conversation barely audible in the background.

On the screen, Hugh the roving reporter marched across the car park, to the cordon. Where Chief Superintendent McEwan and his sidekick, Inspector Samson, were standing, in full dress uniform, with clipboards out and chins up. Soon as the other news crews got there, McEwan nodded and launched into a speech. No idea what he was saying, but it’d be the usual platitudes and look-at-me-being-all-in-charge bollocks he always came out with at these things. Not worth unmuting him for, anyway.

Then, Shifty was back: ‘Look, I’ve got to go. Apparently no one can find their arse with both hands unless I’m there to show them the bloody way!’ And with that, he hung up.

Say what you like about being kicked off the force, at least it meant I didn’t have to run around after tosspots like Chief Superintendent McEwan.

‘Right,’ I pointed at Henry, ‘if you stay here, and you’re a good boy, I’ll bring you back something greasy from the breakfast buffet.’

He grinned back at me.

Little sod was going to be the size of a beach ball by the time we got home.

The sun had barely cleared the horizon as Henry and I wandered along the promenade. Four big fat seals rolled in the gilded water, gulls wheeling overhead. Bit of a nip in the air, but at least it’d stopped raining. Should be a nice day, for a change.

Monday morning rush hour was in full swing. Which in Rothesay wasn’t saying much. A half dozen cars, the odd taxi. That open-topped bus again. Ten past eight — not even the carpet shops would be open yet.

I nipped across the road to a café, bought a decaf latte, then went back to the promenade to drink it. Chucking a tatty old tennis ball for Henry to fetch. The wee man scurrying about on clockwork legs, tail thumping back and forth like this was the best day of his life.

Ah, to be a daft, slightly stinky, Scottie dog.

My phone launched into a weird unfamiliar ringtone and I dragged it out, leaning against the blue railings, watching a couple of tiny fishing boats puttering out into the morning light. The words, ‘LEAH MACNEIL’ sat in the middle of the screen.

I jabbed the button. ‘Leah? It’s Ash Henderson, are you OK?’

Nothing from the other end.

‘Hello?’

A scrunching, popping noise, then a voice so muffled it was barely audible: ‘I’m frightened... He’s... I love him, but... he did something last night, something... something terrible. He’s... he’s scaring me so much...’

‘Leah?’

She didn’t sound like an eighteen-year-old, she sounded like a terrified child.

‘He’s in paying for the petrol and I don’t know what to do.’

‘Get out of there, Leah. Get out of there and run!’

‘I can’t.’

‘Is there another car at the petrol station? Someone you could go to?’

‘He’s locked the car and I can’t get out... Please help me!’

Come on, Ash, think.

‘OK, where are you?’

‘I don’t know, he... We’re... it looks like a supermarket, maybe?’

‘What kind? Can you see any road signs? Landmarks? Anything that’d help us find you?’

‘Oh God, he’s coming back!’ Her voice getting even harder to make out. As if she’d stuck her phone in a pocket, or something.

Then a clunk, a thump, and the sound of something crackling.

A man’s voice, talking at full volume. ‘Sorry, Caroline, they didn’t have any of the jelly beans you like, so I got jelly babies instead. Hope that’s OK?’

A click.

The man again: ‘What? No, I don’t think so. It’s too dangerous.’

Whoever he was talking to, not a single hint of what they said made it down to my end. Not even mumbling.

‘Yes, that’s what I was thinking too. What about you, Leah?’

‘Erm...’ A pause. ‘If you think it’s a good idea?’

‘Got to trust Caroline, she knows about this kind of thing.’

‘OK...’

My phone ding-buzzed.

ROBOSABIR:

About time too.

Ding-buzz.

ROBOSABIR:

Come on, come on...

‘Now, what shall we listen to today? How about... Götterdämmerung?’ A small laugh. ‘Remember we played it all night when we had that young woman from Dundee to stay? You remember that, Caroline? Oh, wow, did she have a great set of lungs on her. Screamed and screamed and screamed.’

Then silence. Leah had ended the call.

Ding-buzz.

ROBOSABIR:

Damn it.

She must’ve switched the thing off as well.

I pulled up my contacts and called the real Sabir.

Took him nearly a dozen rings to answer. ‘What the bloody hell do youse want now?’ Followed by a full-mouthed yawn.

‘Did you get a location or not?’

‘Mornin’, Sabir. You’re sounding dead sexy today, Sabir. Hope yer not too shagged out from humping my ma all night, Sabir.’

‘I got a text on my phone saying Leah had activated her phone.’

‘Youse are welcome.’

‘I need a location!’

‘How the hell am I supposed to know where they are? I’ve been asleep! You woke us up!’

‘It’s nearly twenty past eight.’

‘And I’ve been up most the night, trying to track down a bunch of internet kiddie fiddlers, so excuse me if I’m not at your beck and bloody call twenny-four hours a day!’

Off in the distance, sunlight flared off something white on the water, followed by the long mournful cry of a ship’s horn.

‘OK, OK. Sorry.’

‘It takes time for the system to triangulate data from mobile phone towers. If your Leah doesn’t leave her phone on long enough, there’s sod all I can do about it.’

‘Can we at least... guesstimate where she is?’

A moany grumbling noise rattled out of the phone. ‘I’ll have a go. But I’m promisin’ nothing.’ He hung up.

So close.

The shining dot in the distance grew, making a beeline for Rothesay. That’d be the ferry from Wemyss Bay. The one we’d be taking back to the mainland.

Of course, the big question was: who on earth had Gordon Smith been talking to in the car? ‘Caroline’, his wife, died four years ago of bowel cancer... Or that’s what Helen MacNeil had told us. So was he talking to himself, someone else, or maybe even Leah? Did he think his neighbour’s eighteen-year-old granddaughter was the woman he’d married nearly half a century ago?

Might explain why he’d kept her alive.

And if Leah had half a brain about her, it was a delusion she’d be playing along with.

Mind you, he’d also spoken to Leah by name. But that could be part of it, couldn’t it? If he had dementia, or something so he couldn’t tell who was who?

This was all really Alice’s field, rather than mine.

What was it she’d said? Something about not knowing what happens when one half of a couple-that-kill dies? Maybe the dominant one mourns for a couple of days, then goes out and finds himself another accomplice? Whether she wants to be, or not.

Especially when Leah said he’d done something terrible last night. Maybe it...

Ah.

Speak of the Devil’s neighbour.

Helen MacNeil stood in the middle of the promenade, scowling back at me, hands curled into fists at her sides.

I nodded. ‘Helen.’ Bent down and grabbed Henry as he returned the tatty ball. Clipped his lead on again. Just in case.

She didn’t move. ‘You know what it’s like.’

‘Yeah.’ Welcome to the world’s most horrible club. I peered past her, towards the strange pavilion thing that bisected the putting course. ‘What happened to your “friend”?’ Adding a stab of bitterness to that last word.

‘All she wants is dirt for her book, she doesn’t give a damn about Sophie or me.’

What could I do but shrug? ‘You want my advice? Avoid Jennifer Prentice like a weeping sore. She’s poisonous.’

‘I want Gordon Smith.’ Helen’s chin came up. ‘He deserves to suffer for what he did to my Sophie. For what he did to all those people!’ Her left arm trembled, as if she was having difficulty keeping it under control. ‘But they won’t do that, will they. They’ll arrest him, if they catch him at all, and they’ll try him, and they’ll stick him in some cushy psychiatric hospital with all the other whackjobs, feed him and water him and dose him up with all the best drugs.’ The arm shook harder. ‘While my Sophie GOT TORTURED TO DEATH!’

Helen’s face flushed.

I took a breath. Tried to sound reasonable. ‘You don’t know Sophie was—’

‘SHE TOLD ME!’ Jabbing a finger back towards the town centre. ‘Jennifer. She showed me the Polaroids — the other ones. The ones he took after what he did to them.’

Oh, for God’s sake.

I let my head fall back and stared up at the sapphire sky.

Oldcastle Police strikes again. Couldn’t keep a secret if you stitched it inside the useless bastards.

Helen’s voice dropped. ‘Jennifer had a copy on her phone — of Sophie, in the basement...’ Voice wobbling as much as her fist now. ‘She showed me... She sent them to me.’

And I knew how that felt as well.

Every year on Rebecca’s birthday: another homemade card from the bastard who killed her, with a photo of my baby girl being tortured on it.

Took some doing, but I cleared the knot out of my throat. ‘She shouldn’t have done that.’

Helen stepped closer. ‘That six million: I’ll split it with you, straight down the middle. Three million pounds, if you help me find Gordon Smith before the police do.’

It was like a weight pushing down on my shoulders. ‘I can’t, it’s—’

‘Four million! OK?’ Throwing her arms out, eyes shining as the tears welled up. ‘Five? You can take the bloody lot if you want: all six million!’ Her arms fell back to her sides and she sagged. Shrinking into herself. ‘I don’t care. I want him to know how my Sophie felt when he killed her. I want my hands round his throat, staring into his eyes as he gurgles and thrashes and pleads, his blood smeared up to my elbows, bits of him lying on the concrete floor.’

I leaned back against the railing. ‘It won’t bring Sophie back, Helen.’

‘No.’ She ground the heel of one hand into her eye, wiping away the tears. ‘But it’ll make me feel a hell of a lot better.’

Yeah, it probably would.

‘We’re heading back to the mainland on the next ferry. You could do worse than nick Jennifer Prentice’s car and abandon her here.’

With any luck she’d try to swim home.

And drown.

Twenty minutes out of Rothesay, I stepped out of the ferry toilets and there she was. Looked as if Helen hadn’t managed to lose her after all.

‘Ash.’ A semi-frozen smile. ‘I hope you washed your hands.’

I limped straight past her. ‘Whatever you want, Jennifer, you can bugger off.’

‘Oh, don’t be so sulky.’ She eased up beside me, keeping pace. ‘I know things finished on a slightly sour note with us, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.’

‘Go away, Jennifer.’

‘One million pounds each. Think what you could do with the money: retire, have a decent holiday for a change. You could finally marry off that daughter substitute you’ve been hauling around since Katie died.’

I had to squeeze the words out through clenched teeth: ‘You remembering I’m a feminist?’

‘You’re not going to hit me, Ash. Not unless I hit you first — you’re sweetly old-fashioned that way. I know you, remember?’

Through the doors and into the outside seating area at the back of the boat, looking out over the shining blue water and the purpled hills.

‘We had some lovely times, didn’t we, Ash? When things weren’t going well with you and your wife, I didn’t put any pressure on you, did I? Didn’t make scenes or demands. It was simple, uncomplicated, sweaty... fun.’ She scooted around in front of me, backing towards the handrail. The twin red-and-black exhausts towering overhead, keeping the diesel fumes away from the passengers. ‘We could have that again. No judgement, no pressure, no commitments.’

The metal handrail was cold against my forearms. Leaning on it, taking the weight off my foot. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’

‘Like the Energiser Bunny,’ Jennifer licked her lips and winked, ‘remember?’

Yeah.

She linked her arm through mine. ‘It wasn’t all bad, was it?’

I puffed out a breath. ‘No. Suppose not.’

‘There you go.’ Bumping her shoulder into mine. ‘Not such a grumpy Gus, after all.’

We stood there in silence, or at least what passed for it with the ferry’s massive diesel engine making the deck vibrate beneath us.

‘This book you’re writing...’

‘“Garden of Bones”, brackets, “hunting Scotland’s most notorious serial killer: The Coffinmaker”.’ A frown tried to force its way onto her frozen forehead. ‘Or is the subtitle too long? Putting his name on the end there seems to undermine the drama, doesn’t it? But readers need to know who it’s about when they see it in the supermarket.’

‘It’d be... tasteful’s the wrong word, but you know what I mean?’

She squeezed my arm harder. ‘No lurid prose. No lingering on the grisly details.’ A my-hands-are-tied shrug. ‘The publishers will probably insist on photographs, you know what they’re like, but it’ll be a proper piece of investigative journalism. Not sensationalist in any way. Respectful to the victims and their families.’

I nodded. ‘OK.’

Jennifer pressed her lips against my cheek, breathing deep. ‘I have missed you, you know. Even if you were horrid to me.’

‘Come on then.’ I turned my back to the railing and pulled out my phone. Called up the camera app and set it to selfie mode. ‘Squeeze in.’

An actual, real smile broke across her lower face. It might not have moved the rest of it, but it sparkled in her eyes as she huddled in and pouted for the camera.

I pressed the button.

Frowned at the screen. ‘Think my camera’s buggered...’

‘Here,’ she pulled out her phone instead — something fancy in a jewelled case — held it out and up, pouted again. ‘Say cheese.’

Click.

‘Can I see?’

‘Course you can.’ Jennifer passed me her phone, and there we were, the pair of us together again. Side by side at the ferry’s railing. Her nestled in under my arm, pulled in tight, as if we were still lying sticky with sweat in that Travelodge on Greenwood Street, the duvet rumpled around our ankles. She looked really, really happy.

I turned and hurled her phone — not straight back, where it might crash down onto the car deck, but at the perfect angle to send it sailing over the side, twirling end-over-end. Didn’t see it hit the water, but it was enough to know it did.

‘MY PHONE!’ Jennifer stared at me. Then gripped the railing and looked out at the point where her phone and its fancy jewelled case had disappeared. ‘ARE YOU OFF YOUR BLOODY HEAD?’

I leaned in close. Kept my voice nice and friendly. ‘You shouldn’t have shown Helen MacNeil the photo of what Gordon Smith did to her daughter. You — repulsive — fucking — vulture.’

Then turned on my heel and limped away.

Jennifer’s voice boomed out behind me, getting higher and sharper with every word. ‘THIS ISN’T OVER, ASH HENDERSON! IT’S NOT OVER BY A LONG WAY! I’LL MAKE YOU WISH YOU WERE NEVER BORN!’

She could join the queue.

28

The pool car roared past the Cumbernauld junction, Franklin keeping the needle hovering around seventy-five. Snarling as she overtook cars and lorries as if their merely being on the road this morning was a personal affront to her.

I reclined my seat far enough to check the rear-view mirror.

Yup, Nick James’s fusty yellow Golf was still there. Only now Jennifer wasn’t trying to hide the fact. And she wasn’t alone in the car, so it looked as if Helen hadn’t told her what she could do with her self-serving exploitative bollocks after all.

Disappointing.

Still, if I couldn’t break the pair of them up, at least I’d had the pleasure of chucking Jennifer’s phone in the sea.

Mind you, it probably hadn’t been the best of ideas, antagonising her like that. She wasn’t exactly renowned for her forgiving nature. And, while chucking her phone in the sea would get rid of the pictures she’d got from whichever O Division scumbag had leaked Smith’s Polaroids, there was no way she hadn’t backed them up. So a temporary fix at best. One that would come with a side order of Botox-faced vengeance.

Lucky me...

Too late to worry about it now, though. Have to—

My phone launched into its generic ringtone. ‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’ filling the screen.

I jabbed the button. ‘Leah?’

‘Oh, sorry.’ A man’s voice, the words twisted by a heavy Orcadian accent. ‘Is Detective Inspector Ash Henderson there?’

Damn it.

Franklin looked at me, across the car, eyebrows raised.

Shook my head at her. ‘Speaking.’

‘Thomas Sinclair, from the Land Registry Office? You wanted to know if there was any property in Stirling belonging to a Peter or Caroline Smith?’

A row of ugly warehouses drifted by on the other side of the motorway.

Nothing more from Thomas Sinclair.

‘And?’

‘Oh, sorry, I was waiting on you. Anyway, we had a look and the answer is yes. Well, it is and it isn’t, if that makes sense?’

Not even vaguely.

‘Obviously “Smith” is a very popular surname, so there’s quite a few properties in Stirling owned by various Smiths, but once we eliminated everyone with the wrong first name we ended up with six properties. Two Carolines, and four Peters.’

You wee beauty.

‘Can you email me over the details?’

Two minutes later I was scrolling through the addresses and Cumbernauld’s warehouses were a thin grey smear in the rear-view mirror.

Time to go to work.

The first Peter Smith on the list peered out at us through thick round glasses, no hair on his head, a threadbare cardigan on his back. ‘No, I’ve not got no brothers, and my wife’s called June. Do you need to talk to her? Hold on.’ He turned, raising his voice at the hallway. ‘JUNE! PEOPLE FROM THE SOMETHING-OR-OTHER WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU!’

Caroline Smith curled her top lip, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, a Yorkshire terrier on her hip like a small child. Mid-thirties, and definitely not dead from bowel cancer. ‘Naw, never heard of them, like. Is this about them council bins that got set on fire? Cos I totally know who did that.’

Peter Smith Number Two wasn’t in, but his husband was. A short man in tartan trousers and a biker jacket. Blond Andy Warhol bob, Gary Larson glasses, and a great big wine glass, half-full of red. He sniffed at the photo. ‘Naw, it’s not my Pete, my Pete’s in banking. But, you know, not in an evil money-grabbing bastard kind of way. Well, maybe a teensy bit.’ A smile. ‘I adore your hair, by the way. Wish I had hair like that.’

Franklin’s cheeks darkened a fraction. ‘Yes, well, thank you for your time.’

The second Caroline Smith owned a small boxy mid-terrace two-up two-down, opposite a playing field. She slouched against her doorframe, in a purple velour tracksuit, the top open to expose a T-shirt with ‘IN YOUR DREAMS, LOSER!’ on it. Her shock of cherry-red curls going grey at the roots. She squinted at the picture of Gordon Smith in Franklin’s hand, then shook her head. ‘Sorry, love, I’d really like to help, but I’ve never seen the man. And my husband’s called Bob: he’s in the RAF.’

I leaned back against the car, phone clamped to my ear as Shifty moaned and whined.

‘Utter bunch of useless bollocks. Tramped about five miles through these bloody woods already today and what have we found so far?’

Franklin was off talking to a short ugly man with taxi-door ears and the kind of face you could use to frighten small children. Standing on his doorstep with her arms folded. Body language about as defensive as it got.

‘Go on then.’

‘We’ve found three shopping trollies, a bunch of dead dogs, and a massive pile of fly-tipped medical waste. I’ll be washing the smell out for bloody weeks. And is McEwan appreciative of all our efforts? Is he buggery!’

‘No sign of Toby Macmillan, then?’

‘Oh, didn’t I mention that? We found him half an hour in, he’s back with his mum and dad right now, eating ice cream and dancing the bastarding fandango!’ A small pause. ‘Of course we didn’t find him. There’s miles and miles of these bloody woods, how am I supposed to find one little boy in all this?’

‘So delegate. Go speak to Alice and see if you can’t actually achieve something today.’

‘And, of course, it’s all my fault we haven’t found anything. I didn’t even want to come out here, it was that idiot DCI Poncy Powel’s idea to search the woods, but shite never sticks to...’ A groan. ‘Sodding hell. Sorry, got to go. We’re getting another “motivational” speech from McEwan. If I get any more motivated I’m going to swing for someone!’

Shifty hung up and I settled back to enjoy the sun on my face. You wouldn’t think it’d been thumping down with rain all week.

‘OK, thanks anyway.’ Franklin sagged when the ugly man’s front door shut, turned, and slumped her way up the garden path and out onto the street again. ‘Feel like I’ve just stepped in something.’

Henry beamed up at her, tail going like a windscreen wiper on full.

‘How’d you get on?’

‘Nothing doing.’ She dropped down into a squat and Henry flopped over on his back, exposing his black hairy tummy for her to rub. Tart that he was. ‘Tell you, that Peter Smith had “welcome to the Sex Offenders’ Register” written all over him in magic marker. Stared at my breasts the whole time I was talking to him. Barely even looked at the photo.’

‘Yup, perverts will do that.’

She stood, wiping her tummy-rubbing hand on her trouser leg. ‘One more Peter Smith to go.’ A long hissing breath. ‘This is another complete waste of time, isn’t it?’

‘Come on then, we’ll get him done, then it’s lunchtime.’

‘Naw, sorry.’ Our last Peter Smith of the day shook his head, setting long straight dark hair swinging like a curtain across his white-painted face. Piercings glinting in his ears and nose. Lots of leather. Couldn’t be a day over twenty-two.

Franklin took a step back and peered up at the big gothic townhouse on the outskirts of Stirling. Large, gated garden. Lots of trees and lawn. A small black cat washing its bum on the rim of an ornamental fountain, completely ignoring Henry. ‘Do you really own all this?’

He nodded. ‘Six numbers and the bonus ball.’

‘OK. Thanks anyway.’

We headed down the gravel drive, through the wrought-iron gates, and over to our manky pool car. I opened the back door and let Henry hop inside. ‘So much for that.’

Franklin stared back across the road. ‘I’d love a house like that.’

‘Lunch?’

‘How come I never win the lottery?’ She climbed in behind the wheel.

‘Do you actually play the lottery?’ I got into the passenger side.

‘That’s not the point. So, where are we lunching?’

‘You know, I think Pasty Peter The Goth fancied you, so if you want to go back and chat him up, he’d probably let you have it in the divorce settlement.’

‘Don’t tempt me.’ She started the car and headed back towards the main road. ‘I feel like a nice big salad. Think there’s a good salad place in Stirling?’

Sitting in their rancid-yellow Golf, Helen MacNeil and Jennifer Prentice watched us go by, then pulled out after us. Couldn’t have been the most exciting of days for them, following us around. But at least they’d—

‘Ash! Salad places: Stirling.’

‘No idea. Has to be somewhere, though. Failing that... curry?’

‘For lunch? That Prentice woman was right, you really are off your head. It’s—’

My phone belted out ‘I Am the Walrus’, so I answered it. ‘Sabir. Have you got some good news for me, for a change?’

‘Oh, I got some good news for youse indeed. That Sabir is the King of Tech. High priest of Databases. Emperor of the Digital World!’

‘You missed out Lord of the Pies.’

Franklin took a right, making for the centre of town.

‘Was that you cracking a joke? Dear God, there’s a ferst. You had a head injury, or summat?’

‘What do you want, Sabir?’

‘You was after a guesstimate, remember? Where Leah MacNeil was when she called you this morning, but didn’t stay on long enough to trace? Well, I’ve done it. Call came from somewhere in the vicinity of the Sainsbury’s on, and I kid you not, “Back O’ Hill Road”. Website says it’s on “Drip Road” which is equally as bad, but you can’t even get into it from there, it’s all fenced—’

‘How big an area are we talking about?’

‘Within four to five hundred metres. So draw yourself a circle a kilometre wide around the supermarket and she was calling from somewhere inside that.’

‘And let me guess, the Sainsbury’s has a petrol station?’

‘El Bingo, signor.’

‘So why do you sound so bloody smug? That’s next to sod-all use to me.’

‘Because Sabir is Emperor of the Digital werld. And his imperial majesty went and did some searching, and guess what he terned up within that kilometre circle? Pauses for applause...’

‘All right, stop milking it.’

‘There’s an industrial estate round the back of the supermarket, on Glendevon Drive. And one of the warehouses there is owned by this production company that puts on loads of pantomimes all over the UK. They use it to store props and scenery. You know, in case yer wanting to put on Cinderella and can’t be arsed making your own pumpkin coach, like. And I was thinking, who do we know that might have access to a pantomime scenery store?’

‘I take it all back, Sabir. You’re a certified genius!’

‘First sensible thing I’ve heard from your tartan-munchin’ mouth all year.’ And with that he hung up.

Franklin frowned at me. ‘You’re doing that creepy smile thing again.’

Oh yes.

Ridiculous though it sounded, Back O’ Hill Industrial Estate was pretty aptly named. Being as it was around the back of the dirty-big hill that Stirling Castle sat on top of. Although the castle wasn’t visible from down here. What was visible was a small collection of Portakabins, lockups, and old-fashioned warehouses — the single-storey kind with brick walls and corrugated metal cladding.

Franklin drove us into the compact warren of streets and buildings, hunched over the steering wheel and gazing up at the signage as we drifted deeper and deeper inside. ‘What’s it called?’

I checked Sabir’s text. ‘“Williamson and Norris Theatrical Logistics Limited”. Bit of a mouthful.’

We turned another corner, and there it was, lurking at the end of the road. A long double-width warehouse with twin rust-red roofs and grey harled walls — bearing a very understated sign with the company name on it. Bars in all the windows. Shuttered loading bay that looked big enough to take an articulated lorry.

Had to admit, it didn’t exactly reek of pantomime magic.

Franklin parked in the empty row of spaces in front of the small office. ‘No lights on. Think anyone’s in?’

‘One way to find out.’

The air was sharp, but seasoned with the deep-mahogany scent of onions fried in burger fat, coming from a bright red food van with ‘FIONA’S FANTASTIC FRIED-FOOD EMPORIUM!’ in gold lettering down the side, parked outside a shuttered unit. A line of blokes in oily overalls queueing in front of the open hatch.

Nick James’s fusty Volkswagen Golf pulled up on the far side of it, Helen and Jennifer sitting there, watching as we locked the pool car and tried the warehouse’s main door.

The handle rattled when Franklin jiggled it up and down, but that was it. She cupped her hands against one of the office windows and peered inside. ‘Can’t see anyone.’

‘OK.’ Back to Sabir’s email. In addition to the company name, address, and for some unknown reason its VAT registration, he’d included a phone number with an Edinburgh dialling code. ‘We give them a call...’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Unless you want to boot in the door? I would, but,’ pointing at my foot with the walking stick, ‘bullet hole.’

‘Without a warrant?’ She pulled her chin in. ‘Might be how they did things back when you were in the job, but we don’t pull that crap any more. Can you imagine Gordon Smith getting away with everything because we screwed up on a technicality?’

Think the body we dragged out of his garden in a holdall might carry the day on that front, but what the hell. ‘Fine. You call the company, then we go grab lunch.’

‘So much for a nice big salad.’ Franklin ripped another bite out of her bacon-and-cheese haggis-burger, chewing as she rested her bum against the pool car’s bonnet. Face upturned to the sun.

‘It’s got salad in it, doesn’t it?’ I scooped a sporkful of glistening grey-and-brown stovies from my squeaky polystyrene tray. Not bad. Needed pepper, though. And pickled beetroot.

‘Two slices of tomato and some iceberg don’t count.’

‘Surely chips count.’

‘Only in Glasgow.’ But that didn’t stop Franklin munching her way through them all, then polishing off her burger while Henry sat at her feet, gazing up at her as if he was in love. Especially when she dropped him the occasional scrap of burger, bun, or bacon.

She wiped her mouth and hands clean on a napkin, then popped her wrist out from its starched white cuff and peered at her watch. ‘One forty-two. Shouldn’t be long now.’

Helen and Jennifer still hadn’t moved. Still sitting there, in a dead journalist’s car. Still scowling through the windscreen. Watching us.

To be honest, given Helen’s reputation, it was amazing she had this much patience. Jennifer, on the other hand, would probably be using the time to plot her revenge.

Well, tough. She deserved all she’d got.

I scooped up the last mouthful of mystery meat and potatoes. ‘Wonder why Smith took Leah here, to the warehouse.’ Sooked the memory of stovies off my plastic spork. ‘Collecting something? Dropping something off? Or checking something was still where he’d left it?’

‘You know what I’ve been wondering?’ Franklin pulled a small container of hand sanitiser from her jacket and pumped a couple of squirts onto a palm. Had a good scrub with it. ‘Why did Gordon Smith leave his Polaroid photos behind? Why not take them with him?’

‘Hmph. Alice asked the same thing.’

‘Well, they’re not hard to transport, are they? You could pop the lot in your pocket and no one would even know they’re there.’

As was evidenced at the Winslow’s supermarket checkout on Friday night.

She folded her arms. ‘I’ve read the profile your Dr McDonald wrote: Gordon Smith’s meant to be a “collector”. So why leave his collection behind?’ A frown. ‘Or maybe it was only the old Polaroids he left behind? Maybe he took the newer ones with him?’

‘What age are you?’

Franklin stared at me. ‘Why?’

‘Because back in the bad old day, before your time, if you wanted to take photographs you had three choices: build your own darkroom, develop and print them yourself; take the film down to Boots and get them to do it for you; or buy a Polaroid camera. Gordon Smith wants a photo to remember his victims by: option one’s a pain in the backside, number two will get him arrested, but number three’s nice and easy.’

‘Come on then, Methuselah, out with it.’

‘Fast forward ten, maybe fifteen years and domestic video cameras are affordable. You don’t need static images any more.’

‘You can film everything you’re doing and watch it back to your dirty little heart’s content.’ She nodded. ‘Makes sense. Then, before you know it, you’ve got a smartphone and everyone’s a documentary filmmaker. You can carry your entire collection of homemade torture porn in your pocket.’

‘He left the Polaroids behind, because he’s got copies on his phone.’ Only he didn’t have to do it, in a rush, in the pitch-dark, while the bloody house crumbled into the North Sea.

‘Maybe we can...’ She stared over my shoulder.

A grey two-seater sports car had turned into our dead-end street, top thrown back, a grinning man in a flat cap behind the wheel. It growled into the parking space two down from our manky Ford Focus, as if it was worried about catching something.

He gave us a wave with his tan-leather driving gloves and buzzed the roof up again, before getting out and marching around. Not the tallest — barely scraping five feet, if that — the slightly bandy legs probably didn’t help. His yellowy-tartan hoodie was unzipped, showing off a T-shirt with ‘HE’S BEHIND YOU!’ on it, and when he whipped off his bunnet a shock of bright-orange hair stuck up at the front of a bald head so shiny it looked as if it’d been polished. He performed an elaborate bow for Franklin, snatching up her hand to kiss it. ‘My dear Officer Franklin, you’re even more delightful in person than you sounded on the phone.’

And before she could say anything, or punch him, he skipped away and grabbed my hand for shaking instead.

‘Louis Williamson, Panto McHaggis Productions! Delighted, etc.’ Pumping my arm up and down. ‘I understand you’d like a wee tour of our prop-and-set store?’ He pulled a knot of keys from his pocket and jangled them all the way to the door. Unlocked it. Then turned, arms out, blocking the way. ‘Lemme see your warrant, coppers!’

Franklin blinked at him, then at me, then back at him again.

OK, I’ll bite: ‘Do we need a warrant, Mr Williamson?’

‘Not really, I just love it when they say that on the telly. Ooh, and: “you’ll never take me alive, you doity rats!”’ He turned and skip-hopped over the threshold. ‘Shall we?’

Strip lights pinged and flickered into life as I stepped inside — revealing rows and rows and rows of metal shelving towering over us. Each unit packed with labelled boxes and crates.

Signs dangled from the rafters, dividing the place up like the aisles of a supermarket, each one marked with the name of a show: ‘CINDERELLA’, ‘ALADDIN’, ‘MOTHER GOOSE’...

Henry’s claws clicked on the concrete floor, Franklin bringing up the rear, closing the door behind her.

‘I’ve always wanted to do a panto version of The Maltese Falcon, but apparently you can’t get the rights for love nor money.’ He cast a furtive glance up and down the aisle, then hauled on a stage whisper. ‘Strictly entre nous, we’re in talks with Ian Rankin’s people. Early days yet, but fingers crossed!’ A wink, then Louis Williamson swept his arms up and out. ‘Anyway, welcome to my emporium of theatrical delights!’

‘We’d like to talk to you about Gordon Smith.’

‘Ah...’ His arms fell back to his sides. ‘Yes, I heard about that unfortunate business with his house and that poor reporter who died. Tragic, simply tragic.’

‘And all the murders, of course.’

‘Quite.’ He wrinkled his nose, as if he’d caught scent of something rancid. ‘Well, Gordon has worked with us since mine dear papa ran the operation. He’s a dab hand at stage sets, every single panto we put on is designed by Gordon Smith.’ Pointing down the aisles. ‘Would you like to see them? It’s no trouble, really.’ And with that Louis did an about-face hop and led the way down ‘DICK WHITTINGTON’ and along ‘SWEENEY TODD’ to the breeze-block wall that marked the join between the two warehouses. ‘Here we go.’ Performing another low bow for Franklin as he ushered her through the open double doors.

She kept her hands clutched up by her chest, where he couldn’t grab and kiss them again.

‘Sorry, the lights don’t work, I’m afraid. I’ve called and called and called the maintenance company, but will they send anyone out?’ He flicked the switch up and down a few times, to demonstrate. ‘Of course they won’t.’

It wasn’t completely dark in here — a thin greasy light oozed in through grubby skylights in the corrugated roof, barely bright enough to make small gloomy islands beneath them. Back in the prop store, it’d been difficult to get a sense of how big the place was — all carved up into segments by the rows of shelving, like that — but this one was huge.

The same set of signage hung from the rafters, but ninety percent of it was illegible in the dismal light. No shelving, instead clumps of metal cages and racks holding sections of scenery and rolls of backdrops, lurked in the shadows — their flat-pack villages and laundries and caves and castles and forests fading into murky silhouettes.

‘This might help.’ Louis picked a handlamp from a shelf by the doors, banging it a couple of times against his palm until a hard white beam lanced out into the dusty air. ‘Please, do feel free to look around. I shall hover nearby ready to assist, should I be needed. Rub the lamp three times and, as if by magic, Louis shall appear!’

‘Thanks.’ You utter freak.

Franklin accepted the proffered handlamp and we wandered away into the racks of scenery, Henry scampering off ahead, then rushing back to run circles around us and off he went again. Happy gunshot barks in the darkness.

She kept her voice down to a whisper, swinging the torch beam across what looked like the disassembled walls of a teeny Post Office. ‘What are we looking for?’

‘Something out of place. Something weird. I don’t know.’

‘Everything in here looks weird.’ Her torch drifted past a huge dragon’s head.

‘Gordon Smith didn’t pop past for old times’ sake. He came here for a reason. And Leah said he did something terrible last night. Maybe this is where he did it.’

We made our way past Cinderella’s kitchen, Aladdin’s cave, and what looked like a steam train, if steam trains came in kit form.

‘Could’ve been lying low? He knows we’re looking for him, so he steers clear of the hotels and B-and-Bs. Doesn’t want to get recognised.’

‘Possible... What’s that over there?’

In my day, pantomime had been Dick Whittington, Aladdin, Cinderella, and Jack and the Beanstalk, or if you were really unlucky: Mother Goose. But Panto McHaggis Productions had branched out into previously uncharted territory.

A partially constructed set sat in the back corner, furthest away from the door we’d come in through. Details sprang into life as Franklin played her torch over it, then faded away into darkness again. It was big and gothic, with chipboard flying buttresses and painted-on gargoyles. A big slab-like table in the middle, flanked by the kind of Van de Graaff generators that featured in many an old-fashioned horror film. Bulky lumps of fake machinery with oversized cogs and levers. And right at the back, a workbench covered in vials and retorts and distillation equipment. It looked as if they’d been full once, but now the glass bore coloured tidemarks where the liquid inside had evaporated. Cobwebs everywhere.

Shelves lined the fake granite wall above the glasswork, each one home to rows and rows of glass jars that glittered in the torchlight.

‘Holy mother of God...’ Franklin’s torch froze.

The small jars had rubber spiders and things floating in yellowy liquid, but the bigger ones contained something a lot more horrible and a lot more real.

She licked her lips. ‘Can you see what I’m seeing?’

Row upon row of severed human heads.

29

‘Jesus...’ There had to be two, maybe three dozen of them up there, squashed into large screw-top jars.

Franklin dragged her eyes away from the collection and yanked out her phone, fumbling with the screen. ‘I’ll call it in.’

‘Hello.’ Louis stepped out from behind an oversized coffin. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’

I turned, holding a hand up at chest height. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to step back, sir. This is now an active crime scene.’

‘It is? How exciting!’ He pursed his lips as he looked around the set. ‘Why?’

Seriously?

‘Who else has keys to the warehouse? Does Gordon Smith have keys?’

‘Well, of course he does. He’s working on this, right now. Well, he was, anyway. Before all the... unpleasantness.’ A big smile as Louis gazed at the set. ‘You have to admit, though, he’s one hell of an artist!’

Franklin turned her back on us, one finger in her ear. ‘Mother? It’s me, we need an SOC team down here, ASAP. And a pathologist, Procurator Fiscal, the whole shooting match.’

‘This is slated for His Majesty’s Theatre in Aberdeen, next Christmas: Frankenstein and the Christmas Monster Mash. It’s a working title.’ He stepped onto the set. ‘We’ve got a heap of original songs being written and you should see the special effects.’

‘I don’t know, at least... thirty, maybe more. Severed heads.’ Franklin’s back stiffened. ‘No, I haven’t been drinking!... Why would I make something like that up?’

‘Ah.’ Louis raised a finger. ‘I think there might be a misunderstanding.’ As he scuttled over to the workbench.

‘Step away from the evidence!’

He smiled at me. ‘It’s not what you think.’

‘Of course I’m serious! For God’s sake, Mother: there’s about thirty severed heads down here in—’

‘No! No, they’re not real! They’re not: look!’ Louis scrambled up onto the bench, and grabbed one of the jars off its shelf before I could grab him. ‘It’s me, see? It’s my face. They’re part of the set dressing.’ Holding it out.

Oh.

Up close it definitely was him, nose pressed against the glass, bright-orange shock of hair on top of... The head didn’t actually have a top, it had a thin circular rim instead.

Louis pulled another from the shelf. ‘They’re really easy to make. All you do is you squish your nose against a window and take three pictures — two profiles, one full-face — and you stick them together in Photoshop, then you print them out on waterproof stock, and you slip them into a head-sized jar full of water and some food colouring. Look: there’s nothing else in there.’ He tilted the jar in his hands, showing off the bottom. Nothing inside but the printout.

Franklin paced back and forth in front of the Van de Graaff generators. ‘I don’t know. Far as we can tell Gordon Smith must’ve been keeping them down here for years. It’s an extension of—’

I cleared my throat. ‘Franklin?’

‘—horrific collection. The Polaroids weren’t enough any more, so he’s—’

‘FRANKLIN!’

She turned and glared at me. ‘Do you mind? I’m trying to—’

‘It’s all make-believe.’ I unscrewed the jar with Louis’s head in it and pulled the printout free. Held it there, dripping on the warehouse floor. ‘They’re fakes.’

Her face creased shut, jaw clenched as she curled up at the knees for a moment. Then stood. Eyes closed, free hand clasping her forehead. ‘No, I’m still here, Mother. I...’ Deep breath. ‘There’s been a misunderstanding.’

‘Now this one, right here is the holy grail, as far as I’m concerned.’ Louis held up another head-in-a-jar. Fiddled about with the lid. Then beamed with pride as the head inside blinked then started to sing. The words coming out all muffled and tinny:

‘Got a prototype manufactured by this wonderful boutique electronics firm in South Korea — semi-flexible curved screen that takes pre-filmed footage on USB and displays it. Bluetooth to the theatre sound system. Cost an absolute fortune to develop, but can you imagine a dozen of them singing along while the monster dances for the kiddies?’ He clicked the thing off and tucked it under his arm. ‘What a show!’

I stared up at the shelf with its collection of heads. Then raised an eyebrow at Franklin. ‘Just to be on the safe side?’

She rolled her eyes, huffed out a breath, but clambered up onto the bench anyway and clinked her way through the jars. Taking each one off its shelf, turning it upside down, then putting it back again. ‘All fakes.’

Louis shrugged. ‘Not sure if I should say “sorry” or not. I mean, I’m sorry it got everyone so worked up, but on the other hand, it’s nice they’re not real, isn’t it?’

She climbed down again, brushing dust and fake cobwebs off the knees of her suit trousers. ‘So why was Gordon Smith here last night?’

‘I honestly and truly have no idea.’

Franklin’s feet left scuff marks in the dust as we followed her torch in a slow-motion tour of the warehouse, stopping to examine each cluster of scenery. ‘Of course, Mother now thinks I’m an idiot.’

‘No one thinks you’re an idiot.’ I raised my voice. ‘HENNNNNRY?’ His name echoed back at me from the corrugated metal roof. ‘Where are you, you horrible stinker? HENNNNNNNRY?’

She glanced over her shoulder, in the vague direction of where we’d left Louis Williamson, by the Frankenstein set. ‘So we’re right back where we started from.’

‘Smith was here for a reason.’

‘How am I supposed to be taken seriously when I’m calling my DI and banging on about severed heads in jars? Mother thought I was making it all up!’ Franklin’s shoulders drooped as she swung the torch around another pile of scenery. This one looked like it might fit together into a barber’s shop, complete with an oversized leather chair that had more than a whiff of the dentist about it and a big set of hinges at the back. ‘Taken me three years to prove I’m rehabilitated enough to transfer out to another team, and now I look like a cast-iron grade A...’ She stopped.

I limped past a couple of feet, then turned. ‘No one thinks you’re an idiot, OK? Now, can we get on with—’

‘This “something strange” we’re looking for.’ She wobbled the torch beam around in a small circle. ‘Would it be something like that?’

It was the bedroom scene from Goldilocks and the Three Bears, partially erected against the wall, in a gap between two racks of flat-pack trees, mountains, and a gingerbread house. And someone had clearly been sleeping in all three of the beds — the covers rumpled and pulled back, indentations in the pillows where their heads had been.

‘OK, so what do we do now?’ Franklin stayed where she was as I hobbled closer.

Three beds. Gordon Smith, Leah MacNeil, and the unknown woman from the car? Assuming she was even real, of course. Or maybe, if Leah was Smith’s twisted idea of a substitute wife, he’d found a fresh victim for them to torture and kill together?

She did say he’d done something terrible last night...

‘We need to get an SOC team down here after all — test the beds, see if we can get a DNA match.’

Franklin groaned. ‘Bit of a comedown, isn’t it? Severed heads to a couple of unmade beds?’

Henry’s bark rattled back from the roof and walls, before fading away into silence.

‘Could be worse: at least we found something.’

‘And can you imagine what Mother’s going to say when I call her?’ Franklin pulled out her phone and grimaced at it. ‘“Are you sure you’re not making it up this time as well, Rosalind? Only you got rather overexcited about the heads-in-jars thing, remember?”’

Another bark from Henry. Then the skitter of his little clawed feet on the concrete as he scampered in out of the gloom to wheech around me twice then drop a manky tennis ball at my feet. The thing was almost bald, what was left of its bright-yellow fur stained a grimy brown. Glistening with slavers.

Well if he thought I was picking that up and throwing it for him, he was in for a disappointment.

Another bark, then Henry snatched it up in his mouth and disappeared off in the direction he’d just come from.

Thick as mince.

I gave Franklin a shrug. ‘Three beds: Gordon Smith, Leah MacNeil, and, potentially, a new victim. Do we have a choice?’

‘God’s sake.’ She poked at her phone, then held the thing to her ear. Sighed. ‘Mother? It’s Rosalind. I need an SOC team... Yes, very funny, but—... No. No, this isn’t the same thing as last time...’

I limped after Henry, pulling out his lead.

Probably best not to have him charging about the place compromising any evidence. Assuming it really had been Gordon Smith and Leah MacNeil in Daddy and Mummy Bears’ beds, and not some lazy night watchman.

‘Henry? Come on, you wee sod, time for you to go back in the car.’

Another bark, up ahead in the gloom.

Took out my phone and started the torch app, its small circle of cold white light dissipating after only a couple of feet. Limping past bits of a library — all the books painted on — and what might have been the bow of a pirate ship.

‘Henry! Get your hairy arse back here.’

Two small spheres glowed in the darkness, a couple of feet above the ground: Henry’s eyes.

‘You’re a massive pain in my backside, you know that, don’t you?’

A bark.

He was turning tight circles in front of yet another lump of disassembled scenery, only this one was covered in a huge blue plastic tarpaulin. And the thing he was circling was that manky tennis ball. Still, at least it kept him where he’d be easy to grab.

My phone ding-buzzed in my hand.

ROBOSABIR:

Leah had turned her mobile on again.

Ding-buzz.

ROBOSABIR:

Maybe this time we’d get lucky?

Henry hunkered down, forelegs extended towards me, bum in the air, tail whooshing from side to side. Then he snatched up the vile tennis ball in his gob, turned, and off he went, scurrying away into the depths of the warehouse again. Little idiot.

‘HENRY! STOP BUGGERING ABOUT! HEEL!’

Bark.

Knew we should’ve got a cat.

Pretty certain he’d found something unwholesome to roll in as well, given the horrible sour sausagey odour he’d left behind. Well, it was either that, or my fault for letting him eat all that crap over the last two days. God knew Henry could fart with the best of them.

I hobbled after him, into the darkness.

Well from now on he was getting nothing but dog food till his digestion settled down. No more treats.

Ding-buzz.

ROBOSABIR:

What was that meant to be, some sort of error message?

And then it dawned — latitude and longitude. They were map coordinates.

When I copied and pasted the first one into my phone’s map, it jumped straight to the A90, north of Forfar. The second one took it slightly further along the road. As did the third.

Which meant Gordon Smith was either heading for Oldcastle or Aberdeen.

I killed the torch app, plunging the surrounding stage sets into gloom again, and called Mother.

‘If you’re calling about your unmade beds, it’s—’

‘Leah’s on the move. Sabir’s got her mobile signal heading north on the A90.’

‘It is? Why didn’t we...’ The sound went all muffled again. ‘John, what’s happening with Leah MacNeil’s mobile phone?... Well find out! Ash says she’s being tracked right now!... Go! Quick, quick!’

My phone ding-buzzed again. Another text from RoboSabir with three lots of coordinates in it, and this time when I pasted the first set into my map, it came up with the slip road onto the A9402. So definitely heading for Oldcastle. ‘You need to get an Armed Response Unit ready.’

‘Thank you, Ash “I Was A DI Before You Were” Henderson, but this isn’t my first psychotic maniac.’ A scrunching noise as she put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Amanda! I need a dog unit and a firearms team, ASAP! Oh, and an OSU as well, might as well go in mob-handed. Then get the car: we’re going hunting!’

‘Good. Franklin and I can be with you in—’

‘You’ve got an SOC team on the way, remember? You need to be there for chain of evidence. Or have you completely forgotten what being a police officer involves?’

Damn it.

A muffled voice in the background — and whiny with it, so probably DC Watt. ‘I’ve got them sending me live updates on Leah’s phone’s location. See?’

‘Right, I have to go.’

‘Let me know how it...’ But the line was silent. She’d hung up.

Thank you, Ash. You’ve done a great job, Ash. We couldn’t have caught him without you, Ash.

Hmm... This was probably how Sabir felt.

My phone ding-buzzed again with three more coordinates, marking Leah’s course towards Oldcastle.

Had to admit, it hurt to be left out at the grand finale. Would’ve been nice to be there while Gordon Smith resisted arrest. And maybe pile in to help subdue him. In a proportional-and-appropriate-level-of-force kind of way, of course. With a few sneaky kicks in the balls for luck.

Henry was doing his circular dance again when I caught up with him, next to Cinderella’s kitchen — going by the laminated sign — but this time, as he tried to scurry off, I grabbed the smelly sod by the collar and snapped on his lead.

Ding-buzz.

Didn’t seem to faze him any, though, he just grinned at me, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

‘You’re a stinky idiot, you know that, don’t you?’

Weird: up close he didn’t smell nearly as bad.

Must’ve been a bout of post-haggis-burger flatulence, then.

I let him pick up his vile tennis ball and we made our way back through the mounds of disassembled scenery.

Ding-buzz.

That nasty sausage-like smell was still there as we passed the tarpaulin-covered rack.

‘How does one wee dog manage to produce a lingering...’

But what if it wasn’t Henry?

None of the other sections of scenery were covered with tarpaulin, they were all open to the dusty warehouse air.

Yeah...

Ding-buzz.

I hooked his lead around the metal upright of the nearest rack and left him there.

Took hold of the tarpaulin’s bottom corner.

Hauled it up and to the side. Flinging it back.

The breath turned to concrete in my throat as I stared at what’d been hidden underneath.

Now I knew what Gordon Smith had been doing here last night.

30

‘But...’ Franklin stood there, mouth hanging open. ‘There’s... I mean, are we sure this isn’t another, you know, prop?’ Sounding hopeful.

Couldn’t blame her.

It was a cobbled-together version of the far wall in Gordon Smith’s kill room. Shackles, for the wrists and ankles, fixed to chains that were bolted to a makeshift frame. Only this time the poor bastard he’d tortured was still hanging there.

Or at least, what was left of them.

Which explained that sour meaty smell.

She whistled out a breath. ‘That’s a lot of blood.’

The body’s feet were twisted over onto their sides, in a wide plastic tub, submerged nearly up to their ankles in dark shiny viscous liquid.

This time, instead of ding-buzz, my phone went pop-ding. The text-alert noise I’d set for Leah.

Scary?

Scary didn’t even begin to describe what Gordon Smith had done to the poor sod in front of me.

‘What have you found this time?’ Louis Williamson came bounding up, performing an OTT skip-and-a-hop, elbows out, as he came to a halt. As if he was on stage. ‘Is this...’ Then his eyes went wide and he lurched back a couple of steps. Grabbed hold of the nearest rack of scenery with one hand, the other clasped over his mouth. ‘Oh Jesus...’

I turned, arms out, doing my best to block his view. ‘Mr Williamson, I’m going to have to ask you to back away from the—’

‘It’s him, isn’t it: that drama student who went missing? It was on the local radio this morning, his mum was frantic...’

‘Drama student?’

‘David something or other, didn’t come home last night. He’s... He was missing. Oh...’ Louis swallowed. Shook his head. ‘I think I’m going to be—’ Both hands covered his mouth now, as he hurried away into the gloom.

I turned to Franklin.

She grimaced. Pulled out her phone. ‘I know, I know. I’ll call it in.’

Didn’t take long for C Division to send out its best and brightest. Now the warehouse rang to the echoes of bodies in SOC suits rustling around, shouting at and to each other. Camera flashes flickering back from the surrounding scenery, lighting up the gloom like a mini thunderstorm. The clack and whine merging into the background noise.

Ding-buzz.

RoboSabir again. Only this time there was only the one coordinate. And according to my map it was halfway down Kittiwake Avenue in Logansferry. Looked as if Leah and Gordon Smith had finally got where they were going. I forwarded the text to Mother. Along with:

SEND.

Not long to go before all this was over. Bit of an anti-climax, to be honest.

I called up Leah’s contact and sent her one as well:

My finger hovered over the ‘SEND’ icon.

What if she wasn’t the only one reading her texts? What if Smith had got access to her phone? He’d probably slit her throat and run for it, before Mother and her team could get there. We’d never get another chance like this. Was it really worth the risk?

I deleted everything but the first sentence and tried again:

SEND.

One more for good luck:

SEND.

Well, it was worth a try, anyway.

‘Milk, no sugar.’ Franklin wandered over and handed me a polystyrene cup full of something beige. ‘They didn’t have decaf.’

‘Scuse me, coming through, beep beep.’ A pair of techs trundled a portable generator past on squeaky wheels, closely followed by another pair carrying big work lights on bigger stands.

‘Thanks.’ It tasted every bit as nasty as it looked.

She took a sip of whatever it was she’d got herself. ‘I miss anything?’

‘Not yet, but that might change.’ Pointing in the direction the techs had disappeared, as a figure in the full Smurf outfit zwip-zwopped their way towards us.

Stopped and pulled her facemask down. Her accent was semi-posh southern English, with a slight hint of Essex about it. ‘Which one of you’s the senior officer?’ The words spat out hard and fast. Like a typewriter.

Franklin stood up straighter. ‘I am.’ Stuck her hand out for shaking. ‘Detective Sergeant Rosalind Franklin. This is Ash Henderson, he’s a consultant.’

‘Ex-DI.’ In case anyone cared.

The newcomer snapped off her nitrile gloves and gave Franklin’s hand a brief up-and-down. ‘DCI Jane Jopson.’ Pulled back her hood, revealing a long ash-blonde bob. Flashed the kind of smile that showed off a good chunk of gum above her top teeth. ‘Well, we’ll need the family to ID his body, assuming the mortuary can make it presentable...’ She glanced back, over her shoulder. ‘Which doesn’t seem likely, given the state of it. But I think it’s safe to say our victim’s David Quinn. Sixteen. His parents reported him missing last night when he didn’t come home from a friend’s house.’ Jopson tapped the side of her neck. ‘Port stain birthmark.’

The chuff-chuff-chuff of a generator starting came from behind her, rattling up to a diesel growl. Then those big work lights flickered into life, bouncing off the roof, spreading enough illumination to see by, even all the way over here.

‘Any idea where our victim was abducted?’

Jopson looked at me, as if I’d slithered out from under a rock. ‘Before we go any further, let’s get one thing clear, ex-DI Haroldson—’

‘Henderson.’

‘Whatever. This, right here?’ Describing a circle with one finger. ‘Is my investigation. I’m the one running it. And even if you were still in the job, I’d outrank you. So for now, I’ll be the one asking the questions.’ Another smile, but this one cold and sharp. ‘Let’s start with: what makes you think this was your “Coffinmaker”?’

‘The MO, ma’am.’ Franklin was actually standing to attention now. ‘It’s virtually identical, all except for leaving the body behind. Normally he buries them in his garden.’

‘I see. What’s his usual abduction methodology?’

‘Unknown, ma’am. The most recent victim we know about is from sixteen years ago.’

‘Well, that’s not entirely true, is it?’ I leaned back against the nearest chunk of scenery. ‘We know he befriends them first. Otherwise he couldn’t get them to pose for their photographs the way he does.’ Because ex-DI Haroldson wasn’t an idiot.

Franklin’s cheeks darkened. ‘Well, yes. There is that. He takes photos of his victims before he abducts them, ma’am. And photos of them after he’s... finished with their bodies.’

‘I see.’ Jopson nodded. ‘And this “Coffinmaker”, Gordon Smith, he worked here, did he?’

‘All over the country. Designing sets for theatrical productions.’ Franklin pointed. ‘He did all these.’

‘Right, well thank you for your help, DS Franklin. Ex-DI Haroldson. I’ll be in touch if we need anything else. In the meantime, you can give Sergeant Marland your statements. And shoes.’ And with that, she turned her back and zwip-zwopped away again.

I turned to Franklin. ‘You total, and utter, crawler.’

Those cheeks darkened again. ‘I am not a crawler.’

‘“Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. Look at me, all standing to attention and being efficient, ma’am.”’

‘There’s nothing wrong with being efficient!’

Couldn’t keep the smile hidden any longer. ‘Crawler.’

‘Hmph.’ She folded her arms, then looked left and right. ‘Any idea where this Sergeant Marland’s—’

My phone burst into song. ‘DI MALCOLMSON’, according to the screen. ‘Mother?’

‘All right, I said I’d keep you in the loop, so consider yourself looped.’ The sound was a bit tinny, with an underlying growl to it, as if she was in a car.

Franklin leaned closer. ‘Have they got him?’

‘Not yet.’ Back to the phone. ‘You got all your teams?’

‘Shockingly enough, yes. Dogs, Guns, and Thugs. Did think about holding off and doing it in the wee small hours, but what if Smith moves on? Or goes out?’

‘Or kills Leah MacNeil.’

‘That’s the scenario I’m trying not to think about, thank you very much.’ The engine got louder. ‘Here we go...’

A wee man in a double-breasted three-piece pinstriped suit that gave him the air of a 1920’s gangster, lumbered out from behind a lump of scenery. His arms were a lot longer than they had any right being as well. As if an orangutan had escaped from the zoo by dressing like a bank manager. Hair slicked into a severe side parting. And when he smiled no two of his teeth pointed in the same direction. ‘DS Franklin?’

I pointed at her.

Scrunching noises came down the line, followed by the whoomph, whoomph, whoomph, of Mother’s breath as she ran.

The splintering boom of a door being whacked off its hinges by a big red door key.

Muffled voices in the background: ‘GO, GO, GO!’

‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’

Whoomph, whoomph, whoomph...

‘DS Franklin, I’m DS Marland, but you can call me Colin, if you like? Good. Yes.’

‘LIVING ROOM: CLEAR!’

‘Now, the chief tells me you’re the ones who discovered the body, is that right?’ Pulling out a black police-issue notebook. ‘I’d like you to take me through the series of events, starting from how you found yourself at the warehouse, here.’

I stuck a finger in my other ear and limped away a dozen paces.

‘KITCHEN: CLEAR!’

More banging and crashing.

Whoomph, whoomph, whoomph...

Thumba-thumba-thumba-thumba...

Was that feet, thundering up a set of wooden stairs?

My phone announced an incoming text with that strange pop-ding again.

LEAH MACNEIL:

Another splintering boom — the noise tinny, because I didn’t have the phone to my ear.

‘YOU ON THE GROUND! ON THE GROUND NOW!’

A woman’s voice, high-pitched and trembling. ‘I’m on the toilet!’ Was that Leah? It sounded too old to be her, though. And the accent wasn’t right, either.

‘BEDROOM ONE: CLEAR!’

Whoomph, whoomph, whoomph...

Crashing. Something heavy hitting the floor.

‘YOU: DON’T MOVE! MOVE AND I WILL SHOOT YOU!’

A man’s voice. ‘I don’t understand, why are you—’

‘HANDS ON YOUR HEAD! KNEEL! KNEEL ON THE BLOODY FLOOR, NOW!’

They’d got him.

Then Mother’s voice, loud and clear. ‘Let me through, come on, Dougie, move your bottom, there’s a good boy.’

‘Please, I don’t know why you’re—’

‘SHUT UP! I SAID HANDS ON YOUR HEAD, BEFORE I BLOW IT OFF!’

‘All right, Keith, you can stop...’ The silence seemed to stretch for a week. Then, ‘Keith?’

‘Yes, Mother?’

‘Who the hell is this?’

Oh, for the love of Christ. I slapped my free hand over my eyes. They’d raided the wrong house.

Chaos on the other end of the phone. Lots of banging and crashing and swearing. Most of which seemed to be coming from Mother.

I left Franklin telling DS Marland how we’d entered the warehouse, and wandered away through the door to the prop store.

Along ‘JACK AND THE BEANSTALK’, past the office where Louis Williamson was scrunched up in a swivel chair, elbows on his knees, bald head in his hands, that tuft of bright-orange hair poking out between his clenched fingers.

The expensive prototype head-in-a-jar was on the desk behind him, still singing away to itself:

I stepped into the darkening afternoon. Only half three, but already the sun was nearly at the horizon, painting the clouds that hunkered there in shades of violent pink and eggshell blue. Our manky pool car had been joined by half a dozen others, and a trio of patrol cars too — their reflective livery glowing in the fading light. And a surprisingly clean Transit van, with SOC techs humping blue plastic crates from the back doors and into the warehouse.

No sign of the national press yet, but that would change soon enough.

Pop-ding.

Another text cut through the tinny shouting coming out of my phone’s speaker.

LEAH MACNEIL:

Henry was on his hind legs in the back of our dirty Ford Focus, nose making pale snotty smears across the glass. Happy barking as I got closer.

Mother’s voice came down the line. ‘Well this is an unmitigated cocking shambles, isn’t it?’

Then someone else — might have been DC Watt, it was certainly whiny enough. ‘It’s not my fault! This is the address the phone coordinates pointed at. Look!’

‘Have you tried next door?’

‘Give me a minute, Ash, I have to provide a modicum of encouragement and guidance to my team member here.’ She cleared her throat. ‘HOW THE HELL DID WE MANAGE TO COCK THIS UP SO BADLY?’

‘It wasn’t me!’

My thumbs poked at the screen:

SEND.

‘Maybe... maybe, I don’t know, but... maybe they were here, but they’ve gone now?... Or something?’

‘AAAAAAAAAARGH!’

LEAH MACNEIL:

‘Or maybe the guy’s lying and he knows Gordon Smith? Maybe he’s... an accomplice!’

‘John, you know I mean this in the nicest possible way, but you should really shut up now, before I do something you’ll regret!’

‘No, look: I’ll call her mobile. Hold on...’

The sound of some boy band burst into life in the background, getting louder.

‘It’s coming from downstairs!’

And they were off and running again.

31

Mother called me back, ten minutes later. ‘You still there, Ash?’

I hobbled on a couple of paces, Henry’s lead and my walking stick in one hand, phone in the other. ‘Just about.’ The sun was a fierce yellow smear on the horizon, the sky above turning to ink. Stars struggling to shine through as the cloud thickened and the wind picked up again.

‘We found Leah MacNeil’s mobile. It was in the householder’s jacket pocket.’

‘So Watt was right for a change. They were co-conspirators?’

‘Householder swears he doesn’t know Gordon Smith, he’s never met Gordon Smith, and he wouldn’t recognise Gordon Smith if he got in the bath with him.’ A pause. ‘Which struck me as a rather strange metaphor, but there you go.’

‘And you believe him?’

‘Says he was in Stirling for work, stopped at the petrol station this morning to fill up, and that was all he knew till we smashed his door down and caught his wife on the toilet. We checked with his work — he installs and maintains poles for pole dancing — he was at a pole-dancing-for-fitness-and-wellbeing place, which is apparently a thing now. Our hypothesis is that Smith must’ve slipped it into his pocket while he wasn’t looking.’

‘And let me guess, he bought petrol from the Sainsbury’s supermarket.’

‘Kept the receipt so he could claim it back on expenses.’

‘Can you email me a photo? Well, two photos: one of the guy and one of the receipt?’

I’d got to the edge of the police cordon, where a bored PC in a fluorescent-yellow padded jacket stood, huffing warm breath into his hands and stomping his feet, behind the line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape.

And there was Helen MacNeil, standing at the open hatch to ‘FIONA’S FANTASTIC FRIED-FOOD EMPORIUM!’ clutching a polystyrene cup of something and a thing in a roll. Staring at me. No sign of her horrible companion, so I gave her a small wave and a tight smile. Then went back to the phone.

‘I’m starting to think things might not be as straightforward as they seemed.’

A moment’s silence. Followed by, ‘Straightforward? Have you been working on a different case, because the one I’m investigating has been a great big bucket of slithering venomous snakes since the start!’

‘No, I meant...’ Yeah. ‘Look, I’ve got to go: Helen MacNeil’s here.’

‘Have you told her about her granddaughter?’

‘Do you want me to?’

‘No.’ And with that, Mother hung up.

I thumbed out a reply to Leah’s latest text.

SEND.

Helen MacNeil stomped over to the cordon, chewing on her butty. ‘You found something.’

I nodded towards the manky yellow Golf. Couldn’t tell if anyone was inside, the industrial estate’s lights sucked the colour out of everything and the rusty hatchback’s windscreen was opaque in the gloom. ‘You didn’t ditch Jennifer, then.’

‘Is it Leah? Is she in there? Did he kill her?’

‘She’s using you, Helen. And once she’s done, she’ll dump you and move on to the next sucker.’

Helen’s butty stabbed towards the warehouse. ‘IS MY GRANDDAUGHTER IN THERE?’

‘No, OK? She’s not.’ I closed my eyes for a second, took a breath, and tried for that reassuring-police-officer voice again. Maybe this time it’d work? ‘Shouting the odds isn’t helping you any, Helen. Go home. We’ll be in touch if—’

‘What home? You mean the one that’ll fall into the North Sea, soon as the next storm front hits? The one I’ve been thrown out of by the bastarding council, who want sixteen grand to tear it down first? That home?’

Pop-ding.

‘Investigations like this take time. We—’

‘HE KILLED MY DAUGHTER!’ Hurling her polystyrene cup to the ground, where it exploded in a spray of beige.

The PC shuffled over. ‘All right, let’s all calm down.’

‘DON’T YOU TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!’ Helen glared at him, hard enough to make him back off a pace.

‘It’s all right, Constable, she’s with me.’ I ducked under the cordon and grabbed her arm, pulling her along. ‘Why don’t we have a nice walk?’

Pop-ding.

Soon as we were out of listening range: ‘Will you stop acting like a psycho for two sodding minutes?’

Helen shook her arm free. ‘Gordon Smith killed my—’

‘I know. And what do you think’s going to help catch him: shouting the odds, or letting us do our jobs?’

‘YOU’RE DOING BUGGER ALL!’

Henry hunkered down and growled at her.

‘We’re working. And you’re not the only one who’s lost a child.’

She scowled back at me. ‘Six million.’

‘It’s not—’

‘Don’t pretend you’ve never taken a bung, because I know you have.’

‘That wasn’t—’

‘Six million pounds and all you’ve got to do is give me an hour alone with him, somewhere out of the way. Somewhere no one can hear him screaming.’ She stepped in closer, till our noses were almost touching. ‘One parent to another. Because the bastard killed my child, same as some bastard killed yours. And he deserves to suffer.’

Had to admit, she had a point...

The last glimmer of sun disappeared below the cold blue horizon. Clouds thickening overhead. Wind picking up enough to send a ceilidh of crisp packets whirling into a reel that swept across the road as I ducked back under the cordon of ‘POLICE’ tape again and pulled out my phone.

Checked the two text messages from Leah:

And:

Bit of an understatement, given what Gordon Smith had done to him.

It explained Mother’s phone cock-up, though. If Leah had lost it six weeks ago, that would be one week before she disappeared. Only she hadn’t lost it at all — Smith had taken it. Planning ahead. Knowing we’d probably try to trace Leah through her phone, and that he could use that to throw us off track.

Like I told Franklin: you don’t get away with killing people for fifty-six years by being an idiot.

Which meant we’d need a new warrant to track the phone she was actually using, and Watt was a complete and utter moron. And I’d take great pleasure pointing that out to him the next time we met.

Henry went back in the car, then I lumbered through the prop warehouse to the scenery one. It looked as if Franklin had finished her statement, because DS Marland was getting her to sign it in his notebook.

Marland held up a finger. ‘Ah, ex-DI Henderson, shall we...?’ A frown. ‘Er... Mr Henderson? Hello?’

But I didn’t stop, I hobbled straight past, making for the heart of the huge open space, where the diesel generator’s growl was the loudest.

Those two big work lights glared down on David Quinn’s tattered remains, making every drop of scarlet sparkle as if it’d been wired up to the mains. It was impossible to tell which of the white SOC-suited figures was DCI Jopson — they all looked the same with their facemasks and safety goggles on.

But I was about a dozen feet away when one of them looked up at me and froze. Then hurried in my direction, arms held out trying to block my way:

A man’s voice, so definitely not DCI Jopson, only slightly muffled by the facemask. ‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?’

‘Where’s Jopson?’

He kept coming. ‘THIS IS A CRIME SCENE, YOU MORON! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!’

‘Jopson, I’ve got—’

His hand slammed into my chest, forcing me back a step. ‘BUGGER OFF OUT OF IT, YOU’RE CONTAMINATING—’

The SOC suit crinkled as I grabbed a fistful and hauled, pulling the dick off his feet and hurling him face-first into the rack containing Widow Twanky’s laundry. He bounced off it, setting the metalwork ringing, then crashed backwards onto the concrete floor with a breath-robbing whoomph.

Looked as if he was about to struggle to his feet and have another go, so I thunked the rubber tip of my walking stick hard into his stomach, and, as he folded up, jabbed it into his chest and forced him down again.

‘I discovered the body, you absolute muppet. My DNA and fibres are already all over the scene.’ And limped on past. ‘Which one of you is Jopson?’

The entire group had turned to gawp at me, but a figure over by the body raised a hand. ‘Ex-DI Haroldson.’

Close enough.

‘I’ve got an abduction point for you. And you’ll want to pull the CCTV from the Sainsbury’s petrol station as well.’

‘Oh, will I now?’ It sounded as if she was trying to hide the amusement in her voice, but not doing a very good job of it. ‘And would you like me to do this before or after you’ve beaten up the rest of my team?’

Shrug. ‘I’m easy.’

‘Fair enough.’ She pointed. ‘But we’re still going to need your shoes.’

‘Ah, here you are.’ DCI Jopson had changed out of her white SOC suit into something a bit less rustly: dark trousers and a black padded jacket that acted like camouflage in the graveyard’s darkness, leaving her head to float, disembodied, five feet above the ground. ‘How are the wellies?’

‘Rubbish.’ But at least it was better than being up here in nothing but my socks.

Most of Stirling was hidden from view: a wee chunk of the castle poking out on the left, a short line of houses — lights shining in their windows — the Church of the Holy Rood’s dark medieval bulk on the right, bordered by a sliver of the town that was more rooftops than streets. A band of trees rustling in the groaning wind. Headlights on a distant road.

Five o’clock and the place was dead. Which was appropriate.

‘We’ll send your shoes back to Oldcastle when Forensics have finished with them. You can keep the wellies, though — souvenir of your time in beautiful Stirling.’ Jopson turned and looked out over the graveyard, its headstones little more than indistinct lines in the gloom. ‘I used to come here every lunchtime. Take Lottie for a walk. You know what cockapoos are like — adorable ninety percent of the time, but if they get bored it’s like sharing an office with an extremely annoying toddler.’

‘Why did you stop?’

‘Turns out people don’t like dogs weeing on their relatives’ graves.’

‘True.’ It hadn’t stopped Henry from cocking his leg on the odd Burgess of Trade on the way up here, though.

‘If anyone asks, I gave you a proper bollocking for putting DI Erskine on his arse, back there. But, between you and me, he’s a massive tosspot, so I quite enjoyed the floorshow.’ She produced an iPad from a huge handbag and flipped open the cover. The light from its screen bloomed in the darkness, showing off another half-gum-half-tooth smile. ‘Apparently he bruised his coccyx when he hit the floor. With any luck he won’t be able to sit straight for a month.’ She logged in and brought up a video. Passed the iPad to me as she dipped back into her bag again and emerged with a pre-wrapped sandwich. Tore her way into the cardboard triangle, setting free the sulphurous scent of eggs. ‘Normally it takes hours and hours to work our way through CCTV footage, but as you had the time and date on the petrol receipt...’

The Sainsbury’s petrol station filled the screen, taken from one of the cameras mounted on the awning that covered the forecourt. ‘This is your man, here.’ Pointing her sandwich at a long-limbed bloke in jeans and a thick sweater. He finished filling up an ugly four-by-four, hung the pump up, then set off towards the shop to pay. About eight foot from the door, someone bumped into him, then both did the standard I’m-so-sorry-no-my-fault-after-you dance, and disappeared inside.

Jopson chewed her way through one triangular, overstuffed half, getting mayonnaise on her cheek. ‘Don’t look at me like that, I skipped lunch. Some antisocial sod found a tortured teenager in a warehouse, remember?’ Then she launched into the other half.

She was sooking her fingers clean by the time the man who’d bumped into Mother’s householder emerged on screen again.

Jopson tapped the screen, freezing the image, then zoomed in. Leaving twin greasy smears on the glass.

Bit grainy, but the guy did look a lot like Gordon Smith — the same high forehead and Santa beard.

‘Gets into a grey BMW and drives off towards the industrial estate next door.’

So he’d ditched the ancient Mercedes, because he knew we’d be looking for it.

She spooled the footage back to the two men bumping into each other, at the same increased magnification. ‘Smith definitely slips something into your boy’s jacket pocket.’

The phone he’d stolen from Leah.

Mother’s householder was telling the truth.

I turned to Jopson. ‘Can I ask a question?’

‘You can try.’

‘Why are you showing me this?’

A shrug. ‘You could call it my kind and generous nature, or you could call it your boss’s boss’s boss calling my boss and asking us to play nice and coordinate our inquiries. Seeing as we’re both after the same killer.’ Jopson shut that video and started another one. This time it was a narrow cobbled road, the colours turned monochrome in the streetlights. A BMW came chuntering up the street. ‘This is from a CCTV camera, outside the Old Town Jail. About a two-minute walk, that way.’ Pointing in the vague direction of the medieval steeple.

The footage was grainy and badly lit. Impossible to tell if there was anyone but the driver in the car.

‘There’s meant to be cameras in the church grounds, but they got vandalised in September and they’ve still not fixed them. But half an hour later...’

The footage jumped under her sooked finger, and there was the same BMW heading off down another cobbled street, past an old-fashioned-looking building with a saltire flag flying above its front door. Again, no way to tell if Gordon Smith had passengers or not.

‘We’ve got his car at the roundabout before Sainsbury’s, then on CCTV inside the industrial estate. Got some bodies going around to see if any of the businesses in the area caught it on the way in or out, but I’m not holding my breath.’

‘What about David Quinn?’

Jopson shook her head. ‘Too dark. There’s a few possibles, but they’re all wearing hoodies, so they could be Lord Lucan, for all we know.’ A shrug. ‘Far as we can tell, the last person to see David alive, other than Gordon Smith, was the friend he’d gone round to study with.’ She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, away from the graveyard and towards those narrow cobbled streets. ‘Shall we go pay the young man a visit?’

‘I don’t really know.’ Bailey White’s cheeks flushed even darker as he sneaked glances at Franklin’s chest. ‘It... We never... I don’t know...’ Somehow, blushing made the pimples that speckled his face look even angrier.

It was your standard teenaged boy’s bedroom, small and cramped, with piles of clothes in the corners and posters of bands you’ve never heard of on the walls. That funky feet-and-armpit smell. A carpet that would probably light up like a Jackson Pollock painting under a UV lamp.

Crowded too, what with Bailey, DCI Jopson, Franklin, and me, all squeezed in here. But at least Henry had elected to stay in the car.

Jopson had draped her padded jacket over the back of a dining chair, brought through from the flat’s tiny dining kitchen, revealing a stripy red-and-blue top. ‘Think carefully, Bailey, it’s important.’

His eyes drifted to her chest, then on to Franklin’s again. He blinked a couple of times, cheeks going nuclear, before looking away. ‘I... don’t know.’

I leaned back against the built-in wardrobe. ‘Maybe it’d help if we all had a nice cup of tea? Help jog the old grey cells.’ Jerking my head towards the door. ‘Think you and the Detective Chief Inspector could sort something out, DS Franklin?’

The pair of them turned to stare at me.

‘You know, a nice cup of tea?’ Doing the whole raised eyebrows thing as I mouthed, ‘Go away!’ at them.

Then the penny must have dropped, because they both stood and bustled out of the room. ‘Yes, good idea.’ ‘Everything’s better with a cup of tea.’ Leaving me and Bailey alone in his smelly teenager’s den.

Soon as the door shut he hissed out a breath and sagged, eyes wide. ‘Wow.’ Then up at me. ‘You work with her all the time? Detective Sergeant Franklin? She’s gorgeous! Could be on Love Island, or a porn star, or anything!’

The dining chair creaked as I settled into it. ‘Right, now the women aren’t here whipping up your hormonal porridge, you can tell me why you’re lying.’

That blush was back. ‘I’m not.’

‘Come on, Bailey, it’s just us in here. When David left your house, he went up to the graveyard. We both know it’s not on his way home.’

‘I...’ Bailey shrugged one shoulder. ‘He...’ Deep breath, staring down at his bitten fingernails. ‘He was really excited about meeting someone. Someone he fancied.’ The blush deepened. ‘David’s been...’ He cleared his throat. ‘David’s mum and dad think he’s like this straight-A student and totally normal and everything, but they don’t know he’s bi.’ Another lopsided shrug. ‘Bisexual. He told me last year.’ Bailey held up a hand. ‘I mean, I’m not, you know, gay or anything like that, I definitely like women, with boobs and stuff. But David fancies men and women.’

‘And that’s who he was going up to the graveyard to meet? A man?’

‘Didn’t say, but he had that... spark in his eyes, you know?’ Bailey raised his head and stared out of the bedroom window at the darkness beyond. ‘We’ve been best friends since primary two. We’re doing the same exams so we can go to Art School together. Study drama and filmmaking.’

‘I’m sorry.’

His shoulders curled forwards and he nodded. Wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you? About David being bi? He never came out, because it’d kill his mum and dad.’

Poor wee sod.

Both of them.

David wouldn’t get to be himself, not even in death. And Bailey?

I levered myself out of the chair. ‘My best friend’s gay; he told me years before he finally came out and left his wife. It’s not easy, being responsible for someone else’s secrets.’ I gave Bailey’s hunched shoulder a squeeze. ‘You’ve been a good friend to David. Don’t let it eat you.’

Then let myself out.

32

‘... really love that song. Kar Stanton and “She Can”. Think that’s got a real chance of being Christmas number one, this year...’

The A90 thrummed beneath the pool car’s tyres, oncoming headlights gleaming in the darkness.

‘We’ve got the news and weather coming up in twenty minutes, but first here’s Closed for Refurbishment and “Whatever She Wants” brackets, “She Can’t Have”!’

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

LEAH MACNEIL:

Pop-ding.

LEAH MACNEIL:

Pop-ding.

LEAH MACNEIL:

Pop-ding.

LEAH MACNEIL:

I picked out a reply.

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.’

‘Say you weren’t very bright, and you fell in with a dominant personality who wanted to go out murdering people. And wanted you to go with him.’

‘Doesn’t matter how many ways I twist it, I can’t get the profile to match someone who’s already offended. It doesn’t fit. This is him trying things out, he’s never done that before, I know he hasn’t.’

‘How long would it take before you started wanting to join in?’

‘A little boy’s life is at stake and they’re not listening to me, Ash. No one’s listening to me!’ Alice sagged a bit, then took a slurp of her un-Irish coffee. ‘And it’s not so much “wanting” to kill people as it is wanting to please your new partner. The subservient one in the relationship usually has very low self-esteem, which makes it much easier for the dominant one to... let’s call it shape them. After a while you might think you were really into it, but if the dominant partner goes to prison, or gets ill, or dies, the subservient one soon gives up offending. They don’t crave the kill, they crave the approval it gets them.’

Which would make sod-all difference to anyone unlucky enough to come across them in the meantime.

Alice looked at me over the rim of her mug. ‘You think Leah MacNeil helped Smith kill your young man in Stirling?’

‘Don’t know. Maybe. Difficult to tell when we can only communicate via the odd text, but she’s certainly not telling us everything. She’s hiding stuff.’

‘Wouldn’t you? Imagine being an eighteen-year-old girl and the man you’ve called “Grandad” your entire life — the man who raised you, because your mum’s dead and your real gran’s in prison — makes you watch him torture a sixteen-year-old boy to death. How much would you tell the police after that?’

‘Fair enough. But the—’

‘Here you go.’ A heaped plate of chips appeared in front of me, and when I looked up, there was Effie. ‘Did you some fish fingers as well. Eat. Eat.’

Soon as she was gone, I slipped Henry one of Captain Birds Eye’s finest breadcrumbed digits.

Over in the corner PC MacAskill / McAllister was looking over my shoulder as he dug about in his Police Scotland fleece pocket. Dumping a clattering handful of change on the chequered tablecloth. Stood. And wriggled his way into his stabproof vest. Going at a fair clip, too. As if he’d suddenly realised he was due back on patrol five minutes ago.

Then the door dinged behind me, letting in a howl of cold air.

He hurried past our table, not making eye contact — because why be normal when you could be a freak? — then clunk, the door shut again.

I nodded at Alice and squirted a dollop of mayonnaise onto the side of my plate. ‘You can help yourself to a chip, if you like.’

She didn’t move. Just sat there, staring over my shoulder, like the PC had. Eyes getting wider. Mouth trembling.

Then a high-pitched breathy voice scratched through the café’s muggy air. ‘A most generous offer, Mr Henderson, and one I shall be delighted to profit from.’

Oh. Cock.

I slid my right hand across the sticky plastic tablecloth, making for the knife and fork that had arrived with my chips.

‘Now, now, Mr Henderson. I assure you that any attempt to deploy cutlery as a weapon at this juncture would be counterproductive to the good doctor’s wellbeing. And I’m sure none of us would want that.’ He made his way around the table till he was standing behind Alice. Put his hands on her shoulders.

She flinched.

Beneath the table, Henry growled.

I stayed perfectly still. ‘Joseph. Get your hands off her. Now.’

He did, then smiled. He’d had his teeth done since we’d last met — veneers, crowns, and implants replacing the damage I’d caused. It didn’t help any, though, he was still an ugly wee bastard. Short; ears sticking out like the handles on a funeral urn; Neanderthal forehead; jutting chin; hair shorn to barely more than stubble, showing off the extensive collection of scars that crowned his misshapen head. A blue DIY tattoo of a swallow staining his wrist where it jutted out of his shirt sleeve. Black suit. Leather gloves. ‘How delightful to make your acquaintance again, Mr Henderson, though I’m despondent that it couldn’t be under more opportune circumstances.’

I risked a glance over my shoulder, and there was the other half. I nodded. ‘Francis.’

He nodded back. ‘’Spector.’ His John Lennon glasses had steamed up in the Tartan Bunnet’s chip-fat air. A big droopy Irn-Bru moustache beneath his twisted and flattened nose, the soul patch under his bottom lip already going grey. His curly red hair was streaked with it too, pulled back in a ponytail, the hairline ragged around a line of scar tissue where I’d tried to cave his skull in with an unopened tin of beans. Black leather jacket, black shirt, black jeans, heavy black boots.

I scooted my chair sideways, so I could keep an eye on him and the brains of the operation at the same time. ‘I thought you two were banished from Oldcastle on pain of dismemberment.’

‘Ah, yes, after that unfortunate misunderstanding about Mrs Kerrigan. Well, it’s to our benefit that those who once governed the more... nefarious aspects of this great city have retired to what I understand is a rather splendid private island in the Caribbean. Meaning that Francis and myself have been able to return and take up a more entrepreneurial role.’ He pulled out a small metal wallet and slid free a white rectangle. Placed it on the tabletop. ‘Our card.’

‘J&F ~ FREELANCE CONSULTANTS’ and a mobile number. No names, no address, no details.

‘What do you want, Joseph?’

‘Me?’ He sighed. ‘Alas, it is with a heavy heart that I stand before you today.’ He put his hand back on Alice’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘We have—’

‘Do you remember what I said I’d do to you if you ever touched her again?’

The growling got louder, darker.

‘Now, let me think...’ A frown pulled at that scarred dome. Then the smile was back. ‘Ah yes, you said you would, and I hope I’m quoting this correctly, “break every one of my fingers then make me eat them”? A tad macabre and melodramatic, but then tempers were rather heated at the time, as I recall. Sadly, they seem destined to be that way again.’

Francis took off his steamed-up glasses and slipped them into his jacket pocket. No emotion at all in his small pink eyes. ‘Yup.’

Joseph clasped his hands together and turned to face the fat man, who seemed to have developed an all-consuming interest in his crossword. ‘Sir, I believe the most efficacious way for you to ensure your continued wellbeing is to exit with the utmost alacrity. There we go.’ Giving a muted round of applause as the man grabbed his newspaper and coat, then scrambled for the door, nearly tripping over a chair in his rush to get out of there.

The bell dinged as he disappeared into the night.

‘And Doctor McDonald, it would be best if you could control your canine companion. I would hate for something untoward to occur to it. Veterinarian treatment can prove very expensive when a pet has suffered serious injury.’

Alice snatched Henry up and clasped him against her chest as the wee lad snarled.

‘Thank you. Now, where were we?’ Joseph clapped his gloved hands together. ‘Ah yes: you see, Mr Henderson, a mutual... well I can hardly call her a “friend” in the circumstances, but I imagine “acquaintance” shall suffice, has commissioned the services of myself and my esteemed colleague to, as she put it, “beat the living shit” out of you. Apparently you threw her mobile phone off a ferry, and said certain things that caused her great consternation and personal distress.’ He took his hand off Alice’s shoulder to hold it up, palm out. ‘Now, I can assure you that this assignment will give neither Francis nor myself anything but displeasure to perform, especially given our shared history, however a contractual obligation is a contractual obligation.’ A what-can-one-do shrug. ‘But it is within our gift to keep said beating as brief as is humanly, if not humanely, possible. So, if you would care to accompany my associate to the exterior of this fine establishment, he will perform the unpleasant task before us, while I keep the good doctor here company to ensure any thoughts of noncompliance are furthest from your mind.’

If he thought I was going to meekly stand outside and take a kicking, he was in for a nasty shock. ‘How did you know I was here?’

‘Ah, Mr Henderson, ever the inquiring mind, I do so admire that about you. Let us simply say that gentlemen in our position may obtain information to our advantage from those prepared to divulge things they perhaps shouldn’t in exchange for financial gain or the diminution of certain debts.’

AKA: some bastard ratted me out.

I cricked my neck to one side, then the other. Rolled my shoulders.

I’d taken Francis before and I could do it again.

As long as I made sure he—

The world snapped back through ninety degrees as Francis’s fist slammed into my face.

33

A high-pitched whine burst across the café, accompanied by a swarm of wasps — making fierce yellow circles in the corner of my eyes. And then the pain hit. Slicing through my sinuses, digging its claws into the back of my eyes and my skull. The world stinking of hot iron and cracked pepper as my head rocked forward again and scarlet spurted down across my shirt.

‘Gnnn...’

‘Now, Francis! That was hardly sporting, was it? You didn’t even allow Mr Henderson the opportunity to stand up.’

‘Sorry.’

Hands took hold of my jacket’s lapels, hauling me out of my chair as the room waltzed one way then the other, the wasps getting louder. Scarlet droplets bursting against the linoleum at my feet.

Henry’s barks rang out like a shotgun.

Alice joined them: ‘GET OFF HIM, YOU BASTARD!’

‘Now, now, dear Doctor, let’s not escalate this situation unnecessarily. Control that animal, before it gets hurt.’

I blinked away the tears. Brought my fists up.

Francis’s head got smaller for a heartbeat, then swelled up like a meteorite, slamming into the bridge of my nose with the crack and pop of a thousand fireworks. Filling the world with the stench of raw meat. My right leg stopped working, the knee refusing to hold my weight as the café’s waltz turned into a polka and boiling petrol washed through my face. Bursting into flame as it touched whatever was left of my nasal cartilage. I grabbed a handful of table, keeping myself upright. But only just.

FIGHT BACK!

I swung. Missed.

‘That’s the spirit, Mr Henderson! Do not go quietly into that dark night!’

That was the trouble with gobby bastards — too much time spent on word-of-the-day calendars and not enough learning the proper bloody quotes.

More barking.

I spat out a mouthful of copper pennies. ‘Come on then. That all you’ve got?’

Effie emerged from the kitchen, teeth bared, a frying pan clutched in one hand like a mallet. ‘What the hell do youse bastards think you’re doing in my café?’

‘How unfortunate.’ Joseph raised his eyes to the grubby ceiling as if the answer to Effie’s question was written there. Then turned his cold hard smile on her. ‘I take it you are the proprietor of this fine establishment? Well, if you’d be so kind as to take a seat and remain silent, we shall try to conduct our business here with the minimum of disruption to your premises. It would be a matter of personal regret if we were forced to cause damage to your fixtures, fittings, and limbs.’

Alice’s voice slashed through the muggy air: ‘EFFIE, CALL THE POLICE! CALL — Ulk...!’

The clatter and scrabble of dog claws on the linoleum.

‘Now, dear Doctor, I do believe I counselled against interfering.’

Alice.

I turned, teeth bared and there was Joseph, standing behind her, with his right arm around her throat, left arm locking her head in and forcing it forward. Chokehold. Shutting off the blood to her brain.

Henry charged at Joseph, jaws snapping, barks ringing out.

Then a whimpering yelp as Joseph lashed out with a foot, sending the brave wee lad flying as Alice’s face darkened. ‘I warned you!’

Right, that bastard—

Francis’s left fist cracked upwards into my ribs, nearly lifting me off my one good foot. Taking all the breath in my lungs with it. And the other knee gave way.

This was it.

The scarlet-spattered linoleum rushed up to meet me. Now the kicking would start. The stamping. The broken bones and fractured skull. The internal bleeding.

Clutching at the table didn’t help — it dragged the checked plastic cloth off, taking the sauces and salt and mugs and plate and chips and fish fingers with it. A shattering of crockery, the ping and clang of cheap cutlery bouncing.

Then BOOM.

The Tartan Bunnet’s front door burst open and Helen MacNeil charged over the threshold, screaming something without words in it, mouth wide, teeth flashing, all the cords in her neck standing out like the cables on a suspension bridge.

Francis got as far as, ‘Naw—’ before she crashed into him, knocking him off his feet and sending him flying into the nearest table with a crunch of buckling chipboard. He was bent backwards over it, hips jutting, arms flailing as Helen leapt on him — one knee slamming down into his groin. And that was it for the table. The entire thing collapsed and Francis thumped into the floor with Helen still on top as she grabbed his ponytail and battered her other fist off his face five or six times in rapid succession, like a jackhammer, sending up tiny spurts of scarlet with every impact. Re-breaking that squint nose, shutting his eye.

Then twisting around and onto her feet again.

Can’t have taken her more than a dozen seconds, and Francis was a groaning mess of battered skin, blood frothing at the side of his mouth and dribbling down his cheek.

Joseph swivelled, putting Alice between Helen and himself. Partially releasing his chokehold to dig a hand into his jacket pocket. ‘Now I know we haven’t been properly introduced, but I can assure you that this encounter will not go well for you if you don’t turn around and leave right now.’

She kept her eyes on him as she picked up one of the broken table’s metal legs, holding it like a baseball bat, slapping the other end against her palm. ‘You know who I am?’

‘I haven’t had the pleasure.’

‘Oh, it’s no pleasure, I’m pretty sure of that.’ Stepping closer. ‘See, I know who you are.’

‘Then you know that, much though it may pain me, I shall not hesitate to do the good doctor here serious harm if you don’t depart as requested.’

Helen shrugged. ‘Go on, then. She’s nothing to me. But this one?’ Pointing the table leg in my direction. ‘He’s mine. And you better pray he’s still useful to me, because see if he’s not?’

‘Unnnnnngh...’ Francis rolled over onto his front. Struggled up to his hands and knees. Blood dripping onto the linoleum beneath his face. Another grunt and he was sitting back on his haunches, face already swelling up. Wobbling in a circle, as if the whole café was swaying.

Welcome to the dance.

Helen didn’t even look at him. Instead she swung the table leg in a fast, flat arc behind her.

A muffled clang as the metal cracked off Francis’s head, and gravity reclaimed him. On his side, lying there, mouth open, eyes closed.

But at least he was still breathing.

Alice, on the other hand, was going a darker shade of red, hands scratching at Joseph’s arm, mouth opening and closing on nothing. Feet scratching across the linoleum. One arm wasn’t enough to cut off the blood flow, but plenty to make sure she couldn’t breathe.

I hauled myself up the nearest chair. ‘LET HER GO!’

‘Going to give you a choice, Joseph. Either you take your boyfriend and you run away, or I do the same thing to you that I did to Neil Stringer.’ The table leg slapped into her open palm again. ‘Five... Four.’

He licked his lips. Looked from Helen, to the length of metal in her hands, to Francis, then back again. Then closed his eyes and nodded. ‘I suppose there’s only one course of action open to me.’

‘Three... Two.’

Joseph’s left hand flashed up from his pocket, an old-fashioned cutthroat razor snapping open. Blade gleaming as he hurled Alice to one side. ‘You’ll regret your—’

‘One.’ The table leg rose, then fell, sharp and hard across the scarred crown of Joseph’s head. Enough weight behind it to bend the metal.

Joseph staggered back, thumping into the wall. Spitting out a gobbet of scarlet. Then lunged, cutthroat razor hissing through the air. Might have got her too, if she hadn’t leapt out of the way.

The table leg came crashing down again, on his left forearm, and this time that metal-tube noise was joined by a muffled pop and Joseph’s cutthroat razor skittered off across the linoleum, to thunk against a skirting board. The hand that’d held it hung at a very unnatural angle, as if his wrist started halfway up his arm now.

He sank down to one knee, grimacing as he clutched those shat-tered bones to his chest. ‘GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAARGH!’ Lurching to his feet again. Standing there, hissing breath in and out between his gritted teeth, red bubbles popping around those perfect veneers.

Alice scrabbled back against the wall, hands rubbing at her throat as she wheezed in ragged lungfuls of air.

A thump, and the kitchen door swung open. Effie, standing there, holding an old-fashioned beige phone to her ear, its curly flex festooned with greasy fluff. ‘The police’ll be here any minute!’

Helen nodded. ‘You’re lucky Mr Henderson and these women are here, Joseph. Otherwise you’d both be dead by now.’ A cruel smile. ‘You should say “thank you” to them. Or shall I batter your boyfriend’s brains out?’ Resting the tip of the table leg against Francis’s forehead. ‘Go on: say it.’

‘Gnnn...’ Joseph swallowed whatever it was down. Then forced the words out. ‘Thank you.’

‘Now, like I said: take your boyfriend and bugger off. Before I change my mind.’

‘Here.’ Alice wriggled back into the booth next to me, holding out a tea towel full of ice. Voice trembling and a lot higher than normal. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital, because I really think you should go to the hospital.’ Pressing the cold damp towel against my forehead.

I tried for: ‘Give me that.’ But what actually came out was a nasal mushy: ‘Gibbee dat.’ I held the icepack over as much of my face as possible. Breathing hot peppery breaths into the clammy fabric while my head throbbed like a monstrous heart. Every time I inhaled it was like being punched in the ribs again. Knowing my luck, Francis had broken a few of them. But I wasn’t all that keen on prodding the things to find out.

The Monk and Casket wasn’t the fanciest pub in Oldcastle, or the nicest, or most hygienic. But it was dark and relatively quiet, nestled down at the bottom of Jamesmuir Road. The kind of place that had mock-Tudor nonsense on the outside; scarred wooden tables, red vinyl upholstery, and sticky wooden floors on the inside. A couple of puggy machines flashed and dinged in one corner, a pub quiz one over by the toilets. As if anyone in the Monk and Casket gave a toss what the capital of Paraguay was, as long as the booze was cheap. Not that it was busy in here: a couple of elderly prostitutes with bottles of extra-strong cider, a pair of miserable middle-aged men hunched over pints of Export, and an old wifie nursing a port-and-lemon while feeding Bacon Frazzles to the wee Westie poking out of her tartan shopping trolley. Alice. Henry. And me.

Oh, and Hairy Joe, currently serving Helen MacNeil with his usual grudging and surly approach to the hospitality industry.

I ruffled the hair between Henry’s ears. ‘How you holding up, teeny man?’

He gazed up at me with big sad dark eyes. Because no one was feeding him Bacon Frazzles. But, thankfully, Joseph didn’t appear to have caused Henry any permanent damage.

Alice pawed at me again, all fussing and jittery. ‘It wouldn’t take long to go to the hospital. It’s—’

‘I’m not going to the hospital!’ Let’s face it, I’d had worse beatings in the past. Lots and lots of them. This one barely made the top fifty...

Helen returned to the table, hands wrapped around two pint glasses of something pale, two shorts, a tin of Diet Coke and a packet of cheese-and-onion. A pint and a nip went in front of me. Then she settled into the other side of the booth and slid the Diet Coke in front of Alice. Who slid it back again and helped herself to one of the whiskies, knocking it back in one. Then gulping down about half the pint before Helen could open her mouth to complain.

‘I don’t drink.’ The Coke tin tisssshhhed at me as I clicked the ring-pull back. ‘Pills.’

She watched, mouth pursed as Alice polished off the last of the pint.

A burp. ‘I needed that, does anyone else feel like another drink, I think we deserve another drink, I’ll get a round in shall I, yes, a drink’s exactly what the doctor ordered, or what the doctor’s about to order, I mean I am a doctor, so technically it’s not really drinking it’s medicinal.’ A cold metallic bark of a laugh. Then she hurried over to the bar.

Helen took a sip of whisky, rolling it around her mouth. Then, ‘She’s kind of... jumpy.’

‘Last time we had a proper run-in with Joseph and Francis, it didn’t end well for a friend of ours.’ I closed my right eye and pointed at it. ‘Alice had to watch.’

‘Not everyone’s got the guts for it, I suppose.’ The last of the whisky disappeared. ‘What happened to you? Used to be a safe bet at the Westing — don’t remember anyone even making it to the second round against Ash Henderson.’

‘Yeah, my bare-knuckle days are long gone.’ I puffed out a breath. ‘Thought you were still palling around with Jennifer Prentice?’

‘Needed a lift back to Oldcastle, didn’t I? Besides, she wants to drive me about, following you, and pay for the petrol — like I’m going to turn that down?’ A smile. ‘Soon as your DS friend dropped you off, I told Jennifer where she could stuff her book. And when I saw that pair of freaks going into the Tartan Bunnet...?’ Helen shrugged, then started in on her pint. ‘You owe me, now. Big time.’

‘Francis sucker-punched me, OK?’ I dabbed the icepack against my face, going delicate around the nose and eyes. ‘How bad does it look?’

‘You really want to know?’

‘That bad?’

‘Worse. Hold still.’ Then she reached across the table and placed her palms against my cheeks. ‘This is going to hurt.’ Her thumbs jabbed into the sides of my nose and twisted.

A crunching noise filled the world and molten glass exploded between my eyes, rushing out across my cheeks, nostrils and sinuses catching light. Scalding liquid pouring down my top lip and spattering onto the tabletop. ‘Fuck!’

‘Don’t be such a baby.’ She pressed the icepack against my face again. ‘You’re getting blood everywhere.’

‘Son of a bitch...’

She pushed every beermat on the table into the spreading pool of bright scarlet. Leaned back in her seat, took a bite out of her pint — giving herself a pale froth moustache in the process. ‘Way I see it, I saved your life. And Dr Whatsit, too. And probably your mutt as well.’ Another mouthful. ‘So yes, you owe me.’

Yeah, I probably did.

Someone else I owed was Jennifer Bloody Prentice. All I did was chuck her phone into the sea, and she pays Joseph and Francis to ‘beat the living shit’ out of me? No way I was letting her get away with that. She could—

‘Oh my God, what happened?’

When I looked up, there was Alice, staring, drinks wobbling on a round brown tray.

‘Fixed his nose.’ Helen toasted her with the pint. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘I’ll get a cloth...’ And she was gone again.

‘The exchange rate is: your life, Dr Weirdo’s, and the dog’s for Gordon Smith’s. I think that’s fair, don’t you?’

The throbbing was settling into a dull ache — as if someone was squatting inside my skull trying to shove my eyeballs out of their sockets with hobnail boots on. ‘What happened to the six million?’

‘That’s gone down to two again.’

Not to be sniffed at — assuming my nose ever worked again. Two million would set us up somewhere new. Somewhere that wasn’t Oldcastle. Somewhere Alice could retire and maybe we could open up a bookshop or a pub or a wee hotel or something. Somewhere no one would come looking for us after I skinned Joseph alive.