Partners in Crime

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘You’ve no’ heard of Matt McFee? Wee Free McFee?’ Steel slouched in the passenger seat, fiddling with her bra strap. ‘Pin back your lugs and learn something for a change. Matthew McFee’s what you might call an unregulated personal finance facilitator.’

  Ah. ‘Loanshark?’

  ‘I remember there was this one woman, single mother, got into a bit of trouble with her council tax. Borrowed three hundred quid from Wee Free McFee; couldn’t pay it back. The interest was crippling, literally. He broke both her legs, then did the same to her wee boy. Gave her two weeks to come up with the cash, or he’s coming back to do their arms.’ Steel breathed on the passenger window, making it all misty, then drew an unhappy face with her fingertip. ‘Poor cow was too scared to press charges, so soon as she gets out of the hospital: that’s it.’

  Allan slowed down to let a bus out. ‘Did a runner?’

  ‘Locked herself and the kid in a car. Hosepipe from the exhaust.’ Steel gave her left breast one last hoik, then pointed at the windshield. ‘Crown Street. I fancy spreading some Christmas cheer.’

  Matthew ‘Wee Free’ McFee stood in the doorway, arms folded. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was wide, like he’d been squashed. Cold little eyes, a squint nose, and a ridiculous Magnum-PI-moustache. He was wearing an ugly jumper with a couple of deformed reindeer knitted into the pattern. ‘No, you can’t come in.’

  Steel stomped her feet, hands jammed deep into her armpits, voice streaming out on a cloud of white as thick flakes of snow spiralled down from the pale grey sky. ‘Charles Griffith.’

  ‘Never heard of him. Now, if you don’t mind…’ McFee tried to close the door, but the inspector jammed her foot into the gap. He looked down. ‘You’re dripping in my hall.’

  Inside, the house must have been huge — a big chunk of grey granite, halfway down Crown Street; iron railings out front, fencing off a little sunken courtyard with patio furniture just visible under a thick crust of snow. Allan stood on his tiptoes and peered over McFee’s head into the hallway: antique furniture, hunting prints on the wall. Looked nice and warm in there too…

  Steel pulled out the slip of yellow paper again. ‘That’s funny, cos right here it says Charles Griffith owes you four grand.’

  A shrug. ‘Overcommitted himself for Christmas, didn’t he? I offered to help him out, seeing how it’s the season of good will and that. Didn’t want to see his kiddies going without.’

  ‘Four grand down. What’s he owe now, after you’ve stuck your usual extortionate interest rate on it?’

  McFee folded his arms. ‘Extortionate interest rate? Nah, that’d be illegal. Was just Christian charity, wasn’t it? He can pay me back when he’s on his feet again.’ McFee smiled. It was all little pointy teeth, small yellow pegs set in pale-pink gums. ‘No problems.’

  Steel leaned forward. ‘Listen up, sunshine, Charles Griffith’s gone missing. And I don’t mean he’s done a bunk, I mean he’s disappeared. See if he turns up dead in a ditch, I’m coming right back here, hauling your hairy backside down the station, and pinning everything I can on you. We clear?’

  ‘You’re letting all the heat out.’

  She stepped back onto the pavement and McFee slammed the door.

  Allan cupped his hands and blew into them, making a little personal fog bank. Didn’t make his fingers any warmer though. ‘Back to the ranch? Or we could go and see those solicitors, if you like? About your inheritance?’

  She just scowled at him.

  ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Allan dropped a gear, the engine growling and complaining as it struggled to haul the pool car around the Denburn Roundabout, wheels shimmying through the slush. ‘You see that pile of stuff under their Christmas tree? Griffith probably spent a fortune kidding on he’s not been fired. Borrows four grand to keep up appearances, can’t pay it back.’

  ‘Mmm…’ Steel just scowled out of the passenger window.

  ‘Then last night, McFee turns up on Griffith’s doorstep, roughs him up a bit, Griffith drops everything and limps off into the sunset before McFee comes back with a pair of pliers. He’ll be halfway to Barbados by now.’

  ‘Mmm…’

  ‘Well, not if he’s flying out of Heathrow, but you know what I mean.’

  Silence.

  They were only doing fifteen miles an hour, but the car still fishtailed its way onto the Gallowgate.

  Steel thunked her head against the glass. Sighed.

  Allan feathered the clutch, finally getting the thing under control. ‘How come you’re so bent out of shape about someone leaving you loads of cash?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘I mean, if someone wanted to give me a dirty big handout, you wouldn’t catch me complaining. Bet Charles Griffith wouldn’t say no either.’

  Steel hauled out a packet of Benson amp; Hedges and a lighter, the wheel making scratching noises against the flint as she quested for fire. Lit up. Puffed out a lungful of smoke. Then the grumble of traffic oozed into the car, riding a breath of frigid air as she buzzed the window down. ‘Get a photo and description out to all the hospitals in Scotland. If Charlie-boy has done a bunk after a visit from McFee, he’s going to need a doctor. If he’s no’ already in the mortuary.’

  ‘I mean, who couldn’t do with some more cash?’

  A cloud of smoke broke against Allan’s cheek.

  ‘I’m only-’

  ‘I’m not taking money from that…’ She puckered her lips. ‘Just shut up and drive.’

  The solicitor’s receptionist was making eyes at him. Or maybe she was making eyes at the pot plant in the corner? It was kind of hard to tell, the way that they both pointed off in different directions like that. Long curly blonde hair, little chin, heart-shaped face, scarlet lips. Cute, in a sort of Marty Feldman meets Christina Aguilera kind of way. She pulled off her glasses and polished them on the hem of her skirt, flashing an inch of milk-bottle-white thigh and the top of a hold-up stocking. A smile, squint like her eyes. ‘I’m sure they won’t be long. Would you like another cup of tea?’

  It was an old-fashioned kind of room, with wooden panelling and dark red carpets, the walls covered in framed watercolours and certificates.

  Allan shifted in his green leather armchair. ‘No, thanks. I’m good.’ Tea and coffee were just wheeching right through him today. Must be the cold. ‘So … have you worked for Emmerson and Macphail long?’ OK, not the smoothest of lines, but slightly better than, ‘Do you come here often.’

  ‘Two months. Mostly it’s just answering the phones and making tea.’ She bit her bottom lip, one eye lingering its way up his body — while the other went off for a wander on its own — coming to rest on the flashing Santa bobble hat at the very top. ‘We don’t usually get anyone as exciting as the police in here. Are you working on a case?’

  ‘Actually,’ he scooted forward, lowering his voice, ‘we’re-’

  The office door banged open and the inspector stormed out, arms going in all directions. ‘Don’t you sodding tell me to calm down, you patronising, sanctimonious, hairy-eared, old-’

  ‘But Mrs Steel,’ a baldy-headed man shuffled out after her, the front of his white shirt soaked through with what looked like tea, ‘you have to understand, we’re talking about a considerable sum of money here. At least think about it.’

  She marched straight through the reception area and out the main door, slamming it hard enough to make a wall full of pictures shudder.

  ‘Oh dear.’ He ran a hand across his forehead, then stood there, dripping on the carpet. ‘She really is quite excitable.’

  Allan stood. Pointed at the door. ‘I’d better, probably-’

  ‘Constable, can you do your inspector a favour?’ The solicitor pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his damp face. ‘Tell her the time limit contained in the behest is very precise. Mr MacDuff will be cremated at three o’clock on the twenty-seventh, whether she’s there to deliver the eulogy or not. And considering how much is at s
take… Well, it would certainly be in her best interests.’

  ‘Er, exactly how much are we talking about?’

  ‘I really don’t think it would be appropriate for me to discuss that.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘Daphne, can you be a dear and fetch me a towel? I appear to have had an accident.’

  December 27th

  Half past nine and Allan was in the canteen, piling foil-wrapped bacon butties onto a brown plastic tray. Good job he wasn’t one of those evangelical vegetarians, or he’d be spitting in every one. CID were just a bunch of lazy sods. Should be getting their own damn butties. Whatever happened to good will to all men?

  He squeezed in half a dozen assorted coffees at the other end and carried the lot down to the CID wing. Really it was just of a handful of rooms lurking at the end of a smelly corridor they still hadn’t managed to scrub the brown streaks out of, but that didn’t sound quite as impressive.

  DI Steel was lurking in her office, scowling at the phone and drumming her nails on the desktop. ‘Took your time.’

  Allan dumped a buttie and a big wax-paper cup beside her in-tray. ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘Don’t start.’ She unwrapped the floury roll and sank her teeth into it. ‘Mmmph, mnnnnphmmm?’

  ‘Today’s the twenty-seventh.’

  ‘Stunning powers of observation there, Constable Guthrie. You’ll go far.’

  ‘What I mean is, it’s the funeral today. Of your mate, MacDuff.’

  ‘Desperate Doug MacDuff’s no sodding mate of mine.’ Another mouthful, washed down with a scoof of coffee. ‘Get a car.’

  ‘How much?’ Allan turned to stare at her.

  ‘Watch the road!’

  He snapped back just in time to see the back end of a bus. Slammed on the brakes. The pedal juddered under his foot, the ABS twitching as the car slid into the kerb. So much for the weather getting better after Christmas. The roads were like glass, and everyone drove like an idiot. ‘Stupid bus driver…’ Allan wrangled the car back out onto the road. ‘Fifty-four thousand quid, and all you have to do is deliver the guy’s eulogy?’

  ‘It’s no’ as simple as that. I’d have to be nice about him. And if his greasy lawyer thought I’d no’ been enthusiastic enough, I’d get sod all. Enthusiastic, about Desperate Doug MacDuff?’ She stared out of the window, mouth a narrow, pinched line. ‘Man worked as an enforcer for the McLeods, Wee Hamish Mowat, and Malk the Knife. Killed at least six people we know of, probably a hell of a lot more. Then there’s the beatings, abductions. Rape…’

  ‘So lie. Fifty-four grand! Say he was a great guy, a credit to his family, loved by women, admired by men. Take the money and run; who cares if he was a complete scumbag?’

  ‘I care.’

  ‘No answer.’ Allan stuffed his hands back in his pockets.

  ‘Try it again.’

  The Griffiths’ street was like Dr Zhivagoland — everything covered in rounded mounds of white. Cars, hedges, trees, the lot. Icicles made glass fangs from the guttering, twinkling in the morning light. Sky so blue it was almost painful to look at.

  He leant on the doorbell again and a deep brrrrrrrrrrrrrring sounded somewhere inside. ‘Maybe she’s gone out?’

  Steel shook her head. ‘Look at the drive.’

  Someone had dug it clear, all the way to the slippery road; a snow-blanketed Range Rover was parked in front of the garage, one of those big ugly Porsche Cayennes blocking it in. The paintwork frost-free and glistening. ‘She’s got visitors.’

  ‘Once more with feeling.’

  Allan ground his thumb into the brass bell, keeping the noise going. ‘You know, there’s still plenty time to head out to the Crem.’

  ‘I’m no’ telling you again.’

  ‘Just saying: fifty-four grand goes a long way when you’ve got a wee kid to bring up. Good nursery, maybe a private school, couple of nice holidays. Otherwise, what, the Taxman gets it?’

  ‘Where the hairy hell is…’ Steel screwed her eyes up, peering through the glass panel beside the door. ‘Here we go.’

  A muffled voice. ‘Who is it?’

  The inspector stepped forward and slammed her palm into the wood. ‘Police. Open up.’

  ‘Oh… But, I-’

  ‘Now.’

  A clunk and rattle, then the door creaked open a crack and a big pink face stared out at them. ‘Have you found Charles? Is he all right?’ Her cheeks were all flushed, a pale fringe of hair sticking to her glistening forehead.

  Steel smiled. ‘Can we come in?’

  ‘Ah… Well, I’m… It’s not really convenient, right-’

  The inspector placed a hand against the door and pushed, forcing her back into the hall. ‘Won’t take long.’

  Allan followed Steel inside, clunking the door closed behind him, shutting out the cold.

  Mrs Griffith stood in the hallway, one hand clutching the front of her silk kimono, keeping everything hidden. Thank God. ‘Look, can’t this wait till-’

  ‘Where is he?’

  The pink on her cheeks darkened. ‘I… Don’t know. That’s why I called you. He’s missing and I’m very upset.’

  ‘Oh aye. But no’ upset enough to put you off a wee bit of the old mid-morning delight, eh?’ Steel wandered over to the foot of the stairs, leaning on the polished wooden banister.

  Mrs Griffith stuck her nose in the air, stretching out the folds in her neck. ‘I think you should go.’

  ‘Come out, come out wherever you are! Game’s a bogey, the man’s in the lobby!’

  ‘I must protest, you shouldn’t-’

  Steel cupped her hands into a makeshift megaphone. ‘Come on McFee, I know you’re in here, I recognised your car! Lets be havin’ you!’

  Silence. Then a voice echoed down from upstairs. ‘Erm… I’m a little tied up at the moment. Well, handcuffed, technically…’

  The inspector grinned. ‘Bingo.’ She bounded up the stairs two at a time, Mrs Griffith lumbering after her, making little groaning noises.

  ‘It’s not what you think, really!’

  Allan followed them up to a plush bedroom that could have come straight from the pages of a swanky magazine. Oatmeal carpet, red velvet curtains, polished oak units, and a big four-poster bed with a naked man manacled to it. Wee Free McFee, wearing nothing but a smile and a couple of crocodile clips in a very sensitive location. OK, so the magazine would have to be Better Homes and Perverts, but it was the thought that counted.

  McFee tried a shrug. ‘I’d get up, but … you know.’

  Allan winced. ‘Does that not hurt?’

  Steel plonked herself down on the edge of the bed. ‘No’ interrupting anything, am I?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Mrs Griffith grabbed the duvet and hauled it up, covering McFee’s wee hairy body. ‘I really don’t see how this is any of your business.’

  ‘What’s the deal, she paying off her husband’s debt in naughty favours? That it?’

  ‘Actually-’

  Mrs Griffith put a hand on his chest. ‘Matthew and I are deeply in love. We have been for nearly a year. When Charles gets back, I’m going to ask him for a divorce.’

  ‘Divorce?’ The inspector bounced up and down a couple of times, making the springs creak. ‘Tell you what I think: I think the pair of you decided you couldn’t be bothered with a long, drawn out legal battle, so you killed him, dumped the body somewhere, and reported him missing. Cooked up the receipt for four grand so we’d think he’d done a bunk to get out of paying his debt.’ She smiled. ‘How am I doing so far?’

  McFee looked at her for a minute, then burst out laughing. ‘We’re gonna get married. You any idea how hard it’d be for Mags to get a divorce if Charles is missing? Couldn’t even have him declared dead for what, seven, eight years? No way we’re waiting that long. Nice quickie divorce, and we can all get on with our lives.’ He winked. ‘Might even send you an invitation.’

  ‘Pull over.’ Steel scowled out of the windscreen, arms folded across her
chest, jaw jutting.

  ‘You sure? It’s half two, you don’t want to be-’

  ‘I swear to God, Constable, if you don’t pull over right now I’m going to take my boot and I’m going to jam it right up your-’

  ‘OK, OK, pulling over.’ Talk about a bear with a sore bum.

  The car crunched and bumped over a moonscape of compacted snow, coming to a halt outside a wee corner shop on Queens Road. A little billboard thing was screwed to the wall: ‘ABERDEEN EXAMINER — END IN SIGHT FOR WINTER CHAOS!’ Aye, right.

  Steel unclipped her seatbelt and clambered out onto the crusty pavement, slipped, grabbed the door, wobbled for a bit, then straightened up. ‘No’ a word.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything!’

  She slammed the door and picked her way into the shop.

  How could someone be that miserable about inheriting fifty-four grand?

  Steel was back five minutes later with a white carrier-bag clutched to her chest. Buckled herself in, then pulled out a half bottle of Famous Grouse. The top came off with a single twist, then she stared at the bottle for a moment, before knocking back a mouthful. Closed her eyes and shuddered. Took another sip. ‘What you looking at?’

  ‘Just thought it was kind of … you know … on duty and…’ He swallowed. She was glowering at him.

  ‘Drive.’

  She was about a third of the way down the bottle by the time they reached the rutted driveway to the crematorium. The memorial gardens were covered in a thick layer of white, stealing the sharp edges from everything. According to the car’s temperature display, it was minus four out there.

  Allan crept along the road, making for the bulky building at the end. The place was a collection of grey and brown rectangles, bolted together into a single unappealing, ugly, lump. As if just being a crematorium wasn’t depressing enough.

  There was only one other vehicle in the car park, a frost-rimed 4x4. Allan parked a couple of spaces along and checked the clock: two fifty-eight. ‘Doesn’t look like he was all that popular.’