‘But—’
‘You’re not a child, for goodness’ sake. Surely you can catch a shoplifter without a SWAT team!’
Roberta wheeched around the corner, grabbing onto a big bearded guy to stay upright. ‘Well bugger you, then!’
The big guy flinched back. ‘What did I do?’
She jammed her phone in her pocket and skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs.
Oh … wow, that was a long way down.
The stairs weren’t far off vertical, at least three-and-a-half-storeys’-worth of thin granite steps, with a handrail at either side and one down the middle. Fall here and it’d be bounce, crack, bang, wallop, thump, crunch, scream, crash, splinter, THUD. Followed by sirens and nine months in traction.
Hoodie Number One was already halfway down the stairs. Taking them two at a time.
A boxed iPhone spilled from his backpack and bounced off the granite steps.
Gah …
She stuck both hands out, hovering them over the railings. And ran.
Going to die, going to die, going to die …
Down at the bottom of the stairs, Hoodie Number Two – the one dressed in red – hammered past, laughter echoing off the grey buildings.
And Hoodie Number One was nearly at the bottom too, grinning over his shoulder at her.
Where the hell was Tufty when you actually needed him?
How could one detective constable be so completely and utterly, totally—
He ran into view, staring straight ahead. Which was a shame, because Hoodie Number One wasn’t watching where he was going either and smashed right into him.
BANG!
They both hit the cobblestones in a twisted starfish of arms and legs. Thrashing and bashing and crashing as she hurried down the last two flights of stairs and into the Green.
They rolled into the ‘Pedestrian Zone ENDS’ sign with a faint clang.
‘Aaaargh, gerroffus gerroffus!’
Roberta skidded to a halt at the foot of the stairs. Looked right.
Hoodie Number Two was just visible as a red smudge – running deeper into the tunnel that led under the St Nicholas Centre and out to the dual carriageway. He turned and treated them to his middle fingers. Then his voice thrummed out, amplified by all that concrete and granite, ‘CATCH YOU LATER, MASTURBATOR!’ That red smudge vanished into the gloom.
‘Sodding hell …’ Roberta bent double, grabbing her knees and puffing like an ancient Labrador.
Tufty hauled Hoodie Number One to his feet, both hands cuffed behind the wee sod’s back.
A cough, then Tufty wiped a hand over his shiny forehead. Gave his prisoner a shoogle. ‘You are comprehensively nicked.’
The wee sod just grinned and stood on his tiptoes, shouting after his friend: ‘IN A WHILE, PAEDOPHILE!’
Kids today.
Tufty pushed through the scabby grey doors into a scabby grey room. Voices echoed up from the cells below, bouncing off the breeze-block walls – some singing, some shouting, some swearing, some crying. Call it ‘NE Division’s Custody Suite Symphony’ in arrested major.
He tightened his grip on the blue-hoodied shoplifter, manhandling him over to the custody desk – chest high with a selection of that season’s Police Scotland posters and notices Sellotaped to the beech laminate front. ‘BOGUS CALLERS, SCAMMER, AND THIEVES’, ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’, ‘DOMESTIC VIOLENCE ISN’T LOVE’, ‘“NO” MEANS “NO!”’
A huge man was hunched over the desk, wearing the standard-issue black T-shirt with sergeant’s stripes on the epaulettes. No need to call in Hercule Poirot to investigate ‘who ate all the pies’ – the answer was elementary, my dear Morse: Big Gary. He had his tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he scribbled away at something.
Steel sauntered up, popped onto her tiptoes and peered over the desk. ‘Aye, aye …’ Her hand snaked out and she snatched whatever the sergeant was scribbling on. ‘Colouring-in for adults?’ She flipped through the pages. ‘This no’ a bit advanced for you, Gary? You’re supposed to stay inside the lines.’
Big Gary grabbed for it, but she skipped back out of reach. Grinning.
‘Tufty, do the honours. I’m going to draw willies on all Big Gary’s pictures.’
Another grab, another miss. ‘Don’t you dare!’
Tufty gave Blue a nudge, propelling him closer to the desk. Then mimed pinging a hotel bell. ‘Ding. Single room with en suite and a view of the lake, please.’
A tiny smile flirted with the corner of Big Gary’s mouth. ‘And what name’s the reservation in?’
Silence.
Tufty poked Blue again. ‘The nice man wants to know your name.’
Blue’s shoulders came up. His voice: small and sulky. ‘No comment.’
A sigh. Then Big Gary took a form from beneath the desk and slapped it down on the top. ‘Very good, son. But you’re supposed to save that bit for when your lawyer gets here. Now: name?’
A grin. ‘Wanky McSpunkbucket. The third.’
‘Oh be still my splitting sides.’ Big Gary pointed at another of his many, many posters.
‘IT IS AN OFFENCE TO GIVE FALSE DETAILS TO THE POLICE’.
‘Let’s not make it any worse, eh?’
Blue shrugged again. Looked down at his shiny white trainers. ‘Charles Roberts.’
‘Thank you. And where do you live, Charles Roberts?’
‘No com …’
Big Gary pointed at the poster again.
‘Thirteen Froghall Crescent.’
‘There we go.’
Tufty snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and dug into the knapsack, still strapped to the kid’s back.
‘Hey, gerroff us!’
He stuck a pair of iPhones – brand new and still in their boxes – on the custody desk. Followed by half-a-dozen Samsungs: boxed, three Nokias: boxed, eight assorted smartphones: used, and four wallets. Another wallet and two smartphones: used, from the pockets of the blue hoodie.
‘I never seen them before in my life. You planted that lot.’
‘Really?’ He took hold of one of the hoodie sleeves and pulled it up. A row of three watches sparkled in the romantic overhead strip lighting.
‘You planted that as well.’
‘Don’t be a—’
The double doors banged open and in marched a heavyweight boxer in a dark suit and pale blue tie. Broken nose, narrow eyes, hair swept back from a widow’s peak. Two plainclothes uglies followed in his wake, both in matching grey suits and red ties, hipster haircuts, and I’m-So-Hard-And-Cool expressions. Like a two-man boy band. The uglies frogmarched a little guy with a grubby face up to the custody desk. The cuffs of his shirt were ragged and stained a dark reddy-brown, more stains on the front of his tattered jumper.
The boxer pointed at Big Gary. ‘Sergeant McCormack, I want Mr Forester processed, seen by the duty doctor, given a solicitor, and placed in an interrogation room within the hour.’
Steel bristled. ‘Hoy, wait your turn. We were here first.’
He turned a withering glare on her. ‘Did you say something, Sergeant?’
‘Aye. Back of the queue, mush.’
The boxer stepped closer, looming over her. ‘You seem to be a little confused, Sergeant. You’re not a detective chief inspector any more.’ He poked her with a finger. ‘And while you’re running around after shoplifters and druggies, I’m out there catching murderers.’
One of his sidekicks sniggered.
Steel’s face curdled.
But he just smiled. ‘I outrank the hell out of you now, and if I say my suspect goes first, he goes first. Understand?’
She glowered back, lips and jaws moving like she was chewing on something horrible.
‘I said: do – you – understand?’
The reply was barely audible. ‘Yes, Guv.’
‘Or would you like another visit to Professional Standards?’
She narrowed her eyes. Bared her teeth.
Oh God, it was all going to kick off, was
n’t it?
But Steel swallowed it down. Cricked her neck to one side. ‘No, Guv.’
‘Good. I’m glad we had this little chat, aren’t you?’
Please don’t hit him, please don’t hit him …
Tufty stuck a finger in his other ear and leaned back against the meeting room wall. Next to the whiteboard with a huge willy drawn on it in black and red marker pen. ‘Yes … No … I think that’s OK, isn’t it? … Were we? Sorry, didn’t know.’
Idiot.
Roberta let her head fall back, over the back of her leather chair, and stared up at the ceiling with its regular grid of toothpaste-white tiles. OK, the view was a bit dull, but it was still better than looking at Harmsworth.
She snuck a peek anyway.
He was sitting on the other side of the long oval meeting table, feet up on one of the big blotter-sized notepads, peering at a copy of the Aberdeen Examiner like someone who’d forgotten his glasses. Chubby wee sod that he was, with his receding hairline and a face that looked as if it’d never smiled in its life. A miserable balding bloodhound in a rumpled brown suit. Picking his nose when he thought no one was looking.
Oh she got all the ‘special’ ones on her team, didn’t she?
Roberta’s phone ding-dinged at her. Incoming text:
I beat Lizzy Horsens by eight strokes! She’s
moaning about it like a whiny little bitch!
It’ll kill her when I win the trophy again!
I’m a golfing NINJA!!!:)
She smiled and thumbed out a reply:
Golfing ninja Susan!
So I take it we’re celebrating tonight? You
wear a sexy nightie and I’ll pretend I’m
there to fix the washing machine.
Send.
Harmsworth was digging away in his nose again. Well if he was searching for a brain he was excavating the wrong end of his body.
Ding-ding:
Don’t be naughty. Logan’s coming over to
see the kids tonight, remember? I’m doing
chicken casserole, so don’t be late.
Sit down and break bread with Logan Traitorous Scumbag McRae? Rather break the casserole dish over his sodding head.
Then make him eat all the jagged broken bits …
Oh for goodness’ sake: Harmsworth was still at it.
He glanced up and caught her looking. Popped his finger out. Sighed. Then droned on in that depressing Marvin-the-Paranoid-Android voice of his, ‘Listen to this:’ he ruffled his newspaper, ‘“Blackburn residents live in fear of sex pest pervert. ‘I can’t even cook dinner with the blinds open,’ said Janice Wilkinson, brackets, thirty-one. ‘What if one of the children look out of the window and see him?’”’ Another sigh. ‘You’d have to be a bit funny in the head, wouldn’t you?’
Roberta grimaced back at him. ‘I used to be the one catching murderers. And now look at me. Stuck here with you pair of neeps.’
Tufty laughed. ‘I know … Yeah. Probably.’
‘I mean, who wakes up one morning and thinks, “You know what I fancy? Sticking on a superhero mask and having a wank outside someone’s kitchen window while they’re doing the dishes.”’
The boy idiot put a hand over the mouthpiece of his phone. ‘Sarge? That’s our boy ready to interview.’
‘Oh joy.’ She let her head fall back again, then blew a big wet raspberry. ‘Urgh …’ A drizzle of cold spittle drifted back down across her face. She sat up and wiped it off.
Tufty went back to his phone. ‘Yeah, we’ll be right down.’
Harmsworth gave his paper another theatrical ruffle. ‘Speaking of wankers, did you see this?’ He turned it around, showing off a two-page spread. A photo of a skinny wee nyaff sat beneath the headline ‘“POLICE CORRUPTION BLIGHTS ABERDEEN” CLAIMS MISCARRIAGE OF JUSTICE VICTIM’. Jack Sodding Wallace, wearing his going-to-court suit, standing outside the council offices on Broad Street. He was holding a sheet of paper up, as if that meant anything, looking all serious and concerned at it. Raping wee shite.
Harmsworth sniffed. ‘Jack Wallace says we’re all a bunch of useless dodgy bastards.’
‘Jack Wallace can roll himself up sideways and shove it up a llama’s bumhole!’
‘Says all we do is fit up innocent people and take bribes.’
She stabbed a finger in Harmsworth’s direction. ‘I’m no’ telling you again, Constable.’
A huff and he went back to his newspaper. ‘Don’t know why I bother. No one ever appreciates it.’
Tufty put his phone away and pointed at the door. ‘Sarge?’
Harmsworth was still groaning on. ‘I should just go jump under a bus. Give you all a laugh. Oh look at Owen, he’s all squished and dead. Isn’t that funny? Ha, ha, ha.’
‘Well, we can all dream.’ Roberta stood. Twinged a bit, then had a dig at her treasonous left underwire. Whoever designed bras to have sharp pokey bits of metal in them needed a stiff kick up the bumhole. ‘Meantime: get your backside in gear. Two teas, interview room …?’ She looked at Tufty.
‘Three.’
‘And see if you can scare up some biscuits too.’
A groan, then Harmsworth made a big show of folding his paper and stood. Smeared a martyred expression across his miserable face. ‘Oh, just order Owen about, why not? Not as if he contributes anything to the team, is it? No. Make the tea, Owen. Find some biscuits, Owen …’ He slouched from the room, leaving the door to swing closed behind him.
Idiots. Morons. Whingers. And tosspots. Why couldn’t she get dynamic go-getting sex bunnies in her team? How was that fair?
She glowered at the ceiling. ‘I swear on the sainted grave of Jasmine’s gerbil, Agamemnon …’
The door opened again.
For God’s sake!
Roberta turned the glower into a glare. ‘Two sodding teas and a couple of biscuits! How difficult can it—’ But it wasn’t DC Moanier-Than-Thou Harmsworth, it was a lump of uniformed officers all clutching notebooks and clipboards.
The guy at the front had inspector’s pips on his broad shoulders. He looked over the top of his little round glasses at his watch. Oh, I’m so important! ‘What are you doing in here?’
‘Inspector Evans. It’s been yonks, hasn’t it? How’s your piles these days?’
He stiffened. ‘I’ve got this meeting room booked till five.’
‘Just keeping it warm for you.’ She stood and hooked a thumb at Tufty, then at the door. ‘We’re leaving anyway.’
Tufty followed her out into the corridor, and as the door swung shut Inspector Evans’s voice went up an octave. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake! Who keeps drawing willies on all the whiteboards?’
II
‘No comment.’ Charles Roberts shoogled in his seat, setting his white Tyvec suit rustling. Even the extra small was way too big for him, the sleeves and legs rolled up about six inches so they didn’t flop about. Cleaned up and out of his shoplifting gear, he looked even younger. Nine years old, maybe ten at a push?
Interview Room Three had more stains than carpet on the floor. A weird wet patch in the corner by the window that looked a bit like Joseph Merrick if you squinted. A radiator that gurgled, pinged, and whistled away to itself.
Roberts was on the naughty side of the chipped Formica table, his appointed solicitor sitting next to him in an ill-fitting suit. She looked about as bored as it was possible to be and not die from it. Apparently being a middle-aged lawyer doing Legal Aid wasn’t the non-stop party bus it was cracked up to be.
A sad older man in a baggy grey cardigan was squeezed in at the end of the table in a chair nicked from the office across the hall. Grey cardigan. Grey hair. Grey moustache. Grey face.
Steel dunked a chocolate Hobnob into her tea and sooked the molten brown off.
She was braver than Tufty. No way he was risking a sip of the suspiciously milky beverage DC Harmsworth had banged down on the table with a sinister mutter about how nobody ever appreciated him. Five people. Two teas.
/> Tufty picked up an evidence bag from the blue plastic crate at his feet. Held it out. ‘I am now showing Mr Roberts Exhibit Nine.’ One of the brand new iPhones, still in its box and cellophane wrapper. ‘What about this one, Charles, do you recognise it?’
A rustly shrug. ‘Never seen it in me life before.’
‘You stole it this morning, didn’t you?’
Rustle. ‘No comment, yeah?’
Steel finished her Hobnob and sooked her fingers clean. Shifted in her seat. Yawned. Didn’t say a word.
‘You and your accomplice in the red hoodie stole a large number of phones from the shops on Union Street. I saw you do it.’
‘Nah you didn’t.’ He turned to his solicitor. ‘They’re totally lying. Me and Billy never nicked nothing.’
Steel slumped forwards, hands covering her face. ‘Oh God, I’m so bored.’
Captain Cardigan sighed. ‘Come on, Roberta, play nice.’
She sagged back again. ‘It’s all right for you, you don’t have to do this day after day. “No comment.” “It wasnae me.” “A big boy did it and ran away.” Over and over and over … You social workers don’t know you’re born.’
Roberts’ solicitor shuffled her paperwork. ‘Perhaps this would be a good time to take a short break?’
Steel closed her eyes and jerked forwards, arms straight, palms flat down on the table, head hanging. ‘Oooooooooooooo … OOOOOOoooooo …’
Everyone stared.
The solicitor shrank back a bit in her seat. ‘Is she OK? Do we need to call a doctor?’
But Steel’s voice belted out, ‘Big Chief Lionel Goldberg, are you there?’
‘Is this meant to be some sort of joke?’
‘Knock once for yes, twice for no.’
Captain Cardigan rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, Roberta, this isn’t helping anyone.’
‘Big Chief Lionel Goldberg, I beseech you: guide me from the spirit world!’
Roberts’ solicitor scowled. ‘Whoever heard of a Red Indian chief called “Goldberg”?’
‘Ooooooo-oooo-oooooh … OOOOOOooo …’
‘For goodness’ sake.’ A sigh from Captain Cardigan. ‘I could’ve retired last year. Could be on the golf course right now.’
Now We Are Dead Page 2