‘Tell me, oh wise and powerful spirit, what does the future hold?’
The solicitor’s papers got stuffed in a satchel. ‘I’m going to make a formal complaint. This is simply not acceptable.’
Steel held up a hand. ‘Big Chief Lionel Goldberg him say, “Hud yer wheesht, quine.” The future … yes, I can see it now!’
Charles Roberts grinned. ‘She’s mental. Proper in-the-head mental.’
‘We shall sit in this stinky wee room for the next hour and a half, wasting our time, listening to him denying everything. Then we’ll stick him in a cell and … and we’ll get the CCTV footage from Union Street, and the security camera stuff from the shop, and do him for nicking all those phones anyway …’
‘Nah, you planted them, like. Remember?’
‘What’s that, Big Chief Lionel Goldberg? And then we’ll check the records for the last three weeks? What will we find, oh mighty spirit?’
‘I insist you stop this ridiculous charade, right now! My client will not answer any further questions under these circumstances!’
Tufty shared an apologetic smile with the other side of the table. ‘Sorry about this.’
‘OOOooooo … We’ll find that the six phone shops on Union Street have reported over twenty grand’s worth of stock stolen? And they’re certain it was Charlie-boy here and his mate Billy that did it?’
‘Nah.’ Roberts shook his head. ‘And you can’t do nothing about it, cos we’re just kids. We ain’t responsible.’
‘And Charlie will get three years in a young offenders’ institution? Maybe a nice comfy borstal?’
Roberts’ solicitor slammed her hand down on the table. ‘All right, that is ENOUGH!’
Steel sat back. Had a scratch at her armpit. Stared at their junior-issue shoplifter. ‘Where’s your mum and dad, Charlie? How come we had to get a social worker in to be your appropriate adult?’
Roberts pulled up the hood of his rustly suit, shrinking into it. Looked away. All bravado gone. ‘No comment.’
Steel thumped Tufty on the arm. ‘Call it.’
‘Interview terminated at twelve twenty-six.’
The sound of voices floated up the stairwell from somewhere below. The rattle and clank of cutlery and crockery coming from the station canteen, joined by the smell of cauliflower, sausages, and chips.
Steel tugged her jacket on, fighting with the sleeves. ‘Lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch.’
Tufty followed her downstairs. ‘A fiver says they’re going to make a complaint.’
‘I’m feeling a bit pizza-ish. That or noodles.’
‘I thought you were trying to keep a low profile?’
‘Maybe a baked tattie?’
Tufty sighed. ‘The boy was right: you’re off your head. You know that, don’t you?’
‘What’s wrong with baked tatties?’
‘Not baked potatoes, the complaint!’
A small man in a sharp suit was on his way up the stairs. Short, but wiry and powerful looking. The kind you always had to watch in a fight, because he had something to prove. He looked up, raised an eyebrow. Then stopped in the middle of the stairs, reached out, and took hold of both handrails. Blocking their path. ‘Detective Sergeant Steel, what’s this I hear about you holding a séance in Interview Three?’
‘Oh, Detective Chief Inspector Rutherford, can you believe it?’ She bit her bottom lip and put the back of one hand against her forehead, looking a bit like a B-movie damsel in distress. ‘DC Quirrel here thinks there’s something wrong with having baked tatties for lunch.’
‘“Big Chief Lionel Goldberg”?’
‘They were all out of Native Americans at the spirit guide shop.’
There was a hint of a smile. ‘Witnesses from beyond the grave aren’t admissible in court, Sergeant. And you can consider yourself lucky Charles Roberts’ solicitor isn’t making a formal complaint.’
She frowned. ‘I think I was right in the first place: ham-and-mushroom pizza, with extra cheese.’
‘I’m serious, Roberta.’ All hint of that smile disappeared. ‘The last thing you need is another visit from Professional Standards. Might not get off so lightly next time.’
Her expression hardened. ‘Thank you, Guv.’
‘And what about the other shoplifter, this “Billy” character?’
Steel shrugged. ‘That’ll be Billy Moon. Him and Charles Roberts have been tag-team nicking things since they could walk. He’ll lay low for a few days, then he’ll be out on the streets again, five-finger-discounting everything he can grab. Don’t worry, we’ll get him.’
‘Excellent. In the meantime we have twenty-three thousand, eight hundred and sixty pounds’ worth of missing phones out there somewhere. That would be a significant amount of stolen property to recover, don’t you think?’
‘Guv.’ All the warmth of a fridge freezer.
‘Then you’d better go recover it, hadn’t you?’
She stuck her hand against her forehead again, bottom lip trembling. ‘But … But pizza?’ Ham-and-mushrooming it up.
‘Remember: the road to redemption is paved with little victories.’ He let go of the handrails and stepped past her.
Tufty slunk back, out of his way. Watching as the detective chief inspector disappeared up the stairs.
Then his voice echoed down from the floor above. ‘And no more séances!’
Tufty waited until the sound of a door shutting rang out. ‘So … We still can has pizza?’
Steel sagged. ‘Sodding hell.’
III
The police van rattled and squeaked its way past a big red-brick building with a pagoda sticking out the middle of it.
Tufty indicated right and drifted the van into the turning lane. Waiting for the traffic on the other side of the dual carriageway to open up.
Sitting in the passenger seat, Steel had her feet up on the dashboard, digging away at some itchy spot at the back of one knee.
The Proclaimers sang away on the radio, boasting about how many miles they’d walk for the honour of collapsing, knackered, outside someone’s front door – when surely it would make a lot more sense to just drive over there, leaving you with plenty of energy for a nice cup of tea, a fondant fancy, and a bit of frisky naughty business.
But it was fun to hum along to.
Steel held up a hand. ‘Warrant?’
DC Barrett scooted forward in his seat, bringing with him a waft of aftershave mixed with cheese-and-onion. He held out a sheet of paper. ‘Signed, sealed, and dated.’ In the rear-view mirror he looked bigger than he was. Blond, snubbed nose. Prominent ears. A bit more overbite than was healthy in a grown man.
‘Thanks Davey.’ She stuck the warrant in her pocket without so much as a glance. ‘Now, anyone set on doing a formal recap of the whole plan, or can we just get on with the important bits?’
Right, then up the hill and over the railway bridge.
The van was fitted out with a cage at the back for ferrying the very naughty from arrest to the station. In front of that were two rows of seats, facing each other. And when Barrett sat back down again, Harmsworth and DC Lund were revealed in the mirror. Harmsworth looking like someone had just told him he had twenty-four hours to live, but all the shops were shut. And Lund looking like someone’s mum had gone on a fitness kick and then fell asleep at the hairdresser’s.
Tufty drove into a big housing estate of terraced council flats, built in the standard Aberdeen configuration: blocks of six, sharing a front door, stitched together in a long, featureless row. The front doors had been painted in jaunty primary colours, but the buildings themselves wore a coat of faded dirty white.
Barrett consulted his clipboard. ‘Thirteen Froghall Crescent – address supplied by one Charles Roberts when questioned about the large quantity of stolen mobile phones in his possession at time of arrest. Flat’s owner is one Miss Harriet Ellis, currently residing in a residential care home in Portlethen. Early onset dementia. No relation to young Master Roberts. And I
couldn’t find any next of kin for her on the system, so the place is probably being used as a squat.’
Lund leaned forward. ‘Dogs?’
‘Not that we know of. But I’m definitely taking my can of Bite Back with me.’
‘Yeah … Bags being the one to batter down the door. You three can charge in and get bitten first.’
Harmsworth groaned. ‘I should go last. It’s not my fault dogs find me extra tasty.’
‘Tough.’ Lund picked up a riot helmet from the seat next to her and held it out, upside down to Steel. Little bits of blue and red paper were just visible in there.
Another right and Tufty pulled onto a street where the terraces gave way to twin rows of squat granite semis with tiny front gardens. Some paved over to provide off-road parking.
‘Are we ready?’ Steel turned and rummaged in the helmet, one hand covering her eyes. She came out with two bits – unfolded and peered at them. Held them out at arm’s length to get them into focus. ‘Right. Today’s expletive of choice is …’
Tufty gave a little drum roll on the steering wheel. ‘Tant-ta-ta-taaaaa!’
‘“Motherfunker.” And if something’s good it’s, “Snake-alicious.”’
Another groan from Grumpy Harmsworth. ‘Oh not again.’
Barrett nodded. ‘Got to love the classics.’
‘Why can we never have the ones I suggested?’
‘Because the ones you suggested are crap.’
Tufty tightened his grip on the steering wheel. ‘And three. Two. One!’ He jammed his foot down on the accelerator and the Maria surged forward, then a hard left brought the front wheels up onto the pavement outside a semidetached with an overgrown front garden and all the curtains drawn.
He slammed on the brakes before they hit the short brick wall.
Flicked off his seatbelt.
And, ‘Go! Go! Go!’
Steel hit him. ‘Hey, I say that!’
Too late. Harmsworth lunged, snatched the riot helmet from Steel’s hands and stuck it on his head, bits of paper flying free. Barrett hauled open the big sliding door and Lund jumped out. Then Barrett. Then Harmsworth – grabbing a riot shield on his way, strapping it on as he ran. Tufty joined them, charging up the path to the front door.
But Steel just popped out into the afternoon sun and leaned against the van, hands in her pockets.
Lund got to the house first. Squared up to the door with the Big Red Door Key and swung it back while Barrett and Harmsworth flattened themselves against the wall to either side.
She grinned. ‘Hot potato!’
The mini battering ram slammed into the door, just below the handle. A solid crack morphed into a BOOM as the whole thing burst inward, taking most of the frame with it.
She ducked back out of the way and Harmsworth pushed past, shield up.
‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’
Barrett hopped in after him, followed by Lund and tail-end Tufty. Because the better part of valour is not getting your nadgers bitten off.
The hallway stank of rancid cheese – probably coming from the knee-high stack of filthy trainers piled up against the shabby wallpaper. Crayon graffiti laced its way around and overhead, complete with stick figures. Some of whom seemed to have been based on a naked Pamela Anderson. Junk mail made a slippery mat on the lino.
Lund took the first door on the right, bursting through with her truncheon out. ‘EVERYONE DOWN NOW!’
Barrett barged into a room on the left. ‘POLICE!’
And at the far end of the hall, Harmsworth kicked the door open and lunged inside. ‘YOU! ON THE FLOOR! I SAID— AAAARGH! MOTHERFUNKER!’
Oh crap …
Tufty legged it, slithering over the junk-mail slick and into a kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months. Harmsworth lay in the middle of the filthy floor, hands clasped over his eyes. Bright-red stains covered his skin, his shirt rapidly turning a very dark pink.
The back door hung open, and through the gap came a flash of someone legging it. Male, six foot, dressed in cargo pants and a green Action-Man jumper. Crew cut. He snatched a look over his shoulder, showing off a short Vandyke and a worried expression.
Tufty turned and bellowed back into the house, ‘OFFICER DOWN! REPEAT, OFFICER DOWN!’
Then leapt over Harmsworth’s whimpering body and thumped out into the back garden.
Action Man had already crossed the yellowed patchy grass – clambering over the fence into the garden of the house behind this one.
‘POLICE! COME BACK HERE!’ Tufty cleared the garden in eight strides and leapt, swinging himself over the fence and into a much nicer space with fruit trees and patio furniture.
Where was … There: Action Man, he’d nipped down the side of the house, shoving out through a full-height gate towards the front.
Oh no you don’t.
A burst of speed and Tufty was only six, seven feet behind him.
BANG, through the gate and out onto the driveway.
A young woman in a yellow summer dress was frozen in the middle of unloading an armful of shopping from the boot of a little hatchback. Staring at the two men charging towards her.
Action Man grabbed her arm and sent her spinning, practically throwing her right at Tufty.
She hit with a squeal and down they both went, crashing to the lock-block in a clattering hail of tins and packets. They rolled to a halt against the grey harling wall. Which was when she started slapping him. ‘Get off me, you pervert! HELP, POLICE!’
Thunk – that was a car door slamming. Then the engine roared into life.
Tufty struggled free, just in time to see Action Man stick the car in gear and look back over his shoulder. The hatchback’s tyres screeched and it jerked backwards, off the driveway in a cloud of blue smoke … BANG – right into the side of a Volvo parked on the other side of the street.
A piercing shriek filled the air: the Volvo’s car alarm screaming in indignation, hazard lights flashing.
Then the sound of grinding gears and the hatchback lurched forwards again, just as Tufty reached the kerb, swinging round and— Too close! Too close! He jumped back and the bumper snatched at the leg of his trousers. Missed by about half an inch. Then away, engine and tyres squealing in protest.
Miss Sundress staggered into the road beside him. ‘Come back with my car, you bastard!’ She grabbed up a fallen tin of beans and hurled it after the departing hatchback. But it fell too short, buckling against the tarmac as the car screamed down the road, round the corner, and out of sight.
‘Can you smell that?’ Barrett looked up from his clipboard. ‘For some reason, I’ve got a strange craving for stovies.’
Harmsworth scowled at him. ‘Oh ha, ha. Very funny. Let’s make jokes at poor Owen’s expense.’
The living room was … OK, it was a hovel. Piles of pizza boxes on the floor, heaps of shoplifted clothes in the corner – most with the security tags still on. A carpet that … Aye, well, probably best no’ to think about what made it so sticky. But for all the overwhelming mank they had an impressive collection of kit. A huge TV and just about every games console going. Roberta settled into the leather couch, arms along the back. Probably the only clean thing in the entire house.
Harmsworth dabbed at his face with a towel again, turning more of it scarlet. ‘You’re all horrible to me.’
‘We do our best.’ Barrett noted down the details of another iPad, sealed it into an evidence bag, then placed it into one of his blue plastic evidence crates. Happy as a wee squirrel, gathering nuts for winter.
The boy, Tufty, was on the phone again, standing in the corner with one finger in his ear. Presumably to stop his brain from falling out that side. ‘Yeah …. Yeah, OK, thanks.’ He hung up. Pulled a constipated face. ‘Nothing from the lookout request.’
Roberta shook her head. ‘Motherfunker …’
‘Hmph.’ Harmsworth made a big thing of wiping his eyes. ‘I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.’
Barrett slipped a
mobile phone into another bag. ‘Got to be thousands and thousands of quids’ worth here.’
‘Not as if someone tried to blind me or anything.’
Then Lund’s dulcet tones came screeching down from somewhere upstairs. ‘SARGE? SARGE, YOU BETTER COME SEE THIS!’
No thanks.
Roberta stretched out a bit. Enjoying the farty squeak of the leather.
‘SARGE, I’M SERIOUS!’
Wonderful.
She hauled herself up from the couch’s leathery embrace and stepped around the soggy pink figure of Harmsworth. ‘Don’t be such a crybaby, Owen. He chucked a jar of beetroot at you, no’ sulphuric acid.’
‘Pickle vinegar really stings!’
‘Blah, blah, blah.’ She slouched out of the manky living room and up the manky stairs to a manky landing decorated with more stick-figure-porn graffiti.
Lund poked her head out of a room at the end. ‘Sarge?’
‘Why can no bugger do anything without me holding their hand?’
But Lund just ducked back inside again.
‘Swear to God …’ Roberta dragged herself down to the end of the landing and into a bedroom that stank of socks and sweat and something a bit sweet and funky smelling. Cannabis hiding beneath the BO.
Five single mattresses were lined up on the floor: some with duvets, some with sleeping bags. All surrounded by drifts of dirty clothes.
A built-in wardrobe with mirrored doors took up nearly the whole wall opposite the curtained windows. Lund was hunkered down in front of it, peering in through a gap between two of the sliding doors.
‘You better no’ be coiling one out there, Veronica. You’re no’ in Elgin now.’
Lund held out a hand to the wardrobe, voice low and gentle. ‘It’s OK. No one’s going to hurt you.’
Roberta frowned, then shuffled around till she could see what Lund was looking at.
Oh …
Two wee boys cowered in the wardrobe, between the coats and things. The pair of them filthy, wearing nothing but grubby T-shirts and grubbier underpants. Five, maybe six years old? Poor wee sods.
She crouched down next to Lund. ‘Hey, guys, are you OK? Want to come see your Aunty Roberta? We’ve come to take you home to your mummies.’
Now We Are Dead Page 3