Now We Are Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Tufty shuffled his feet in one of the few patches of clear linoleum. Pen poised.

  ‘Urgh …’ She stirred the burnt brown liquid with a fork. ‘Well, it’s not every day you see the Caped Crusader having a batwank in your back garden, is it? The security lights came on and everything.’

  The kitchen spotlights glittered back from the polished black granite worktops. Oak units. Slate tiles on the floor.

  A man in jeans, a Jeremy-Corbyn-as-Che-Guevara T-shirt, and flip-flops handed Steel a mug of tea. ‘Yeah, he was wearing this Incredible Hulk mask. Only the Incredible Hulk is meant to be big and green. And he was neither.’ A wink. ‘If you know what I mean.’

  Kids’ toys littered the living room: Lego, Night Garden, SpongeBob, Transformers, My Little Ponies, balls, ray guns, teddy bears … Mrs Allsop wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered as Steel helped herself to yet another Penguin biscuit. ‘Oh it was horrible.’

  Tufty nodded. ‘I know. I’m sorry, but you say he was wearing a mask?’

  II

  Tufty checked his notebook, with his back to the lay-by, reading by the pool car’s headlights. ‘So: that’s one Incredible Hulk; one Iron Man; three Spider-Mans … Spider-Men? no, definitely Spider-Mans; an Asterix the Gaul; two Batmans; one of “those horrible Ninja Turtle things”; and, for some unknown reason, a Peppa Pig too.’

  The car’s engine was running, radio on, volume turned up, newsreader booming out her local reports, but it still couldn’t cover the disturbing sounds coming from the bushes at the side of the road.

  Steel groaned. ‘Oooooh … that’s better.’

  ‘… outside the Music Hall from six tomorrow.’

  ‘Oooooohhhhh … Bit steamy, mind.’

  Urgh. The shudder rippled all the way through Tufty wearing cloggity boots. ‘Too much information!’

  ‘Complaints are pouring in after farmers threatened to bring Union Street to a halt this weekend in protest against the proposed changes to farm subsidy payments.’

  ‘Should’ve nicked some toilet paper from that last place.’

  A man’s voice growled from the car’s speakers. ‘We’re sorry it’s had to come to this, but the government’s left us no choice. If farming’s going to survive in this country, we need this sorted now!’

  Tufty stared straight ahead. ‘Could you not have just gone when we were there?’

  And the newsreader was back. ‘Finally, miscarriage of justice victim, Jack Wallace, is to sue Police Scotland for what he calls its gross negligence and culture of lies.’

  ‘Oh don’t be such a girl, Tufty. The bladder wants what the bladder wants.’ Steel emerged from the bushes, wiping her hands on her trousers. ‘Better out than in.’ She froze, staring at the car as Jack Wallace came on the radio.

  ‘The only way Police Scotland are ever going to change is if we, the people, stand up and sue them. They think they can get away with murder and I’m here to say, “No, you can’t!”’

  Steel snarled at the car. ‘Dirty wee shite.’

  The newsreader took over again. ‘Police Scotland have declined to comment at this time. Weather now, and there’s sunshine on the way this weekend as high pressure …’

  ‘Turn it off.’

  Blackburn glittered in the darkness – ribbons of yellow streetlight coiling around each other, windows glowing as people settled down to a night in front of the telly. All visible through the windscreen of their wheelie-bin pool car, parked on the outskirts of the dormitory town. Only ‘town’ was stretching it a bit. If you sneezed while driving through the place you’d miss half of it.

  Roberta let out a long, slow breath. Sod this for a game of soldiers.

  She took her feet off the dashboard. ‘I’m calling it. This was a complete waste of time. Why on earth did I listen to you?’ A quick backhand to the arm had him flinching. ‘You are a detective constable of Very Little Brain!’

  ‘Ow! Hey, no fair …’

  She was gearing up to hit him again, when her phone launched into the theme tune from Cagney & Lacey. The caller ID was enough to make everything taste bitter and coppery. Like sucking on a dirty penny. ‘TRAITOR BASTARD’.

  Tufty pointed. ‘You going to answer that?’

  ‘How did you work out tonight was wanking night?’

  ‘Might be important.’

  She turned in her seat to face him. ‘It’s no’ important. It’s that tosser McRae.’

  ‘Oh … OK. Well, when I figured out there was probably two shift patterns involved I put one set on one side and one set on the other and shoogled them about till there was a match with the nights he … I thought you wanted to know this?’

  Roberta stared past him, through the driver’s window at a little path that snaked away from the road, skirting the back gardens at the edge of Blackburn. There was a shape in the darkness, just visible in the pale grey moonlight that oozed its way through the clouds. A figure, picking its way through the gloom. ‘Over there. By the trees.’

  Something must’ve triggered the security light in the garden beyond, because it cracked on.

  The figure froze. A man, middle-aged, paunchy, parka jacket with the hood pulled up. Two steps and he was in the gloom again.

  Roberta narrowed her eyes. ‘He look suspicious to you?’

  Course he did.

  She declined the call on her phone and stuffed it in her pocket. Clambered from the car. Closed the door without making a sound.

  Her breath fogged around her head.

  Tufty got out of the driver’s side and joined her. Standing there in plain view like a vast twit. At least he was bright enough to keep his voice down: ‘What now?’

  The guy in the parka jacket was hunched over, fiddling with something at groin height.

  She whispered, nice and quiet. ‘Think I owe you a fish supper.’

  They crept across the road, sticking to the cover of the whin bushes that grew like massive rustling beasts along the pavement. Closer. Closer.

  What was he fiddling with? Please be his willy. Please be his willy …

  The moon broke through the clouds – full, heavy, and round – casting its ghostly light over everything.

  Closer…

  Then her phone launched into Cagney & Sodding Lacey again.

  The wee man gave a little squeak, flashed a glance over his shoulder at them, then ran.

  Tufty jumped up from his crouch. ‘Come back here!’

  Idiot.

  She hit him again. ‘Don’t just stand there!’

  He lurched into a run, giving chase. Getting faster with every stride.

  That was more like it.

  She hammered after him, following their pervert across the road, away from the streetlights and back gardens. Over a drystane dyke and into a stubble field. Into the brown, heavy scent of wet earth that squelched beneath her feet.

  Moonlight turned the world into a shadow play – silhouettes in shades of blue and grey, the trees: spidery ink blots. Shining patches of silver where puddles reflected back the lunar glow.

  The masturbating wee turd had a head start and he was fast, but Tufty was faster. Closing the gap.

  Water sploshed up Roberta’s leg as she charged through a hidden puddle. ‘Gahhh!’ Cold. And wet. Slippery too.

  A handful of sheep stopped doing whatever it was sheep did at half nine on a Monday night to watch the three of them squelch past. Tufty almost on him. Roberta bringing up the rear. ‘Sodding horrible, muddy, clarty, slippy …’

  The filthy sod jinked left, then right, just as Tufty made a grab for him.

  Tufty’s hands closed on sod-all. A brief squeak of terror, and he windmilled his arms, trying to stay upright. Then went splattering down in a dark muddy patch, skidding to a halt flat on his back with his arms and legs in the air like a tipped-over tortoise. ‘Aaaaargh!’

  The pervert glanced back at the muddy scream, which was why he didn’t see her cut right in front of him, one hand out to snatch at the parka’s hood. She grabbed
a handful of furry collar and dug in her heels.

  ‘Ulk!’ His feet kept going forward, but the rest of him stayed where it was, suspended in mid-air for a breath … before slamming down into the mud with a wet squelchy thump. Right on his backside at Roberta’s feet.

  She loomed over him, grinning. ‘Your Womble Whapping days are over, sunshine!’

  Tufty dragged their prisoner back across the squelchy field, over the drystane dyke, across the road, and under a streetlight. Ooh, yeah. Tufty was filthy. No’ just a wee bit grubby, but completely and utterly clarted in mud. All up his back. And most of his front. Kind of a funky smell about him too …

  Roberta gave him a sniff, then recoiled – wafting a hand in front of her face. ‘Aye, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you fell in more than just mud.’

  He grimaced, looking down at his filthy, filthy self. ‘Argh …’

  Under the streetlight, their prisoner emerged from the shadow of his parka’s hood. No’ exactly George Clooney. No’ even George Clooney’s ugly brother. A forgettable wee man with a forgettable face and squint glasses.

  Roberta fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Do you come here often? Pun intended.’

  The nasty wee wanker drew himself up to his full five-foot-four and stuck his chin out. ‘Let go of me, or … or I’ll call the police!’

  ‘That’s a coincidence: me and my sharny little friend here are the police.’ She patted the whiny sod on his shiny cheek. ‘Now, how can we help you? Having difficulty getting it up? Trouble deciding which house to wank outside?’

  He pulled that forgettable chin in again. ‘What?’

  ‘We know it’s you, sunshine. Now, let’s get you down the station, into a cell, and onto the sex offenders’ register.’

  ‘But I haven’t done anything!’

  Tufty spun him around a half turn, so they were face to face. ‘Oh yeah? Then why did you run?’

  ‘It’s the middle of the night and you were chasing me. Of course I ran. You could’ve been anyone.’

  Tufty loomed. ‘We’re the police.’

  ‘Well why didn’t you say anything? I thought you were muggers.’ He dug into his parka’s pockets and came out with a dog lead and what looked like a filled plastic poo-bag. ‘I was walking Sheba, and next thing I know I’m being attacked by you pair of maniacs!’

  ‘Ah …’

  Still, could be a ruse. She pointed at the bag. ‘Detective Constable: examine the evidence.’

  He stared at her. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Just give it a squeeze or something. Make sure it’s really poo.’

  ‘Oh for …’ But he curled his lip and reached out anyway. Gave the bag a quick squeeze. ‘Urgh, it’s still warm.’

  ‘I see.’ Roberta cleared her throat and looked away. ‘You were walking your dog?’

  ‘And God knows where she’s got to now. Greyhounds are incredibly sensitive.’

  ‘Well, you can understand why we thought—’

  ‘Probably spend half the night looking for her. Thank you very much.’

  Roberta shuffled her feet. ‘Yes. Well, no one’s perfect, are they?’ She straightened his jacket. Brushed a bit of mud off his shoulder. ‘Still no harm done, eh?’

  ‘I’m going to make a complaint, just you see if I don’t!’

  Of course he was.

  ‘Oh joy.’

  It just wasn’t fair. Here she was, knocking her pan in, trying to make a difference, and what did she get? Lumbered with a mud-slathered idiot for a sidekick, a night stuck in a manky pool car that smelled like the inside of a wheelie-bin, and a complaint from a poo-gathering member of the public. Because she needed more complaints on her file, didn’t she? Because there weren’t enough on there already.

  Pffffff …

  Roberta groaned, letting one arm flop across her face. Lying draped across the back seat of the car, one leg dangling over the edge. Making rustling noises in the garbage with her boot.

  Tufty had himself another whinge. ‘Come on, it’s freezing out here.’

  ‘No’ till you’re dry. We’re in enough trouble as it is without—’

  Her phone launched into Cagney & Lacey again.

  ‘Gah …’ She pulled it out and peered at the screen.

  Same caller ID as last time: ‘TRAITOR BASTARD’.

  The orchestra joined in with the tootly horns as the theme tune really got into its stride.

  Tufty knocked on the car window. ‘You’re going to have to talk to him sometime.’

  ‘Where did it all go wrong, Tufty?’

  ‘Might have been when you tried to fit Jack Wallace up on kiddy-fiddling charges? Just a guess.’

  ‘I’m in my prime here.’

  ‘Please can I get back in the car? I can’t feel my toes.’

  ‘Arrrrgh!’ She covered her face with both hands, as the phone belted out its tune. ‘Should be catching killers and getting commendations and medals. Nothing snake-alicious ever happens to me …’

  ‘Look, I’ll answer it if you like?’

  ‘I am no’ talking to that back-stabbing, two-faced, Judas-licking … motherfunker.’

  The phone fell silent. Finally.

  Ding-ding. Incoming text. She snuck a glance:

  I heard about Wallace suing Police Scotland.

  Do you want to talk about it? I’m still at yours.

  Logan.

  No she sodding wouldn’t. You’re getting deleted, sunshine.

  Delete.

  Then the car’s police radio had a go. ‘All units: anyone in the vicinity of Blackburn? Got reports of an unidentified individual performing a solo sex-act in the caller’s back garden.’

  Ha!

  She sat up, grabbed her phone before it disappeared into the drifts of crisp packets. ‘We’re on!’

  Tufty jammed on the brakes and the patrol car screeched to a halt outside an identikit house at the end of an identikit street. He flicked off his seatbelt and jumped out into the night. Steel scrambled out of the passenger side, puffing after him as he sprinted up the driveway.

  She grabbed the back of his muddy jacket and pointed. ‘Go round the back: catch the bastard!’

  He peeled away, running along the front of the house and around the side. A six-foot wooden fence blocked the way. Damn it: gate was locked too.

  Two steps back, then lurch forward and jump … clambering over the top and dropping down into the back garden. The whole thing was lit up like a football pitch, a cordon of security lights blazing away. Tiny shed on one side, a collection of kids’ plastic tat toys: Wendy house, tipper truck, swingset, a rocking horse in the shape of a dinosaur – all of it glowing in its Technicolor splendour.

  A man stood on the other side of a rotary dryer, in a dressing gown, waving a spade, shouting over the back fence and into the darkness. ‘AND THERE’S MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM, YOU PERVERT FREAK!’ He spun around and the dressing gown flared out, revealing a Darth Vader T-shirt and a pair of tartan jammie bottoms. Bared his teeth at Tufty. Then jabbed the spade at him like a rifle with bayonet fitted. ‘Another one, eh? Come on then!’

  Tufty skidded to a halt, hands up. ‘Woah, woah. Police. I’m the police.’

  Steel barged out through the kitchen door. ‘Did you get him?’

  Mr Spade grinned. ‘Oh I got him all right.’ He jiggled his spade, swinging it about. ‘Right in the face. Pang!’

  Tufty went for the back fence, foot on the centre rail, and up … Coming to a halt with one leg straddling the top.

  The houses stretched away to the left, hiding behind their own timber fences, but on the right it was nothing but fields bathing in the moonlight. Sinister grey shapes moved across the stubble, their eyes gleaming like jackals’. Sinister sheep. Sheeping sinisterly. But they were the only living things out there. No sign of anyone else.

  Sod.

  He hopped back down again. ‘Gone.’

  ‘Damn it!’ Steel did a three-sixty, fists clenched. ‘Motherfunker!’

>   Mr Spade backed off, nostrils flaring as he grimaced at Tufty. ‘What have you been rolling in?’

  Steel grabbed at the guy’s dressing gown. ‘Did you recognise him? The man you hit?’

  ‘He was wearing a mask. One of those cheap plastic kids’ things.’

  She let go of the dressing gown and snatched the spade off him instead. Holding it under the nearest security light, turning it back and forth. ‘Can’t see any blood. Might get some DNA off it, though.’

  So close.

  Tufty got out his notebook, flipping it open at the last marked page. Pen poised. ‘Right, let’s start at the beginning.’

  III

  The manky pool car was still slewed half on the road and half on the pavement. Steel slouched back against the bonnet, puffing away on her fake cigarette, making a fog bank all of her own. It gleamed like a solid thing in the moonlight.

  Tufty’s phone was warm against his ear, notebook pinned to the roof of the car. He wrote the word ‘MAYBE’ in it and underlined it three times. ‘Yeah. OK. Thanks. Bye.’ He hung up. ‘Maud says she’ll do her best, but the lab’s backed up as it is.’

  Steel pulled the e-cigarette from her mouth for long enough to spit in the gutter. ‘Which is secret SEB code for “no’ a chance in hell”. Sod.’

  ‘This still means you owe me a fish supper, though, right? I mean, I predicted he’d be out and about tonight. And, ta-daaaa!’

  But Steel just stared off into the distance, eyebrows knitting away at something just inside her head. ‘You fiddled about two shift patterns to work it out?’

  About time she took an interest.

  ‘Told you: I has a clever.’ He leaned over the bonnet at her. ‘It was pretty obvious he was on a two-week cycle, so probably works offshore. The tricky part was the other shift pattern, but then I had an even cleverer!’

  She stared at him. ‘Did your mum drop you on your head when you were a kid?’

  That was the trouble with old people – no appreciation of popular culture.

  ‘See, it had to be a really weird shift pattern to match up them being on nights while he does his thing. And the only shift pattern I could think of that’s that screwed up is the one I had to do for three years up in Banff, back when I was divisional police officer. So …?’