Now We Are Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  A slow smile dawned as the penny dropped.

  ‘He’s living with a cop. Some spod in uniform’s boyfriend is the Blackburn Womble Whacker!’ Steel hauled out her phone and dialled, puffing away. ‘Come on, come on, come— Ernie? How many uniform we got living in Blackburn? … Uh-huh.’ She looked up at Tufty. ‘He’s got three.’ Back to the phone. ‘How many off duty tonight? … Two? Oh Ernie: you’re a sexy wee fish, you know that, don’t you? Now give me a name and address for the one who’s working.’

  The house wasn’t as big and grand as the last one they’d visited, but it’d been squeezed out of a similar mould. Grey harling, stonework features around the windows, grey tiles on the roof. They’d put the effort in and planted a tree right in the middle of the teabag-sized front garden, though. It didn’t look healthy.

  Steel thumped her car door shut with a flourish. Then held her arms wide, beaming. ‘Isn’t it a lovely night?’ She swaggered up the path, leaving a trail of vape behind her that glowed in the moonlight.

  Woman was insane. But Tufty followed her anyway.

  At the front door she gave a couple of hoppity-skippity dance steps then swept into a curtsey, one hand gesturing at the letterbox. ‘If you would be so kind, my dearest Constable Quirrel?’

  Completely crackers.

  He rang the bell.

  She rocked back and forth on her heels. Hands in her pockets. Grin on her face. ‘Oh, the excitement!’

  A shadow moved on the other side of the frosted glass pane set into the middle of the door. Then a muffled mushy voice joined it. ‘Hello?’

  Steel pressed the doorbell again.

  ‘This better not be Jehovah’s Witnesses! I told you lot last time.’ The door opened and there was Mr Parka, only he’d ditched the jacket for a Winnie-the-Pooh sweatshirt, boxer shorts, and slippers. He had a bag of frozen sweetcorn in one hand, holding it over his nose and mouth.

  He took one look at them and his bloodshot eyes widened. ‘Oh …’

  Steel grinned at him. ‘Mr Corbet? Mr Alan Corbet? Your wife’s at work tonight, isn’t she? Pounding the beat, while you’re out pounding your meat.’

  He lowered the sweetcorn, showing off two swollen lips and a pair of nostrils with toilet paper sticking out of them – bright red where it disappeared up inside his head. He licked his top lip, setting a crack bleeding again. ‘It …’ A deep breath, then Mr Parka stuck his chest out, chin up. ‘Have you found my dog yet?’

  Steel’s grin got even wider.

  Steel whistled a happy tune as she swaggered her way out of Interview Room Four, paused on the threshold and cast a wink back at the room’s remaining occupants. ‘I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone for a minute. No inappropriate touching though, this is a family show.’

  Alan Corbet sat on the other side of the interview table, the skin around his eyes darkening to a lovely shade of reddish-purple. Bottom lip trembling. Shoulders quivering. He reached up with cuffed hands and wiped tears from his cheek.

  Sitting next to him, his solicitor sighed and dug a hankie out of her suit pocket. Handed it over as Tufty closed the door.

  Steel beamed. ‘Oh, I enjoyed that.’

  Tufty sagged and little flakes of dried mud tumbled from his filthy suit to the grey terrazzo floor. ‘Can we go home now?’

  ‘Don’t be daft: it’s time to celebrate!’ She grabbed him by the shoulders like she was going in for a kiss, then cringed back a bit. Sniffed at her hands. ‘Pffffff … On second thoughts, you really, really need a wash. Gah …’ She wiggled her fingers, then wiped them on the wall. ‘Just make sure you get Mr Corbet back to his cell, before—’

  ‘ALAN!’ An officer stormed up the corridor in full uniform kit, complete with stabproof vest, utility belt and high-viz waistcoat. Her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Face like the underside of a hammer as it whistles down towards a nail. ‘Where is he, I’LL KILL HIM!’

  Steel hissed at Tufty out the side of her mouth. ‘Run away!’

  Ahh … Water lapped across Tufty’s chest, bringing a cloudscape of bubbles with it. Frothy white bubbles. Warm and lemony-scented. He reached out and picked his mug of tea off the toilet lid. Had a sip.

  Bliss.

  OK, so it wasn’t the biggest bathroom in the whole world – wasn’t the grandest either – but right now there was nowhere better. Four walls of off-white tiles, a medicine cabinet, a sink, a wee plastic doodah for holding your toothbrush, a heated towel rail, a toilet of his very own, and a bath. A lovely, luxurious, bubbly bath. Just the thing to share with an old friend.

  Mr Einstein floated out from the cumulonimbus foam, orange beak first, followed by his tubby yellow body. Tail last to emerge from the bubbles.

  ‘Hello, Mr Einstein.’

  Tufty put on a high-pitched pirate voice. ‘Arrrrr Jim lad. Ye better watch yerself, there be a vast scary beastie lurkin’ in the water, right next to the hairy islands! Arrrrrrr …’

  ‘Oh noes, Mr Einstein! What if it’s – dan, dan daaaaaa! – the Cockness Monster? What if—’

  The phone on the toilet lid buzzed, then launched into its generic ringtone.

  ‘Ah … bums.’ He dried his hands on the towel lying by the bath and answered the thing. ‘Hello?’

  Steel’s voice grumped out of the phone at him. ‘For your information, Constable, I didn’t fit Jack Wallace up … OK, so maybe I did, a little, on the paedophile charges, but he’s still a raping scumbag, understand?’

  Great. Because Tufty wasn’t allowed to have five minutes’ peace, was he?

  ‘I’m in the bath.’

  ‘Four women. That’s how many he brutalised. And we couldn’t lay a finger on him for it. So yes, I fitted him up. Does that make me a bad person?’

  ‘Well, technically—’

  ‘I mean, what was I supposed to do, let him get away with it? Let him attack more women? Is that what you want?’

  Tufty shared a look with Mr Einstein, rolling his eyes and pulling a face. ‘I didn’t say anything! I’m an innocent bystander here. In the bath!’

  ‘That’s right, avoid the question. Just like a bloody man. And while we’re at it: have you done that sodding e-fit yet?’

  ‘What? No. We went out to Blackburn and caught—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Constable, do I have to do everything? I want that on my desk seven a.m. tomorrow morning!’

  Silence.

  She’d hung up.

  Lovely.

  Tufty put his phone down on the toilet lid, clutched Mr Einstein to his chest, and slowly sank below the bubbles. ‘Motherfunker …’

  And then there was nothing but foam.

  Roberta scowled out through the windscreen. The sky licked at the roofs of the buildings – granite terrace on this side of the road, granite semis on the other. Trees making the whole place look quaint and olde-worlde. Sulphur-yellow streetlights painting it in shades of yellow and black. Like a wasp. Dangerous.

  Her MX-5 was a lot tidier than the pool car, but then she wasn’t a complete sodding pig.

  She cracked the window, letting in the cool night air. A faint whiff of decomposing leaves oozed out from Victoria Park, down at the end of the street. A hint of roses from the garden she’d parked outside.

  The house on the other side of the road was dark.

  Expectant.

  Waiting.

  Her phone dinged at her.

  Susan:

  Roberta, please. He’s gone. COME HOME!!!

  She thumbed out a reply:

  Can’t. Busy.

  Ding-ding:

  You’re not brooding outside Jack Wallace’s

  house again, are you? We talked about

  this: it’s not healthy. COME HOME!!!

  Oh for God’s sake …

  ‘All right, all right.’ She stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. Sat there for a minute with the engine running.

  Wherever Jack Wallace was, he wasn’t here.

  Just had to hope he wasn’t off attacking som
e poor bloody woman somewhere. Because, right now, there was sod-all she could do about it.

  One last glare, then Roberta put her MX-5 in gear and drove away into the night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  in which we find out what happens when

  you microwave a Small Yorkshire Terrier

  I

  Tufty stifled a yawn.

  Barrett was up at the whiteboard, droning on about something, everyone watching him. Lund and Harmsworth were at least pretending to pay attention – between slurps of coffee – but Steel just fiddled with her phone. The stack of evidence crates had migrated to the middle of the office carpet, hiding one of the many, many stains that called the CID office home.

  Barrett took the cap off a red whiteboard marker. ‘So remember, don’t be afraid to shout.’ Then underlined the words ‘STRANGER DANGER!!!’ ‘And last, but not least …’ He picked up a police cap off the desk and rummaged inside it, pulling out two bits of paper. One red, one blue. ‘Right: our expletive of the day is “fudgemonkey”, and if something’s good it’s, “Get down with your bad self”. OK? OK.’ He scribbled something on his beloved clipboard, then turned to Steel. ‘Sarge?’

  ‘Hmmmph?’ A blink. ‘Oh. Aye. We’ve still no’ IDed the wee kids we found yesterday. But our very own Tufty came up with this.’ She pointed at him.

  Tufty held up the e-fit of the Action-Man wannabe he’d chased from the slum/squat yesterday. The one who’d nearly ran over him in a stolen hatchback. Really good likeness too. Which was even more impressive given that he’d been half asleep while putting the damn thing together.

  Steel had a dig at her wrinkly cleavage. ‘Anyone want to take a guess?’

  ‘Yes.’ Harmsworth put down his coffee cup. ‘And I know no one cares what I think, but that looks like Kenny Milne to me.’

  ‘Well done, Owen, ten points to Hufflepuff.’

  He looked hurt. ‘Hufflepuff?’

  She nodded. ‘Kenneth Milne: form for assault, possession with intent, and breaking into pensioners’ houses and nicking everything he can carry. I want him found and I want him found today. I’m no’ having kidnappy scumbags making off with wee kiddies in my town. Understand?’

  The resulting wave of apathy was overpowering.

  ‘I CAN’T HEAR YOU!’

  A lacklustre ‘Yes, Sarge’ rippled around the room.

  Harmsworth stuck out his bottom lip. ‘Why do I have to be a Hufflepuff?’

  She ignored him. ‘Kenny Milne is a rancid wee fudgemonkey and we are putting his arse behind bars, so—’

  The door opened and DCI Rutherford stepped into their humble office. ‘Ah, DS Steel, glad I caught you.’ He pointed at their collection of mobile phones. ‘This stolen property, it’s been entered into the system?’

  Barrett snapped to attention, clutching his clipboard. ‘Did it last night, sir. I’m taking them down to the evidence store after the briefing.’

  ‘Hmm …’ The detective chief inspector made a show of thinking about that. ‘Well, given that your young man has pleaded guilty, and the fact that he’s a minor, I’ve spoken to the Procurator Fiscal and I’m delighted to say that we’ve been cleared to return these items to their rightful owners.’

  Steel snapped her fingers. ‘You heard the man, Davey, bung that lot down to Lost-and-Found and we can—’

  Rutherford held up a hand. ‘I favour a more proactive approach, Roberta. We want people to know that Police Scotland are here for them. That we care.’

  ‘Aye, but—’

  ‘I want you and your team to return these items to their rightful owners.’ Big smile.

  Her face drooped an inch. ‘But—’

  ‘This is what community policing is all about, Sergeant. Imagine how delighted people will be to get their property back! We’ll see a massive PR boost from this. Hop to it.’ He turned and swept from the room.

  Silence.

  Barrett grimaced. ‘Oh my ears and whiskers …’

  Steel stuck two fingers up at the closed door. ‘Sod that. We’ve got a Kenny Milne to catch.’

  Roberta shifted in the passenger seat. What the hell was taking Tufty so long? Go in, ask a couple of questions, buy some butties, and come out again. How hard was that?

  The baker’s window was all steamed up, the words ‘MRS JOHNSTON & DAUGHTERS ~ QUALITY BAKED GOODS EST. 1985’ looming through the fog. Sausage rolls and broken legs a speciality. Ask us about our protection-racket specials.

  Susan’s voice took on that sharp, waspy tone it got when there was a fight brewing: ‘Are you even listening to me?’

  ‘Course I am.’ Roberta shifted the phone so it stayed pinned between her ear and her shoulder, keeping both hands free for the important task of drawing devil horns on Jack Wallace’s smug little rat face.

  Look at him, smugging away beneath the headline. ‘MY CAMPAIGN TO CLEAN UP POLICE SCOTLAND STARTS HERE!’ Aye, right. The Aberdeen Examiner should be ashamed of itself, giving a raping wee shite like him front-page coverage. Or any coverage at all, come to that.

  ‘Well how about an answer then?’

  ‘I’m no’ saying Jasmine can’t have a party, Susan, I’m saying Logan McRae can pucker up and kiss my sharny arse if he thinks he’s getting an invite. OK?’

  ‘Oh for all that’s … Do you have any idea how unreasonable you’re being?’

  ‘Yup.’ She blacked out a couple of Jack Wallace’s teeth, for luck.

  ‘Honestly, Robbie, you’re going to have to talk to him sometime.’

  ‘Nope.’

  The pool car’s door creaked open and Tufty got in, clutching a couple of greasy paper bags and two Styrofoam cups with lids. He held out one of each. ‘Sausage butty with red, and a flat white.’

  Steel dumped her pen on the dashboard and took both. ‘Sorry, Susan, got to go. Official business.’

  ‘You do know I can hear him, don’t you?’

  ‘OK, love you.’ She hung up and opened her paper bag. Took a big bite of butty: an instant hit of flour and tomato sauce, silky butter and soft bap, then the dark-brown savoury crunch of deep-fried sausages. Ooh, hot. But tasty. She chewed around the words ‘Any news?’

  Tufty unwrapped his own butty. Bacon from the look of it. ‘They haven’t seen Kenny Milne round here for about a month. Sodded off and didn’t pay his tab, so if he turns up again they’ll definitely tell us. After he’s fallen down a few times.’

  ‘He didn’t pay his tab? God, Milne’s a braver man than me.’ Another bite of rich sausagey goodness. ‘You do not screw with Alice Johnston and her girls.’

  The car’s radio crackled. Bleeped. Then, ‘Control to DS Steel, safe to talk?’

  ‘No. Sod off.’ Creaking the lid off her coffee.

  But Tufty had to go ahead and pick it up anyway, didn’t he? Twit. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘You’re in Cornhill, aren’t you? We’ve got a call – vulnerable adult not been seen for a few days. Can you check in on her?’

  Roberta grabbed the handset off the soft sod. ‘Get uniform to do it. We’re busy.’

  ‘Can’t. There’s a riot kicking off at the crematorium, a four-car pileup on South Anderson Drive, and we’re still searching for that old dear with Alzheimer’s. Tag: you’re it.’

  ‘Gah …’ Rotten bunch of sods. But it wasn’t as if she had a choice. ‘Fine. But I’m finishing my butty first!’

  The tower block loomed over the surrounding housing estate, monolithic and grey. Sixteen storeys of miserable Lego, dirty streaks leaking down from the corner of every single window. The other three blocks in the development were just as slab-faced, but at least they were clean. This one was like the stinky kid at school no one wanted to be friends with.

  Tufty locked the car and held a hand above his eyes, blocking out the sun, counting his way up from the ground. ‘Ten. Eleven. Twelve. That’s us: Cairnhill Court, twelfth floor.’

  Steel scowled at him. The effect was a bit undermined by the sausage butty’s aftermath: a tomato sauce smile ov
er flour-whitened cheeks. Like the Joker had really let himself go. ‘How much do you want to bet the lifts don’t work?’

  The lifts did work. Well, one of them anyway. Yeah, it was covered in graffiti, but it was working. Not very quickly, though. It creaked and groaned upwards, the little lights above the door marking their snail’s pace up to the twelfth floor.

  A lurch, then the thing gave a particularly loud groan.

  Steel curled her top lip, nostrils twitching. Trying to hide a smile. ‘That better no’ have been you.’

  Tufty pulled on his best offended look. ‘Of course it wasn’t!’ Then leaned to one side and squeezed one out. Grinned. ‘But that was.’

  ‘Urrrgh! You filthy wee sod!’

  Tee hee.

  The lift doors pinged and Steel stumbled out. ‘Air! Fresh air!’

  Someone had painted the corridor institution-green at some point long, long ago. Now it was cracked and scuffed. Peeling in the corners. A patch of magnolia almost managing to conceal some spray-paint graffiti. ‘ENGLISH SCUMMERS ~ FREEDOME!!!’

  Think if you were going to be a bigoted arsehole you could at least get a friend to check your spelling.

  Steel turned and thumped him on the arm. ‘What the hell have you been eating?’

  ‘You’ve got to admit the timing was lovely.’ He led the way down the corridor to the flat at the end. The front door was gouged and darkened around the bottom. Like it’d been given a stiff kicking. ‘And the embouchure! A perfect middle C.’ He knocked on the door, raised his voice to carry through the dented woodwork. ‘Mrs Galloway? Hello? Can you come to the door please?’

  ‘It’s no’ wholesome.’

  ‘You started it.’ Another knock. ‘It’s the police, Mrs Galloway. We just want to check you’re all right.’

  ‘I did not!’

  ‘Did too. Mrs Galloway? Can you hear me? Mrs Galloway, can we come in and speak to you please?’

  A rattle, and a tracksuited wifie poked her head out of the flat opposite, puffing away on a rollup. A large woman with yoghurt-pale skin and her ponytail hauled back in a Torry facelift. But when she opened her gob it was like your favourite aunt: full of care and concern. ‘I’ve not seen her for three days. Normally she’s out walking her wee dog, regular as clockwork. And they haven’t seen her down the shops either, I checked.’