Now We Are Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Steel sniffed, scowling out through the glass-fronted reception area at the sunny day outside.

  Tufty grinned. ‘If the wind changes, your face will stay like that.’

  Not so much as a flicker.

  She didn’t even look at him. Just kept on scowling. ‘What were you and Arsebucket McVine talking about behind my back?’

  Outside, DCI Rutherford stopped half a dozen paces from the front door. He said something to Moir-Farquharson, face all serious and ingratiating, then shook the lawyer’s hand. Did the same with Jack Wallace.

  Wallace patted him on the arm, like they were old friends, then walked away, hands in his pockets. Down the slope and out onto the street. Leaving the DCI and the lawyer standing on their own.

  More talking.

  Steel swung around and poked Tufty. ‘Well?’

  A shrug. ‘He thinks I has a genius for catching the Blackburn Womble Whapper. Thinks I should go work for him instead. Thinks I’m totally sproing!’ Wink.

  ‘He’s sodding welcome to you!’

  DCI Rutherford grimaced, then shook Moir-Farquharson’s hand again, before marching back through the station entrance and right up in front of Steel. Trembling slightly. Eyes bugging a bit. Voice like a hammer covered in razor blades. ‘I meant what I said, Sergeant, you will stay away from that man. You will track down your phone owners. You will busy yourself with bits and bobs. You will stay – away – from Jack Wallace! Are we clear?’

  She just looked at him.

  ‘I said, ARE – WE – BLOODY – CLEAR?’ Little flecks of spit gleamed in the light.

  ‘Guv.’

  ‘Good!’ He stormed off, thumped through the key-code door and away into the station. No doubt to spread his very own brand of joy and happiness.

  The lawyer still hadn’t moved, stayed where he was, basking in the sun. Like a crocodile.

  Tufty put on his innocent voice. ‘Speaking of which: what did he say to you? Wallace. At the end of the meeting?’

  Her face hardened. ‘Nothing.’

  Earlier … (in which Roberta has a flashback)

  Look at them all, congratulating themselves like the smug bunch of turdmagnets they were. Roberta tightened her grip on the arms of her chair, teeth grinding.

  Hissing Sid was off talking to Rutherford, probably doing some sort of dodgy deal to stitch her up again. The idiot Tufty, talking to Vine. More dodgy deals. The only one no’ talking was the raping sack of vomit sitting on the other side of the meeting-room table, fiddling with his phone.

  Jack Wallace.

  Six months in HMP Grampian hadn’t done him any harm. He was leaner. A bit more muscle on that nasty wee frame of his. Must’ve spent a lot of time in the prison gym. Maybe so he could enjoy the communal showers with his fellow perverts.

  He looked up from the phone and caught her staring. Smiled. Stood. Then wandered around the table and sat on it, right next to her. ‘No hard feelings?’

  Wallace stuck his hand out for shaking. No way in hell she was touching him.

  He leaned in close, voice dropped to a whisper. ‘It’s you gave me the idea. After all, if Mr Moir-Farquharson can get a guilty, lying piece of shit like you off, what’s he going to do for a properly innocent client?’

  She bared her teeth at him, matching his whisper. ‘You’re no’ innocent. You’re a raping cockwomble and I’m going to prove it.’

  ‘No you’re not. Cos I know you’ve been hanging about outside my house at night. I’ve got proof. You’re harassing me.’ His smile became a grin. ‘And if you don’t sod off, I’m going to tear your little world to pieces. Understand?’

  Tufty raised his stupid eyebrows at her. ‘Wallace didn’t say anything at all?’

  Roberta shrugged. ‘Nothing important.’

  Hissing Sid was still out there. As if he was waiting for something. Or someone. He raised a hand and waved at her.

  Fair enough.

  ‘Tufty, get your arse back to the office and light a fire under your fellow halfwits. You heard the DCI – phones, back with their owners.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want me to—’

  ‘Now, Constable.’

  ‘OK … Wow.’ He backed off, hands up. ‘I’m going, I’m going.’

  She turned her back on him and pushed out through the reception door, into the sunshine. The rumble of traffic punctuated by screeching seagulls.

  Hissing Sid just stood there, smiling at her. ‘Ah, DS Steel. I’m sorry our reunion had to be under such unpleasant circumstances.’

  Unpleasant? She’d give him sodding unpleasant.

  ‘How could you, Sandy? How could you represent that nasty raping wee bawbag?’

  He tilted his head to one side. ‘I make no moral judgement of my clients: a criminal act is a criminal act. Whether it’s yours or his.’

  What?

  ‘You did not just compare me to Jack Bloody Wallace!’

  ‘So it’s all right for me to have you found “not guilty” when you perverted the course of justice, but not for me to defend Wallace for a rape he didn’t commit?’ A tiny theatrical frown. ‘That’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it?’

  Gah!

  She marched off a couple of steps then back again. ‘Who’s paying for all this? We know you’re no’ cheap, Sandy, where’s Jack Wallace getting the cash?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that. Let’s just say that as your friends came to your aid during your hour of need, so did his. Isn’t it nice to have friends?’ He turned his face to the sun and sighed. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to pick up some ice lollies on the way back to the office. Give everyone a bit of a treat. In the meantime …’ Hissing Sid put a warm hand on her shoulder. ‘Try and stay out of trouble.’

  Aye, well … Going on past performance that wasn’t very likely.

  Gloom shrouded the CCTV room, the only light coming from the bank of TV monitors that covered nearly one entire wall. Lots of little views of Aberdeen and its citizens going about their business. A control desk ran down the middle of the room, manned and womaned by three support staff, each one fiddling with a wee joystick – shifting the cameras by remote control.

  Tufty looked as if he was bursting for the toilet: shuffling from foot to foot, making uncomfortable faces, constantly glancing towards the door. Big girl’s blouse that he was.

  ‘Right, here we go.’ Inspector Pearce pointed at a screen mounted on its own at the back of the room, behind the consoles. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Then poked a couple of buttons on her keyboard. ‘And then Wallace comes out here.’

  Roberta leaned in for a better look.

  The camera was mounted about halfway up Windmill Brae, the cobbled street sweeping downhill from there until it finally disappeared under Bridge Street. Nightclubs, kebab shops, and bars stretched all the way down one side; more nightclubs on the other. Knots of drunken men and women staggered in or out of them. A couple opened and shut their mouths in unison – could be singing? – but no sound came out of the speakers. Probably just as well.

  The timestamp clicked off the seconds, ‘23:10:05’, ‘23:10:06’, ‘23:10:07’.

  Wallace and his two mates appeared around the corner from Bath Street. As they passed beneath the camera Wallace paused, smiled, and waved at it. Then followed them into Aberdeen’s classiest titty bar: Secret Service.

  Inspector Pearce set the scene flickering into fast forward. ‘He doesn’t leave till six minutes past one.’

  Revellers came in pulses then thinned out as the timestamp passed midnight. By the time she slowed the footage back to regular speed again there were just the stragglers left. Everyone wobbling their weary boozed-up way home.

  Wallace emerged from the strip club with his arm around a young woman’s shoulders. She had a long fur coat on over a very short skirt and sparkly top. Heels high enough to give Sherpa Tenzing a nosebleed. Long blonde hair and lots of make-up. That would be Strawberry Jane then. She staggered a bit as they crossed t
he road, climbing the hill. Probably a bit blootered.

  And again, Jack Wallace stopped beneath the camera to smile and wave. ‘01:06:46’.

  Inspector Pearce fiddled with her keyboard again and the scene jumped to the corner of Crown Street and Union Street, looking across the box junction towards the columned portico of the Music Hall.

  Wallace and his ‘date’ hurried across the road. As soon as he reached the opposite pavement, he turned and gave them a wave. ‘01:08:02’. Then he wrapped Strawberry Jane in an arse-groping snog and led her away down the side of the Music Hall towards Golden Square.

  ‘And the last time we see them is on Rosemount Viaduct.’

  One more go on the keyboard and they were looking across the junction as Wallace and Strawberry strolled arm-in-arm past the Noose & Monkey. He stopped. Nipped back to the traffic lights, gave them one last wave, then hurried after his drunken pole dancer. ‘01:12:56’.

  Roberta leaned in even closer, till her nose was inches from the screen. ‘How does he know?’

  Tufty tugged at her sleeve, like a wee kid. ‘Can we get out of here now? What if DCI Rutherford finds out?’

  ‘All the smiling and waving: how does he know? No’ just where the cameras are – that’s easy enough – but he’s doing this to be seen. How did he know he’d need an alibi?’

  And how the hell did they break it?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  in which Roberta and Tufty go on An Adventure,

  Tufty has another bath,

  and Roberta gets her bottom spanked

  (but not in a Good Way)

  I

  The sound of happy munching filled the CID office, joining the heady scents of a team lunch from the baker’s in the Castlegate. Welcome to Buttytopia, population: five. Well, four and a bit, because Steel hadn’t touched her bacon-egg-and-black-pudding yet. Instead she was hunched over her desk, phone clamped to her ear, completely ignoring the lovely cup of tea Tufty had made for her.

  He picked up his butty and wandered over. ‘I’ll eat that if you don’t want it?’

  ‘Come on, Agnes, pick up the phone …’

  ‘No luck?’ He took another bite. All crunchy and meaty and chewy, with slatherings of butter, English mustard, and tomato sauce.

  Steel hung up. ‘She’s a little old lady, living in a tower block, with no friends and no dog. Where’s she going to go?’ A frown. ‘What the hell are you eating?’

  ‘Maybe she can’t pay the phone bill?’

  ‘No seriously, what is that?’

  He held it up, every millimetre the proud father. ‘Steak pie butty. That’s what Tufties like best.’

  ‘Freak.’ She pulled her own butty over and took a big bite. The egg popped, dripping yolk onto her desk as she chewed through the words. ‘We’ll swing by Cairnhill Court while we’re out chasing down Beattie’s prozzies. Make sure Mrs Galloway’s OK.’

  Tufty had a quick look around. Everyone else was busy stuffing their faces. He put on a whisper anyway, just in case. ‘Sarge? Erm … The CCTV room. That’s it, isn’t it? We’re done? No more Jack Wallace?’

  ‘Maybe take her a packet of biscuits. Some milk. A decent box of teabags. And I need to pop past that trophy shop on Rosemount Place too.’

  ‘Only I’d really like not to get fired.’

  Another massive bite got ripped out of her butty. Egg all down her chin. ‘Pshaw, little Tufty, would I ever get you into trouble?’

  Of course she would.

  Today’s pool car was a bit cleaner than yesterday’s, but it had a weird plastic-floral kind of smell. Like someone was trying to hide something. And in a police car, that usually only meant one of three things. None of which were in the least bit hygienic.

  Tufty drove them down the Kirkgate and up onto Schoolhill. Past the graveyard.

  Lunchtime had brought out all the office workers, some lay sunning themselves on the gravestones, others marched along the street, sipping iced lattes and being all smiley. Enjoying the Costa del Aberdeen. Skirts were getting shorter, tops getting smaller, trousers swapped for shorts, shoes for flip-flops, exposing more and more Nosferatu-pale skin. They’d probably head back to the office in an hour with all that milky-white flesh turned baboon’s-bottom red.

  And for once, Steel wasn’t having a good ogle at all the young ladies on display. Instead she was slouching in the passenger seat with her feet on the dashboard, mobile phone clamped to her ear. ‘Oh, aye, and before I forget, Davey: give Social Services a shout. See if they can get Agnes Galloway into a nice sheltered housing unit somewhere. Poor old soul deserves a bit of peace … Yeah, OK … Thanks … Bye.’ She put her phone away, then turned and grinned at him.

  Creepy.

  Suspicious.

  Tufty pulled his chin in. ‘What?’

  ‘Pop quiz, Tufty: Sexual Offences, Scotland, Act, 2009. Section Twenty-Eight. Go.’

  ‘Ah. OK …’ He dredged it up from the last refresher course. ‘If someone older than sixteen has sex with someone younger than sixteen it’s an offence. Having intercourse with an older child?’

  ‘Ten points to Slytherin. For a bonus, and a chance to go through to the semi-final, what’s a relevant defence?’

  ‘Erm … Section Thirty-Nine? If you genuinely thought they were older than sixteen at the time you did it.’

  She made a loud buzzing noise. ‘Childhood friends, so no: try again.’

  ‘If the difference in your ages isn’t more than two years?’

  ‘And you win the cuddly toy!’

  ‘Yay!’

  They passed the art gallery and the Cowdray Hall – two kids had climbed on top of the big granite lion sitting outside the hall, riding it like a pony and eating bags of crisps.

  The lights were red, so Tufty coasted to a halt at the junction. Then frowned at her. ‘I know it’s an honour just to be nominated, but why are you asking?’

  ‘Because a little birdie called Davey just told me Tommy Shand is twenty-six months older than Josie Stephenson. Two months past the expiry date on his get-out-of-jail-free card. And I’m going to nail the randy wee shite to the wall by his balls.’

  ‘Ah!’ Tufty nodded. ‘Right. OK. Got you.’ A small pause as the lights turned green. ‘Who’s Tommy Shand?’

  The woman in the grey-green overalls curled her top lip at Tufty’s warrant card. Folded her thick arms over her thicker torso. Hair swept back from her face. Little flecks of magnolia paint on her cheeks and overalls. ‘Sally Gray doesn’t live here any more. Do you have any idea how hard it is to evict someone these days?’

  He took out his notebook. ‘Where’s she living now?’

  ‘She was using the place as a drug den and a brothel! I can’t even begin to describe what that does to property values.’

  ‘Mrs Webber, please, we just need to speak to her. Did she leave a forwarding address?’

  ‘Do I look like the Post Office? I served the eviction notice and she disappeared. Oh yes, but not before trashing the place.’ A full-on shudder made everything wobble. ‘You will not believe what she smeared all over the walls. Filthy cow.’

  Tufty climbed back in behind the wheel. ‘Isn’t it lovely when members of the public help?’

  Steel didn’t look up from her phone, kept poking away at a text with her thumbs. ‘She give you an address?’

  ‘Gave me an earful about how the law cares more about the scumbags who trash their landlords’ flats than the poor landlords who have to paint over the dirty protests they leave behind. No forwarding address.’

  ‘Pffff …’ A shrug. ‘Nothing for it, then: to the docks, dear Tufty. We’ve got some ladies of wobbly virtue to question. One of them’s bound to know where Sally Gray’s got to.’

  The lunchtime rush for an illicit kneetrembler can’t have been that great on a sunny Wednesday, because only a couple of girls were out plying their trade. Well, not so much girls as middle-aged women with hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. Lank hair. Spots around their mouths. Short black skirts
in cheap-looking fabric. Arms and legs that were just bones covered in bruise-speckled skin. One with dyed blonde hair, the other in an unconvincing auburn wig.

  Steel puffed away on her e-cigarette, sending out pineapple-scented smoke signals. ‘Come on, Sheryl, have another look at the picture. You know Sally Gray.’

  Tufty held the picture out again and the woman in the wig glanced at it, biting at the skin around her fingernails. They were a mass of raw flesh and scabs. ‘I don’t … Don’t … Haven’t. No.’

  Steel’s shoulders dropped an inch. ‘When did you last eat, Sheryl?’

  ‘Just trying to get by. That’s … Get by. Yup.’ A nod. ‘Get by.’

  ‘How about you, Lynda? You know where Sally’s rinsing out her fishnets these days?’

  Lynda’s long-sleeved lacy top wasn’t quite thick enough to hide the trackmarks tattooing her veins. ‘Maybe … Maybe if, you know, you could lend us a couple of quid I’d remember?’ Eyes glittering away in the darkness of her skull. ‘Just a twenty or something?’

  ‘Aye, cos there’s no way you’d just go spend that on smack, is there?’

  ‘A tenner then. Just a tenner. You can afford it, right?’

  ‘I’m no’ giving you money to spend on drugs, Lynda.’ Steel sighed. ‘God’s sake. Come on.’ She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Follow me.’

  Tufty backed out of the chipper, a paper parcel in each hand trailing the enticing scent of hot batter, chips, and vinegar. He hurried around the corner and there were Steel, Lynda, and Sheryl, right where he’d left them: sitting on a low wall behind the chandler’s yard.

  ‘I stuck a couple of pickled onions in there too. Bon appétit.’ He handed one parcel each to Lynda and Sheryl.

  They unwrapped them, picking away at the fish suppers, peeling off chunks of battered haddock.

  Steel held out her hand to Tufty. ‘Hoy: make with my change, you thieving wee sod.’

  ‘Give us a chance.’ He dug out the one pound twenty she was owed and dropped it into her palm.