‘Is that it?’
‘Yes. And you’re welcome.’
‘Pfff …’ She stuck the cash in her pocket. ‘Right, you two. I need to speak to Sally Gray. Where is she?’
They shared a look. Then Lynda shrugged. Popped a chip in her mouth and chewed. ‘Don’t know where she’s living, but I know who she gets her gear from. He might?’
‘Last chance, Shawn.’ Steel leaned in close. ‘Either you tell us where Sally Gray lives, right now, or I’m going to make your miserable wee life a living nightmare.’
Shawn licked his lips and hunched his shoulders forward, like someone had hollowed him out. He didn’t look like a big-time drug dealer, he looked like a schoolkid trying to grow a beard. The result was a sparse smattering of wiry black hairs. More scrotumy than anything else. ‘I … It’s not … I mean, I don’t really know her or anything. You know. I’ve got a girlfriend and that.’
‘You sell her gear, Shawn, you know where she lives.’
‘Gear? No, no. Not me. I don’t sell gear. Nah, that’s illegal, man. Definitely not.’
She lowered her voice. ‘A living nightmare.’
‘Who says I sell gear? Cos I’ve never sold gear in my life …’
‘In five. Four. Three.’
Shawn stared at Tufty. ‘But—’
‘I’d be terrified, if I was you. Seriously bricking it.’
‘Two. One—’
‘OK! OK. Yeah. Sally. She’s got a place in Torry, belongs to an aunt or something.’
Steel patted him on the cheek. ‘Saved by the bell, Shawn. Now give us the address.’
The street was a canyon of depressing grey. Two identical rows of terraced flats faced each other across a strip of fading tarmac – the usual set-up of six flats to one door copy-and-pasted until they ran out of road. Rows of once-black wheelie-bins standing to attention between the pavement and the thin strip of unloved grass that passed for a front garden.
More like a gulag than somewhere for human beings to live.
Austere and soulless.
Roberta had a wee dig at her itchy bra as she clambered out of the pool car.
A mangy greyhound was tethered to a stake in the middle of the grass – it trotted round and round in the biggest circle the chain around its neck would allow. Whining and yowling.
Tufty led the way up the path to a door halfway down the street. He peered at the intercom. ‘Here we are: Sally Gray. Top floor left.’ A wee grimace. ‘Aren’t neighbours lovely? Someone’s written “Dirty Prozzie Bitch” on her name tag.’ He poked the button, making it buzz.
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
Roberta frowned at the greyhound. ‘What did Hissing Sid mean?’
‘Nope, no idea who that is either.’
More buzzing.
‘Hissing Sid, AKA: Sandy Slithery Moir-Farquharson, AKA: Greasy Lawyer-Faced … what’s the word of the day?’
‘“Felchbunny.”’
Buzz.
‘Oh, he’s definitely that.’ She slapped Tufty’s hand out of the way. ‘Don’t be so damp. This is how the grown-ups do it.’ She mashed all the buttons with her palm, holding it there. Making them all buzz. ‘Hissing Sid said Wallace’s friends “came to his aid” when he needed them. “Just like mine.” What’s that supposed to mean?’
The door hummed, then clicked open.
‘Told you.’ She let go of the buttons and gave the door a shove, stepping into a shabby hallway. Stairs marched up to the floors above, the scent of lemon furniture polish overlaying a bleachy note. Shabby, but clean.
A little old lady peered out of the ground-floor flat on the right. ‘Hoy, Quasimodo: stop ringing that bloody bell! This isn’t nineteenth-century Paris!’
Roberta marched past and up the stairs, Tufty trotting along at her side. She thumped him. ‘And for the record, no one “came to my aid”.’
Tufty shrugged. ‘Well … he’s a swanky expensive lawyer, right? Maybe Wallace’s friends all chipped in to cover the legal costs?’
‘First sign of trouble, my so-called sodding “friends” dropped me like a radioactive jobbie.’ Round the landing and up the next flight of stairs.
‘I mean, he’s got to be really expensive, right? Lawyer that swanky.’
‘And then some.’
Tufty stopped on the top step. ‘So how did you afford him?’
‘Didn’t. He did it pro bono, on account of all the times he’d been a pain in my arse in court, getting murderers and rapists off. Guilty conscience.’ A sniff. ‘Even lawyers do the right thing now and then.’
The top floor was shabbier than down below, the scent of furniture polish joined by the chemical-floral hit of too much air freshener – making the air thick enough to cut with a spoon. A child was crying somewhere inside one of the flats, the sound echoing back from the bare walls.
Roberta pointed and Tufty wandered over there and knocked. ‘Miss Gray? Sally? Can you come to the door please?’
No reply. But the crying got louder, so that was something.
The theme to Cagney & Lacey blared out into the stairwell. Roberta answered her phone. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Sarge?’ Barrett.
‘Davey, my little disaster-monkey, what have you got for your lovely Aunty Roberta?’
‘Dug up some dirt on Tommy Shand, Sarge. Been complaints about his vehicle hanging round the car park behind Airyhall Library late at night. Local residents think he’s dealing. There’s a bunch of unsolved break-ins at the community centre too.’
Tufty tried again. ‘Miss Gray? It’s the police. I need you to open up.’
‘You wee dancer, Davey. Who’s investigating?’
‘Let me check … OK. DI McPherson’s running that one.’
‘McPherson? He couldn’t catch a fart in a bubble bath. But I can. Cheers, Davey.’ She slipped her phone back in her pocket. ‘You giving up already?’
Tufty wasn’t knocking any more, he was bent double, hands on his knees, sniffing at the letterbox. Then backed off a couple of paces, face all wrinkled. ‘Can you smell that?’
She inched forward and gave the letterbox a sniff. Recoiled. No wonder the whole landing stank of air freshener, someone was trying to cover up the rancid-meat stench coming from Sally Gray’s flat. ‘Kick it in.’
Tufty slammed his boot into the door. It battered open, bouncing off the wall inside.
That wailing child’s cry got louder, accompanied by the dark heavy buzzing of far too many flies.
‘Oh Jesus …’ Tufty stuck a hand over his mouth, pinching his nostrils shut. ‘You want me to call it in? Sarge?’
She stepped over the threshold into the flat.
There was nothing in the hall. No carpets, no coats, no shoes, no mail, just bare floorboards scuffed with dirt.
‘Sarge?’
The door at the end of the hall was shut. She tucked her hand into the sleeve of her jacket and turned the handle. Pushed it open.
That rotting meat stench collapsed out through the doorway like an avalanche, burying her in its greasy embrace.
Her bacon-egg-and-black-pudding butty lurched … But stayed down.
A bare mattress sat on the bare floor, bathed in the sunlight streaming in through the living-room window. And right in the middle of that warm spotlight was a body: female, half naked, skeletally thin. Skin blackened and furred with mould. Stomach swollen.
Fat bluebottles made lazy circuits of the room – probably startled when Tufty put the door in. One by one they settled back onto the body.
A couple of needles lay on the floor beside the mattress. A blackened teaspoon. A lighter. Some cotton wool. A bottle of distilled vinegar.
Tufty appeared at Roberta’s side, staring down at what was left of Sally Gray. ‘Sarge?’
What a waste.
What a stupid, bloody, sodding …
The crying. It was coming from the corner behind them.
She turned. ‘No, no, no …’
A rickety crib sat in the corner.
A little boy was imprisoned inside it – couldn’t have been more than nine or ten months old – standing on the bundled-up jacket that covered the bottom of the crib, holding onto the bars and wailing. Wearing nothing but a filthy T-shirt and a filthier nappy.
Roberta lurched over, legs stiff as boards.
Little red cuts covered the wee boy’s fingers, the tip of his nose and chin – semi-circular scrapes on his cheeks and around both wrists.
A lump of brambles knotted in her throat. Made it hard to swallow.
A bunch of those sports drinks bottles with the flip-top caps lay suckled dry and crumpled in the corners of the crib.
Empty tins of dog food littered the floor around the cot. All licked clean.
No …
A few of the ring-pull lids sat further out, crusted with dried brown lumps, too far away for a wee arm to reach.
She stared. Blinked as the world went a little blurry.
Do not cry in front of Tufty.
Do not.
A deep, shuddery breath.
Poor wee thing …
Roberta reached into the crib, pulled the toddler out of the crib, and hugged him tight.
II
‘Sarge?’ Tufty knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Sarge, you in there?’
The child’s wails boomed out from the other side of the scarred wood.
He knocked again. ‘Sarge?’
Yeah. Probably better go in and hope she wasn’t on the toilet.
He pushed the door open.
The flat’s bathroom was manky filthy. Dirty grey-brown water in the sink, a thick black tidemark around the inside of the bath. The jagged yellow reek of a toilet that never got cleaned. Discarded crap littering the cracked lino floor.
Steel was on her knees, in front of the bath. She’d got a bright-red jumper from somewhere – dipping it into the sink then dabbing it at the screaming little boy’s naked bottom. ‘I know, I know. Shhh … Who’s a brave wee soul?’
Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Ambulance is here.’
The little boy screeched again.
‘There’s no hot water and he’s all covered in sores. Shhh …’
Which explained the colour of the water in the sink. Tufty pulled the plug, letting the scummy water swirl away. Then filled it again. ‘Next door say they haven’t seen her for five days.’
‘Five days.’ Steel screwed up her face. Then dipped the jumper in the fresh water. ‘Five days in a filthy nappy, scraping dog food from tins, while your mum decomposes into a mattress …’ She blinked. Sniffed. Took a deep breath. ‘Right. Ambulance.’
Tufty indicated left, taking them out onto the main road. Something upbeat and cheery bingled out of the car radio – a woman singing about how it was a lovely day for love and everyone should get out there and dance.
He glanced across the car at Steel.
She was slumped in the passenger seat, staring out of the window. Hands loose in her lap. Face dead and expressionless.
He forced a smile. ‘Well … look on the bright side. Imagine what would’ve happened if we hadn’t gone round and kicked the door in!’
No reply.
‘He would’ve died, wouldn’t he? We saved that little boy’s life today.’
Still nothing.
‘He’s only alive because of—’
‘They didn’t call the police.’ Her voice was as dead as her face. ‘They sat in their flats and they listened to that poor wee boy crying his arse off and didn’t do a thing about it.’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘And then, when Sally started to smell, they still didn’t call us. They got out the air freshener and tried to hide the stench.’ Steel’s head dipped. ‘You know what, Tufty? I sodding hate human beings.’
The window at the end of the corridor was half boarded-up, the remaining half a mess of cracked grey glass. Graffiti crawled down the walls. Not the fancy arty type either – the type that was all swearing and crudely scrawled genitals. Bin-bags stacked in stinky heaps along the skirting boards.
The guy who’d opened the ground-floor flat’s door squinted one eye shut, the other had a pupil black as treacle and big as a bowling ball. He scratched his crotch, ruffling his dirty Y-fronts and stained T-shirt. One grey-brown sock with a toe poking out. Dirt and bruises mingling on the pale hairy skin of his arms and legs.
Tufty held up the photo. ‘Try again.’
Steel nudged a bin-bag with her boot. ‘Come on, Shuggie, it’s no’ hard: where’s Daphne McClellan? Two of you are shacked up, aren’t you?’
He wobbled a bit, staring at the picture, holding onto the doorframe. Then a slow smile dawned across his filthy face. ‘Nah, you mean Natasha, right? Natasha Sparkles.’ Jazz hands. ‘Not in, is she. Out. Out. Out.’
‘Of course she is.’ Steel gave him a glower. ‘Where?’
Music oozed through the Regents Arms: Kylie encouraging everyone to do the Locomotion. Which was never going to happen here. Most of the gloomy bar’s denizens looked like they’d struggle to walk in a straight line, never mind pretend to be choo-choo trains.
Ten to four on a Wednesday and the regulars were well into their fourth or fifth pint – the empties littering their tables. Some hadn’t even bothered changing out of their overalls before coming in to quench the demon thirst.
The wall behind the bar was covered in apostrophes, all of which looked like they’d been stolen from other signs. At least three of them had definitely spent time attached to the front of a McDonald’s. The guy in charge of the collection took one look at the photo in Tufty’s hand and sighed. Then pointed at a table over by the cigarette machine.
Steel hunched her shoulders and marched over.
Tufty gave the barman an apologetic smile. ‘She’s having a bad day.’
‘Hmmph.’ He went back to stacking alcopops in the fridge.
Fair enough.
Tufty hurried over to catch up with Steel as she came to a halt in front of the table.
Daphne McClellan was there, sitting with an older man – grey hair, grey jumper on over a white shirt and grey tie. He had his eyes closed, both hands on the tabletop. Daphne was all done up in knee-high PVC boots, a short skirt and lacy top that showed off a skeletal figure so lacquered with fake tan she could’ve been one of those mummies they fished out of peat bogs.
She had one hand inside the flies of her friend’s trousers. Working. A bored expression on her face as her arm jiggled up and down.
Steel gave the table leg a kick, setting the glasses on top clinking. ‘Hope you’re wearing gloves, Daphne. Practising safe sex and all that.’
She snatched her hand back. ‘Urgh, not this again.’ Daphne rolled her eyes, then sagged. ‘I’m not doing nothing!’
Her friend scrabbled at his flies and jumped to his feet. ‘I wasn’t … This isn’t … We—’
‘You: Old Aged Pervert.’ Steel hooked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Go spend your pension somewhere else.’
He legged it, straight out of the pub.
Steel hauled out a chair and sat in it. Staring across the table at Daphne McClellan. ‘How many kids have you got, Daphs?’
A shrug rearranged the bones beneath that leathery skin. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘You’ve got three.’ She leaned in, growling it out. ‘And you’re supposed to be their sodding mother! Where are they?’
‘At … At my mum’s. The court gave her custody. I see them when I can, but it’s—’
‘THEN WHY DID WE FIND YOUR WEE BOY COWERING IN A CUPBOARD AT KENNY MILNE’S HOUSE?’ Steel’s voice echoed around the bar. Everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at her.
Then Daphne lowered her eyes, those formerly busy hands of hers picking at the tabletop. ‘No comment.’
Steel barged through the station’s back doors, slamming them against the walls with an echoing BOOOM…
Yeah. Her mood definitely hadn’t got any better.
Tufty marched Daphne into the custody suite, struggling to catch
up. Getting there just as Steel banged her hand down on the desk.
‘Shop!’
Big Gary put down his colouring book. Sighed. ‘And what can we do for you today, Your Royal Rumpled Majesty?’
The words came out like she was chewing on sick: ‘Child endangerment. Neglect. Soliciting. Sex in a public place. And anything else you can think of.’ She turned to go.
Big Gary reached for her. ‘Wait, aren’t you going to—’
‘No. I’m done. No more.’
Tufty stared after her as she stomped out through the double doors back into the sunshine again. Then the doors swung shut, and they were alone at last.
‘Hmph.’ Big Gary shuffled his paperwork. ‘What the hell’s got into her?’
‘Yeah … sorry about that.’ Tufty wheeled out the same apologetic smile he’d been peddling since the shift started. ‘She’s having a really bad day.’
Roberta wound the passenger window down another inch, letting the cloud of cherry-flavoured steam escape out into the sunny afternoon.
Sunlight sliced across one half of the Rear Podium car park, leaving the row of patrol cars bathed in the shadow of Division Headquarters – it’s bulk towering seven storeys above her. Someone lumbered up the stairs from the mortuary, still wearing their green scrubs and white wellington boots. Escaping the stink of death to enjoy some fresh air and a fag.
Roberta poked away at the screen of her mobile phone:
Sod the diet. Let’s get a great big Chinese
for tea and watch Groundhog Day!
Send.
Her phone did its ding-ding incoming message noise.
We’re supposed to be going to that play,
remember?
She thumbed out a reply:
AAAAAAAAAARGH!!!!! Sod … Sorry.
HORRIBLE day.
Send.
The driver’s door opened and Tufty sank into the seat with a sigh. ‘Lund and Barrett say they’ll interview her soon as she’s seen a duty solicitor.’
Roberta shook her head. ‘I swear to God, Tufty, if I have to deal with one more scumbag today …’
Ding-ding:
OK, forget the play. We’ll break open a bottle
of wine when you get home. Put the kids
to bed. Then get all naked and naughty!
She smiled. Ah, Susan, you saucy, lovely, cuddly minx.
Now We Are Dead Page 13