Now We Are Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  I’ve got the chardonnay in the fridge and

  the takeaway menus out waiting for you.

  Now slipping into something slinky …

  Naughty old Susan.

  Poor old Susan too. She deserved better than a grumpy wife, stomping about the house, swearing about how people were all scumbags.

  Roberta thumbed out a reply:

  Be there soon. Got a quick stop to make.

  After all, just because Tommy Shand was a no-show, didn’t mean she couldn’t take her crappy day out on somebody else. And one person in particular deserved it more than anyone.

  Jack Wallace was out washing his fake four-by-four as Roberta pulled into the residential street.

  He scrubbed away at the car’s roof with a big yellow sponge. Headphones on. Oblivious as she drove by his house in search of a parking spot. A Hoover sat on the pavement, under one of the trees lining the road – an extension lead snaking up the path and in through the raping wee shite’s open front door. Very suburban and domesticated.

  No’ the sort of thing predators were meant to do.

  And who washed their car at five to nine on a Wednesday night anyway?

  People trying to get rid of evidence, that’s who.

  She pulled into a spot on the other side of the road, about four houses down. Sat there, watching him in the passenger wing mirror.

  Couldn’t arrest him for washing his car. Couldn’t arrest him for anything at all.

  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t rattle his cage a bit. See what fell out.

  Roberta climbed out of her MX-5 and balled her fists. Marched up the middle of the road and—

  A hand grabbed her arm.

  She spun around, fist at the ready …

  Tufty let go and danced back a couple of steps, eyes wide, even the black one. ‘Whoa!’

  She lowered her fist. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Then turned back towards Wallace. ‘You know what? Don’t care.’

  Tufty grabbed her again. ‘Don’t!’ He scurried around till he was in front of her. Blocking the way. ‘DCI Rutherford will mount your head on a pike outside the castle wall. You heard him: we have to stay away from Jack Wallace!’

  ‘Get out of my sodding way.’

  ‘I followed you, OK? Because I knew you’d do something daft.’

  She stepped forward, but he didn’t move.

  ‘What happened to Agnes Galloway wasn’t your fault. What happened to Sally Gray’s kid wasn’t your fault either. Doing what you’re doing won’t help them!’

  She closed her eyes. ‘Felchbunnies …’ For once Tufty was right. Fronting Wallace up was about as bright as punching a wasps’ nest. Her shoulders slumped. ‘The poor wee sod was living on dog food, in a five-day-old nappy.’

  ‘I know. But—’

  ‘Well, well, well.’ A voice behind her. ‘What have we got here?’

  She turned, and there was Jack Wallace, smiling at them, headphones around the back of his neck, bucket of soapy water in one hand, frothy sponge in the other.

  ‘Have to admit, I really didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come back here, Detective Sergeant Steel. My lawyer’s going to be very upset when I tell him you’ve been harassing me again.’

  She glared at him. ‘We’re just leaving.’

  ‘So soon? You don’t want to come in and plant some evidence? Like you did last time?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘That you planted evidence?’ He laughed in her face. ‘I knew, because I’m not a kiddy fiddler.’

  ‘No: how did you know you needed an alibi that night? All that waving at the cameras: how did you know?’

  ‘You never learn, do you?’ He walked back to his car and placed the sponge on the roof. Hefted the bucket. Time to rinse off the bubbles.

  ‘How did you know you needed an alibi, Jack?’

  Tufty tugged at her sleeve. ‘Don’t get drawn in. Let’s go.’

  ‘Well? Come on, Jacky Boy: impress us with your brilliance.’

  ‘OK.’ He swung the bucket at the car, swivelling at the very last moment, swinging wide. The soapy water arced out like a big wet tongue.

  Roberta scrambled sideways and the whole lot went splosh – all over Tufty. He stood there with his arms out, dripping. ‘Aaaargh …!’

  She hauled out her handcuffs. Grinned. ‘You just assaulted a police officer! Jack Wallace, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen—’

  ‘You don’t even know how much trouble you’re in right now.’ He grinned right back at her. ‘But you’re about to find out.’

  DCI Rutherford glared at them from behind his desk. At least he’d changed out of his T-shirt and jammie bottoms. Tufty stood to attention in the middle of the room, his fighting suit two shades darker than it had been at the start of the shift. Damp as a dishcloth.

  ‘Well?’ Rutherford’s voice was just this side of shouting, his face just this side of aneurism-red. ‘What the bloody hell did you think you were playing at, dragging this soggy idiot along with you? Is chucking your own career in the septic tank not enough? Do you have to ruin his as well?’

  Tufty eeked.

  Roberta patted the silly sod on the back. ‘Constable Quirrel was there trying to stop me. He had just succeeded when Jack Wallace attacked us with a bucket of soapy—’

  ‘DON’T INTERRUPT!’ Rutherford was on his feet now, fists resting on his desk, spittle gleaming on his bared teeth. ‘Your reckless, idiotic antics have made NE Division look like a bunch of bloody halfwit amateurs!’

  She shrugged. ‘To be fair—’

  ‘You were given a second chance, Sergeant. We could’ve fired you for what you did, but we thought, for some godforsaken reason, that you’d learn from your mistake. Well, apparently we were wrong!’

  The only sound came from the radiator, pinging and gurgling like an unfed stomach.

  Outside, in the corridor, someone laughed.

  The mobile phone on Rutherford’s desk buzzed twice then went silent.

  She pursed her lips. Maybe a bit of contrition would make him feel a bit less shouty? ‘Actually, Guv, if you—’

  ‘ENOUGH!’ He stabbed a finger at his office door. ‘Get out of my sight. I need to decide what to do about you.’ Rutherford curled his lip in disgust and turned away. Couldn’t even look at her. ‘You’re an embarrassment.’

  Sunset painted the granite houses in fiery shades of amber and peach. The trees glowed. And Roberta sat there, in her car, parked outside her own house for a change.

  She closed her eyes and curled forward till her forehead came to rest on the steering wheel. Let her arms dangle either side of her knees.

  ‘Sodding, felchbunnied, fudgemonkeying …’ Deep breath. ‘MOTHERFUNKER!’ Bellowing it out into the footwell.

  Was there ever a crappier day?

  One: Agnes Galloway battered into intensive care. Two: Philip Sodding Innes sitting happily at home while half the idiots in NE Division were out looking for him. Then having to let him go! Three: Jack Wallace walking free. Again. Four: a full-on bollocking from DCI Rutherford. And last, but crappiest of all, Five: Sally Gray’s poor wee boy.

  Dog food.

  No’ just the fact he’d been fed on it, but that he’d eaten the lot. Every last scrap. How long had he stood there, in his filthy nappy in his filthy cot while his mother rotted into a filthy mattress in that filthy hole of a house? Starving. Licking the tins out again and again till his little fingers and wrists and nose and cheeks were a network of sharp little cuts from the metal edges.

  And the sores… All up and down his legs and bottom.

  No child deserved that.

  No one did.

  Roberta’s phone ding-dinged at her.

  She hauled it out.

  If you’re not home in the next 5 minutes

  I’m putting on joggie bottoms and that

  sweatshirt you hate.

  Great.

  A long hard sigh, then she climbed out of the car. Got t
he box with Susan’s trophy in it out of the boot. Plipped the locks. Slouched up the path to the front door.

  It swung open and there was Susan, posing in a low-cut lacy negligée, bottle of fizzy wine in one hand, champagne flutes in the other. ‘I cheated: saw you parking when …’ Little creases formed across her brow. ‘Oh, Robbie, what’s wrong?’

  The hallway got all wobbly, the breath sharp and lumpy in her throat.

  Susan opened her arms and swept her up into a hug. Warm and soft and comforting. ‘Shhh … It’ll be OK. I promise.’

  Roberta just stood there and cried.

  CHAPTER SIX

  in which it is shown that PC Harmsworth should Never

  Get Naked In Public, we find out if rubber willies float,

  and Tufty catches someone red-handed

  I

  ‘Gah …’ Roberta pushed the scrambled eggs around her plate some more. It’d gone all cold and congealed, greyed by the liberal application of Worcestershire sauce, the toast beneath it turned to soggy linoleum.

  Which pretty much summed this whole week up.

  Susan pushed a cup of coffee in front of her. ‘What’s wrong with my scrambled eggs?’

  A shrug.

  ‘Honestly, some people.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Right, Naughty Monkey Number Two: do you want more soldiers?’

  Naomi squealed in her high chair, a big smile on her face as she painted herself with baked beans.

  ‘No. OK, then. Naughty Monkey Number One, what do you fancy for your packed lunch: peanut-butter-and-banana, or cheese-and-pickle?’

  Jasmine stuffed another spoonful of Rice Krispies in her gob, chewing as she talked. ‘Chicken jam!’

  ‘Chicken jam it is. And don’t talk with your mouth full.’ Susan reached for the chicken pâté, spreading a thick layer onto a round of soft white bread. ‘Robbie, are you going to be late tonight? Because I thought we could go to that new French place on Holburn Street. Cheer us up a bit. Dolly says she’ll watch the kids.’

  Roberta stared into the lumpy grey mess clarting her plate. ‘Mmmph.’

  ‘Robbie!’

  When she spoke the words came out all flat and dead. ‘Sorry. Not really hungry.’

  Susan put down the knife, sooked her fingers clean, then took hold of Roberta’s face. Stared right into her eyes. ‘Do you want to quit? Because if you do, you march in there today and you tell them to take their horrible job and ram it so far up their backsides a spelunking team couldn’t get it out.’

  Her mouth twitched. ‘That far?’

  ‘Further.’ Susan leaned in and gave her a kiss, soft and warm and faintly chickeny. ‘Sod them.’

  Barrett was up front at the whiteboard again, that clipboard of his clutched to his chest like a teddy bear. ‘… so keep an eye out if you can.’

  Harmsworth slouched in his seat, digging away at one ear with a relentless finger. Lund stifled a yawn, both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. Steel, on the other hand, wasn’t really there. She sat staring out of the window, face droopy as a basset hound, drumming out a funeral beat on her desk jotter with her hand.

  Only Brave Sir Tufty was paying any attention to the morning briefing. He’d taken notes and everything.

  ‘Finally …’ Barrett dug out the upturned police cap and went a-rummaging. Pulled out one blue bit of paper and one red. Unfolded them both. ‘Today’s word of approbation is “Spanktastic” and for disapprobation we have “Funkbiscuits”. And that concludes morning prayers. Sarge?’

  Everyone turned to look at her.

  No reply.

  Barrett tried again, only louder. ‘Sarge?’

  She sighed. Shrugged. ‘Finish with the phones.’ You could’ve ironed your shirt on those words, they were that flat.

  ‘OK, you heard the lady: phone time!’

  While everyone else picked a new mobile to try, Tufty stuck his heels into the carpet tiles and backward-walked his office chair over to Steel’s desk. Put on a bit of a whisper: ‘Are you OK, Sarge? Only you seem a bit … suicidal.’

  She sagged a bit further. ‘Ask no’ for whom the bell tolls, Tufty, today it tolls for me.’ Steel checked her watch. ‘In five, four, three, two …’ She pointed at the office door.

  It opened bang on time and the nervous PC from yesterday stuck his head into the room. God knew what facial expression he’d been aiming for, but he’d wound up with a cross between a smile and a grimace. Like he’d tried for a fart and got an unpleasant surprise instead. ‘DS Steel? They’re ready for you.’

  ‘Course they are.’ She stood, slapped a hand down on Tufty’s shoulder. ‘Come on, then. You can hold me back if I try to kill anyone.’

  They’d arranged themselves down one side of the meeting room table, like this was some sort of job interview. Or a firing squad.

  DCI Rutherford, DI Vine, Jack Wallace, and his solicitor Moir-Farquharson. The first two looked like someone had just rammed a lit Catherine wheel up their backsides, Wallace smugging it up big-time in the middle, the lawyer deadpan.

  Leaving Steel and Tufty to stand on the other side of the table.

  Rutherford scowled at them. ‘Detective Sergeant Steel, do you have anything to say in your defence?’

  ‘Aye. Constable Quirrel had nothing to do with it. He was there trying to talk me out of confronting Jack Wallace.’

  ‘I see.’

  She nodded. ‘He did good. This is all on me.’

  Which was really nice of her. Given the option, most senior officers would shoot you in the kneecap so the bear would eat you while they ran away. Wouldn’t even blink.

  Rutherford poked the table. ‘I specifically ordered you to stay away from Mr Wallace and you went there anyway.’

  She bared her teeth. ‘All that smiling and waving at the CCTV cameras – he knew we’d check, so—’

  ‘Stop – right – there!’ The finger stopped poking and pointed right at her. ‘You had no business harassing Mr Wallace. You were ordered not to.’

  Steel shrugged. Her shoulders might have been all nonchalant and ‘whatever’, but her face looked one red button away from going intercontinental. BOOOOOOOOM… At least three megatons.

  Tufty hissed it out the side of his mouth, as quietly as possible so no one but her would hear. ‘Please don’t.’

  DI Vine opened the manila folder in front of him and pulled out three sheets of paper. ‘The results of Miss Edwards’ rape kit came back from the lab. The DNA they found doesn’t match Mr Wallace. He has an alibi for the evening. He has a witness who stayed with him until eight in the morning. Do you understand, Sergeant?’

  Steel’s chin came up. ‘So whose DNA did it match?’

  ‘Say it with me: “Mr Wallace had nothing to do with it.”’

  ‘Then how come he knew he’d need an alibi?’

  Wallace spread his hands, palm up. ‘Didn’t. But I know you and your wee mates like to keep an eye on me, so I smile and wave when I pass a CCTV camera. Just to show there’s no hard feelings.’

  The lawyer glanced at his watch. ‘If I may, gentlemen, time is moving on.’ He smiled at Steel. ‘Detective Sergeant: my client has very generously asked your superiors not to demote or fire you for your actions. In exchange for which he will not sue Police Scotland for harassment.’

  OK, that was a bit unexpected.

  Tufty smiled.

  Woot – they were going to get away with it!

  So how come Steel didn’t look so happy?

  She stared back, one eyebrow slowly creeping its way up her forehead.

  Hissing Sid nodded. ‘This is on one condition: you apologise.’

  The eyebrow slammed back down again, joining its neighbour in a scowl.

  Sitting there, flanked by Vine and the lawyer, Wallace grinned. ‘And you do it like you mean it.’

  Oh God …

  Time to sound the four-minute warning …

  DCI Rutherford thumped down behind his desk and treated Steel and Tufty to a family-sized portion of the evil
eye. Morning sunlight streamed in through the office window, turning the whole room into one big microwave oven, great sticky waves of heat making sweat prickle across the back of Tufty’s neck. Or maybe it was the upcoming bollocking?

  Steel moved towards one of the visitors’ chairs.

  ‘Don’t even think about it!’

  She slouched to attention instead. ‘Boss.’

  Rutherford shuffled some paperwork out of his in-tray and back again. ‘I think you understand what’s coming next.’

  ‘Aye, got a fair idea.’

  ‘You will not go anywhere near Jack Wallace. And Constable Quirrel here is going to be held responsible if you do.’

  What?

  No, no, no, no, no.

  Tufty pulled his chin in. ‘But that’s not—’

  ‘You clearly don’t give a toss about your own career, Roberta, so let’s see if you care about his. Your crimes will be his crimes. One more complaint from Jack Wallace and DC Quirrel gets a black mark on his record so big they’ll be able to see it from the International Space Station. Are we clear?’

  He held up a hand. ‘Boss, sir, can I just—’

  ‘No you can’t.’ Rutherford leaned forwards, half out of his seat, fists on the desk again. ‘Well, Sergeant?’

  Tufty stared at her. Tell him no! Tell him it’s not fair to lumber poor Tufty with the sins of the Sergeant! Tell him—

  Steel nodded. ‘Guv.’

  Nooooooooooooo!

  ‘Good.’ A nasty little smile appeared beneath Rutherford’s nose. He selected a sheet of paper from his in-tray. ‘And to make sure: I have a very special assignment for you and your team. Maybe this time you’ll learn your lesson?’

  Something inside Tufty curdled a little.

  It was going to be one of those days, wasn’t it?

  ‘Now, children, we’ve got a real treat for you.’ Mrs Wilson clapped her hands and beamed out at the rows and rows of little kiddies sitting cross-legged on the gym hall floor. Standing there on the little stage, she looked more like the kind of person who sold life insurance than ran a primary school – black suit, purple top, kitten heels, hair piled up in a plume of smoky curls.

  Had to be at least a hundred kids in here, all staring up at her. About thirty of them were dressed as Disney princesses – boys as well as girls – all sitting in a sequin-and-lace clump at the back. Clearly, St Henry’s Primary was a lot less strict with its dress code than the school Tufty went to.