A dozen teachers sat in plastic chairs dotted around the room. Eyes scanning the kids like the searchlights on a prison watchtower.
Steel slumped against the wall bars at the side of the stage, with her head in her hands. ‘Susan was right: I should’ve just resigned.’
Harmsworth and Barrett shifted from foot to foot, like they were getting ready to bolt at any minute. But Lund was rubbing her hands, a cheery smile on her face. Was she actually looking forward to this?
She was.
Freak.
Mrs Wilson pointed at the five of them. ‘These nice police officers have come here to talk to you all about staying safe! Isn’t that lovely?’
The kids chorused back, ‘Yes, Mrs Wilson.’
‘Look at them.’ Steel curled her top lip, like she’d caught a whiff of something stinky. ‘Sticky wee children. Thousands of them.’
Tufty nudged her in the ribs. ‘Thought you liked kids?’
‘This is all Jack Raping Turdbadger Wallace’s fault.’
‘Is it? I thought we were being punished because you were round his place harassing …’ Yeah, the look on her face meant it probably wasn’t a good idea to finish that sentence. Tufty cleared his throat. ‘I mean, look on the bright side: they could’ve fired you. And me. Both of us. And I don’t want fired.’
Harmsworth sniffed. ‘You know what they say, don’t you? Kids are the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse. War, Famine, Plague, Death, and the Under Twelves.’ He shuddered, making his chins wobble. ‘This’ll all end in tears. Doom, disaster, horror, the dead rising from their graves …’
Mrs Wilson clapped her hands. ‘So come on, children: let’s have a big St Henry’s welcome for Detective Sergeant Steel and her police friends!’ Then she led everyone in a round of applause as Lund dragged Steel up onto the stage.
The two of them stood there, Steel all droopy, Lund grinning out at the evil horde.
Tufty, Barrett, and Harmsworth stayed right where they were, thank you very much.
So Lund launched into get-over-here-you-lazy-sods! hand gestures, bugging her eyes at them, and mouthing, ‘Now!’
‘It’s the End of Days, I swear to God.’ But Harmsworth lumbered onto the stage anyway.
Barrett and Tufty followed him.
The sea of wee faces had a … predatory look to them. Even the ones dressed up as Disney princesses. Actually, they were the worst of the lot. Six-year-olds with glittery dark eyes to match their glittery costumes. Like someone had rolled a load of hyenas in sequins and lurid nylon.
Hungry and ready to feed.
Harmsworth was right.
Lund stepped to the front of the stage and held her arms wide. ‘Hello, boys and girls! Who wants to learn all about “Stranger Danger”?’
Squeals of delight throbbed up from the audience.
Steel mimed gagging on her own vomit.
Soon as the nine o’clock bell went, the teachers all vanished. One second they were there, the next it was like the rapture had come early and decided it’d forgotten to install child seats, so the kids would all have to stay behind. After all: the police dealt with riots and football hooligans all the time, didn’t they? What could possibly go wrong?
The Disney princesses crowded in around Tufty, Steel, Barrett, Lund, and Harmsworth, making a multi-coloured sea of gap-toothed smiles, magic wands, tiaras, fairy wings, and sticky fingers.
Harmsworth shrank back, bumping against Tufty. ‘Oh God. It’s like a George Romero film …’
A little girl, dressed as Belle from Beauty and the Beast, held up her wand. ‘I can make nasty boys turn into frogs! I can!’
Lund pulled an impressed face. ‘Ooh, that’s very clever. I’ve got a magic wand too, do you want to see it?’
Lots of happy squealing as the kids jumped up and down. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’
Harmsworth curled his hands against his chest, elbows in, not touching anyone. ‘You know they’re just walking disease vectors, don’t you?’
‘Ready? Here we go!’ Lund pulled out her extendable baton. ‘Abra-ca-dabra!’ She flicked it out to full length with a hard clack.
The unisex princesses ooh-ed and ahh-ed as they shuffled closer, eyes wide.
Yeah, Harmsworth was right. This was way more Night of the Living Dead than Balamory.
Closer. Closer. Sticky hands out like horrid little—
A hand grabbed Tufty’s arm. ‘Aaargh!’ He spun around … but it was only Steel.
She hauled him away from the pack, leaving Harmsworth, Barrett, and Lund to their fate. ‘What we need is a plan.’
Ooh, good idea.
‘Finish up here and go for tenses?’
‘No, you neep. A plan about Jack Raping Funkbiscuit Wallace.’
Tufty backed off, hands up. ‘No – no – no – no – no! We are not having a Jack Wallace plan!’
Harmsworth’s voice carried across the princesses’ squeals. ‘Colds. Flu. Salmonella. Botulism. Bubonic plague …’
A little boy Snow White jumped up and down in front of him. ‘Do you have a magic wand too, Mr Policeman?’
Steel poked Tufty in the chest. ‘He knew he’d need an alibi for that night. How? How did he know? Because he’s involved, that’s how.’
Not this again. ‘You heard DCI Rutherford: if we go within a million miles of Wallace, we’re screwed.’
Harmsworth curled away from Snow White, hands and arms raised like he was trapped in a nettle patch. ‘And don’t get me started on C. difficile and MRSA. Kids are an Ebola outbreak waiting to happen.’
‘Mr Policeman? Do you have a magic wand like the lady?’
‘Rutherford can kiss my sharny hoop. Jack Wallace is up to his armpits in this and I’m going to sodding well prove it.’
‘No!’ Tufty stared at Steel. ‘Do you even listen to yourself? You’re obsessed! He wasn’t there. He didn’t do it. It’s not his DNA.’
‘I’m no’ saying he did it, I’m saying he’s involved. He knew!’
‘Mr Policeman? Magic wand, Mr Policeman! Magic wand!’
‘Urgh,’ Harmsworth curled away again. ‘Get off me. You’re getting sticky fingerprints on my suit.’
‘We can’t just go around arresting everyone you think is dodgy.’ Tufty chucked his hands in the air. ‘Rutherford was right, you’re unhinged! You’re—’
‘Don’t you speak to me like—’
‘—walking nightmare who ruins everything!’
‘—pasty-faced wee turd-sniffer: Wallace is guilty.’ Glaring back at him. Teeth bared. Toe to toe and nose to nose.
The kids launched into a chant. ‘Magic wand! Magic wand! Magic wand!’
‘Get off me, you little horrors!’
Tufty’s ears fizzed, blood whoomping in his forehead – burning in his throat. And OK: it was probably career suicide to shout at a senior officer, but if she was going to get him fired anyway, what difference did it make? Might as well throw in a poke for good measure.
So he did, right on her collar bone. See how she liked it for a change. ‘I’m not chucking away four years in the police just because you can’t take a funkbiscuiting telling!’
She poked him back. Harder. ‘Did you see what happened to Beatrice Edwards? Did you see what he did to Claudia Boroditsky? Wallace has to be stopped!’
The princesses crowded in on Harmsworth, forcing him to retreat. ‘I’ll arrest the lot of you!’
Lund sighed. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Owen, just play along for once in your life.’
‘I will not be bullied by a bunch of snottery wee kids!’
Another poke. ‘It – wasn’t – him!’
‘He knew about it! He …’ Steel wasn’t glowering at Tufty any more, she was staring at the group of kids as Harmsworth stumbled back, tripped and went down with a thump.
Nobody spoke. The princesses froze.
The sound of the older kids whooping it up in the playground filtered in through the windows.
Then a little girl Pocahontas stabbed her
fairy wand up into the air sideways, William-Wallace-broadsword style. ‘PILEY-ON!’
They did. All of them. Leaping onto Harmsworth. Burying him beneath an avalanche of Disney princesses.
‘GET OFF ME! HELP! HELP!’
Steel ran a hand across her face, still staring. ‘Why did he need an alibi, then? Why did Jack Wallace need an alibi for a crime he didn’t commit?’
‘Just because your career’s nearly over, doesn’t mean I want mine chucked away too!’
‘AAAAAAARGH! NO BITING!’
‘My career’s no’ “nearly over”, you cheeky wee shite!’
One of Harmsworth’s shoes came flying out of the piley-on, bounced off the gym floor and skittered four or five foot before coming to a halt. His other shoe followed the first. Then a sock.
‘FOR GOD’S SAKE, LUND, GET THEM OFF ME!’
Lund moved, but Barrett grabbed her arm.
‘Actually we’re not supposed to have any physical contact with the kids.’
She smiled. ‘You know, I think you’re right.’
‘AAAAAAAAARGH!!!’
Steel escalated the poking war. ‘Well, come on, then: how did Wallace know?’
‘It … I …’ Yeah, she had a point. ‘Look, I’ve no idea. Maybe he is involved, somehow, but we still can’t do anything about it. It’s DI Vine’s case, we have to let it go.’
‘And what happens when another woman gets raped?’
‘AAAAAAAAAARGH! STOP BITING ME! LUND! LUND, HELP! BARRETT!’
Barrett shrugged. Grinned. ‘Sorry, we’d love to, but it’s the rules.’
‘GET OFF ME! HELP! HELP!’
A suit-jacket sleeve went flying, fluttering to the ground like a wounded bird. It was followed by a chunk of trousers. Then more scraps of clothing – bits of shirt, a vest, another sleeve, more trousers.
Steel shook her head. ‘It has to be him.’
‘It isn’t! Didn’t you learn anything from last time? Just because you want Jack Wallace to be guilty, that doesn’t magically make it happen!’
‘NO! DON’T YOU DARE, YOU WEE SHITE! AAAAAAAAARGH!’
Tufty jabbed a hand at the far wall, indicating the entirety of Aberdeen. ‘I want to be something, OK? I want to catch killers. I want to make a difference! You are not dragging me down with you!’
Steel turned. Teeth bared. Snarling like a police Alsatian.
‘HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME FOR GOD’S SAKE!’
He backed away a step. ‘You know when I first wanted to be a policeman? Five years old. Dad ran off with a traffic warden to Paisley and Mum climbed up on the roof of our tower block.’ Tufty wrapped his arms around himself. ‘This policeman came and talked her down and I thought: that was it. That was what I wanted to do with my life. Make people better. Help people.’
Steel’s face softened. ‘Five?’
‘Please don’t make them fire me.’
‘NO! NOT THE PANTS! NOT THE PANTS!’
A wee boy dressed as Elsa appeared from the depths of the piley-on, holding a pair of Y-fronts above his head, triumphant grin on his freckled face. They weren’t the newest or whitest; Harmsworth’s underwear had the perished-elastic sag that marked them out as antiques.
‘GIVE ME BACK MY PANTS!’
‘NEVER!’ Elsa ran off, Harmsworth’s Y-fronts held high like a captured enemy flag. The rest of the Disney Princess Posse hammered out after him – all squealing and giggling – clutching various torn bits of Harmsworth’s clothing.
They banged through the door to the playground, disappearing outside.
Tufty, Steel, and Lund stared.
There, left all alone, lying on the gym floor between the lines for netball and tennis, was a stark-naked Harmsworth. His uncooked-cookie-dough skin was covered in little red bite marks. Both hands clamped over his intimate masculine area. Eyes screwed shut. A high-pitched keening noise coming out of his mouth.
He had a hairier back than expected. Hairier bum too.
A smile broke across Steel’s face. She snorted. Sniggered. Then creased up, hands on her knees, hooting it out. Lund guffawed, pointing at Harmsworth’s poor furry backside.
Tufty tried not to laugh, he really did.
Didn’t help, though.
‘You’re all a bunch of bastards!’ Harmsworth struggled to his feet, one hand still clutching his original sin, bottom lip trembling. His head snapped left and right, eyes raking the school gymnasium, then he scurried across the wooden floor, his other hand shielding his furry bottom as he ran for a stack of gym equipment. He dived behind a pile of blue floor mats, hauling them over himself.
Then a pasty, hairy arm poked out from beneath the makeshift fort, pointing at the doors to the playground. ‘Don’t just stand there, go get my pants back!’
Steel hammed-up a massive grin at Lund, Barrett and Tufty and they all rushed over to the window – noses pressed against the safety glass.
The princesses paraded around the swings, marching like the soldiers of a strangely-dressed sparkly-sequinned army. Once round the roundabout, across the hopscotch squares, and back around the swings again. Following Elsa and his triumphant trophy – held aloft on the tip of a magic wand, the grey fabric flapping in the breeze as they chanted their victory cry in unison: ‘PANTS! PANTS! PANTS! PANTS! PANTS!’
Lund wiped a tear from her eye. ‘Some days, I love my job.’
II
Everyone sat facing the front in the police van. No one making eye contact with anyone else. Because every time they did …
Barrett sniggered. Coughed. Cleared his throat.
Lund bit her bottom lip and blinked a few times, shoulders quivering.
Steel let out a shuddery breath.
Tufty glanced in the rear-view mirror.
And there was Harmsworth, all crunched down into himself on the very back row of seats, a hairy grey blanket pulled tight around his hairy bare shoulders. A foul scowl on his face. ‘I bloody hate the lot of you!’
And that just set them all off again.
Roberta leaned back against the metalwork and munched her way through a cold sausage roll. The bridge wasn’t huge, only big enough for three people to stand side by side on the wooden decking, but it thumped straight out through the trees and across the River Don. The water crawled by underneath, sparkly and blue.
Metal crossbeams made three-foot-high asterisks above the handrail, leaving just enough space between them to squeeze your head and shoulders. No’ the prettiest of bridges in the world, but it was nice and quiet, and lovely and warm in the sun.
Tufty dipped into the Tesco carrier bag and came out with two tins. ‘You want Irn-Bru, or Coke?’
She polished off the sausage roll and held out greasy pastry-flecked fingers. ‘Bru. And a gentleman would open it for a lady.’
He looked skyward for a moment, shook his head a little, then did the business and handed over the Irn-Bru.
‘Why thank you, kind sir.’ She knocked back a scoof of fruity fizz. Belched. ‘You know what? Seeing Owen diving for cover, wee wrinkled willy flapping in the breeze, kinda makes life feel worthwhile again.’
Tufty dipped back into the bag again. ‘Samosa, or mini pork pie?’
‘Pie me.’
He did.
‘We should make a tradition out of it. Every time we have a crappy day, Harmsworth has to run around naked.’
‘Yeah,’ the word was mumbled through a mouthful of samosa – no manners at all, ‘maybe not. I never want to see that ever again. Can you believe how hairy he was? Like a bar of prison soap.’ A shudder.
‘Don’t be such a killjoy.’ She ripped a bite out of her pie, all savoury and crumbling pastry and jellified pork bits. Chewing through the words, ‘Did your dad really sod off when you were five years old, or was that just a cunning lie to—’ Her phone blared out its theme tune. ‘Oh, what fresh hell is this?’ She took another bite of pie and answered it. ‘What do you want?’
‘That what passes for manners in your house?’ Big Gary.
‘Make it quick, Gary, I’ve got a pie on the go.’
‘You wanted to know when someone came in to pick up a stolen mobile phone.’
‘I did?’ Frown. Mobile phone. Mobile phone … Aha: Tommy Shand’s phone. The one with the dirty photos of Josie Stephenson on it. The one that was going to get him sent down for three or four years as a sex offender. ‘So I did.’ Another bite of pie.
Could just get Lund or Barrett to detain Shand under a Section Fourteen …
But why deny herself the pleasure of making the dirty wee sod squirm? Tommy Shand would keep.
She popped the last chunk of pie in her mouth. ‘We’re going to be a while, tell him to come back later. I want to be there when he gets it.’
‘But of course, Your Majesty. Anything else while I’m running around after you?’
‘Bye, Gary.’ She hung up. Frowned down at the water crawling by underneath.
Tufty stuffed a couple of Skips in his mouth. Sooked the prawn-cocktaily dust off his fingers. ‘Problem?’
‘Tommy Shand wants his phone back. Because of course I’m going to let him get away with an amateur porn shoot starring a fifteen-year-old model. Trouble is, if I do him for the phone now, I can’t catch him dealing drugs round the back of Airyhall Library and do him for that as well. Decisions, decisions.’
‘A sex offender in the hand is better than two in the bushes.’
Roberta sighed. Picked up a stick lying on the bridge deck. ‘Why does the world have to be full of perverted funkbiscuits?’ She turned, reached through the metalwork and dropped her stick on the upstream side. Sauntered over to the other side to watch it float by. ‘You really think we shouldn’t go after Jack Wallace?’
Tufty nodded. ‘They’ll fire you and they’ll screw me. Besides,’ a shrug, ‘DI Vine’s a professional pain in the bumhole: no way he’s going to let whoever raped Beatrice Edwards get away with it. Even just out of sheer bloody-mindedness – he’ll get them.’
‘Yeah. Probably.’ Maybe.
She sent a second stick after the first. ‘Doesn’t mean we can’t go after Philip Dog-Murdering Innes, though.’
Now We Are Dead Page 16