The rest of the place was packed with bedding plants, fruit trees in pots, ornamental box hedges, roses in tubs, ferns, flowers and all the rest. A huge collection of ugly earthenware animals and uglier gnomes.
Yeah, not quite what he’d been expecting, given the evilness of Steel’s smile.
She marched ahead, stopping in front of a young woman transferring seedlings from a tray into individual teeny pots. Hair pulled back in a pair of Heidi pigtails. The garden centre logo sat right in the middle of her blue apron, just beneath a big red badge with ‘STACEY IS ALWAYS HAPPY TO HELP’ on it.
Steel knocked on the potting table and ‘STACEY’ looked up. Smiled.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Aye, Big Jimmy Grieve about?’
She pointed at a door in the wall at the end of the warehouse. ‘Garden sheds and gazebos.’
‘Cheers.’ Steel marched off, past a display of water features and out through the door.
Tufty loped along beside her. ‘Who’s “Big Jimmy Grieve”?’
She kept marching.
A twelve-foot-high chainlink fence was lined with shelves of landscapy stuff – bags of gravel, fencing panels, rolls of wire, that kind of thing. They surrounded a collection of pre-built sheds that formed their own little shantytown, painted in jaunty outdoor colours.
An old man was fiddling about with bits of wood, building himself a gazebo on the outskirts of Jaunty Shed Shantytown. Doing a good job of it too. Which was just as well, because you’d have to be suicidal to tell him he was doing anything other than a good job.
He was huge. Grey hair cropped close to his head. Broad shouldered. Big arms and hands. Powerful. Like a rugby player and a boxer gave birth to a bouncer.
Steel came to a halt behind him. Leaned against a pastel-blue shed.
He didn’t look round. Picked a nail from the box at his feet and pounded it in with three mighty blows.
She waited for the thumping to stop. ‘Mr Grieve. Didn’t have you down as the green-fingered type.’
He froze. Then turned.
Nyah … There was a face to frighten the living hell out of Rottweilers. Chiselled with creases. Eyes of frozen granite. But when he opened his mouth, the words didn’t boom out, they slid softly. Calm. Controlled. Still. ‘Roberta Steel. What brings you out?’ He didn’t move either, didn’t fidget. Just stood there impersonating a very menacing statue.
‘Oh, just passing, Mr Grieve, just passing …’ A shrug. ‘How’s Sheila and the grandkids?’
A smile deepened the lines around his eyes. ‘They’re good, thanks. Macy’s at big school now. Says she’s going to be a systems architect, whatever that is.’
‘That’s nice. Give them my best.’
A nod. He picked up the next bit of the gazebo kit, lining it up with the bit he’d just nailed on.
She stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘You ever heard of a wee scroat called Philip Innes?’
‘Should I have?’ Still and menacing again.
‘A wee birdie tells me he’s loansharking at Cairnhill Court. You grew up there, didn’t you?’
‘Long time ago.’
‘This Philip Innes attacked a little old lady. Put her in hospital. Microwaved her dog. Sad, isn’t it?’
Big Jimmy Grieve’s voice got quieter. Harder. ‘So why don’t you arrest him?’
‘Can’t touch the guy.’ A sigh. ‘You know how it is: everyone’s too scared to say anything. Whole place has come down with amnesia, laryngitis, and a nasty dose of selective blindness.’
‘I see.’
Something uncomfortable shifted in Tufty’s stomach. Made the back of his neck go all clammy. This was definitely a very, very bad idea.
‘Wasn’t like that in your day, was it, Mr Grieve?’ Steel shook her head. ‘OK, so no one went clyping to the police, but they didn’t have to, did they? They knew the building took care of its own.’
Big Jimmy Grieve stared down at the hammer in his massive hand. Like he was feeling its weight. Said nothing.
‘You stepped out of line in those days – you smacked an old lady about? – you got slapped down. Hard. No’ today, though …’ Another sigh, then she reached up and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Ah well, enough reminiscing. I better get back to work.’
He stood there, still and cold as a granite headstone, staring at the hammer.
‘Tell Sheila I said, “Hi.”’ Steel turned and walked off.
Oh no, she was not leaving him alone with Big Jimmy Grieve.
Tufty scurried after her, not even trying to look cool.
He caught up halfway across the warehouse. Grabbed her arm. ‘What did you just do?’
Steel turned and stared at him.
OK. Maybe no grabbing.
He let go.
She started walking again. ‘I said hello to an old friend.’
‘An old …?’ Tufty dropped his voice to a hissing whisper as they passed ‘STACEY’ and her amazing pigtails. ‘He looks like a serial killer!’
‘Is it lunchtime yet? I’m feeling lunch-ish.’
‘Why can’t you do anything by the rules?’
‘Lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch.’ She pushed through the main door and into the car park.
‘Who’s Big Jimmy Grieve? What’s he going to do to Phil Innes?’
‘I’m thinking: fish supper, avec les onions pickled and peas à la mush.’
Tufty nipped around in front of her, blocking the way. ‘What if he beats Phil Innes up? What if he kills him? Are we accessories to murder now?’
Steel smiled back. ‘You worry too much.’
Then she stepped around him, sauntering away to where they’d parked the pool car.
Tufty stayed where he was. Risked a glance back towards the garden centre.
Big Jimmy Grieve’s carved granite face stared out at him from just inside the main doors. Still and lifeless. Watching.
Oh they were so screwed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
in which Tufty goes to the shops, and
we find out what happens
when you stand up to a Very Scary Man
I
‘Oh, and I found the cutest set of antique golf clubs in a wee shop today, Robbie.’
‘Uh-huh …’ Roberta scrubbed the soap into her hands, phone pinned between her ear and her shoulder. ‘You really need more golf clubs?’
‘They’re not for playing with, they’re decorative. Six clubs in a lovely leather-and-canvas bag with a stand. I’m going to put it in the living room, next to the—’
The rest of it was drowned out by the roar of the hand dryer.
‘—for dinner?’
‘Yeah, probably.’ She hauled up her trousers. ‘You know: my breeks are definitely looser than they used to be. Must be losing weight. Wasting away cos you don’t feed me enough.’
‘You’re not wasting away. And stop calling me when you’re on the toilet, it’s not hygienic.’
‘Ah well, better get back to it I suppose. Got an idiot waiting for me.’ She hung up and thumped out of the ladies. ‘And there he is.’
Tufty was slumped against the wall outside, looking bored. Poor wee sausage.
God knew what that Wildlife Crime Officer saw in him. The pointy face with bits of red paint still stuck in the crevasses; the dirty-big thumbprint of a black eye. The sulking.
He did one of those teenagers’ sighs. ‘Can we go now?’
‘Hey, when nature calls you can’t just ask it to leave a message. Sometimes you have to …’ Oh for God’s sake.
That frantic nervous wee PC from before – the one running DCI Sodding Rutherford’s errands – came clattering down the stairs and staggered to a halt right in front of her. Peching and heeching like a broken kettle. Face shiny and pink. ‘Sar … Sarge?’
‘No’ you again!’
PC Sweaty-and-Nervous grabbed at the handrail to keep himself upright. ‘Sarge … DCI … DCI Rutherford wants … wants you … both … in his office.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘He was … was very particular … about it … being completely … totally right now.’
She narrowed her eyes and gave the PC a poke. ‘I’m beginning to go off you.’
The boy Rutherford was standing behind his desk with his back to the room, staring out of his office window, hands crossed behind him. As if he was watching a parade marching across the Rear Podium car park six floors below. He didn’t shift as Roberta wandered in. Didn’t say a word. Ride git.
Rutherford wasn’t the only one there, though.
Hissing Sid sat prim as a vicar’s wife in one of the visitors’ chairs. He gave her a teeny shake of the head and a disappointed look.
DI Vine had the other chair. Glowering. ‘About time.’
Behind her, Tufty swore very, very quietly.
The wee loon wasn’t wrong either: this was it, they were dead. Hissing Sid wouldn’t rock up in his fancy suit and leather briefcase if Jack Raping Scumbag Wallace hadn’t made another complaint. And now Rutherford would make good on his threat – Roberta and Tufty, up in front of the firing squad. He’d given them one last chance, but now they were dead. Dead, screwed, buggered, spanked, wingwanged, crudweaselled, and completely and utterly dead.
Didn’t mean she was going quietly, though.
She sniffed. Nodded at Hissing Sid. ‘Going to be one of those meetings, is it?’
‘Detective Sergeant Steel.’ Rutherford kept staring out of his window, but you could’ve shaved your legs on his voice. Probably get frostbite doing it, though. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson tells me you’ve been hanging around outside Jack Wallace’s house. WHEN I SPECIFICALLY ORDERED YOU NOT TO!’
That boomed around the room, bouncing off the filing cabinets and whiteboards before fading away.
Tufty licked his lips and backed towards the door. ‘Maybe I should just—’
‘Oh no you don’t: you stay right there!’ Rutherford uncrossed his hands – clenched them into fists instead. ‘DS Steel, what did I tell you would happen if you screwed up again? That I would hold Constable Quirrel jointly responsible for your actions. Well congratulations.’
She jerked her chin up, shoulders back. ‘Whatever Jack Wallace said, he’s a lying wee turd.’
Hissing Sid sighed. ‘Actually, in this instance, Mr Wallace has documentary evidence. To wit: a series of photographs of your car parked outside his property on no fewer than a dozen occasions.’
‘Nah, don’t believe you. They’re fake photos.’
Rutherford turned around at that, face all dark and trembling. ‘For God’s sake, Sergeant, you’re not president of the United States; you can’t just say everything incriminating is fake!’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson?’
Hissing Sid dug into his briefcase and produced the same slimline laptop as last time. He placed it on the desk and opened it up. Tapped at the keyboard.
The screen filled with a photo of her MX-5, parked beneath the trees outside Wallace’s house, the colours muted in the darkness. Tap. Another night-time photo: her car parked a couple of doors down. Tap. There she was, leaning against one of those trees, a cloud of vapour caught by a streetlight as she puffed on her e-cigarette. Tap. The car again, her face clearly visible through the rain-flecked windscreen as she stared up at the house.
Hissing Sid sighed. ‘And last but not least …’ Tap. In this one she was rummaging through Wallace’s wheelie-bin, a torch clenched between her teeth.
Sod. He did have photographs.
Rutherford placed his fists on the desk. Looming over the laptop. ‘Well?’
‘I know this looks bad, but—’
‘Looks bad? What did I tell you?’
‘I was pursuing an ongoing investigation and—’
‘I TOLD YOU SPECIFICALLY TO STAY AWAY FROM HIM!’
Outside a siren burst into life, fading away into the distance.
The sound of a phone ringing filtered through from the office next door.
Tufty shuffled his feet. ‘Er … Can I …?’ He pointed at the laptop.
DI Vine turned his glower on him. ‘What?’
‘Well, I couldn’t help noticing that DS Steel’s wearing a green shirt and her blue suit in that last photo.’
‘This isn’t Loose Women, Constable, we’re not here for bloody fashion tips!’
‘No, yes, but we took her blue suit to the cleaners a fortnight ago, because Scabby George puked all over it when we did him for peeing off the top of Chapel Street multi-storey car park. She hasn’t had it on since.’ He inched his way forward and pointed at the laptop again. ‘So can I …?’
Hissing Sid shrugged. ‘I have no objection.’
Tufty fiddled about with the laptop’s trackpad.
Rutherford stared at her. ‘Is this true, DS Steel?’
‘Scabby George? Oh aye. He’d been swigging down two-litre bottles of super-strength cider all morning. Said if society thought it was OK to piss on him the whole time, it was only fair he got his own back.’
Tufty held up a hand. ‘Here we go. Look.’ He stepped back from the screen. A window with file information sat on top. ‘The image files’ “created on” dates are weeks and weeks ago. The photos aren’t recent.’
Ooh, you lovely wee spud of a man.
Roberta grinned. ‘So we’re off the hook.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Vine poked at the arm of his chair. ‘That doesn’t change the facts at all.’
‘Aye it does. These photos were all taken before our happy little meeting yesterday.’
‘You were harassing Jack Wallace!’
Thicky McVine clearly wasn’t getting it.
Try again, nice and slow. ‘He took these photos ages ago, right? Then he came in yesterday and forgave everything, remember? You remember him forgiving everything? At the meeting? You were there?’ Then she turned and snapped to attention in front of DCI Rutherford. ‘You ordered me to stand down, sir, and down I jolly well stood!’ She even threw in a salute for good measure.
Rutherford frowned at her for a bit, head on one side. Then nodded. ‘Very well. So, Mr Moir-Farquharson, why is your client bringing this up now?’
She clicked her heels together. ‘I can answer that one, sir. It’s because he’s a stirring wee shite.’
A smile flickered across Moir-Farquharson’s face, before he caught and squashed it.
‘I see.’ Rutherford sank into his office chair. ‘So you’re no longer keeping Jack Wallace’s house under surveillance?’
‘And disobey a direct order from you, Guv? Wouldn’t dream of it.’
DI Vine stood outside in the stairwell, scowling in at her as the lift doors slid shut.
Roberta gave him a wee wave and a wink just before he disappeared.
Miserable jobbie-faced crudweasel that he was.
It wasn’t a huge lift to start with, but when you squeezed in one detective chief inspector, a very expensive criminal lawyer, a sexy bombshell detective sergeant, and a lovely wee Tufty-shaped star, it was more like a coffin that went up and down a bit.
No one said anything, just stood there in awkward silence, trying no’ to rub up against anyone else in a faux-pervy manner.
Roberta leaned closer to Tufty and whispered in his ear. ‘Hope nobody farts!’
The look on his face was thanks enough.
The lift doors pinged open and everyone spurted out like the contents of a squeezed pluke.
Rutherford turned and shook Hissing Sid’s hand. ‘Right, well, I’ll leave DS Steel to show you out.’ He marched off, arms swinging, back stiff. By the left, left, left – right – left.
Soon as he was out of earshot Roberta poked Hissing Sid in his immaculately suited chest. ‘Aye, thanks for that.’
He brushed at his lapel, removing the freshly poked dent. ‘Nothing personal, I can assure you, Detective Sergeant. My client asked me to present his photographs for Police Scotland’s consideration, so here I am.’
Tufty fiddled with the keycode lock then hel
d the door open for them.
She patted him on the back on the way past. ‘Get the teas on. You earned yourself a Jammie Dodger the day.’
He mugged a wee smile. ‘Yes, Sarge.’ And scurried off.
An auld mannie in a tracksuit and hoodie was slumped in the plastic seating that lined the reception area. Other than that, the place was quiet.
‘You no’ a bit expensive to act as a messenger boy, Sandy?’
He followed her across the Police Scotland crest set into the terrazzo flooring. ‘Thankfully Mr Wallace’s associates are very generous with their support. And, to be honest, I enjoy a nice walk in the sunshine.’
‘Generous …’ She stopped, one hand on the ‘DISABLED’ button to open the front doors. Frowned. ‘What did you mean: my friends “came to my aid” and so did his?’
‘Did I say that? Well, well, well.’
‘Sandy!’
No reply.
‘You told me you took my case pro bono, because of all those murderers and rapists you got off!’
‘A small fiction. The individual who covered your legal expenses didn’t wish to be named.’
Oh sodding hell.
She backed away. ‘It wasn’t someone dodgy, was it? A bank robber, or a drug dealer?’
‘Quite the opposite. He merely felt that if you knew your benefactor’s real identity you would have refused my help.’
‘Aye, because I’d turn that down.’ She pressed the button and the doors swung open. Sparked up her e-cigarette and wandered outside, puffing away with her hands in her pockets. Supposed to be ‘Mandarin & Guava’ but it tasted more like Fanta. ‘After that two-faced back-stabbing sack of crap clyped on me to Professional Standards, I needed all the help I could …’
She stared at Hissing Sid.
He smiled calmly back. Then raised an eyebrow.
He didn’t mean … He couldn’t!
‘No, no, no, no, no. You are … You have got to be taking the pish. It can’t have been!’
‘Inspector McRae believed your feelings towards him would cloud your judgement somewhat. He’d recently lost someone close to him and inherited a sum of money from their estate, that’s how he was able to finance your defence.’
Now We Are Dead Page 21