He really didn’t look well. Pale and clammy. His whole body trembling.
They all shuffled inside, Tufty and Innes at the front.
Soon as everyone was in and the door closed, Tufty took out his key and undid the cuffs.
Innes made a little squeaky noise.
‘Right.’ Steel folded her arms. ‘You’ve got something to say to Mrs Galloway, haven’t you?’
‘I’m …’ Innes sounded more like a spanked child than a loanshark. ‘I … I’m very, very sorry for what I’ve done. I’m … I’m a horrible, horrible person.’
Big Jimmy Grieve stared at him. ‘Keep going.’
‘Keep going … Right.’ He licked his lips. Then pulled an envelope from his inside pocket. A standard one – the kind you could fit an A4 sheet of paper into if you folded it in three. Only there was a lot of paper in this one. It was about an inch thick. ‘And … and I want you to have this.’
He edged forward, the envelope held out at arm’s length, keeping as much hospital bed between himself and Big Jimmy Grieve as possible. Placed it on the covers by her broken arm.
Mrs Galloway just looked at it.
Innes shrank back away from the bed again. ‘Three thousand, two hundred, and seventy pounds. All yours. I …’ His eyes drifted from the envelope to Big Jimmy Grieve for a second, then snapped down to stare at his own hands, clenched in front of his groin. ‘I should never have charged you interest on a loan. That was illegal and I had no right doing it. I’m really, really sorry.’
A nod from Big Jimmy Grieve. ‘And?’
‘And I won’t do it again?’
That quiet still note slipped into the big man’s voice again. ‘Try harder.’
‘Right. Yes. Harder. And I … I want you to have my car as an apology!’ Babbling it out as he tossed his keys down beside the envelope. ‘It’s a Jaguar XJ with leather trim and heated seats …’
‘And?’
Phil Innes’s bottom lip wobbled, his eyes wet and glistening. ‘And … And my watch too?’
‘There we go.’ Big Jimmy Grieve smiled. ‘Now, doesn’t that make you feel a bit better about yourself, Philip?’
He wiped a hand across his tear-moistened face. ‘Please can I go to prison now?’
III
Lund checked Phil Innes was all seatbelted in, then climbed out of the cage and locked the van’s back door. She hooked a thumb at it. ‘Ready to go when you are, Sarge.’
Steel nodded. ‘Give us a minute, Veronica. Got some business to finish.’
Tufty shuffled his feet as Lund climbed in through the police van’s side door and slid it shut, leaving him all alone with Steel and the horror that was Big Jimmy Grieve. ‘Er, Sarge? Do you want I should …?’ Pointing back at the van.
‘You stay where you are. Might learn something.’ Then Steel turned her back on him. ‘Still got it, Mr Grieve.’
A modest shrug from those broad granite shoulders.
‘As a gesture of our gratitude, I shall present you with your usual fee …’ She held out her hand to Tufty for some reason. Like he had the slightest clue what was going on here.
‘I have no idea what you’re— Ow!’
She smacked him on the back of the head again.
‘Ow!’
‘Get the rowies.’
Rowies? They were all mad.
He hurried around to the passenger side, opened the door, retrieved the greasy paper bag from the dashboard, and hurried back again. Passed it to Steel. Who handed it to Big Jimmy Grieve.
‘Half a dozen. You can count them, if you want?’
Big Jimmy Grieve weighed the bag in his hand. ‘I trust you. Now, if we’re all done here, it’s Friday, it’s half past five, and I have a bird table to put up.’
He turned to go.
OK, so it was now or never.
Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Mr Grieve?’
The huge figure stopped, looked back over his shoulder. Made the kind of eye contact that caused perfectly brave detective constables’ bowels to clench.
Right.
Here we go.
Deep breath. ‘What did you do to Philip Innes? He was … It was like someone had run over him with a steamroller – squeezed the horrible right out of him. What are his defence going to hit us with when this goes to trial?’ Tufty’s chin came up: getting his righteous on with every sentence. ‘I want to know what you did.’
Big Jimmy Grieve walked over until he was right in front of him – the tips of his boots pressing into Tufty’s – and stood there. Not moving. Not saying anything. Just staring with those frozen granite eyes …
Yeah.
Maybe not.
Definitely not.
Tufty swallowed, backed away, pointing over his shoulder at the van. ‘I’m gonna just … Erm …’
Big Jimmy Grieve looked at Steel. ‘They don’t get any brighter, do they?’
‘I keep hoping, but no.’
Tufty hauled the side door open and clambered inside. Thumped it closed again. Locked it.
Sank into his seat.
And nearly jumped straight back out of it as a hand landed on his shoulder. He didn’t mean to go, ‘Eeek!’ he really didn’t.
Lund gave his shoulder a little squeeze. ‘Did we try measuring willies with Big Jimmy Grieve? Did we lose?’
Outside, Steel stood on her tiptoes and kissed Mr Grieve on the cheek.
The hulking monster nodded, stared in through the police van windows for a heartbeat too many – like he was memorising Tufty’s face and planning on rearranging it with his boot at some point – then lumbered off.
A shudder rippled its way down Tufty’s back. ‘That is, without any kind of doubt, the scariest motherfunker I have ever met.’
Tufty shoved the CID door open and bounded inside like a labradoodle puppy, belting out a one-man fanfare. ‘Tan-tan-ta-ta!’
Barrett, Lund, and Harmsworth spun around in their office chairs as Roberta swaggered in, both hands up flashing the victory Vs.
She sang it out: ‘We are the champions!’
Lund beamed. ‘He cop to it?’
‘Didn’t even try to “no comment”.’ Roberta danced a couple of wee pas de basques. ‘Shortest interview I’ve ever done: aggravated assault, animal cruelty, illegal money lending, harassment, and forty-nine other offences to be taken into consideration. CHAMPIONS!’ Another two pas de basques, three high cuts, and done. She stood there grinning at them. Lowered her arms. ‘We, my little love-monkeys, are off to the pub tonight to celebrate!’
Lund punched the air. ‘Rippa!’
‘Actually …’ Barrett held up a hand. ‘Remember we’ve got that farmers’ protest tomorrow morning? And the TV will be there, so we’ve got a full kit inspection first thing.’
‘Aye, so?’
‘So, perhaps, flaming Sambucas till three in the morning isn’t such a good idea?’
Cagney & Lacey belted out into the room. ‘Hold that thought.’ She pulled out her phone.
‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’.
Roberta pressed the button. ‘Hello?’
Sodding Jack Sodding Wallace. ‘Well, well: if it isn’t my favourite demoted police officer.’
The phone groaned a little as she squeezed it. ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘Did you enjoy seeing my photographs? Good, weren’t they?’
She poked at the screen again, putting it on speakerphone. ‘You know where you can stick your photos, Wallace?’
Everyone in the room gathered closer, staring at her mobile as his slimy voice slithered out of the speaker again.
‘Oh, don’t be so grumpy. I’m just here enjoying a nice meal at Doug’s Dinner, with my mates, and thought I’d check in. We’ve been here, oh, at least, what?’
A muffled voice in the background: ‘Hour and a half?’
Tufty pulled a face at her, then scurried over to the whiteboard, wiping off the words of the day and the collection of willies scrawled up there.
‘An hour and a
half. Now we’re off to see a film. Something exciting. Should take us till … oh, about half nine?’
‘Yawn.’ Roberta perched on the edge of the nearest desk. ‘And I care because?’
Tufty yanked the top off a whiteboard pen, printed the word ‘ALIBI!!!’ in big red letters and underlined it. Made big pantomime gestures at the board.
Goat-buggering hell in a carrier bag: the wee sod was right. ‘Wallace? What have you done?’
‘Me?’ A greasy little laugh. ‘Nothing. That’s the point.’
And the line went dead. He’d hung up.
Roberta stared at the screen, then out at her team. ‘Grab your coats and handcuffs: we’re going out again. Now!’ She marched from the room, scrolling through her contacts as everyone scurried into place behind her. Poked the button and set it ringing. ‘Tufty: get us a Black Maria. Owen: you and Davey—’
A sharp impatient voice battered out of her phone. ‘Vine.’
‘Aye, John – Jack Wallace is up to something.’
‘Oh in the name of … We’ve been over this! You can’t just—’
‘Will you pin back your lugs for two minutes?’ She barged through the double doors at the end of the corridor, boot heels echoing back off the concrete stairwell. ‘Wallace just called me.’
Tufty squeezed past, taking the steps two at a time.
They all hurried down after him.
‘Look, I’m in the middle of an investigation here, so—’
‘Wallace wanted me to know that he’d been at dinner with his mates for an hour and a half, and then he was off to the pictures till half nine.’
Vine’s voice got darker and louder. ‘And you actually thought that was important enough to interrupt a—’
‘He’s setting up another alibi.’ Around the landing and down the next flight. ‘Some poor woman’s getting raped tonight!’
One last flight of stairs and along a corridor lined with ‘WANTED’ posters.
‘John? You still there?’
She barged out through the door at the end and into the car park reserved for police vans.
‘Detective Inspector Vine?’
Tufty came sprinting around the corner, waving a set of keys with a pink fuzzy fob dangling off them. ‘Got it!’
The sound of a child crying came from the phone’s speaker, then some scrunching noises.
‘Did you hear me? Some woman’s about to get raped!’
Tufty unlocked the van and they all piled inside. ‘Buckle up, people!’
Roberta clambered into the passenger side as Vine’s voice came back on. All flat – the anger drained out of it.
‘I see.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You’re too late.’
‘FUCK!’ She punched the dashboard as Tufty hauled the van around the right way and roared away down Poultry Market Lane.
‘Where am I going?’
‘Union Square.’ Back to the phone. ‘I bloody well told you, didn’t I?’
‘Just … don’t. OK?’ That wee kid was still wailing in the background. ‘Karen Marsh. Teacher. On maternity leave. I’ve seen some things in my time, but … Jesus.’
The van burst out from behind Division Headquarters and onto Queen Street. Tufty hit the ‘999’ button and the sirens screeched, blue-and-whites flickering back from the parked cars and shop windows.
‘We’re on our way to arrest Jack Wallace.’
Vine groaned. ‘If he phoned you to boast about his alibi, what do you think the chances are it’s waterproof? Because he knows we’ll check.’
‘It’s fake. It has to be.’ She grabbed the handle above her door as the van screeched around the corner onto Broad Street. ‘He claims he’s at Union Square. We’re going to pull the security camera footage and drag his raping arse out of the cinema.’
‘Can you hear yourself? If he’s on camera there, and he’s still at the pictures, he – couldn’t – have – done – this.’
‘He’s still involved! He knows!’
Right, onto Union Street, the traffic parting before them as Tufty gunned it.
‘And how do we prove it? What magical bloody fairy wand do we wave to make that one stick?’
‘We can’t just sit on our thumbs and do nothing: women are getting raped!’
The traffic lights up ahead were red, Tufty pulled out onto the wrong side of the road, jabbing at the horn as a big blue Isuzu D-Max blocked the box junction, the bearded idiot behind the wheel grimacing at them as if that was going to help.
‘No. We can’t sit on our thumbs. But you have to.’
Finally the idiot reversed out of the way and the van roared forwards, round onto Market Street.
‘I’m no’—’
‘Send two of your team to review the security footage. They can haul Wallace out of the cinema too: make sure he’s not slipped out through a side door. But you go nowhere near him, understand?’
Aye, right.
‘He’s involved!’
‘They’re – going – to – fire – you, Roberta! Stay the hell away from Jack Wallace.’
The van wheeched around the corner and onto Guild Street. The dark, rectangular, grey bulk of Union Square loomed up ahead. They eased their way around a cluster of buses, through two red lights, past the Jury’s Inn and right up to the metal bollards outside Union Square.
‘Did you hear what I said? They’ll fire you.’
Roberta sniffed. Stared out of the window at the shopping centre’s huge glass façade, bolted onto the side of the train station. ‘Didn’t know you cared.’
‘You’re a good police officer, Roberta, you just … got obsessed and lost your way. This is your second chance, don’t piss it away on a piece of dirt like Jack Wallace. We’ll get him.’
‘Oh my …’ She put a hand over her heart. ‘Think I’m tearing up a little … I mean, I’m a married woman, but yes! Yes, I will run away with you!’
‘I’m serious.’
A sigh, then she sagged back in her seat. ‘Fine.’
‘Good. Let me know if your team finds anything.’ He hung up.
She stuffed her phone back in its pocket.
Stay away from Jack Wallace. They’ll fire you. You’re a good police officer, Roberta. We love you, Roberta. Please don’t leave us.
She scrunched her face closed. Took a deep breath. Bellowed it out: ‘AAAAAAAARGH!’ Grabbed at the dashboard, fingernails digging into the plastic as she wrenched herself back and forward six or seven times making it creak and groan. Then let go and slumped.
Everyone was staring at her, mouths pursed, eyebrows raised.
A shrug. ‘I hate it when they’re so sodding reasonable.’ She waved a hand at the back seats. ‘Davey: you and Veronica go check out Wallace’s alibi.’
Barrett clutched his clipboard. ‘Sarge.’
Lund hauled open the door and they both hopped out onto the cobbles. Marched away towards Union Square.
Harmsworth slid the door shut again then shoogled forward. ‘Well done. It’ll be good for them to handle a wee job on their own. They might learn something.’
Tufty tapped the steering wheel. ‘Do we wait for them, or are we back to the station?’
‘Pfff …’ Roberta shook her head. ‘No point hanging about. Might as well go back to the ranch.’
‘Sarge.’ He pulled the van around in a lumpy four-point turn.
Harmsworth changed seats so he was in the ones directly behind the front, facing the other way. ‘And it won’t hurt DC Barrett to miss the first couple of drinks in the pub. He gets far too loud and irritating with six pints in him. And as for Lund? Pffff …’ He turned in his seat, draping an arm around both her and Tufty’s shoulders. ‘We’re the heart of the team. It’s only fitting we—’
Roberta brushed his hand away. ‘Sit your arse back down, Owen, and put your seatbelt on. They won’t let me arrest Wallace, but I swear on God’s fluffy slippers: I’m arresting someone tonight if it kills me.’
Roberta banged both the rear doors open an
d swept into the custody block like an outraged parent, Tufty scurrying along in her wake. A tubby PC in the full going-out kit was in front of the custody desk, holding onto a bootfaced middle-aged wifie dressed in fishnets, a short skirt, and a PVC leather jacket. Hair all Brillo pad.
Downie was on the desk again, peering at her over the top of his glasses. ‘I see. And did the gentleman in question pay for these amorous services in advance, or does he have an account?’
‘Oh aye, and a frequent flyer card and all. We give Nectar points these days, you know?’
‘Hoy, Downie!’ Roberta stormed up to the desk. ‘Who did you give that mobile phone to? The stolen one? I want a name!’
The bootfaced prostitute stuck her nose in the air. ‘Do you mind? Me and Sergeant Downie is having an intimate moment here.’
‘Shove it, Dorothy.’ Roberta jabbed a finger. ‘Don’t screw with me tonight, Downie: Susan swears I’m menopausal and I’m looking for a fight.’
He took off his glasses. ‘If you’d checked your pigeon hole at the start of the shift you’d have found out, wouldn’t you?’
She balled her fists. ‘Don’t say you weren’t warned …’
His eyes widened, then he ducked down, below the desk – coming back up with a work book. Flicked through it. ‘Phone, phone, phone … Ah, yes. Here we are.’
Downie spun the book around and pushed it towards her.
She squinted at it – all blurry and out of focus. ‘How am I supposed to read that? Your handwriting’s like two spiders fighting a hedgehog.’
‘My handwriting is perfectly clear, thank you very much. It says, “Peter Stephenson, twenty-four Lochnagar Drive”.’
Peter …?
Uncle Pete.
Married to horrible Aunt Vicki.
The scumbag who took those porn pics of Josie Stephenson was her uncle.
Roberta bared her teeth. ‘Dirty … GRAAAAAAH!’ She thumped her fist down on the desk. Growling it out. ‘Constable Quirrel: back in the van!’
IV
‘YOU BASTARD! YOU FILTHY PERVERT BASTARD!’ Aunt Vicki lunged, swinging her claws.
Harmsworth grabbed her, holding on as Tufty marched Peter Stephenson out of the living room. The place could’ve starred in a supermarket magazine: a wallpaper feature wall with ferny fronds on it, loads of Ikea furniture, themed ornaments and throw pillows, pebbles and bits of driftwood in frames above the fireplace, a fake log fire flickering gaily away to itself.
Now We Are Dead Page 23