III
Big Gary crossed his arms, blocking the doorway, keeping them all trapped in the car park. ‘No.’
The hatred flowing in his direction was almost as strong as the stench. Twenty-five police officers, all in their Police Scotland slurry-splattered uniforms. More than enough to get a decent lynch mob going. Even if they would need an extra-strong rope and an extra-strong tree to string the fat lump up.
Roberta shoved her way through the stinky crowd to the front. ‘Don’t be such a dick, Gary! Let us in: we need those showers!’
Voices raised behind her: ‘Yeah!’, ‘Out the way!’, ‘Shift it, fat boy!’, ‘I’m all covered in shite!’
Big Gary didn’t move. ‘You are not getting into my nice clean police station like that. No way. No, sir. No how.’
Roberta flicked a lump of dried-on dung off the back of her hand. ‘Well, what the bloody hell are we supposed to do?’
Oooh, that was better. You know what? It was quite pleasant, standing there, round the back of the mortuary in a shaft of sunlight. All warm and tingly. A gentle breeze wafting its way across her naked flesh.
Well, mostly naked.
Roberta towelled her back off.
A double rainbow glittered in the spray as the pathologist and her anatomical pathology technician – dressed in plastic aprons, white wellington boots, green scrubs, purple nitrile gloves, and protective full-face masks – hosed down the next pair of candidates.
Harmsworth coughed and spluttered, both hands up covering his face as the water found him. ‘Aaaagh, that’s cold!’
Roberta moved on to drying her bum, patting the pale wobbly skin around her bright-red pants. Mind you, if she’d known she’d be stripping in front of half the dayshift, she’d have put on a bra that matched. ‘Come on, Owen, you weren’t this shy on Thursday morning. Gerremoff!’ She gave him a wolf whistle. ‘Or do we need to fetch a bunch of wee kids to help you undress?’
‘Oh that’s right, make off-colour remarks at poor Owen. He didn’t bother you, did he? No, Owen was a gentleman, but does anyone care?’ He undid his utility belt, holding it in the hose’s glare till the water ran clear. He undid the Velcro on his stabproof vest, grimacing behind it, hiding from the tea-coloured backsplash.
Tufty was on his hands and knees, in his ThunderCats pants, dipping a sponge into a bucket of soapy water and scrubbing away at himself with it. ‘Gah … Stinky, stinky, stinky, stinky, stinky …’
Harmsworth ditched his T-shirt and struggled out of his police-issue trousers till he had nothing on but his soggy underwear, cringing away from the stream of water. All those bite marks had turned into wee circular bruises, like he was wearing a pasty leopard-print onesie covered in wiry black hair.
‘Hoy, Doc!’ Roberta draped the towel around her shoulders and pointed. ‘You missed a bit.’
The pathologist nodded and shifted the hose – water sprayed into Harmsworth’s furry chest again.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAGH!’
‘There you go, much better.’
Roberta grinned.
Sometimes, when life gave you slurry, you just had to make lemonade.
‘Urgh … I can still smell it.’ Barrett sniffed at his naked arm and shuddered. ‘One going-over with a hose, one scrub in a bucket, and a shower with carbolic soap and I can still smell it!’
Roberta adjusted herself and sank behind her desk. Amazing how quick you got chafed from a damp bra.
Harmsworth scowled away, slumped in his chair in his socks and pants, what was left of his hair sticking out in damp tufts. ‘I’m never eating oxtail soup ever again.’
Lund shuddered, setting everything wobbling in a very interesting way. Either she was off on the pull later, or she was unbelievably organised: her bra actually matched her pants. And neither of them were denture-grey or looked as if they’d fall apart with one more washing. She caught Roberta looking and covered her chest with her arms. ‘You’re staring again.’
‘Hey, I’m married, no’ dead.’
The door thumped open and in backed Tufty, carrying a large cardboard box. He’d hidden his ThunderCats underwear beneath a pair of Aberdeen Football Club joggie bottoms. Top half covered with a Frightened Rabbit tour T-shirt, only the word ‘Frightened’ was spelled wrong.
He dumped the box on his desk. ‘Roll up, roll up, get yer luverly knock-off clobber ’ere.’ Then dug out a pair of dungarees and tossed them to Roberta. ‘Faux Givenchy – with the compliments of those lovely loons and quines at Trading Standards. They had some fake Louis Vuitton, but the MIT got there first.’ He dug into the box. ‘You want a counterfeit Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt or a fake Calvin Klein polo?’
‘With dungers? Has to be Gucci.’
He went a-rummaging, tossed her a red floral-printed chiffon thing with frilly bits. Roberta pulled it, and the dungarees, on over her moist underwear.
Another rummage. ‘What do you fancy, Veronica: not quite Armani or not quite Fendi?’
‘Armani.’
Harmsworth scowled. ‘Oh that’s right, let DC Lund choose first, don’t worry about Owen, he’s only been here four years longer than she has.’
Tufty tossed her a pair of jeans and a shimmery blue shirt. ‘Manners, Owen. Ladies first. And you should be used to sitting about in the scud by now.’ A grin. ‘How about you, Davey?’
‘Don’t really care as long as Harmsworth gets something to wear sharpish. Was bad enough the other day: all that pasty grey hairy flesh. Urgh. It’s enough to put you off sausages for life.’
‘Hey!’
Roberta fiddled with the dungarees’ shoulder straps. ‘What do you think, both on, or one hanging off a bit flirty like?’
A knock on the door and DCI Rutherford marched in without waiting for an answer. Rotten sod looked every bit as clean and shiny as he had at the morning briefing. The joys of no’ being showered in slurry. He came to rest in the middle of the room, all stiff and erect, and looked down his nose at her. ‘The Lord Provost is very upset about his car. And the bus shelter. Those things don’t grow on trees, you know.’
She thumped back into her seat, scowling. ‘Aye, well, the Lord Provost can pucker up and kiss my recently sharny arse.’
Rutherford grinned. ‘I, on the other hand, haven’t laughed so much in ages.’
‘Hoy!’ Harmsworth had another pout. ‘That’s not fair. I got plastered in fermented pig manure!’
Tufty chucked him a pair of cargo shorts and a Batman T-shirt. ‘Oh, boohoo. I had to run through it, so I got plastered twice.’
‘And that, Constable Quirrel, is why I’m recommending you for a commendation. You too, Roberta – disabling that muck spreader saved a lot of people from a dung-based battering.’ Rutherford clapped his hands. ‘Best of all, the predicted riot never materialised! Apparently neither side was up for a fight after being liberally showered in slurry. We should recommend it to G Division next time there’s an Old Firm game.’
Barrett rustled up a polite laugh. Crawly wee jobbie that he was.
‘Now, under the circumstances, I think you and your team deserve to go home early. And if you pop past the Flare and Futtrit at half-three, you’ll find two hundred and fifty pounds behind the bar as a special thank you from the Chief Superintendent. They’re laying on a buffet for you too.’
Tufty stuck his hands in the air. ‘Yay!’
‘But, before you go.’ He turned to Roberta. ‘Detective Sergeant Steel, would you join me in my office please? Jack Wallace has made another complaint.’
Oh sodding hell.
Might have known it was too good to be true.
Vine was already there, sitting in the other visitors’ chair, as Roberta followed DCI Rutherford into the office. He nodded at her. ‘DS Steel.’
‘Right, John,’ Rutherford settled in behind his desk, ‘do the honours, would you?’
Vine pulled the desk phone towards him and poked at the buttons, setting it ringing through the speaker.
She nodded at the vac
ant chair. ‘Am I allowed to sit for this, or do you need access to my arse for spanking purposes?’
‘Sit. Sit.’ Rutherford leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.
She collapsed into the spare seat.
Oop!
Fake Givenchy dungarees got way too intimate if you sat down fast.
A woman’s voice clattered out of the speakerphone, clipped and efficient. ‘Moir-Farquharson Associates, can I help you?’
‘Yes: Detective Inspector Vine for Mr Moir-Farquharson. He’s expecting me.’
‘One moment please.’ A pan-pipe rendition of ‘I Shot the Sheriff’ filled the silence.
Roberta fidgeted with the frisky dungarees’ crotch. ‘Whatever he says, he’s lying. It’s—’
Rutherford held up a finger as Hissing Sid came on the phone. ‘DI Vine. I take it this isn’t a social call?’
‘Your client has made another complaint against Police Scotland.’ He pulled a sheet of paper from the manila folder at his feet. ‘I refer you to the letter one of your interns delivered this morning.’
‘Indeed. Your officers hauled my client out of a cinema in full view of the audience, causing him considerable anxiety and emotional distress. Not to mention reputational damage. They then proceeded to question him about a rape that occurred while he was at dinner with two friends, surrounded by witnesses.’
‘And you hold Police Scotland responsible for that?’
‘Well of course I do. Many though Detective Sergeant Steel’s good points may be, her obsession with my client is both destructive and unhealthy.’
Roberta paused mid-crotch-fidget. ‘Aye, aye, Sandy. How’s yer arse for love bites?’
‘Detective Sergeant. I’m afraid you’ve exhausted my client’s capacity for forgiveness this time. We’ll be looking for punitive damages.’
DCI Rutherford rapped on the desk with his knuckles. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson, I think that’s rather unfair, don’t you? You’re implying that this was the result of a personal grudge perpetuated by DS Steel.’
‘Ah, Detective Chief Inspector Rutherford, you’re there too. How nice.’ A sigh. ‘I’m not implying anything, I’m stating it as a common fact. Your officers are harassing my client without any proof or justifiable reason.’
‘No justifiable reason?’ Rutherford frowned. ‘That is strange. You see, your client phoned DS Steel to lay down an alibi for a rape that had just been committed. He was pulled out of the cinema because he made himself a person of interest.’
‘Am I expected to believe—’
‘Aye, you are.’ Roberta stuck two fingers up at the disembodied voice. ‘And I had the wee radge on speakerphone too – the whole team heard him.’
There was silence from the other end of the phone.
Then a bit more silence.
And some more.
She went back to howking wodges of denim out of her undercarriage. ‘Maybe he’s nipped off for a pee?’
Rutherford leaned in closer to the phone. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson?’
‘I … apologise. I wasn’t aware that my client had precipitated yesterday’s actions.’
‘Ooooooh.’ Finally, the last wodge howked free. ‘Your client’s no’ hiding things from you, is he, Sandy? That’s no’ good.’
‘I will, of course, be advising Mr Wallace that the sensible course of action is to withdraw his complaint and cancel any planned litigation.’
Roberta put on her best innocent voice. ‘Because the jury’s going to throw him out of court on his hairy raping bumhole and award us a monster bag of costs and damages?’
Vine held up a hand. ‘All right, Detective Sergeant, I think Mr Moir-Farquharson gets the point.’ And he was smiling as he said it, as well. ‘Don’t you, Mr Moir-Farquharson.’
A sniff. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to my client.’
Aye, good luck with that.
Tufty powered down his computer and stood. Stretched. Sighed. Then grabbed his coat.
Steel looked at him. ‘And just where do we think we’re going?’
‘You heard the boss – I get to go home early cos I’ve been brave.’
‘Oh aye? And have we finished all our actions and written up our arrest report?’
‘Emailed them to you and everything.’
She peered at her screen for a bit. ‘Oh.’
‘Anyway: need to run a couple of errands before half two.’
‘And what happens at half two?’ She tilted her head to one side, watching him the same way a cat watches an injured mouse. ‘You got a hot date or something?’
‘Kinda. We’re taking Mrs Galloway’s dog to the crematorium. They give you the ashes back in a cardboard box if you haven’t got an urn. Thought it would be a bit … you know.’ He mimed handing a cardboard box to a poor battered old woman. ‘Hey, here’s your dog.’
A dirty smile. ‘And when you say “we”, does that mean you and your perky Wildlife Crime Officer?’
The room got a bit hotter. ‘It … Constable Mackintosh sorted out the crematorium, they’re waiving their fee and everything.’
‘Oh, Tufty, Tufty, Tufty.’ Steel shook her head. ‘I know we’re no’ supposed to promote casual sex, but if you’re no’ even on first-name terms you really shouldn’t be shagging her.’
‘I’m not … It’s … I didn’t …’
‘You’re a regular Casanova, aren’t you?’ She stood, pulled her dungarees up. ‘Come on, then. I know a wee mannie who’ll do us a good deal on a second-hand urn, no questions asked.’
‘Is your underwear really chafing? Because mine’s all hairy sandpaper.’ Steel did a little step-shuffle dance, like she was trying to work something loose down there, then pressed the intercom buzzer again.
It didn’t look very promising – a pair of big plain wooden doors, set into a featureless granite wall, buried halfway down Jopp’s Lane, ten minutes’ walk from Division Headquarters. Narrow, grey, and ignored.
Tufty shrugged. ‘Took mine off and gave them a good blow-through under the hand dryer in the gents.’
She stared at him. ‘Sod. Should’ve thought of that.’ Another go on the buzzer. ‘Mind you, might’ve looked a bit weird: me standing there starkers in the gents’ toilets. Getting everyone all hot and bothered with my raw sexual magnetism.’
Yeah …
A voice fizzed and crackled from the intercom’s speaker. ‘Viewing is by appointment only. Good day.’
She mashed the button with the palm of her hand. ‘Open up, Haddie, or I’ll go pay your mum a visit.’
A seagull settled on the roof of a manky little Fiat, wings stretched out pterodactyl style. Pterodactyl size, too. Eyeing them.
Finally the voice was back again. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Steel. Not heard from you in ages.’
She looked up and waved at a security camera, mounted above a cracked vent. ‘I’m no’ joking, Haddie. Me and your mum have a lot of catching up to do.’
A sigh, then the left-hand door buzzed and popped open a crack.
‘Good boy, now get the kettle on.’ She pushed inside.
Tufty checked the pterodactyl wasn’t following them and slipped in after Steel.
Down a short hallway to a set of solid-looking metal doors, the kind of doors it took hours to batter through with a Big Red Door Key. It even had a speakeasy hatch set into it.
The hatch clicked open and a pair of bespectacled eyes stared out at them. ‘Is this all of you?’
‘No.’ Steel stuck her hands in her dungarees’ pockets. ‘I’ve got three hundred crack officers out there, a firearms team, and the force helicopter circling overhead. And we all want tea and biscuits.’
The hatch snapped shut.
Some clunks and rattles and scraping sounds, then one half of the big metal doors swung open, revealing a short, round man in blue overalls and dress shoes. A proper soup-strainer grey moustache and a few straggly wisps of grey hair poked out from beneath a tweed bunnet. Skin so pale it was almost blue
in the flickering fluorescent lighting.
Steel sauntered past him. ‘Constable Quirrel: Elinsworth Fredrick De Selincourt, AKA: Fish-Fingered Freddy, AKA: The Haddie. As in, “Have you seen thon big pile of nicked DVD players The Haddie’s flogging the day?”’
‘Oh I can assure you, Detective Chief Inspector, I indulge in no such practices these days. I’m a reformed character. I restrict myself solely to the pursuit of house clearance and estate sales.’
‘Aye, right.’
Tufty wheeched through the metal doors into a long, low warehouse-sized room. It was stuffed with boxes and crates. Piles of things and heaps of stuff – solid and dusty between the pillars that held the ceiling up. A group of grandfather clocks ticked out of time with each other, making a background hiss like a thousand snakes eating ready-salted crisps.
Steel had a rummage in a tea chest. ‘We’re needing a favour, Haddie.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ He grabbed the massive handle on the back of the door and hauled it shut with an echoing clang. Snibbed three deadbolts into place, threaded a thick length of chain through its eyelets and over a hook bolted to the wall, then wedged a metal bar between a slot in the floor and another in the door.
Never mind a Big Red Door Key, you’d need a tank to get through that.
He folded his little arms over his massive chest. ‘And what favour would that be?’
Tufty held up a hand. ‘I need an urn. Something nice.’
‘Hmm, I see. And you felt it was appropriate to come here?’ Haddie shuffled off between the stacks. ‘And I take it you weren’t close to the deceased, Constable Quirrel? Well of course you weren’t. You wouldn’t be looking for a pre-loved urn for someone you actually cared about.’
‘It’s not for me. It’s for a little old lady with no cash. Someone beat the living hell out of her and microwaved her dog.’
Haddie stopped. Turned. ‘I’m confused, is the urn intended to hold the lady’s remains or her dog’s?’
‘Yorkshire terrier called Pudding.’
‘Well, there’s no accounting for taste.’ He reached into his pocket and produced a Stanley knife, clicked out a fingernail’s width of blade and ran it through the brown packing tape holding a cardboard box shut. ‘Here lie the mortal remains of … Well, I have to admit that I’ve rather lost count.’ A thick dark urn, sort of bowling-trophy shaped, appeared in his hand. ‘One thinks, when one dies, that one’s ashes will be treasured by our loved ones. That they’ll be handed down through the generations as venerated objects. That in this way we’ll never truly die.’
Now We Are Dead Page 26