She jabbed a finger at Vine. ‘What’s happening with Karen Marsh?’
‘We care passionately about your future, because we care passionately about … AAAAAAGH! JESUS CHRIST!’ The brown tide spattered its way across him.
Steel slammed her hand down on the desk. ‘Karen Marsh, John!’
The smile died on his face. ‘Ah … Not good. They’re still trying to save what’s left of her face. He …’ Vine cleared his throat.
The screen shook, and there was the journalist again hunched over, screeching into her microphone. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!’ A harsh bleeping noise smothered whatever she said next, then another one, ‘[BLEEP]-ing, [BLEEP]-sucking, [PROLONGED BLEEPING] AAAAAAAAARGH!!!’
His hand found the mouse and Vine killed the video.
Silence.
He licked his lips. Looked away. ‘The bastard made Karen’s son watch. The kid’s barely fourteen months.’
‘Then why the hell are you in here watching internet videos? You should be out there making Jack Wallace talk!’
‘How many times? We can’t touch Wallace without evidence.’
‘He was on the phone again. He was gloating – again! Two minutes ago.’ Steel placed her fists on the desk, looming over it like a silverback. ‘Wallace was talking about what he was going to do tonight. Dinner and a movie, same as every sodding alibi he’s had for the last two attacks. Some poor woman is about to be raped!’
‘We can’t prove anything. We – don’t – have – any – evidence!’
‘Give me five minutes in a room with the bastard and I’ll get you some.’
Now Vine was on his feet too, sidekicks backing away. ‘Oh yes, because that’s not a cliché, is it? And you don’t need to be in the room with him to find evidence, do you? No, you just have to make some up and plant it, same as you did last time!’
‘Don’t you dare!’
‘And how did that work out for you?’
The only noise in the room came from the central heating.
Finally Steel bared her teeth. ‘FINE!’ Shoving herself back from the desk.
She stormed out, slamming the door behind her, leaving Tufty abandoned in the room with Vine and his minions.
They were all looking at him.
Tufty pointed at the door. ‘I probably should—’
‘Aaaaargh!’ Vine screwed his face tight, clenching his fists, arms trembling. ‘Why does that woman have to be so bloody difficult?’
She was sitting in her MX-5, in the driver’s seat, throttling the steering wheel and making the kind of faces a gargoyle would be terrified of.
Tufty sidled up to the car and clambered in the passenger side. ‘So … Come on then: Flare and Futtrit. Drinks, nibbles, and a good old moan about—’
‘No.’ She kept her glare focused straight ahead at the windscreen. ‘Get out.’
‘I know Vine can be a patronising, fart-faced, hamster-molesting pain in the backside, but—’
‘Get – out – of – my – god – damn – car!’
He sighed. Shook his head. ‘Wallace isn’t just screwing with you when he phones up with these alibis, he’s screwing with every single one of us.’
‘You don’t want this, Tufty, you really don’t.’
‘Your crimes are my crimes, remember? If I’m going to get blamed anyway, I might as well commit the bloody things.’ He fastened his seatbelt. ‘Now: where are we going?’
Other than right down the plughole …
CHAPTER TEN
in which Everything Goes Horribly Wrong
and we say goodbye to NE Division
I
Steel parked right in front of Wallace’s house, sitting there with the engine running as she stared out through the windscreen. Face like a scowl nailed to a breeze-block.
Tufty shifted in his seat, blood whooshing in his ears.
Maybe there was still time to talk her out of it?
Sunlight danced and swirled across the MX-5’s bonnet, filtered through the leaves of the tree she’d parked under.
He cleared his throat. ‘Wow, it’s hot isn’t it? Could really do with a pint right now. Couldn’t you? Nice cold pint …?’
Nothing.
One more go. He reached out and put a hand on her arm. ‘You sure we want to do this?’
She undid her seatbelt, climbed out and slammed the car door shut.
Tufty slumped a little. ‘That’s a “yes”, then.’
Ah well, who wanted a career anyway?
He clambered out into the leaf-dappled sunlight.
A man was mowing his lawn a couple of doors down, humming a Flymo back and forth across his little green rectangle. A woman was on her hands and knees opposite, planting rose bushes. A little girl screeched from one pavement to the other, dragging a droopy kite behind her.
Steel marched across the road and up the path to Wallace’s front door.
Tufty caught up with her just as she leaned on the doorbell. ‘Only I notice we haven’t actually got a plan …’
‘We rouse him, we rattle him, and we … something else beginning with “R” and ending with my boot up his arse.’
‘Reprimand? Remonstrate?’
She gave up on the bell and hammered on the door instead. ‘JACK WALLACE!’
No reply.
‘OK.’ Tufty shuffled his feet. ‘Maybe he’s not in?’
She banged on the door again. ‘COME OUT HERE YOU WEE SHITE!’
‘We could go away and come back later? Maybe Monday or Tuesday? Tuesday’s good for me.’
Steel turned on him. ‘You don’t get it, do you? He – was – setting – up – an – alibi – for – tonight. And while he’s off eating pizza and seeing a film, there’ll be a woman out there getting raped!’
She banged on the door with both palms. ‘WALLACE!’
Still nothing.
‘He’s not in.’
Steel turned and marched back towards the car. ‘Fine. We’ll wait!’
Even with the roof off, it was still baking hot in the car. Tufty took off his tie and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Then took off his jacket as well.
Steel snuck a glance at him. ‘You can stop right there. Seeing you in your pants this morning was quite enough for one lifetime.’
She could talk, sitting there with both straps of her dungarees unbuttoned and dangling.
‘Sarge?’
‘What.’
‘This Jack Wallace thing, what we’re doing here, don’t you think it’s a bit—’
‘If one more word comes out of your mouth I’m going to write it in indelible marker on a coconut and shove it so far up your backside you’ll be tasting Malibu for a month.’
Ah …
He rolled up his shirt sleeves. ‘Change of subject?’
‘Please.’
‘OK. Vicarious love-life thrills it is.’ Tufty smiled and sighed. ‘I really like PC Mackintosh. I mean really like, like her.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, I’m sharing a car with a teenaged girl!’
‘She’s pretty, she’s funny, she’s into physics … Who doesn’t love a woman who’s into physics?’
Steel stared at him. ‘You’re an idiot, you know that don’t you?’
The boy idiot tapped on the dashboard, as if it would make what he was saying any less boring. ‘See, what I think is that they’ve got the question wrong. Gravity isn’t a force like electromagnetism, or the strong and weak nuclear ones, it’s an emergent property of squished space-time. So why should it have the same strength?’
‘Honestly, if you don’t shut up talking about physics I’m going to remove your scrotum with a fork and make you—’ Her phone launched into Cagney & Lacey. ‘Oh thank the Hairy God for that.’ She pulled it out.
‘BARRETT’ sat in the middle of the screen.
‘Davey?’
‘Sarge, are you remembering we’re meant to be in the Flare and Futtrit? They’ve got a big buffet all laid out for us and everything.’
‘Aye, Davey, we’re kinda in the middle of something right now. Be with you soon as we can.’ Hmm … And just in case: ‘You keep Owen and Veronica away from the kitty – that pair could drink their way through two hundred and fifty quid in five minutes flat.’
‘Well … I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.’
No prizes for guessing what that meant.
‘… so maybe you simply can’t combine quantum theory and general relativity?’
There was a ding-dinging noise and Steel peered at her mobile phone. ‘Susan wants me to pick up toilet paper, nappies, and a thing of athlete’s foot powder.’
‘Cos Einstein showed that gravity’s an illusion, right? It’s really just acceleration caused by mass distorting space-time and—’
‘Tell you, Tufty, being a lesbian: it’s no’ all sex-swings and dildos.’
The guy had finally finished mowing his lawn and moved on to trimming his hedges with a massive electric orange swordfish thing.
Tufty sat up in his seat. ‘Ooh, I know: “Motor Bike!”’
‘No.’
‘… and I wonder: what if he was right?’ Roberta sagged a bit further, till Jack Wallace’s house almost disappeared behind the car door.
The whole thing was all screwed up. And no’ just Jack Scumbag Wallace – everything. From Detective Chief Inspector right down to Detective Sergeant. Two ranks. The biggest demotion Professional Standards were legally allowed to give her. One step up from taking her warrant card back and kicking her out onto the street.
All because she wouldn’t … no, couldn’t let Jack Wallace get away with it.
Planting evidence?
‘Gah …’ How could she think that was a good idea? How?
What a massive motherfunking moron.
Tufty stared around him, like a Labrador in a squirrel shop. ‘“Black Bird”?’
‘“BD.” “D”, you idiot.’ She rubbed a hand over her closed eyes. ‘What would’ve happened if McRae hadn’t clyped on me to the rubber heelers – would I have done it again? Fitted someone else up? Maybe forced a confession? Or beat up someone in custody? Taken bribes …’ Oh aye, it was easy to say that’d never happen, but Hannibal Lecter didn’t jump straight into the murdering and eating people, did he. Probably eased his way into it. Like getting into a hot bath.
She’d dipped her toe in the water.
‘“Black Dog”!’
And Logan McRae had stopped her.
What if she’d been wrong all this time?
‘What if he was actually saving me?’
Tufty poked her. ‘Is it “Black Dog”?’
‘No.’
‘Erm … Sarge?’
She kept her eyes on her phone’s screen, thumbs poking away at the buttons. Maybe if she pretended she couldn’t see or hear him he’d shut up about sodding gravitational lensing?
How did you get on at the golf then? Are
you going to be a grumpy old Susan when
you get home?
Send.
Tufty poked her. ‘Sarge?’
Don’t give up – keep ignoring him and he’ll go away.
Ding-ding.
Six under par! A personal best! Only Gillian
McMillan to beat & the Great Hazlehead
Ladies Challenge Cup is mine for another
year!
MINE!
My Precious!!!!!!!!
;P
At least someone was having a good day.
Another poke. ‘Sarge? Hello, Sarge?’
Damn it – ignoring him didn’t work. Ah well, it’d been worth a try.
She gave Tufty a free sigh: nice and exasperated so he knew what a pain in the ring he was. ‘OK, OK: “Beech Tree”.’
‘No. Well, yes it is “Beech Tree”, but that’s not what I’m Hello-Sarge-ing about. Jack Wallace.’
‘El Magnito del Turdo.’
‘Yeah, him. What I was trying to say earlier, but you threatened me with a coconut suppository: why are we here? I mean, it’s a waste of time, right?’
She glowered across the car. ‘We are here because some poor woman’s going to be raped tonight!’
‘I get that, but why are we here, here? Wallace called you up with his pre-alibi, right? He’s going out for a meal, then off to the pictures. He’ll make sure he’s on CCTV so we can’t pin anything on him. Whoever does the actual raping, it won’t be him. And suppose he does come home and we grab him – he knows we can’t rattle it out of him. All Wallace has to do is keep schtum and wait for his lawyer to appear. He makes a complaint, we have to let him go, then DCI Rutherford kicks us in the nads till we squeak and fires us both.’
‘Aye, I’ll do the motivational speeches, thank you very much.’
‘But I’m right, aren’t I? He knows we’ll check, so his alibi’s going to be tight as Harmsworth’s wallet. All we can do here is cock it up and get ourselves chucked off the force. Wallace wins.’
Roberta ground her teeth for a bit, scowling out at the trees, the houses, the horrible blue sky.
Sodding hell.
The ugly wee spud was right. Wallace knew there was going to be a rape, but short of tying him to a chair and beating the living hell out of him with a sock full of batteries, how would they get him to talk? No’ that the battery/sock thing wasn’t appealing …
Hannibal Lecter, remember?
Gaaaaaah …!
There you go: Tufty was right and she was wrong.
No way she was admitting it, though. ‘I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with “DM”.’
‘… so the two kids you found in that wardrobe are sorted.’
Roberta had a dig at an armpit. ‘Good foster homes?’
There was a pause from the other end of the phone. ‘No, crap ones. We like children to have a really horrible upbringing wherever possible. Keeps us in work.’
God save us from sarcastic social workers. Mind you, was there any other kind?
‘What about Harrison Gray?’
‘Other than changing his name to something less bullyable? Going to take a while. But we should have something by the time he gets out of hospital. Maybe a family with a dog so he can find out what Pedigree Chum is really for?’
‘Thanks, Pauline, I owe you one.’
‘Oh you owe me several.’ And Pauline was gone.
Tufty was staring at her. ‘What?’
‘You’re smiling. Why are you smiling?’
‘None of your business. And you’ve got three guesses left: “HP”.’
‘“Happy Police”?’
‘No.’
Her phone ding-dinged at her again. Harmsworth this time:
I hate to disturb whatever important mission
you’re on, but is there any chance you could
actually turn up at the pub? Or are you just
hoping Owen will starve to death here?
Because that’s what I’m
Ding-ding.
doing!!!
As if there was any chance of that happening. He had enough blubber reserves to last him till next Christmas. Still, it wasn’t as if they were achieving anything here, was it? And surely Tufty would’ve forgotten it was his idea to leave by now, wouldn’t he? The wee loon had the attention span of a butterfly.
Look at him, sitting there in the passenger seat banging on about sod-knew what.
‘… and how can you come up with a theory of quantum gravity if gravity doesn’t really exist? Stands to reason.’
So the choice was sit here – just to prove a point – or head down the pub and drink the Chief Superintendent’s two hundred and fifty quid?
No contest, really …
She stuffed her phone away. Buttoned her dungers up again. ‘OK, that’s it. If I have to sit here for one more second I’m going to commit manslaughter. Well, idiotslaughter in your case.’ She cranked the engine, setting it growling.
Tufty waggled his eyebrows. ‘Pub?’
‘Let’s get utterly cr
udweaselled.’
II
A cheer went up from the table in the corner as Steel and Tufty pushed into the Flare and Futtrit. Lund and Barrett were on their feet, whooping and whistling in their knock-off Trading Standards finest.
Harmsworth stayed in his seat giving them a slow handclap. ‘About time!’
The jukebox oozed smooth classics into a lounge bar that had probably been trendy around the same time as big hair and shoulder pads. Abstract neon shapes in pastel colours glowed around the grey checked wallpaper. A carpet that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the seats of a bus.
A vast array of platters covered the table: deep-fried things, sandwiches, bowls of crisps, sausage rolls, wee individual quiches, more deep-fried things, wee individual pork pies, yet more deep-fried things.
Barrett toasted them with a half-full pint of something lagery. ‘They say they’ll do us some chips too, if you want?’
Lund whooped and knocked back a shot of something. ‘Chips!’
‘Now, if you don’t mind,’ Harmsworth peeled the clingfilm off a platter, ‘can we finally start in on the buffet? I’m starving …’
‘Hoy!’ Steel chucked a beer mat at him. ‘No’ so fast, greedy guts. Got something to say.’
He crunched back in his seat and covered his face with his hands. ‘Argh, what fresh hell is this?’
‘Listen up, people: we did good today … Well, Tufty and I did good – tackling two jobbie-flinging tractors while the rest of you stood about dripping like spare socks at an orgy – but the important thing is: we prevented a riot.’ She gave them all a good hard stare. ‘Chief Superintendent Campbell, DCI Rutherford, DI Vine: they think we’re a bunch of idiots. That they can keep us out of trouble by wasting our time with stupid stolen mobile phones. That we can’t be trusted with anything else. Well, you know what? Sod them. Sod them in the ear with a stick!’
Yeah … If this was meant to be inspiring, it wasn’t really working.
‘We are damn fine police officers. We’re the best police officers. Nobody has better police officers than I do! And we’re no’ going to let them village-idiot us any more. As long as there’s rapey bastards like Jack Wallace out there, we’re going to be the ones who get in their way. We’re going to be the ones who catch him before he hurts anyone else. And if DCI Crudweaselling Rutherford thinks we’re going back to returning mobile sodding phones, he can jam the lot of them up his motherfunking bumhole!’ She banged her fist on the table. ‘I didn’t join the police force to be a glorified Christmas Elf at the Lost-and-Found Workshop, did you?’
Now We Are Dead Page 28