Now We Are Dead

I

‘Urgh...’ Roberta struggled her way into the itchiest black trousers ever invented by man. And it had to be a man — no woman would ever create something as horrible as Police-Scotland-issue uniform leg torturers.

Didn’t help that they’d shrunk about two sizes since she’d last had them on.

She thumped back onto the floral-print duvet and puffed and wriggled, hauling them up.

Susan leaned back against the vanity unit, one foot up on the tartan chaise longue. Smiling away in her floaty Laura Ashley dress.

Rotten sod.

Finally the trousers gave up the fight! Roberta rolled off the bed, pulled in her stomach and did up the button. Zipped the bulgy bits in.

These trousers had definitely shrunk.

Susan sauntered over and brushed a bit of cat hair from the epaulettes buttoned to Roberta’s black T-shirt. ‘Oh, I do love a woman in uniform.’

‘Surprised they still fit... Almost... Long as I don’t breathe... And they’re all itchy.’

‘Well I think you look very sexy.’ She threaded the black belt through the belt loops. Bit her bottom lip. ‘Maybe you should keep it on when you get home? And don’t forget your handcuffs. After all, I’m going to cream Marion Bridgeport on the golf course today: I’ll be in the mood to celebrate.’

Roberta groaned down onto the chaise longue and pulled on her boots. Laced them up as all the blood above her trousers shoved its way into her head and the waistband made breathing impossible. Slumped back and sucked in a deep breath. ‘Sodding hell...’

Really needed bigger trousers.

She looked up at Susan. ‘Turns out Hissing Sid didn’t defend me for free — someone paid him. It was—’

‘Logan. He didn’t want you to know and be all stubborn about it.’ A small sad sigh as she brushed at the epaulettes again. ‘It’s a shame they had to swap the shirt-and-tie for a T-shirt. I always loved you in a tie.’

Wonderful. So everyone knew but her.

Roberta looked away. No’ meeting Susan’s eye. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because I didn’t want you to be all stubborn about it either. How am I supposed to get my kinky on with you banged up in prison somewhere?’

She pulled herself up with one of the bed’s four posts. ‘He ratted me out to the rubber heelers.’

‘Plus, I really don’t think I could trust you — locked in with all those naughty women, twenty-four hours a day? Communal showers? What would you get up to?’

‘I trusted him.’

‘I know you did, Robbie.’ Then she reached around and took a good handful of Roberta’s bum and squeezed. ‘Now, get this sexy itchy backside downstairs. French toast for breakfast!’

‘Hi.’ He’d been aiming for cool-and-manly, but what came out was more of a testicularly ruptured squeak. Tufty cleared his throat and tried again. Much deeper this time. ‘Constable Mackintosh.’

A faint pink tinge spread across her neck, where it poked out of her stabproof vest and high-viz waistcoat. ‘Detective Constable Quirrel.’

Uniformed officers crowded the muster room, laughing, joking, moaning, whinging, talking about how great it was to be kicking off at nine in the morning instead of seven for a change.

‘So... You all set for today?’

She nodded. ‘You?’

He slipped his hands into the armpits of his stabproof. ‘Nice being back in uniform again. Don’t get me wrong, CID’s fun, but it’s not the same when you’re running about in your own clothes. Like you’re only playing at being a police officer.’

‘Right.’

Yeah, this wasn’t really going as well as he’d planned.

Tufty cleared his throat again. Safer ground. ‘So... Half two this afternoon?’

‘Yes.’ A small smile. ‘Looking forward to it. Well, not. Sort of. It’s a wee dog’s funeral and what kind of sicko enjoys that? I mean, it’s good to be doing something nice for an old lady...’ Constable Mackintosh straightened her equipment belt with its collection of limb restraints, handcuffs, pepper spray, and extendable baton. ‘Shame we don’t have an urn though. For the look of the thing.’

‘Yeah. A lot nicer than getting your dog back in a shoebox.’ He stared at his feet. ‘After the funeral, do you want to—’

A voice boomed out from the doorway. ‘All right, everyone, settle down.’ Whoever was speaking, they were hidden behind the sea of heads. ‘Chief Superintendent Campbell wants a word before you head out. Boss?’

‘Thanks, Steve. Ladies, gentlemen, and Detective Sergeant Marshall, social media is fizzing with posts from those who look at today’s farmers’ protest as an excuse to settle old scores. Independence: in — out. Brexit: in — out.’ A sheaf of paper appeared above the waves of close-cropped haircuts for a brief shoogle. ‘You should all have an information sheet — I want you to pay particular attention to Gareth Thannet and Angus Menzies. Last time this pair of individuals clashed, Glasgow city centre was turned into a warzone. And now they seem to think that they can come up to Aberdeen on a jolly and cause trouble on our streets. Are they right?’

They all thumped it out in unison: ‘NO, BOSS!’

‘They think we’re going to just let them run riot in our city. Are we?’

‘NO, BOSS!’

It was like electricity, crackling through the room, making all the hairs stand up on Tufty’s arms.

‘No we bloody well aren’t. Now get out there and make me proud!’

A cheer belted out. This was it. They were ready. And if Thannet and Menzies tried anything they were in for a nasty shock. Because North East Division was pumped up. Energised. Ready to rock.

Hell, yeah: bring it on!

‘Christ, I’m bored.’ Roberta sagged, but no’ very far. The stabproof vest squeezed her tight, as if she was an overfilled sausage, squooging her boobs and making every breath a struggle. Because the shrunken itchy trousers weren’t bad enough.

Even rubbing her legs against the waist-high metal barrier that held back the unwashed masses didn’t help. Swear to God they made these things out of ants, fleas and midge bites.

A massive seething mob filled the square outside Markie’s. Placards poked up above them, rehashing old arguments for and against everything from the last general election to farm subsidy payments. Those temporary metal barriers kept a clear patch in the middle of the square free, another two lines stopping them from spilling out onto Union Street, but the crowd stretched down past the Prince of Wales on one side, and all the way around to the Kirk on the other. There was even a crowd on the St Nicholas Centre’s roof terrace.

The organisers had set up a stage outside the Clydesdale Bank, blocking access to the cash machines, big enough to fit a dozen chairs, a lectern and a microphone stand. And last, but no’ least, about seventy-five percent of Aberdeen’s police officers making a solid black-and-fluorescent-yellow line between the various factions. Big Tony Campbell had even managed to call in a couple of horse-mounted plods from Strathclyde.

Roberta checked her watch again. ‘An hour we’ve been here. A whole hour, and no one’s so much as trodden on anyone’s toe.’

Lund smiled up at the blue sky. ‘Still, it’s nice to be out in the sunshine for a change.’

On the other side, Harmsworth grunted. Scowling. ‘Probably getting a massive melanoma just from standing here. And my trousers are itchy.’

Roberta peered around his bloated lump of a body. Tufty was chatting up that perky Wildlife Crime Officer again.

Horny wee sod that he was.

Lund stood on her tiptoes. ‘Ooh, I can see tractors. Here we go.’

Roberta had a squint, but the corner of the Royal Bank blocked off most of Union Street from here.

Pfff...

No’ that there was anything particularly exciting about tractors, but at least it’d be something to look at other than the motley collection of placards. And once you’d spotted the obligatory ‘DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING!’ and ‘I’M SO ANNOYED I MADE A SIGN!’ ones, there was nothing left to do but stand there in the blazing sunshine, dressed all in black, wearing a stone’s-worth of equipment — sweat trickling down your back and into your underwear.

Fun.

Harmsworth had another dig at his backside. ‘Itchy, itchy, itchy, itchy...’

Roberta thumped him. ‘I’m no’ telling you again: leave your arse alone.’

‘It’s itchy.’

‘We’re all itchy, Owen, that’s how life works: you’re born, you’re itchy, then you die.’

He went in for another howk.

‘Stop it!’ She pointed across the square, where the media had set up camp. A blonde weather-girl-type was primping her curly hair in the mirror of a cameraman’s lens. ‘You want to be on national TV mining for bum-nuggets?’

‘Oh that’s right, poor Owen just has to suffer in silence, as usual.’

‘Silence? You never stop moaning on about everything!’

Five people emerged from behind the Royal Bank, carrying a banner nearly as wide as Union Street: ‘DON’T LET THEM KILL OUR FARMING INDUSTRY!!!’ Waving at the crowds. Right behind them was a massive combine harvester, blades rotating slowly. Presumably as a warning to the banner carriers — don’t slow down or fall over, or else.

Blondie finished primping and stood back a couple of paces, microphone up and ready. No’ that she needed it — hers was the kind of voice that carried. A foghorn with a west-coast accent. ‘You ready, Chris?’

Anne twisted the microphone around in her hand, so the BBC logo was visible from the front. Here we go. Deep breath. Red leather, yellow leather. Red leather, yellow leather.

She flashed her warmest smile at the camera.

You can do this, Anne. You can!

Just don’t screw it up and everything will fall into place. They’ll see that you’re more than just a pretty face standing in front of a map blethering on about low pressure moving in from the west. That you’ve got what it takes to be a serious television journalist.

OK, so it’s just a local interest piece for the twenty-four-hour news channel, but maybe they’ll edit it down and put you on the six o’clock too? Maybe then someone will finally recognise all your untapped TV potential?

Maybe they’ll send you to exotic places to interview important people like the Dalai Lama? Maybe they’ll give you your own show? Then you’re on Strictly Come Dancing and there’s a massive book deal — not just a ghost-written autobiography either, a whole ghost-written series of bestselling children’s novels! An OBE for services to literature. A spot of charity work and BAM: Dame Anne Darlington, beloved by millions. I want to thank the Nobel Committee for this peace prize...

And it all started right here, outside the Aberdeen branch of Markie’s.

She pulled back her shoulders and sexied up her smile a bit.

Maybe that was too sexy? Approachable but serious, that was what to aim for.

She could do that.

Chris the cameraman looked out from behind his viewfinder. Even with the sun blazing down he still had his bobble hat on, stubbled face pulled into a smile. ‘Don’t sweat it: you’re going to be great.’

Yes. Yes she was.

He pursed his lips. ‘Just as long as that copper in the background stops scratching at his arse.’ Chris stuck his hand out to one side, counting her down one finger at a time. ‘And we’re live in five, four, three, two...’ He made a swooshing gesture and she put on her approachable-but-serious voice to go with the approachable-but-serious smile.

‘Tensions are running high in Aberdeen today as the local Farm Workers’, Food Producers’, and Livestock Handlers’ Union protest about the proposed post-Brexit financial settlement.’ She turned and gestured across the square at a bunch of officers in their high-viz bobby-on-the-beat costumes. ‘As you can see, there’s a significant police presence here, after rumours circulated on social media that a number of extremist organisations were planning to use the protest as an excuse for violent clashes.’

Bang on cue a vast combine harvester rumbled past, followed by a vintage tractor towing a trailer with an effigy of the Prime Minister being burnt at the stake on it — fake, tissue paper flames flickering in the breeze.

A tad sinister, but great television.

‘So far, the demonstration has remained peaceful.’

Bill’s voice sounded in her earpiece, all the way from the London studio. ‘And we understand the Cabinet Secretary for Rural Affairs has challenged Ronnie Wells to a debate.’

She put a finger to her ear. ‘That’s right, Bill. Ronnie Wells has become a controversial figure since he took over the FWFPLH last May. He’s accused the Scottish government of abandoning Scotland’s rural communities in favour of an easy deal with Westminster.’

The mock burning was followed by a jaunty pair of JCB diggers lofting a massive banner of their own: ‘FARMING LIVES MATTER!!!’ strung up between their raised backhoes.

A mixture of cheers and boos rippled around the crowd as a handful of stodgy middle-aged men in bland suits clambered up onto a makeshift stage. The stodgiest and baldest of them shuffled over to the microphone.

‘Of course this is the Cabinet Secretary, George Rushworth’s, first public speech since the Arran-gate scandal, so we can expect some fiery rhetoric as he tries to put that behind him.’

There was a squeal of feedback as he tapped the microphone, then George Rushworth MSP’s voice crackled out of the speakers. ‘Can you hear me OK? Good. OK. Right. I know feelings are running high, but I want you to know that the Scottish government cares passionately about farming in this country!’

More booing.

Alfie took one hand off the steering wheel, plucked the whisky bottle from the cup holder at his right elbow and knocked back a swig. It burned all the way down.

Should’ve bought some of the good stuff, really. But how was he supposed to afford that? That was the whole point of this buggering exercise — how could he, or any other struggling farmer afford anything?

Still. Would’ve been nice.

The peaty fire spread out across his stomach then up into his chest. Then his brain, making it swell and tingle.

I mean, take this big John Deere tractor, did anyone out there have the slightest idea how much it cost to keep one of these things going? The maintenance and servicing was bad enough, but what about all the diesel? And that was on top of the massive expense of buying the bloody thing in the first place. You could get a two-bedroom flat in Aberdeen for less than one of these.

Another swig.

Might as well enjoy it. There’d be sod-all whisky after they caught up with him. They were probably quite strict about that kind of thing in prison.

Still, it wasn’t as if they’d left him any option, was it?

They had no one to blame but themselves.

The JCBs in front were all shiny and yellow, their banner strung between them crisp and clean.

Not like the chunk of farm equipment he was towing.

Look at it: lurking in the tractor’s wing mirrors. An evil black metal bomb. Big and dark and rusty at the edges. Ready to explode.

His radio bleeped at him as the Royal Bank’s crisp granite frontage drifted by on the left — and there they were. Hundreds and hundreds of them, waving their silly little placards, as if that would make any difference.

Nope.

Only one thing ever made a difference. In a war you had to fight dirty.

Henry’s voice crackled out of the set. ‘Go on, Alfie, let the bastards have it!’

Alfie checked his mirrors again — Henry was there, giving him the thumbs up from the cab of his Massey Ferguson.

It was time.

One more swig of whisky for luck.

Some of the crowd understood. Some of them were on the farmers’ side.

Shame.

But in any war there was always collateral damage.

Alfie grabbed his radio handset and pressed the transmit button. Hauled in a big whisky-smoke breath. ‘YEEEEEEE-HAAAAAW!’

He flicked the switch and pulled the lever.

And may God have mercy on them all.

II

‘Scottish farmers have every right to be angry. It’s vitally important that we sort this out, but we have to be realistic!’

Tufty shrugged. Playing it cool. ‘So...’ not quite shouting over the speech belting out of the PA system, but close. ‘After the funeral, I thought we could pop round and see Mrs Galloway. I think she’d want to know that Pudding’s in safe hands till she gets out of hospital.’

Constable Mackenzie nodded. ‘That’s true, but I don’t think she’d want to see me. After all, you’re—’

‘Nope. You arranged everything. You sorted out the crematorium. This wouldn’t have happened without you.’

She went a little pink again. ‘It was nothing really.’

‘You did a lovely thing for a poor old lady. That’s not nothing, it’s...’ Tufty’s eyes widened. ‘Oh God!’

The huge green-and-yellow tractor — the one crawling along behind the banner-flying JCBs — the one towing a big black slurry tank — the one whose driver seemed to be swigging from a bottle of supermarket whisky — gave a grumbling clunk and unleashed HORROR.

The spray nozzle on the back burst into life sending out a massive brown peacock’s tail of foul-stinking liquid. Its leading edge spattered down on the crowd and their placards, painting them with filth.

And that’s when the screaming started.

The brown tide crawled forward.

Spraying and splattering.

Drenching everything it touched.

Filling the square with the bitter-sharp stench of fermented pig manure.

The people on the right-hand side of the square — the ones closest to the stage and furthest from the spray — struggled back, trying to get out of the way before the storm arrived. But there was nowhere to go. No escape. They just bunched up in a solid clump as the slurry rainbow got closer and closer.

PC Mackenzie stared at him. ‘I don’t want to be covered in poo!’

In the middle of the square, the steaming brown arc washed over the national media’s representatives, smearing the right and left wing alike. A woman with blonde curly hair screamed into her camera as she became a brunette.

Oh no, here it came...

Up on the stage, Boring Speech Man stood rooted to the spot, his voice still belting out of the PA system as the slurry found him. ‘AAAAAAGH! JESUS CHRIST! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! IT’S GONE IN MY MOUTH!’

Closer.

Closer.

Tufty took a deep breath, grabbed PC Mackenzie and bundled her into a crouch, covering her with his own body — back hunched as foul coffee-coloured rain pattered against his high-viz jacket and drummed on his cap. Soaked into the sleeves of his T-shirt. Trickled down the back of his stabproof vest. Slithered between the hairs on his arms.

Argh, the smell! The smell! The smell!

It took a count of three for the downpour to pass.

Tufty straightened up and PC Mackenzie came with him. Staring around her.

From here right back to the Royal Bank, people were yelling and spitting and swearing. On the other side — the as-yet unspattered side — everyone was backed up against the Clydesdale Bank, scrabbling to escape with nowhere to go as the slurry wrapped them in its stinky embrace.

And finally, the tractor and its evil tank were past — probably busy painting the front of the building instead.

Steam rose from the crowd.

Someone retched. Then someone else. Then it was an epidemic, spreading through the crowd.

PC Mackenzie blinked up at Tufty, mouth hanging open. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’

A voice yelled out from the other side of the square: ‘OH GOD, NOT ANOTHER ONE!’

The tractor right behind the slurry tank was hauling a muck spreader — it hurtled chunks of straw-studded manure at the crowd.

Steel was over by the barrier, standing like a scarecrow, dripping. ‘Gaaaaahhh...’

Harmsworth, on her left, turned in small circles with his arms out — dancing with a large invisible bear. ‘No, no, no, no...’

Lund, on her right, stood immobile and splattered, eyes wide as the dung thudded into the crowd opposite.

Then Steel shook out her hands and roared. Wiped her face. Looked around. And ran towards Tufty, boots slithery-slipping on the wet paving slabs. She grabbed him and pointed down Union Street, towards the rear end of the spraying slurry tank. ‘You take that one. Arrest the dirty bastard. NOW!’

She let go and sprint-skated for the muck spreader.

Tufty stared at the back of the slurry tank. The guy driving still hadn’t turned off the jets and the stinking plume was wide enough to paint both sides of Union Street at the same time. Oh bumholeing motherfunker: to get to the tractor he’d have to run right through the spray.

Deep breath.

Yeah, probably shouldn’t have done that, the air tasted horrible.

He ran.

Right at the edge of the crowd, a large woman in a duotone tweed jacket and skirt — grey at the back, brown and slimy all up the front — sat on the pavement making little squealing noises. She was still clutching her placard: a big one with ‘SUCK IT UP, LIBTARD SNOWFLAKES ~ YOU LOST!!!’ printed in big red letters.

He snatched the placard out of her hands on the way past, holding it up like a riot shield. Here we go: event horizon in three, two, one...

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Right through to the other side.

Oh God, it was everywhere...

He threw the placard away and pounded along the pavement, past the slurry tank and up level with the tractor’s cab. Waved at the driver. ‘HOY, YOU! STOP RIGHT THERE! HOY! POLICE!’

But the bulb-nosed, overall-wearing, baldy-headed scumbag just stuck two fingers up and kept the whole thing chugging along at two or three miles an hour.

Right.

Tufty veered closer, till he was four foot from the steps up into the cab. ‘POLICE! SHUT THIS DAMN THING DOWN, NOW!’

Farmer Stinky had a swig of whisky and put his foot down till the tractor chugged along at a steady jogging pace.

Nothing for it then — he’d have to get into the cab and shut it down himself.

Easy as pie, beans and chips.

Get a bit closer, jump onto the step, grab the metal bar holding the wing mirror on, climb up, and open the door. No problems. As long as he didn’t miss. Or slip. Or fall. Because if he did any of those things he’d end up right under that massive back wheel, which would then grind him into the tarmac of Union Street like fourteen stone of mince in a stabproof vest and itchy trousers.

Urgh...

Come on, Tufty, save the day!

He went for it. Jumping at the last minute and scrabbling for the wing-mirror support, hauling himself up onto the step.

Not dead yet!

From up here there was a great view down Union Street to the council buildings and the Castlegate beyond. All closed to traffic with a line of metal barriers. The only other cars in sight were the patrol car parked at the junction with Broad Street and a shiny black Bentley with little flags flying from sticks either side of the bonnet and a swanky private number plate.

Which was a shame. Would’ve been nice if someone had been around to witness his historic leap. Oh Tufty, you’re such an action hero! A kind of sexier Bruce Willis, only with more hair and not in a vest. And covered in shite.

Tufty took hold of the tractor door handle, pressing the button to open it... Nothing. The rotten sod had locked himself in.

Farmer Stinky grinned through the window and glugged back another mouthful of Sporran Rot McTurpentine’s finest.

‘Suit yourself.’ Tufty whipped out his extendable baton and clacked it out to full length. Then battered it down, shattering the window, sending thousands of little cubes of glass flying.

He stuffed the baton back in its holder, reached through the gaping frame and grabbed Farmer Stinky, raising his voice over the engine’s diesel roar. ‘YOU’RE WELL AND TRULY NICKED!’

Farmer Stinky laughed at him, enveloping him in a barrage of whisky fumes. ‘You’re too late!’ He slapped at Tufty’s hand.

Tufty slapped back.

Another slap. Then it was on! Chins pulled in, heads stretched back out of the way as they went at it, two handed, like schoolkids in the playground. Leaving the steering wheel to its own devices.

The tractor drifted to the left, lurching as the front tyre bumped up onto the pavement.

Then a squealing crunch.

Tufty risked a glance: the tractor’s front loader shoved its way into the wall of a bus shelter, deforming the metal supports and ripping them out of the concrete. The Perspex walls snapped and pinged out of their frames as the massive green and yellow monster crashed through the thing at a walking pace.

The structure peeled apart, buckling and crumpling its way along the bonnet, a blade of Perspex scraping at the paintwork. Getting closer to where Tufty clung on.

Eek!

It was going to scrape him right off the side of the tractor and under the back wheel. Mince. Squish. Pop goes the police officer.

He wrapped both arms around the wing-mirror stand as the Perspex tried to shove its way through him. Head down. Pressing himself in against the cab. Holding on tight as it grabbed at his stabproof and twisted him around...

‘Aaaaaaargh!’

Then poing! And it was past.

A tortured squeal tore through the engine noise as what was left of the shelter got crushed beneath the back wheel.

The tractor lurched again, back down onto the road.

Farmer Stinky was laughing. Steering with one hand and swigging whisky with the other. ‘Hike up my council tax, will you?’

What?

Tufty looked in the direction they were going: straight for the liveried Bentley.

Yeah... that looked expensive.

The tractor’s front loader whirred up on its pneumatic rams, the scoop big and black against the blue sky. Then it crashed down on the Bentley’s bonnet, crushing bodywork and flags alike. Farmer Stinky didn’t slam on the brakes, though — he just kept going. Up went the front loader again. Down again — shattering the windscreen and flattening half the roof. The tractor’s front end reared up as it mounted the ruined car.

Tufty grabbed the shattered tractor window frame and dragged his top half into the cab as the tractor climbed the Bentley, getting higher and higher and—

Something must’ve given way in the car beneath them, because the tractor’s front end crunched down again.

Farmer Stinky dropped his whisky bottle.

Tufty wriggled his way across the guy’s lap to the other side of the steering column. A set of keys poked out of the ignition. He grabbed them, twisted them left, then hauled them out.

The tractor lurched to a halt.

Silence.

Then the spattering slop of a lot of liquid hitting concrete and tarmac from a great height.

Then nothing but the pings and groans of the dying Bentley.

Tufty pulled his cuffs out. Urgh... He gave them a little shake to dislodge a blob of slurry. ‘Let’s try this again, shall we? You’re comprehensively nicked!’

Oh God...

Everything. Was. Ruined.

Her Nobel peace prize. Her interview with the Dalai Lama. Her series of bestselling children’s books. Dancing the tango with a perma-tanned man wearing too many sequins.

RUINED!

All around her, Aberdeen was straight out of a zombie movie — everyone shuffling around, groaning and filthy. Or huddled against the walls crying. Or just being violently and copiously sick in the background of the shot.

Anne blinked into the dead black eye of the camera.

Chris was just standing there, horrible brown stuff dripping off his bobble hat, filming.

That’s because he’s a professional, Anne, like you’re supposed to be!

She wiped the slurry from her face, cleared her throat, and raised the microphone again — making sure the logo faced the camera. Gave the nation her approachable-but-serious face. ‘Back to you in the studio, Bill.’

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 vacant 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.’

He sighed and pulled out another urn. This one squat and brutal. ‘Instead of which we end up in a job lot of Granny’s old things, sold off at a car boot sale as soon as she’s gone.’ The next three urns were more like Thermos flasks. Then another trophy-style one. A couple of ornate vase-type ones. A wooden box with a brass butterfly on it. ‘Stop me when you see something you feel reflects the deceased’s personality.’

Tufty did a slow three-sixty. Boxes and crates and more boxes and more crates and the snakes-eating-crisps grandfather clocks... ‘Did all this come from estate sales?’

‘Sadly, when most people say something has immense sentimental value, what they really mean is they can’t be bothered dusting it any more. Ah, here we are.’ Haddie straightened up, holding out a blue enamel jar with golden swirls across it. ‘The brass plaque says, “David Fairbairn, 1935 to 1994, beloved father and husband”, but you could put a sticker or something over that. And, as it’s for a good cause, you may have it on the house.’

Tufty accepted the urn. Cool in his hands. Heavy too. ‘Erm... Is David...?’

‘In residence?’ Haddie’s eyebrows popped up. ‘Oh, very much so.’ They sank back down again. ‘Ah, I see. Of course, how insensitive of me. Please.’ He held out his hands and Tufty gave him the urn back. ‘I will be but a second. Feel free to browse.’

He turned and bustled off between the heaps.

Steel wandered up. ‘You’re no’ going to put a sticker on it, are you?’

‘Could go to that key-cutting/engraving place on Rosemount? Get them to do up a little plaque to glue over David’s one?’ He turned in place again. ‘So much stuff.’

‘I’m hungry. Are you hungry?’

‘All those lives... You slave away, you save up, you buy stuff, and it ends up here.’

The muffled roar of a vacuum cleaner sounded in the distance.

‘You know what I fancy? Noodles. No, ribs! Or maybe chicken?’

Tufty picked his way between a stack of oriental carpets and a rack of framed hunting prints. ‘Hidden away in a warehouse, waiting for what?’

‘Ooh, I know: Chinese.’ Steel rubbed her hands together. ‘We can go to the Manchurian, down by Mounthooly.’

A herd of bicycles, stacked on top of each other. A flock of standard lamps. Deeper and deeper into the gloomy recesses. ‘You know what I think? I think Mr De Selincourt is fooling himself. He’s banging on about your ashes ending up in a car boot sale, cos no one cares. What about all this stuff? Who’s going to come in here and impulse buy a...’ Tufty pointed, ‘a treadle sewing machine from the Dark Ages, or a banjo with no strings? All this stuff’s going to sit here growing dust till he snuffs it, then it’s back to the car boot or off to the tip.’

The hairy grey layers on top of the boxes got thicker the further back Tufty went. An upright piano was almost mammalian with its pelt of fur.

‘They do the most spectacular dim sum there. And the chicken wings! Oh God, the chicken wings...’ Steel made a Homer Simpson gargling noise.

‘Thought there was a buffet waiting for us at the Flare and Futtrit.’

‘Aye, no’ till half three, though.’

And right at the back, the most forgotten stacks of all: books. Hardback and paperback, leather-bound and slipcovered. They looked like they hadn’t been touched in eons. Pompey was buried under a thinner crust of grey than they were.

Well, not quite right at the back.

There were a couple of boxes tucked in behind the books. Completely and utterly dust free.

‘See, Tufty, when you’re off on the lash with your fellow officers, it’s important to get a nice thick lining on your stomach first.’

Why would brand new boxes be hidden away back here?

‘Oh, some people say, “eatin’s cheatin’”, but they’re the ones who end up facedown in the corner covered in their own sick.’

They were sealed up with brown tape, just like the box the urns were in.

He nudged one with the toe of his boot. ‘Does that look suspicious to you? All clean and shiny when everything else is clarty with dust?’

‘Yoghurt’s good, of course, but me? Dim sum. Nice and sticky and starchy... Are you even listening to me?’

‘No.’ And let’s face it, Elinsworth Fredrick De Selincourt had form for resetting. Once a dodgy wee swine, always a dodgy wee swine. People didn’t just give up selling stolen goods. ‘Come on, it’s not just suspicious, it’s hella suspicious.’

‘So open them. Take a peek.’

‘I can’t. It’d be inadmissible in court.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ She shoved him out of the way. ‘Here, I’ll do it, you damp—’

‘Excuse me!’ Haddie’s voice boomed out from somewhere behind, getting closer with every word. ‘You have no business being back here. I give you an urn out of the goodness of my heart and this is how you repay me? By snooping?’

‘Mr De Selincourt.’ Tufty pointed. ‘Would you care to tell us what’s in these boxes?’

Haddie licked his lips. ‘Actually, I’m really busy this afternoon. Perhaps if you made an appointment for later in the week...?’

Steel sucked on her teeth, making them whistle. ‘Oh, Haddie, Haddie, Haddie. No’ again!’

‘I... I haven’t done anything wrong, and you don’t have a warrant. Those boxes are from an estate sale. There’s nothing illegal about them.’ A blush breathed a bit of colour into those pale cheeks of his. ‘You’re not allowed to search my premises. If you do, it’s inadmissible in court.’

‘My ugly wee colleague here was just saying the very same thing, Haddie. But you said we were free to browse, remember?’ She slapped a hand down on his shoulder, making him buckle slightly at the knees. ‘And you’re right: I can’t search your Aladdin’s Gloryhole. What I can do is tell Constable Quirrel here to stand guard over those boxes while I nip off and get a warrant organised. That’ll take about an hour and I’ve no’ had any lunch yet, so by the time I get back here I’m going to be very hungry and very, very grumpy.’

Tufty nodded. ‘And she’s in chafing underwear too, so— Ow!’ He rubbed at his arm, squeezing down the burning jagged ache where she’d belted him one.

‘Now, Haddie, my fish-fingered little fiend, you can cooperate right here, right now, and open these boxes of your own free will — or we can do it an hour later when I’m probably going to want to rip your arm off and eat it. Up to you.’

‘But I don’t... This isn’t...’ His eyebrows pinched up in the middle, shoulders drooping. ‘I gave you an urn for free.’

She reached out and plucked the urn from his hands. ‘Thanks for your kind donation, I’m sure Mrs Galloway will be touched.’ She tucked it under one arm. ‘So: friendly cooperative boxes now, or grumpy down-the-station boxes later?’

Haddie made a groany little wheezing noise then nodded. Got out his Stanley knife and slipped the blade through the pristine brown tape on both boxes. Sighed. ‘This is what I get for trying to be nice to people.’ He eased the flaps open on Box Number One, then did the same with Box Number Two.

Tufty peered inside and whistled. Reached in and pulled out a pair of brand-new-still-in-their-boxes iPhones. ‘This must’ve been a very strange estate sale, Mr De Selincourt. As far as I can see, the dearly departed left about three grand’s worth of state-of-the-art mobile technology.’

Steel helped herself to a boxed Samsung, turning it over in her hands. ‘Let me guess: you got them from a thieving wee scroat called Billy Moon? Am I warm?’

‘Detective Chief Inspector Steel, I—’

‘It’s Detective Sergeant now. They demoted me for dangling a fat wee resetter off the roof of his warehouse by the ankles. And dropping him. You want to see if we can make it two in a row?’

‘But I’m cooperating!’ Starting to whine a little now.

‘So you are.’ She tossed the phone to Tufty. ‘Elinsworth Fredrick De Selincourt, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act...’

The woman in the burgundy apron huffed a breath onto the rectangle of thumb-smeared brass and polished it on the hem of her apron. Peering out of the window, down Union Street. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, would you? Two wee tractors, making all that mess.’

Tufty joined her, looking out between a display rack of key fobs and an animatronic plastic man pretending to hammer a nail into a shoe.

Four fire engines blocked the road outside Marks & Spencer — two of them sending out jets of thick white foam, the other two hosing the buildings down with water. The gutters were thick with brown froth.

‘I’m just glad the shop’s upwind.’ She huffed another breath on the plaque. ‘There we go, nice and shiny again.’ She slipped it into a wee paper bag. ‘That’ll be six quid, please.’

IV

‘Come on, stick, you horrible little...’ Tufty shifted his fingers and pushed a bit harder. The brass plaque slithered side to side on the glue then finally got a grip. ‘Right.’

He clambered out of his rusty old Fiat Panda, locked the door, straightened his tie and hurried across the car park. It was crowded: people filing out of the crematorium and into their vehicles.

He nodded at a thin man with red eyes and a trembling bottom lip. Giving the guy a ‘Sorry for your loss’ and a pat on the arm on the way past.

Aberdeen Crematorium looked like a nuclear bunker crossed with an unsuccessful airport terminal building. Only not so charming. A black roof sulked above concrete walls that sloped inward a bit as they rose. Dark glass panels either side of a big dark wooden door.

The last of the mourners were gathering up floral tributes to a backtrack of sombre music. Someone was still sitting down at the front, not moving, just staring up at the red velvety curtains. PC Mackintosh.

Tufty sorry-for-your-loss-ed his way past the mourners and slipped into the seat next to her. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, it’s OK.’

‘Had to go home and change. Didn’t think it’d be right turning up in AFC joggies and a knock-off T-shirt.’

She looked him up and down. The shirt, the black tie, the black suit. ‘I think you look very nice.’

He smiled back. ‘You too. I mean, I know it’s just police uniform, but it suits you and...’ Why was everywhere so hot today? Oh, right, crematorium. Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, I brought you this.’ He held out the urn.

‘Oh, Constable Quirrel, it’s lovely.’

‘There’s a plaque.’

She ran a finger along the shiny brass rectangle. ‘“Pudding the Yorkshire terrier, a dearly loved friend and companion.” That’s very sweet.’

‘I was going to put something about “now chasing the squirrels in heaven”, but I didn’t know if he liked squirrels or not. And...’ He dug into his pocket. ‘Ta-da!’ He held up a Lion Bar and a bag of Skittles.

Mackenzie smiled, then reached out and took the Lion Bar. ‘You remembered.’

‘Of course, Lion Bars don’t actually contain any real lion. And as chocolate’s poisonous to all cats including lions — well, the caffeine and theobromine in chocolate to be pedantic about it — they can’t really endorse it in good conscience, can they? The bar is a lie.’

‘Oh yeah? Well Skittles say, “Taste the rainbow”. Rainbows are an optical illusion caused by sunlight reflecting and refracting through water particles suspended in the atmosphere, relative to the observer, and have no intrinsic flavour. The Skittles are a lie.’

Ooh... Had to admit that was more than a little bit sexy.

Tufty turned to face her. ‘Where do you stand on the topic of loop quantum gravity, because—’

She grabbed him by the tie. It came off in her hand — clip-on — so she grabbed him by the lapel instead and pulled him into a kiss. Her lips tasted of chocolate and coffee and strawberries. Warm and soft and tingly. No tongues.

There was a thump and squeal right behind them, then, ‘I hope you two are no’ Frenching it up — this is a crematorium, no’ a knocking shop!’

Aaargh!

They both flinched back.

PC Mackenzie dropped Pudding’s urn, scrambling to snatch it up again before it hit the carpet.

Tufty lunged at the same time and their heads thunked together as the urn bounced off the floor.

Sitting behind them, Steel went, ‘Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck.’

‘Ow!’ Mackenzie rubbed at her forehead.

He scooped up the urn. ‘It’s OK. Not even scratched.’ And the plaque had stayed on too. He handed it back to her. Then turned.

Steel was beaming at him, still wearing her dungarees and floral-print chiffon top. Hair all anyhow. She winked. ‘Ah: young love.’

He lowered his voice to a hiss. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Half two, you said. I’m here to pay my respect to poor little Pudding. No’ like you, you randy sod.’

‘I am not randy, I’m—’

‘Excuse me?’ A man’s voice. They turned and there was a tall thin type in a dog collar and dark suit. Milk-bottle-bottom glasses and a wispy combover. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but before we begin, does anyone want to say a few words about the deceased?’

‘About time!’ Barrett grabbed his coat and clapped his hands. ‘Come on, everyone: up, up. The buffet starts in fifteen minutes.’

Harmsworth levered himself out of his chair and stood there in his cargo shorts and Batman T-shirt. It really didn’t go with his heavy police boots. ‘Oh it’s all right for you two to go off gallivanting, isn’t it? Never mind about us, stuck here doing paperwork and interviewing your prisoners.’

Steel had a wee scratch at an itchy armpit. ‘Prisoner singular, Owen. Singular. He cop to it?’

Lund pulled on her jacket. ‘Mr De Selincourt has decided that assisting us with our enquiries is the cool and groovy thing to do. Especially if we’ll cut him a deal for ratting out some of his rivals.’

‘I’m down with that.’

Tufty lowered Pudding’s urn onto his desk. Still warm. That was the thing about wee dogs — they didn’t take long to reduce to ash. Poor Pudding. He patted the lid. ‘You stay here where it’s nice and safe. We’ll take you up to see your mummy tomorrow, when you’ve cooled down.’

And maybe, if the DI Steel Horror Express could be persuaded to stay back at the station, PC Mackintosh might go with him? If he asked nicely. You know, for moral support. They could even talk physics on the way there. Like they had at the crematorium, when her warm soft lips tasted of—

Lund thumped him. ‘What are you grinning about?’

‘Nothing.’

Barrett clapped his hands again. ‘Come on everyone, hop to it! No lollygagging.’ He hustled them out of the office then locked the door and pocketed the key. ‘Now, how are we getting there, foot or taxi?’

‘Taxi?’ Harmsworth pointed at the corner of the corridor. ‘It’s a ten-minute walk that way. It’s further than that to the nearest taxi rank.’

‘All right, all right,’ he held his clipboard up above his head, ‘and we’re walking.’ Leading the way down the corridor and into the stairwell. Lund skipping along behind him, Harmsworth shuffling along beside her as the theme tune to Cagney & Lacey blared from Steel’s pocket.

She stopped and dug out her phone, falling behind as she answered it.

Lund grinned at them. ‘Just so you know: I’m going to get comprehensively blootered, pick up some stud, and ride him home like a rusty stallion.’

Barrett put a hand to his chest. ‘Oh, my ears and whiskers!’

Yeah, it was definitely going to be one of those nights.

Tufty turned back to Steel.

She was standing on the landing, one foot on the top step, phone clamped to her ear. A scowl on her face. ‘What?’ Her whole body tightened. She bared her teeth. ‘No, you listen to me: I will skin you and wear you as a sodding posing pouch!... Yeah? Well we’ll see about that!’ She hung up and rammed the phone back in her pocket. Turned and marched upstairs instead of down.

OK, that didn’t look good.

He hurried after her, catching up as she reached the next landing. ‘You not coming to the pub? Only I can’t help noticing you’re going the wrong way.’

She didn’t even look at him. ‘Got to see a man about a raping piece of crap.’

Oh, not again.

She thumped through the doors and into the corridor. Marching past the little offices and meeting rooms. Right up to DI Vine’s door.

The sound of laughter came from the other side.

Tufty wheeched around in front of her. ‘Maybe this isn’t the best of ideas? You’re angry, you’ve been showered in pig poo, we’ve been to a funeral! Maybe you—’

‘I don’t need you holding my hand, Constable.’

‘Hey, I got showered twice for you, remember?’

‘Idiot.’ She shoved him aside and hammered on Vine’s door. Wrenched the handle and stormed in without waiting.

Vine was behind his desk and so were his sidekicks the Retro-Eighties-Ugly-Pugglers-Do-Miami-Vice Boys. The two of them leaning over his shoulder and laughing.

The uglier one pointed at Vine’s computer screen. ‘Play it again, play it again.’

‘Ah, DS Steel,’ Vine looked up and smiled at her, ‘love the dungarees.’ He nodded at whatever it was they’d been watching. ‘You’ll appreciate this — there’s a lovely shot of you getting splattered.’ He clicked his mouse and swivelled his monitor half-around.

A YouTube video filled the screen, the BBC News logo on a red band along the bottom with the title ‘FARMERS’ PROTEST IN ABERDEEN’. A baldy fat bloke in a wrinkly suit banging on behind a podium. ‘Scottish farmers have every right to be angry. It’s vitally important that we sort this out, but we have to be realistic!’

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...