Now We Are Dead

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?

Send.

Tufty poked her. ‘Sarge?’

Don’t give up — keep ignoring him and he’ll go away.

Ding-ding.

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:

Ding-ding.

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 crudweaselled.’

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?’

Barrett shook his head. Harmsworth grunted. Lund stuck her chin in the air: ‘Hell no!’

‘We’re going to make a sodding difference, aren’t we?’

The response was a bit more enthusiastic this time. Dark mutterings and nods from everyone.

‘We’re going to show those felchmonkeys what real police officers can do!’

‘Yeah!’

They were all on their feet now.

‘Jack Wallace isn’t getting away with it any more. We will find him in the bushes! We will find him in the nightclubs. We will find him in the streets and we will never surrender!’

Lund gave her a big-throated, ‘WHOOOO!’

Barrett burst into applause. ‘Damn right!’

Tufty punched the air. ‘Testify!’

‘Hurrah, etc.’ Harmsworth sat back down again. ‘Can we eat the buffet now?’

‘Oh all right then, you unpatriotic sod.’ Steel rubbed her hands. ‘So: who’s in charge of the kitty? Your Aunty Roberta’s got a thirst on her the night.’

Tufty stuck one finger in his ear and moved over to the other side of the lounge, by the pool table. Kept his voice all smooth and sober. No slurring or sounding drunk at all. Nope, nope, nopeitty, nope. ‘So, I was just wondering what you were doing tomorrow?’

A slow song slunk out of the jukebox and Lund was up dancing on her own. Wiggling and doing stuff with her hands that bordered on the obscene without ever actually crossing over.

‘Tomorrow?’ PC Mackintosh had a sort of doubtful sound in her voice, like she wasn’t really certain what tomorrow was, or why some weird guy had phoned to ask her about it.

‘It’s DC Quirrel, by the way. From the crematorium?’

‘Yes, I know. You’ve said that three times already.’

‘Sorry. I’m not drunk or anything, we’re just celebrating a little. Because of the tractors.’ He was blowing it. He was definitely blowing it. Abort. ABORT! ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have called. I’m... Sorry.’

‘I’m off seeing my mother tomorrow till five. After that I’m doing my laundry. You can come over and help me fold, if you like?’

Tufty’s chest went all tingly and big. ‘Cool. I would. Yes. Cool.’

‘Good. Bring wine.’ There was a small pause. ‘How are you with ironing?’

They weren’t a bad bunch of spuds, really. Her team. Her minions. Her henchmen. And one henchwoman. Roberta smiled as Barrett placed a full shot glass in front of each of them. Even Harmsworth wasn’t that bad once you got to know him. And as long as you didn’t have to spend too long with the misery-faced old bugger. And could tell him to sod off and go be depressing somewhere else.

‘OK,’ Barrett knocked on the table, ‘we go on three. Not three and go, on three. OK? OK.’ His smile was getting a bit fuzzy at the edges, his eyes too. ‘One. Two. Three!’

They all snatched up their shots and hammered them back. Thumped their glasses down on the table again.

The floral-bitter-chemical hit punched its way down through her chest, breath like a gas leak awaiting a match. ‘Hoooo!’

Lund drummed on the table with her palms. ‘More tequila!’

‘You heard the lady.’ Barrett dug a handful of change out of a Ziploc bag. ‘Come on, everyone: another twenty quid each for the kitty.’

Because let’s be honest, two hundred and fifty quid didn’t go far split between five. Even at the Flare and Futtrit’s special Police Scotland discount mates’ rates.

And the night was still young.

Tufty poked her. ‘You’re snoring.’

But it didn’t make any difference, Lund just stayed where she was: slumped back in her chair, mouth open, making raspy chainsaw-in-a-metal-dustbin noises. Mind you, she wasn’t the only one who’d had a bit much.

Look at Harmsworth — one arm wrapped around Steel’s shoulders, shoogling her from side to side. ‘No, I mean it. I love you. I do.’ Another shoogle. ‘You’re the best DS in the world.’

Steel nodded. ‘That’s... that’s very true. I’m—’ A hiccup. ‘I’m lovely.’

Tufty nudged Barrett. ‘I think Owen’s a bit squiffy.’

Barrett didn’t look up from the pair of chicken legs he was playing with — making them do the sword dance around a pair of crossed sausage rolls. ‘Hippity, hoppity, hippity hop.’

‘Did I tell you about her hair, Davey?’ Tufty nudged him again. ‘Police Constable Mackintosh’s hair is like... is like that wheat field at the start of Gladiator. Only... only not full of dead people.’

‘Hippity, hoppity.’

Tufty thumped his hand down, making the sausage-roll swords jump. ‘Sambucas! We should do... should do flaming Sambucas!’

‘Oops.’ Every time they tried to pour Lund into the taxi, she poured right back out again.

Didn’t seem to bother her though, she just kept on singing as Harmsworth and Barrett scooped her up off the car park tarmac:

The sun was slouching its way down to the rooftops, making everything all brown and yellow and orange — like an ancient photograph from the seventies.

They bundled her into the back. ‘Stay. Stay...’

She started to slump doorwards:

‘OK.’ Barrett clambered into Lund’s taxi. ‘Wait, we come too... Come on... come on, Owen.’

Harmsworth climbed in too. ‘Whee!’

Owen thumped the door closed, cutting her off.

The taxi pulled away, the three of them waving out of the back window as it drove off, leaving Tufty and Steel all alone in the car park.

Steel patted him on the shoulder, the other hand out, palm up in front of him. Wobbling on her wobbly feet. ‘No. Come on, gimme your keys.’

He squinted one eye shut. ‘But—’

‘No. Keys!’ She patted him again, harder this time. ‘Friends don’t let friends drive... drive drunked.’

That made sense.

‘Oh. OK.’ He dug the keys out of his pocket and dropped them into her palm. Lurched a little to the side and back again. Was OK, though: no one noticed. No one, no one, no one. Tufty reached out and patted her on the shoulder. Cos it was only polite. ‘Owen’s a miserable poohead.’

‘He is indeed.’

‘But!’ Tufty held up a finger. ‘But he’s right. He is. You’re a very lovely defective sergeant. You are. Yes you are.’

A solemn nod. ‘I am.’ She wobbled a bit more. ‘And you... you are a lovely defective connsable.’

‘That’s why... That’s why we’re gonna catch Jack Wallace.’

‘DAMN RIGHT!’

‘Shhhh!’ Tufty had a quick check to make sure no one was eavesdropping. ‘We gonna... gonna come up with a plan and... and nab him red-handed.’

‘Right up the arse!’

‘Right up the...’ Tufty frowned. ‘Wait, wait.’ He pointed a finger at her clenched fist. ‘I don’t has a car here! Those... Those are your keys.’

‘Oh...’ She handed them back. ‘Maybe we should taxi?’

‘And... and I will see you to... to your door, because... is gentleman.’

Steel smiled, nodded, then let loose a window-rattling belch.

The taxi parked outside a big granitey house on a tree-lined granitey street. The sort of place investment bankers and hedge-fund doodahs probably lived. Up above, the sky faded from dark purple to wishy-washy blue, streetlights glimmering between the trees.

The taxi driver looked back over his shoulder. ‘That’ll be fifteen quid.’

Steel fumbled with the door and staggered out, sticking Tufty with the bill.

Which was typical.

He dug his wallet free and handed over the cash. Doing it nice and careful so everyone would know he wasn’t drunk at all. ‘Is fifteen.’

The driver took it. Counted it. Then gave him a good hard stare. ‘Here, Min, I hope you’re no’ planning on taking advantage of that poor drunk auld wifie.’

‘Oh God, no.’ Tufty clambered out into the warm evening sun.

Steel whirled around on the pavement. ‘Am not auld wifie: am LESBIAN!’ She threw her arms out, crucifix-style, probably copying Tommy Shand. Then stood there, wobbling, in her dungarees and flouncy red chiffon top.

The taxi driver rolled his eyes. ‘Police officers are the worst drunks...’ He did a neat three-point turn and headed back towards town.

Bye, bye.

Tufty squinted up at the big granitey building. Something wasn’t right. ‘Do I live here?’

‘No... No...’ She lurched over to him, stiff-legged like a robotic chicken. ‘My house. But... but we’ve got whisky.’

He held up a finger. ‘Say it proper.’

‘We does has a whisky?’

‘Yay!’

‘Shhhhh!’ She grabbed his arm. ‘Secret. Now gimme... gimme keys.’

He dug them out and Steel took a while skittering a brass Yale one around and around the lock, before finally clicking it home.

She eased the door open and crept inside. ‘Shhhhh!’

Dark in here. No lights.

But the orangey glow filtering in from outside was enough to lift the gloom a teeny bit. It was a highfalutin hallway with a big wooden staircase on one side and lots of holiday photos all over the other. Steel and a pretty blonde woman in swimsuits and shorts and flip-flops and... Oh dear. That one was Steel in a bikini, pulling some sort of Marilyn Monroe pose — all pouty and suggestive.

Shudder.

Bad enough this afternoon, when she’d stripped off for the communal hosing down, but at least she wasn’t trying to act all sexy and you couldn’t really see any...

Oh, complete and utter shudder.

It was like catching your granny in stockings and suspenders trying to seduce the milkman.

Tufty slapped a hand over his mouth. Didn’t say that out loud, did he?

Steel lowered her keys into a bowl by the coat rack, then turned and grinned at him.

Oh thank God for that: he hadn’t.

‘And... and Tufty said, “Let there be light.”’ He reached for the switch, but she slapped his hand away.

‘No!’ Her voice rasped out in a smoky whisper: ‘Is... secret and quiet! Unnerstand? No telling Susan. Shhhh...’

Ah. He nodded. ‘Shhhh...’

‘Good.’ She patted him on the cheek. ‘You go kitchen and... and get glasses. I go kiss Jasmine and Naomi goodnight. And... maybe have a pee...?’

Peeing was good. But before he could ask where the room was for peeing in she was lurching upstairs, clutching onto the wooden handrail like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Have to pee later, Tufty. Glasses now. Pee later.

Okeydoke.

He took a deep breath and crept deeper into the house.

Kitchen? Where are you little kitchen? Come to Uncle Tufty...

Oh, there it was: at the end of the hall and left a bit. Down a couple of stairs.

And it wasn’t a little kitchen at all, it was Godzilla massive. Big shiny work surfaces gleaming in the light that filtered through the French doors and kitchen windows. A garden lurking in the twilight outside, complete with swings and a climbing frame. Ooh, that’d be fun. Hadn’t... hadn’t been on a climbing frame in ages.

No. Don’t get distracted. Find the whisky glasses.

Right.

He reached for the light switch, then snatched his hand back.

Naughty Tufty. Secret, remember?

Stealthy time. He dug into his jacket pocket and came out with his LED torch — long as a finger but much, much brighter. The narrow white beam swept the tiled floor and oak kitchen units. A breakfast bar and a table with six chairs. A dishwasher whooshing and buzzing away to itself. A great big American-style fridge freezer covered in truly terrible kids’ drawings.

Was that meant to be a pirate Tyrannounicornosaurus Rex? Where was its parrot? Eh? Where was it? Kids these days.

Wait a minute, why was he...?

Oh, right: glasses.

‘Come out little glasses, don’t hide from Uncle Tufty...’

The cistern refilling hissed out of the bathroom as Roberta eased the door shut. Adjusted her dungers. That was the great thing about dungarees — lots of room. And they didn’t creep down the whole time taking your pants with them. Should wear them all the time.

Bit of a cliché, but they were comfy.

Unless you sat down too fast.

Right: time to be all motherly and sober-ish.

She tiptoed her way down the hall to a pink door with a big sign stuck right in the middle of it: a skull and crossbones grinning away above, ‘JASMINE’S EVIL DUNGEON OF DOOM!’

It creaked a bit as she eased it open, but the figure beneath the Skeleton Bob duvet cover didn’t stir. Had to be one of the best rooms in the house, this one. No’ all chintzy and floral and stuff. A funky mix of decor and ornaments — like My Little Pony does Game of Thrones — all just visible through the gloom.

Jasmine lay on her side with a thumb in her mouth, one arm wrapped around Mr Stinky the teddy bear. All loved bald around the ears.

Roberta crept in and kissed Jasmine on the forehead. Then kissed Mr Stinky too, so he wouldn’t feel left out. Then put a finger to her lips and shushed him, just in case.

Slipped back out of the room again.

Never mind Susan’s Great Hazlehead Ladies Challenge Cup, Roberta deserved one for Mother of the Motherfunking Year. Right. One daughter down, one to go. Then it was whisky time!

She tiptoed over to the door opposite: bright orange with ‘NAOMI’S ROOM’ on it. Her fingers were inches from the handle when a floorboard creaked behind her.

Then a man’s voice. ‘Did you miss me?’

She put a finger to her lips. ‘Shhh... I told...’

Oh sodding hell.

That wasn’t Tufty.

That was Jack Wallace!

She spun around, snarling, fists ready to—

Something hard smashed into the side of her head, making the whole house rock and throb. Warm behind her eyes. Knees no’... wouldn’t...

Then the hall carpet jumped up and grabbed her.

Thump.

Darkness.

There was a thump upstairs.

Kneeling on the kitchen floor, Tufty wobbled his torch beam up at the ceiling.

And she had the cheek to tell him to be all secret and quiet? Charging about up there like a randy elephant on a pogo stick.

Well, as long as she was getting the whisky.

He lowered the torch back to the little cupboard. Glasses gleamed at him, caught in the hard white glare. ‘Whisky, whisky, whisky, whisky.’

Be careful — don’t break any. Careful as a careful fish.

Tufty eased two tumblers out, like they were nuclear fuel rods. Closed the cupboard door and stood. Crept across to the breakfast bar.

The tumblers clicked against the granite worktop.

‘Whisky, whisky, whisky...’

Uh-ho.

His Tufty sense was tingling.

There was someone behind him, wasn’t there? Someone—

‘Peekaboo.’

Something whistled through the air and he jerked left, turning.

Whatever it was it battered into his shoulder instead of his head, sending barbed wire digging into the muscle.

A shadow-shape of a man loomed in the darkness, features just a hint of nose, mouth and glasses. Tufty broke them with his fist, snapping the scumbag’s head back with a very satisfying grunt.

Shadow Scumbag grabbed at him, hauling Tufty down as he tumbled to the kitchen floor — the pair of them bashing into the tiles. Arms and legs. Elbows and knees. Rolling over and over.

Two quick jabs to the ribs had Shadows grunting again.

They thumped into a cabinet, setting the contents ringing.

Back out onto the floor.

Fire shredded across Tufty’s wrist as Shadows sunk his teeth in. ‘AAAARGH!’

They rolled back the other way and BANG, right into the fridge, knocking the door open. A thin cold light spilled out across the room.

He was big, hairy, ugly. Scarlet streaming down his face from a newly squinted nose. Teeth bared, stained pink with either his own blood or Tufty’s. Bitey sod. ‘KILL YOU!’

A thick fist whistled past Tufty’s face.

Oh no you don’t!

He grabbed Shadows by the scruff of the neck and shoved his head into the open fridge, slamming the door on it over and over and over again, making the bottles and jars inside jingle and clink. Pats of butter and yoghurt pots cascaded out to thump and spatter against the floor all around them.

One more slam and Shadows went limp.

Tufty dragged him out of the fridge and shoved him onto his front. Hauled out his cuffs and grabbed the guy’s wrist, pulling it up behind his back. ‘You are comprehensively...’

There was that tingling again.

He twisted around. Too slow.

Just enough time to make out a fat bald shape in the fridge’s ghostly glow before hard yellow lights exploded, wiping the kitchen from view. Didn’t even hurt when his head bounced off the cool smooth tiles.

Fat fingers reached for him, and the world slowly disappeared...

Mnnnghfff... DUNK. Everything snapped up, then down again. DUNK. Up, then down. DUNK. Up, then down.

The alarm-clock was ringing, time to get up.

DUNK.

Or was it sirens?

DUNK.

Wait, that was... What was she doing on the stairs?

Roberta opened her mouth, but all that came out was, ‘Unnnngggghhhh...’

DUNK.

And why was her leg...? Someone was pulling her down the stairs by the leg.

What?

A blurry figure oozed into focus. Jack Wallace. He smiled at her. ‘Oh, we’re going to have so much fun!’

DUNK.

DUNK.

DUNK.

And it all went black again.

III

Sleepy sleep. Warm cosy sleepy—

‘AAAARGH!’ Tufty jerked upright. Or almost.

His head moved, but the rest of him stayed exactly where it was: tied to a chair with his hands held tight behind his back. And from the feel of it, those were handcuffs. How did...?

Oh. Right, Shadows had a bald fat friend.

He blinked. Shook his head. But that only made things swoop and swing around from left to right and back again. The floor pitched and heaved. The ceiling rocked. The walls lurched.

Tufty screwed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth till the ferry-in-a-force-nine-gale subsided. Peeled one eye open again.

Oh crap.

It was a fancy-looking living room, with a collection of standard lamps, a pair of brown buttony leather sofas with matching armchairs, a fireplace with flowers in it, golfing trophies on the mantelpiece above. Happy family photos. An upright piano. A set of rusty old golf clubs in an elephant’s-condom leather-and-fabric bag. A huge Middle-Eastern rug surrounded by polished wooden floorboards. Like he’d woken up in a photo shoot for a boutique hotel.

They probably weren’t going to get five stars, though. Not with what was going on in the middle of the room. Three wooden dining chairs were arranged in a triangle. The blonde woman from the photographs — that would be Steel’s wife, Susan — was gagged and tied to the one on the right, glaring out. Nostrils flaring. Steel was tied to the one on the left, hanging limp against her ropes. And lucky-old-Tufty was the pointy end furthest from the fireplace.

Jack Wallace was leaning back against it, sipping from a tumbler of deep amber liquid. The glass looked weird in his black leather gloves, but the smoky scent of whisky oiled its way through the air anyway.

Baldy McFatface was on one of the sofas, nursing a dram of his own.

A third man, vaguely familiar — maybe one of the guys from the security footage of Wallace going to the pictures? — poured a good stiff measure into another tumbler and passed it to a ruinous wreck in a bloodstained shirt.

Bright red leaked from the wreck’s nose, ears, and mouth, dripping onto the tea towel he held in his other hand. That would be Tufty’s old friend Shadows then. Which explained the fridge-door-shaped dents in his ugly-shaped head.

Tufty nodded at him. ‘You want to put something cold on that. Like the fridge freezer.’

Shadows knocked back a mouthful of Steel’s whisky, winced, then glowered at him through puffy squinted eyes. Oh, right: no glasses — those got all broken in the kitchen.

Diddums.

Wallace snapped his fingers. ‘Richard: gag him.’

The vaguely familiar one put his tumbler on the piano and marched over, grabbed a handful of Tufty’s hair and yanked his head back.

Needles and pins dug their way through his scalp. Then a chunk of fabric was jammed into his mouth. Held in place with another bit — tied around the back.

Now everything tasted of fusty towels.

‘OK, I think it’s about time we got this party started!’ Wallace gulped down his drink and stuck the empty on the fireplace. Flexed his gloved hand as he marched across the rug and slapped Steel, hard.

Nothing.

Still unconscious.

‘Shall we try that again?’ Harder this time — the whole chair rocked with the force of it.

She surfaced, coughing and spluttering. ‘Gnnn...’ Scarlet dripped from the side of her lips.

‘Welcome back, sleepyhead! Did you have a nice snooze?’

She shook her head. Blinked. Then snarled — yanking herself back and forward against the ropes holding her to the chair. Going nowhere. ‘GRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAA!’

Wallace grabbed a handful of her chiffon top. ‘You really thought you could get away with it, didn’t you? What you did to me.’ A laugh. ‘Told you one day I’d tear your little world to pieces. Well, today’s the day!’

Steel’s voice was sharp as a prison chib. ‘Get out of my sodding house!’

‘All those months, locked up with dirty paedophiles and rapists.’ He gave his mates a little salute. ‘No offence, guys.’

‘If you’ve hurt Susan...’ Steel’s eyes bugged and she struggled against the ropes again. Still nothing doing.

What they needed was a plan. Something clever. Something that ended with everyone currently tied up changing places with everyone currently not tied up. And Jack Wallace kicked in the balls three or four times.

Think.

Had to be something...

Ah ha! A plan!

Breaking the chair would do it! Break the chair and the ropes wouldn’t be tying him to anything. They’d slither right off. Wriggle his arms down over his bum and get his hands back round the front again. Leap free and... do something heroic.

Like punch Wallace in the throat. Then kick Baldy McFatface in the knee. Open-palm thrust to Vaguely-Familiar Richard’s nose — shattering it — and they were done. Shadows was too busy scowling and bleeding to put up much of a fight.

Free Steel and Susan.

Oh, Tufty you’re our hero.

Medals. A parade. And a promotion.

Yeah, definitely a plan.

Come on, Tufty: they’re all depending on you!

He took a deep breath, shrank into himself, then bounced back. Hard and fast. LIKE — A — NINJA!

The ropes creaked. The chair creaked.

Come on, damn it: break!

...

But it didn’t.

All that happened was his bitten wrist ached a bit harder.

Vaguely-Familiar Richard cuffed him over the back of the head. ‘Sit still, you wee fanny.’ He pulled out a Stanley knife and slid the blade out. Turning it under Tufty’s nose, so the edge caught the light. Gleaming and shiny. ‘Want me to start cutting bits off you? Cos I will.’

Ah... Right.

Wallace picked a book out of a leather holdall and turned back to Steel. ‘One thing you can say for prison: gives you lots of time to read.’

She stared at him. ‘If you let Susan go, we can talk about this.’

‘They had this in the prison library.’ He held it out to her for a couple of beats, then read from the cover. ‘“Take it a Mile”, subtitled, “How a Detective Inspector went from chasing serial killers to making blockbuster movies.” “A fascinating and heart-rending book...” says the Scotsman. “I can’t recommend this book highly enough.” Daily Mail. “Completely and utterly magnificent.” William Hunter.’

Steel cleared her throat. Put on that faux-reasonable voice she sometimes used to get around DCI Rutherford. ‘I mean it, Jack. Let Susan go.’

‘He was a colleague of yours, wasn’t he, this DI Insch guy? Ooh, you should see the things he says about you in here. Tsk, tsk.’

‘Susan had nothing to do with it. This is just between us.’

‘Oh! Nearly forgot: I’ve marked my favourite bit.’ A wink. ‘You’ll like this.’ He opened the book. ‘“Then Ken Wiseman said the most horrible thing I’d ever heard in my life. He was going to take my little girl, my Sophie, and sell her to paedophiles. That they would train her. That they would do whatever they liked.” Oooh...’ He shut the book. ‘That’s harsh, isn’t it?’

Baldy McFatface shuffled his feet. ‘Can we move this along, Jacky? Only I’m getting a bit... you know. Keen.’

Wallace didn’t even look at him. ‘Keep it in your pants for two minutes. We’ve plenty of time.’ He squatted down in front of Steel, looking up into her face. One hand on her knee. ‘See, thanks to you, they locked me up with all those sex offenders. And the funny thing is: paedophiles? On the whole, they’re pretty nice guys. Well, other than the shagging little kids thing. And here’s you with two beautiful baby girls.’ He let go of Steel’s knee, running his gloved finger up the inner thigh of her dungarees instead. ‘How much do you think I’ll get for them?’

Susan roared behind her gag, thumping against her ropes and chair, making it rock. The chair legs bounced and skittered off the rug and onto the floorboards.

Richard marched over and backhanded her hard enough to send the whole chair tipping over backwards. It crashed to the ground.

Susan grunted. Something splintered.

He rubbed at his knuckles. ‘And bloody stay down, you manky dyke bitch! You’ll get your turn.’

Wallace took hold of Steel’s face, turning it away from Susan and back to himself. ‘All that time you wasted chasing me. But it was never just me, was it? Nah, it’s a team sport. One of us on the pitch, the other three on the bench, being their alibi.’ He pointed at Mr Bloodstains. ‘Terry’s the one did that teacher while her kid watched. Lovely work, Terry.’

Terry scowled at Tufty, voice all wet and slurred. ‘That bastard cop knocked out half my teeth...’

Good.

‘So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to have some fun. Then you and your little friends are going swimming. With breeze-blocks chained to your ankles.’

Baldy McFatface grinned. ‘Terry’s got a fishing boat. And I’ve got this.’ He clutched a hand to his crotch and squeezed the contents. ‘Oooh, yeah.’ Rubbing himself through his trousers. ‘I know you lezzers are just gagging for a real man. Nice bit of cock to get you on the straight again.’

Wallace stood. ‘See? Told you we were going to have fun. Eric is on sloppy seconds, Richard’s on tacky thirds, and Terry’s on filthy fourths. Which means I get first dibs.’ He unzipped his trousers and pulled out his erection. Waved it in Steel’s face.

Eric — Baldy McFatface — whooped. Clapping his hands as Wallace got closer. ‘Go on, suck it you wrinkly old bitch. You know you want to. Suck it!’

Steel flinched her head away.

‘Hoy!’ Eric pulled out a six-inch hunting knife, serrated along one edge, gleaming sharp on the other. ‘Suck it or I’ll carve your frumpy lesbian bitch wife like a Sunday roast!’

Wallace gave his hips a twist, setting things swaying. ‘He’s not joking either. The mess Eric can make of a woman, it’s quite something. Your dignity’s not worth that, is it? Your pretty lesbo wife all slashed up?’

Tufty had another go. Shrink. And snap, LIKE — A — NINJA!

Straining.

Teeth gritted.

The muscles burning up and down his back...

Nope.

He collapsed again with nothing more than a creak to show for it.

Steel hung her head. Sniffed. Shuddered out a long breath. Then nodded and opened her mouth.

Wallace grinned. ‘There we go! I knew you were gagging for it.’ He took his cock in one hand, the other grabbing the back of her neck so she couldn’t retreat. ‘Now: here comes the aeroplane...’

Steel’s head flashed forward teeth snapping shut with an audible clack. Tearing from side to side.

Wallace staggered back a couple of paces, staring at her blood-drenched chin, then down at himself as more blood pulsed out. A high, sharp, whistling noise scraped its way out of his mouth, then the screaming started. He hit the rug like a sack of tatties, rolling around between the two sofas, clutching his groin, bright red pulsing out between his clenched fingers. ‘AAAAAAAAAAARGH! GOD, GOD, GOD, GOD!’

Steel spat the severed chunk out onto the rug at her feet. ‘Was it good for you, darling? Thought you liked it rough!’

Richard slid out the blade on his Stanley knife again and lunged for her.

Oh no you don’t!

Tufty snapped his foot forward, kicking it hard into the side of Richard’s knee. Making something inside go pop!

He crashed to the floor, just short of Steel, shrieking, clutching his freshly deformed leg. The Stanley knife skittering away under the piano.

Steel jerked her left boot up and stamped the heel down on his face. Once. Twice. Three times. Bones snapping and crackling under every blow.

Two down, two to go.

Wallace rolled and screamed. Legs kicking out as he curled up even tighter. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAARGH! JESUS, GOD, CHRIST, AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ Painting the rug scarlet with his blood.

‘You’re dead, bitch!’ Eric shifted his grip on the hunting knife, making little figure of eights with the tip, snarling his way towards Steel. ‘Dead!’

Tufty raised his own foot, slamming it down and back into the leg of the chair he was tied to — the crack of battered wood muffled by Wallace’s screams. Again. The leg snapped and the chair collapsed sideways onto the rug, the whole frame creaking as it hit. He thumped forward and back against the ropes.

Ha: it was working! They were getting looser. Just take a second more and he’d be—

Oh crap.

Terry loomed above him, ruined teeth bared: bloody stumps and ragged gums. He took a little run up and slammed a kick into Tufty’s stomach. Flipping him and the chair over onto their backs.

A thousand burning spiders scuttled through his guts, burrowing, scorching. He wheezed in a broken-glass breath, fanning the flames.

Then Terry was squatting over him, knees on his chest, hands around his throat. Squeezing. ‘Think it’s funny slamming people’s heads in fridges, do you? Think it’s funny?’

Susan reared up behind him, holding one of those rusty old golf clubs. Blood ran down from the corner of her mouth, dripped off the end of her chin. ‘I am not frumpy!’ She smashed the club down on Terry’s head with a resounding thungggggg!

His eyes went crossed, then dim, then he pitched forward onto Tufty.

‘Mmmmnph!’ God, he weighed a ton! Tufty hauled a breath in through the gag. Struggled and wiggled... But the fat sod just lay there, pinning him to the carpet. ‘Mnnghfff mnngg mmn!’

But Susan didn’t. Instead she tore her own gag off and turned — squaring up to Eric and his six-inch hunting knife.

She took the club in both hands, feet planted shoulder-width apart, the club’s head resting against the rug. ‘HEY, NUMB NUTS!’

Steel’s eyes went wide. ‘SUSAN, NO! RUN!’

‘Think your wee golf stick’s going to save you and your friends? Nah.’ Eric grinned. Knife shining. Blade snaking back and forth through the air. ‘I’m going to slash your guts open, then I’m going to—’

‘FORE!’ Susan swung back and then forward, fast, twisting her hips into it, the golf club’s head whistling in a low flat arc and up, right between Eric’s legs — THUD — so hard it lifted him up onto his tiptoes.

Oooooooh...

That had to hurt!

Eric’s eyes bugged. Then he dropped the knife and toppled forward, squealing like a pig in a cement mixer. Tears streaming down his face. Mouth moving, but no words coming out.

Susan tossed her golf club on the couch and kicked him. ‘Great Hazlehead Ladies Challenge Cup winner three years in a row, motherfunker!’

Blue-and-white lights strobed out, turning everything into a flickering mess of silhouettes and reflections. Three patrol cars and four ambulances were parked outside Steel’s house, blocking the road, and every single window in the street was ablaze — a knot of people in expensive-looking casual clothes standing on the pavement to watch the show.

Logan pulled into the nearest parking space, two doors down. Stared through the windscreen.

Two stretcher trolleys were being wheeled out of the house, their occupants strapped-down motionless lumps wearing oxygen masks. Paramedics bustled them down the garden path, and into the back of the waiting ambulances.

OK, that wasn’t a good sign.

He clambered out of the Audi and plipped the locks. Hurried up the pavement as the lead ambulance pulled away. Closely followed by the second one. Sirens wailing in the darkness.

‘Excuse me...’ Logan squeezed his way through the clump of people, then flashed his warrant card at the uniformed officer keeping them there. ‘Are they still inside?’

‘Inspector McRae?’ The PC snapped to attention. ‘DI Vine’s SIO, the IB are processing the scene, DC Goodwin’s CSM, and DCI Rutherford’s ETA is twenty-two hundred hours. He’s at some sort of black-tie dinner. Sir.’

‘OK.’ Not really what he’d meant, but never mind.

Logan marched over to the front gate. Shrank back as another stretcher trolley was wheeled out onto the pavement. A fat bald man with tears streaming down his face and a patch of red seeping out through the fly of his trousers. Making high-pitched squealing sobs as he got shoved into the back of Ambulance Number Three. Another wail of sirens.

The blinds were down in Steel’s living room, but the indoor lightning strikes of flash photography lit up the room.

He hurried up the path, then had to step back into the gravel border as a fourth trolley was hefted out through the front door. Didn’t need a Police National Computer check to know who that was.

Jack Wallace groaned behind his oxygen mask, skin pale as paper. he’d been handcuffed, trousers pulled down around his knees, a big wodge of blood-soaked gauze taped over his crotch.

The paramedic at the front shuddered. ‘Oooh, makes you wince just to think, doesn’t it?’

His colleague took up the rear, pushing. ‘Shame we couldn’t find the missing bit...’

Down the path, into the last ambulance, and away.

OK, that was... weird.

Logan crossed the threshold into Steel’s house and there was DC Goodwin, with his floppy hair and squint nose. ‘What do you think you’re doing, this is a crime... Oh.’ He tucked his clipboard under his arm and saluted. ‘Inspector McRae. Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Dougie. Is Steel still here?’

‘Yes, Inspector. They’re in the kitchen.’ He pointed down the hall, as if Logan had never been here before. ‘DI Vine’s with them.’

Logan stayed where he was, staring down at Goodwin. ‘And?’

‘Er... DC Quirrel and Steel’s wife’s there too?’

‘No: you’re Crime Scene Manager. You have to make me sign in, remember?’

‘Oh, yes! Right. Signing in.’ He held out the clipboard and a pen. ‘Sorry, Inspector. I just... Sorry.’

Logan filled in his details, then Goodwin flattened himself against the coat rack to let him past.

The flashgun flares clacked out of the open lounge door, reflecting back from the shiny wooden balusters and framed photos. He peered into the room.

Four Identification Bureau techs in the full scene of crime getup were measuring, tagging, and photographing things. Whatever had happened in there it’d been brutal: two smashed chairs, coils of blue nylon rope, blood all over the Persian rug. A six-inch hunting knife sticking out of the floorboards.

Yeah, that didn’t look good.

Well, couldn’t put it off any longer.

Logan straightened his shoulders and marched down the hall. Took a deep breath and pushed through into the kitchen.

Susan was on her hands and knees in front of the fridge, wiping up what looked like a massive bird-strike of yoghurt. Tufty sat on a stool at the breakfast bar, a bag of frozen peas clutched to his head, a massive shiner on his face, a ring of red around his throat, and a ring of bandages around one wrist.

DI Vine stood off to one side, doing his best Stern-Faced Police Officer impersonation. ‘I can’t believe you bit it clean off...’

‘Urgh.’ Steel swigged from a bottle of Smirnoff, gargled, swooshed it around her mouth, then spat it into the sink. ‘Don’t remind me.’ Then tipped back another glug. Glanced at Logan. Spat. ‘You took your time.’

‘Control said Jack Wallace attacked everyone. What happened, are you all OK?’

‘Logan!’ Susan stood. Her lips were swollen, cracked in one corner, the beginnings of a bruise darkening her cheek. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and hugged him. Warm and soft and smelling faintly of peaches.

‘Jasmine and Naomi?’

‘Oh, they’re fine. Slept right through the whole thing.’ One last squeeze and she let him go. Stepped back. ‘Now, how about a nice cup of tea?’

Vine nodded at him. Formal. Wary. ‘Inspector McRae.’

‘John.’

‘Well, I think we’re about done here.’ He turned to Steel. ‘Come down the station tomorrow and we’ll finalise your statements. Then I think you and Constable Quirrel deserve a couple of days off.’ Vine held up a hand. ‘No, don’t thank me. It’s only fair.’ Then turned and stalked from the room.

Steel spat out another mouthful of vodka. Wiped her chin with a hand. ‘Blah, blah, blah. Thought he’d never leave.’

‘Ooh, ooh, ooh!’ Tufty bounced up and down on his stool, peas still clasped to his head. ‘You should’ve seen us, it was great! Jack Wallace tried to stick his willy in the Sarge’s face and she’s like, “No way!” And he’s like, “Here comes the aeroplane!”—’

‘That blow to the head didn’t knock any sense into you then?’

Steel sniffed. ‘I said that.’

‘—and she’s like, “BITE!” And then there’s screaming and Richard’s going to slash her with a Stanley knife and—’

‘Tufty,’ Steel put the cap back on the Smirnoff, ‘give it a rest, eh?’

He stuck out his free hand, miming stabbing someone. ‘—but I tripped him up, and Eric’s got this massive pointy knife, and Terry’s trying to strangle me cos I banged his head in the fridge—’

Steel threw a scrubby sponge at him. Missed. ‘Tufty!’

‘—but Susan wriggles free and she’s got this set of antique golf clubs—’

‘CONSTABLE QUIRREL!’

‘And POW! Then—’ The second sponge found its mark, bouncing off his chest — leaving a rectangular damp patch on his shirt. ‘Hey!’

She dried her hands. ‘Give it a rest, OK? Just lived through it: don’t need a blow-by-blow replay.’

‘Oh...’ His shoulders dipped a little, then he took a deep breath and rattled it out as quick as possible: ‘Then she shouts, “Fore!” And WHANG! Right up the fairway. Gave him a hole in one. Popped it open like a squished grape.’ Tufty sat back, smiling. Clearly pleased with himself for making it all the way through to the end. Then frowned. ‘I’m feeling a bit dizzy. Is anyone else a bit dizzy?’

The garden stretched away back into the darkness, the short grass scattered with kids’ toys. Bright plastic landmines waiting for the unwary foot. The lonicera was in bloom, filling the air with the sticky scent of warm honey.

Steel had parked herself at the picnic bench by the Wendy house, puffing away on her e-cigarette, making her own strawberry-scented fog bank.

Logan lowered a hot mug in front of her, then settled onto the bench-seat opposite. ‘Horlicks.’

‘Hmph.’ She leaned forward and sniffed at it. ‘Could at least have put some whisky in there.’

He stared up at the trees. ‘Are you OK?’

‘OK?’ A small laugh, then a slurp of Horlicks. ‘Someone threatened to rape my wife, sell my kids to paedophiles, and stuck their dick in my mouth. What do you think?’

‘On the plus side, he’s never going to do that again. Jack Wallace’s raping days are over. If he ever gets out of prison, the tattered stump you left him with isn’t going to trouble anyone.’ Logan snuck a glance. She had a very nasty smile on her face. ‘You know they probably could’ve sewn it back on again, right?’

‘I’m never going to moan about Susan spending all her time on the golf course again.’

‘If they’d found the bit you bit off.’

‘You should’ve seen her, Laz: she was magnificent. An Amazon with a six iron. Wonder Susan!’

A huge furry cat sauntered out of the darkness, big grey tail like a plume of smoke behind him. He wound his way around Logan’s legs, then did the same with Steel. Purring. Hopped up onto the picnic table on large white paws.

Steel rubbed at his ears. ‘You hungry, Mr Rumpole? Are you?’

‘There’s going to be an internal investigation — don’t really have a choice after all the carnage here tonight — but it’s nothing to worry about. Promise.’

‘Who’s my hungry little boy?’ She stood and picked Mr Rumpole up with a grunt. ‘Pfff... Ooh, you’re a fat wee sod.’ He hung in her arms: a bag of fur, smoky tail twitching as she carried him through the French doors and into the kitchen. Plonked him down on the breakfast bar.

Logan picked both mugs up again and followed Steel inside. Cleared his throat as she dug a sachet of cat food out of a cupboard and ripped it open. ‘Roberta, I—’

‘Don’t. OK?’ She didn’t look at him, just squatted down and squeezed the food into Mr Rumpole’s bowl. ‘I know.’

‘But—’

‘You didn’t clype on me because you’re a traitorous bastard. You clyped on me because I was wrong. I should never have framed Jack Wallace, no matter how much of a rapey scumbag he is. I screwed up. If I’d played by the rules he wouldn’t have come here. I put Susan, Jasmine and Naomi in danger.’ She stamped on the bin’s pedal and dropped the empty sachet in. ‘You were right and I was wrong.’

Roberta Steel admitting she was wrong?

Dear Lord, that was a first.

He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m really, really sorry it worked out the way it did.’

‘Me too.’ She sighed, then turned to face him. Opened her arms wide, voice catching a little on the words ‘Come on then, you big girl.’

He hugged her and she squeezed back so hard it made his ribs creak.

Steel sniffed. Let go of him and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. ‘Gah...’

Logan smiled. ‘A hug and tears? You’re just a big softy, aren’t you?’

‘If you ever tell anyone I just did that, I’ll castrate you too.’ She reached into her pocket and dropped a little shrivelled bloody chunk of flesh on top of the cat food. Picked Mr Rumpole off the breakfast bar and set him down in front of his bowl. ‘Dinner time.’

He wolfed the lot down as they watched in silence.

When it was all gone, Steel clapped her hands. ‘Right. Now, how about we break out that whisky?’

IV

‘COME BACK HERE!’ Roberta shoved through a clot of halfwits in hoodies and puffy trainers.

‘Hoy, watch it, Grandma!’

‘“Grandma”, nice one, Baz.’

Morons.

Union Street was almost solid with shoppers — old, young, men, women, rich, poor, and all of them IN THE SODDING WAY!

That red hoodie was getting further away, barging past families and oldies while she was mired neck-deep in a swamp of idiots.

Billy Moon glanced back over his shoulder and hooted at her, stuck his tongue out, then wheeched around the corner onto Market Street.

Cheeky wee sod.

She gritted her teeth and ran after him.

Tufty helped the old guy to his feet. Grey hair and damp eyes — the iris ringed in pale grey. Marks & Spencer ready meals littered the pavement all around them, a bottle of red smashed to curls of green glass. ‘Are you OK?’

‘He got my wallet and my phone!’ The man waved a shaky fist across the road, where Steel and Billy Moon’s red hoodie and black backpack were rapidly disappearing downhill. ‘You wee shite! I’ll tan your arse for you!’

‘Stay here.’

And Tufty was off, sprinting across the road, ducking and dodging the traffic to the other side. Steel and Billy Moon were legging it down Market Street, but Tufty had a clever. Instead of following them he turned the other way, running up Union Street towards the Trinity Centre.

It was time for a cunning plan.

Billy Moon jinked right, clattering down the stairs and into the Aberdeen Market shopping centre — a grey slab of a building with about as much charm as a litter tray.

He burst through the doors, trainers squeaking on the floor.

Roberta grabbed the stainless-steel handrail and swept around and down, after him. Through the doors and into a labyrinth of wee booth-type shops.

She hauled out her phone and thumbed the screen as she ran.

‘Control Room.’

‘Where’s my sodding backup?’

Past places that unlocked mobile phones or flogged novelty balloons or sold underwear in six-packs.

‘I’ve told you already: we don’t do backup for shoplifters!’

Useless Spungbadgers.

She stuck her phone away again, whooshing past a homemade-jewellery shop, one selling ancient electrical equipment, tattoos while you wait, a greengrocer...

Billy was just visible up ahead: laughing, shoving through people, leaving a wake of fallen pensioners and their spilled shopping.

Arrrgh...

Roberta leaped over an auld wifie sprawled amongst a dozen packs of lacy pants as a clutch of ‘HAPPY HEN NIGHT!’ balloons — at least half of which were shaped like willies — bobbed against the ceiling tiles.

And past. Around the corner.

A two-storey atrium dropped away below her, a set of stairs descending to the floor below. Billy Moon was already halfway down them.

Tufty grabbed the edge of the Thorntons shop and swung himself around the corner and onto the Back Wynd Stairs, hammering down them two at a time towards the Green below. Arms out for balance, mouth wide. ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’

Holy mother of Fish that was steep!

The granite steps were worn in the middle, acned with chewing gum, streaked with snotter-green moss and algae, but they were still hard and sharp enough to split a skull like a dropped Pot Noodle.

Across a small landing and down the other side.

‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’

Billy Moon did a weird show-off twirling-jump thing over the edge of the stairwell, dropping onto the edge of a big wooden planter and back-flipping. Trainers squealing on the floor as he slid to a halt, both arms up, hands curled into fists, middle fingers out. Grinning.

Cheeky wee shite.

Roberta lumbered down the stairs.

He was backing away slowly. Actually, no he wasn’t: the arrogant sod was moonwalking away. Letting her catch up a bit.

Well, when she caught up she was going to introduce the pointy bit of Mrs Shoe to the dark and stinky bit of Mr Bumhole!

He made a loudhailer out of his hands. ‘Come on, Granny, you can do it!’

What the hell was it with people shouting ‘Granny’ at her? She was no’ a sodding granny. Nowhere near old enough for a start! As Billy Cheeky Spungbadger Moon was about to find out!

Roberta put on an extra spurt of speed, thundered down the last flight of stairs and out onto the atrium floor.

‘Woooo!’ He turned and barged out through the doors.

She clattered across the atrium and out onto the Green.

A Mondeo estate slammed on its brakes, screeching to a halt on the cobblestones as Billy Moon danced past its bonnet, sticking two fingers up at the driver. Laughing. The Mondeo’s horn blared.

And he was out of there, arms and legs pumping.

Roberta puffed and panted, sweat dribbling down between her breasts and buttocks. A tiny jagged knife jabbing away inside her ribs with every step.

She wasn’t too old for this. She was just... too important.

Chasing cheeky wee scroats was a job for detective constables, no’ detective sergeants.

And where the hell was Tufty when you needed him?

This was his sodding job!

Argh...

Roberta lumbered after Billy Moon, but she was getting slower and he was getting away — looking back over his shoulder as he ran. Laughing. Hooting.

Young, fast, and never, ever going to—

Tufty appeared from behind the eating area in the middle of the Green, one arm out, and THUMP — Billy stopped dead, clotheslined.

His legs shot out in front of him, arse a good four feet off the cobbles, hanging there as if gravity didn’t exist. Then it grabbed hold again and he clattered down, flat on his backpack. Lay there groaning.

She staggered over, bent double, grabbed hold of her knees, and hacked up a lung. ‘Aaaaaargh... Stitch...’

Tufty jumped up and down, like a thin ugly version of Rocky at the top of the Art Museum steps. ‘I has a win!’

‘Idiot... Ahhh... Spungbadgering hell...’ More coughing. ‘Argh...’

He hauled Billy to his feet. ‘William Moon, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the...’ Tufty trailed off as Billy’s bottom lip trembled, then the tears started. Snot making two shiny trails down his top lip.

‘For goodness’ sake.’ Roberta straightened up. ‘Don’t be such a wimp.’

All that brash ‘Aren’t I young, and untouchable?’ bravado had evaporated, leaving a teeny wee boy behind. What was he, ten years old? Maybe eleven at a push?

No’ the big-time criminal he thought he was.

The crying got louder, damper, and snotterier.

Tufty shuffled his feet. ‘Maybe just this once...?’

A ten-year-old boy, bawling his wee heart out on Aberdeen’s cobbles.

Ah, what the hell...

She sighed. ‘Go on then.’

He went through Billy’s pockets, digging out mobile phones and wallets and watches and stuffing them into the backpack. Slipped the backpack’s straps off and hefted it over his own shoulder. ‘I’m confiscating the lot.’

Billy blinked at him and sniffed. Wiped his shiny nose on his sleeve. ‘I’m sorry, Mister.’

‘And stop nicking stuff off people! You want to end up like your mate, Charlie Roberts?’

He shook his head and sobbed some more.

Tufty pointed. ‘Go on then, off you jolly well sod.’

Billy just stared at him. Sniffed again. Glanced over his shoulder, where Tufty was pointing, then legged it — away at full speed, the soles of his trainers flapping, arms swinging. Sprinting into the tunnel beneath the St Nicholas Centre, just like last time.

His voice echoed out from the gloom as he vanished. ‘CATCH YOU LATER, MASTURBATORS!’

And he was gone.

Roberta stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘Why do I get the feeling we’ve just been foolish and deluded?’

A shrug. ‘Probably. Maybe we should—’ The theme tune to The Sweeney belted out from his pocket and he produced his phone. Shrugged at her. ‘What, you’ve got a monopoly on old TV show ringtones?’ Hit the button. ‘Kate?’ A grin. ‘Yeah...’

Ah to be young, stupid, gangly and in love.

He wandered off a couple of paces. ‘Is she? That’s great. Yeah... No... I know...’

Probably organising a threesome.

Roberta dug out her own phone, scrolling through her text messages. Logan’s one was still sitting there.

She smiled and thumbed out a reply.

Send.

When she looked up, Tufty was standing there beaming at her. ‘That was Kate. She says Mrs Galloway’s getting out of hospital today. We’re going round to make sure she’s settled into the sheltered housing place OK. Want to come?’

‘Why no’?’

They wandered back towards the Aberdeen Market.

Roberta kicked an empty plastic bottle, sending it skittering across the cobbles. ‘And is Agnes keeping the car, or selling it?’

‘Selling. Even second hand it’s worth about thirty grand.’ He shifted his grip on the backpack. ‘Sarge, about the car?’

Her stomach made a wee rumbling grumbling noise. ‘Ooh. Think I need a little smackerel of something.’

‘Yeah, but the car, the cash, the watch. Big Jimmy Grieve...’ A grimace. ‘Do we owe him favours now? Only I don’t want to owe gangsters favours.’

‘Silly Tufty, Mr Grieve isn’t a gangster, he’s a retired cop. First DI I ever worked for. God, now there’s a man who can drink. I could tell you stories that’d make your pubes go straight.’

‘Oh thank God for that.’ Tufty sagged a bit. ‘Thought it was going to turn into one of those Godfather deals.’ He flinched as her stomach growled again. ‘Back to the station for tea and biscuits?’

‘That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all day.’

‘After all, must be nearly time for tenses,’ he checked his watch, ‘we can...’ His eyes widened as he stared at the pale hairy stripe on his wrist. Then pulled up his other sleeve and stared at the wrist on that side. Then back to the first wrist. ‘That rancid little spungbadger’s nicked my watch!’ He charged off towards the tunnel under the St Nicholas Centre. ‘COME BACK HERE YOU THIEVING WEE JOBBIE!’

See? That was what you got for being nice to people.

Roberta shook her head. ‘Foolish and deluded.’ Then lumbered after him.

After all, he might be a useless wee spud, but he was her useless wee spud.

And some days, that was what counted.