Now We Are Dead

I

Tufty lunged, arm outstretched, fingertips just brushing the backpack... then closing on thin air. Too slow.

The wee scroat laughed, shoved his way through a couple of pensioners examining the pay-as-you-go phones, and exploded out through the doors. His mate hurdled the fallen oldies, hooting and cheering. Hit the pavement and ran right, twisting as he went to stick both middle fingers up through the Vodafone shop window.

Tufty sprinted after them. Burst through the doors and out onto Union Street.

Four-storey buildings in light granite lined the four-lane road, their bottom floors a solid ribbon of shops. Buses grumbled by, white vans, taxis, cars.

The foot traffic wasn’t nearly thick enough for the pair of them to disappear into a crowd. They didn’t even try. Running, laughing, hoodies flapping out behind them. A couple of mobile phones clattered to the paving slabs, screens shattering amongst the chewing-gum acne.

Look at them: neither one a day over thirteen, acting like this was the most fun they’d ever had in their lives. Expensive trainers, ripped jeans, one bright-blue hoodie — violent orange hair — one bright-red — dark with frosted tips — both with stupid trendy haircuts. Earrings and piercings sparkling in the morning sunlight.

Tufty picked up the pace. ‘Hoy! You!’

The clacker-clack of Cuban heels hammered the pavement behind him.

He glanced back and there she was: Detective Sergeant Steel, actually giving chase for once. Didn’t think she had it in her. Her dark-grey suit was open, yellow silk shirt shimmering, grey hair sticking out in all directions like a demented ferret. Face set in a grimace. Probably hadn’t done any serious running since she was a kid — trying not to get eaten by dinosaurs.

A man wiped coffee off his jacket. ‘You rotten wee shites! I was drinking that!’

An old woman grabbed at her split bag-for-life, its contents rolling free. Off the kerb and into the road. ‘Come back here and pick this up, or I’ll tan your backsides!’

Up ahead, the one in the blue hoodie barrelled through a knot of people stopped in the middle of the pavement chatting, sending one bouncing off a solicitor’s shop window with a resounding ‘boinnnngggggg’, the others clattering down with their shopping. Another couple of mobile phones, still in their boxes, joined them, spilling out of the open backpack.

Hoodie Red sprinted past the e-cigarette shop where the granite buildings came to an abrupt end. A pause in the street, marked by a short row of black iron railings, a small gap, then a sort of fake two-storey-high neo-classical frontage thing, with a graveyard lurking behind its Corinthian pillars.

A grin and Red jinked right, into the gap and down the stairs.

Tufty gritted his teeth. Come on: faster.

He scrabbled to a halt in front of the railings.

Red was still there, dancing from foot to foot on the stairs, unable to get any further than a quarter of the way down due to the bunch of mothers wrestling pushchairs up.

The stairs descended about fifteen/sixteen feet to a narrow cobbled road that disappeared under Union Street.

Ha! Got you.

Red pulled a face, gave Tufty the finger again, then jumped. Clearing the handrail. Dropping six foot onto the top of a Transit van, parked below. A boom of battered metal. Then he rolled off, landed square on his feet and took off into the tunnel. Still laughing.

The driver leaned out of his window, shaking his fist. ‘Hoy!’

Blue clearly didn’t fancy his chances. Instead he went left, sprinting across the bus lane, hooting away as car horns blared — a taxi and a truck slammed on their brakes, inches away from turning him into five stone of hoodie-wearing pâté.

Blue or Red? Blue or Red?

Steel’s voice cut through the horns. ‘Shift it! Police! Coming through!’

A quick look — she shoved her way through a couple of gawkers and some well-meaning souls helping pick up the old lady’s shopping.

Blue or Red?

The stairs were still jammed with mothers and pushchairs.

Red.

Deep breath. ‘Oh God...’

Tufty stuck one hand on the rail and swung his legs up and over into thin air.

It whistled past him, then, boom onto the Transit’s roof, just as it pulled away. He had time for a tiny scream as the world flipped end-over-end, then the cobbles broke his fall with a lung-emptying thud.

Argh...

They were cold against his back. Little flashing yellow lights pinged around the edges of the bright-blue sky, keeping time with the throbbing high-pitched whine in his ears.

Steel’s face appeared over the railings, scowling down at him. ‘Don’t just lie there, get after the wee sod!’ A shake of the fist, and she disappeared again.

Urgh...

Tufty struggled up to his feet. Shook his head — sending the little yellow lights swirling — and lurched into the tunnel.

Roberta shook her head. Silly sod. Having a wee kip in the middle of the road while the thieving gits got away. Never trust a stick-thin, short-arsed detective constable. Especially the kind with ginger hair — cut so short their whole head looked like a mouldy kiwi fruit — and watery pale-blue eyes the same colour as piddled-on Blu-Tack.

That’s what she got for taking the new boy out on a shout.

Well Tufty had better sodding well catch Hoodie Number Two, because if Tufty didn’t Tufty was in for a shoe-leather suppository.

And in the meantime...

She charged across the pavement and out into mid-morning traffic, one hand up on either side of her eyes to shut out the view. ‘Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me...’ Horns blared. Something HUGE slammed on its brakes — they squealed like pigs, hissed like dragons.

An angry voice: ‘YOU BLOODY IDIOT!’

And pavement! Beautiful, beautiful pavement.

She dropped her hands.

Wasn’t difficult to see which way Hoodie Number One had gone — just follow the trail of swearing people sprawled across the beautiful pavement, leading west along Union Street.

Roberta dragged out her phone, dialling with one hand as she ran past McDonald’s. Jumped over a young woman with a screaming toddler in her arms, sprawled beside the bus shelter.

A bored woman sighed from the mobile’s earpiece, followed by: ‘Control Room.’

‘I need backup to Union Street, now!’

‘Nearest car is two minutes away. How severe is the situation? Do you need a firearms team?’

Roberta threaded her way through a clot of idiots outside Clarks, all staring after Hoodie Number One. ‘Shoplifter: early teens, blue hoodie, orange hair, ripped jeans—’

‘Oh you have got to be kidding me. We’re not scrambling a patrol car for a shoplifter!’

The tunnel under Union Street spat Tufty out between two tall granite buildings. Cold blue-grey in the shadows, the windows at ground level either bricked up or barred. He limp-ran to the end, making little hissing noises every other step. Like his left sock was sinking its teeth into his ankle.

Oh let’s go after the red-hoodied shoplifter. Let’s jump off a bridge...

That’s what you got for being brave: a whack on the cobblestones and a carnivorous sock.

He burst out from between the buildings and into the Green. Aberdeen Market was a massive Seventies concrete hatbox off to the left, making the stubby end of a blunt triangle — old granite buildings on the other two sides and...

There he was: Red. Jumping up and down behind a line of big council recycling bins. Still laughing. Twirling around on the spot, middle fingers out again. Waiting for him. Taunting him.

Then off, running down the middle of the Green. Getting away.

Not this time.

Tufty put some welly into it. Onward brave Sir Quirrel!

He jumped, hip-sliding across one of the bins marked ‘CARDBOARD ONLY’, Starsky-and-Hutch style. Landed on his bad ankle. Hissed.

Started running again.

Red looked back, grinned at him, barrelling headlong towards a fenced-off eating area outside a wee bar/restaurant full of loved-up couples eating a late breakfast in the sun. Red jumped the barrier, feet clattering on top of the tables, sending plates and glasses flying.

Diners lunged for him.

A man jerked back as his Bloody Mary introduced itself to his lap. ‘Hey! What the hell...?’

A woman bared her teeth. ‘Get your manky feet out of my eggs Benedict!’

Then bang — Red was out the other side.

Tufty pumped his arms and legs harder. Leaned into the sprint as he skirted the dining area. Ignoring the sock eating his ankle. Closing the gap...

Horrible Hoodie Number One did a wee dancy twirl around an old man with a walking stick, showing off, hooting. Then disappeared around the side of Thorntons.

Sodding hell...

Roberta gripped her phone tighter. ‘He’s gone down the steps to the Green.’

Another sigh from the bored woman on the other end. ‘I don’t care if he’s gone down on Nelson Mandela’s ghost, you’re not getting a patrol car.’

The wee sod’s face popped back around the corner again, joined by a double-handed two-fingered salute. He jiggled the V-signs in her direction, then vanished.

‘But—’

‘You’re not a child, for goodness’ sake. Surely you can catch a shoplifter without a SWAT team!’

Roberta wheeched around the corner, grabbing onto a big bearded guy to stay upright. ‘Well bugger you, then!’

The big guy flinched back. ‘What did I do?’

She jammed her phone in her pocket and skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs.

Oh... wow, that was a long way down.

The stairs weren’t far off vertical, at least three-and-a-half-storeys’-worth of thin granite steps, with a handrail at either side and one down the middle. Fall here and it’d be bounce, crack, bang, wallop, thump, crunch, scream, crash, splinter, THUD. Followed by sirens and nine months in traction.

Hoodie Number One was already halfway down the stairs. Taking them two at a time.

A boxed iPhone spilled from his backpack and bounced off the granite steps.

Gah...

She stuck both hands out, hovering them over the railings. And ran.

Going to die, going to die, going to die...

Down at the bottom of the stairs, Hoodie Number Two — the one dressed in red — hammered past, laughter echoing off the grey buildings.

And Hoodie Number One was nearly at the bottom too, grinning over his shoulder at her.

Where the hell was Tufty when you actually needed him?

How could one detective constable be so completely and utterly, totally—

He ran into view, staring straight ahead. Which was a shame, because Hoodie Number One wasn’t watching where he was going either and smashed right into him.

BANG!

They both hit the cobblestones in a twisted starfish of arms and legs. Thrashing and bashing and crashing as she hurried down the last two flights of stairs and into the Green.

They rolled into the ‘Pedestrian Zone ENDS’ sign with a faint clang.

‘Aaaargh, gerroffus gerroffus!’

Roberta skidded to a halt at the foot of the stairs. Looked right.

Hoodie Number Two was just visible as a red smudge — running deeper into the tunnel that led under the St Nicholas Centre and out to the dual carriageway. He turned and treated them to his middle fingers. Then his voice thrummed out, amplified by all that concrete and granite, ‘CATCH YOU LATER, MASTURBATOR!’ That red smudge vanished into the gloom.

‘Sodding hell...’ Roberta bent double, grabbing her knees and puffing like an ancient Labrador.

Tufty hauled Hoodie Number One to his feet, both hands cuffed behind the wee sod’s back.

A cough, then Tufty wiped a hand over his shiny forehead. Gave his prisoner a shoogle. ‘You are comprehensively nicked.’

The wee sod just grinned and stood on his tiptoes, shouting after his friend: ‘IN A WHILE, PAEDOPHILE!’

Kids today.

Tufty pushed through the scabby grey doors into a scabby grey room. Voices echoed up from the cells below, bouncing off the breeze-block walls — some singing, some shouting, some swearing, some crying. Call it ‘NE Division’s Custody Suite Symphony’ in arrested major.

He tightened his grip on the blue-hoodied shoplifter, manhandling him over to the custody desk — chest high with a selection of that season’s Police Scotland posters and notices Sellotaped to the beech laminate front. ‘BOGUS CALLERS, SCAMMER, AND THIEVES’, ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’, ‘DOMESTIC VIOLENCE ISN’T LOVE’, ‘“NO” MEANS “NO!”’

A huge man was hunched over the desk, wearing the standard-issue black T-shirt with sergeant’s stripes on the epaulettes. No need to call in Hercule Poirot to investigate ‘who ate all the pies’ — the answer was elementary, my dear Morse: Big Gary. He had his tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he scribbled away at something.

Steel sauntered up, popped onto her tiptoes and peered over the desk. ‘Aye, aye...’ Her hand snaked out and she snatched whatever the sergeant was scribbling on. ‘Colouring-in for adults?’ She flipped through the pages. ‘This no’ a bit advanced for you, Gary? You’re supposed to stay inside the lines.’

Big Gary grabbed for it, but she skipped back out of reach. Grinning.

‘Tufty, do the honours. I’m going to draw willies on all Big Gary’s pictures.’

Another grab, another miss. ‘Don’t you dare!’

Tufty gave Blue a nudge, propelling him closer to the desk. Then mimed pinging a hotel bell. ‘Ding. Single room with en suite and a view of the lake, please.’

A tiny smile flirted with the corner of Big Gary’s mouth. ‘And what name’s the reservation in?’

Silence.

Tufty poked Blue again. ‘The nice man wants to know your name.’

Blue’s shoulders came up. His voice: small and sulky. ‘No comment.’

A sigh. Then Big Gary took a form from beneath the desk and slapped it down on the top. ‘Very good, son. But you’re supposed to save that bit for when your lawyer gets here. Now: name?’

A grin. ‘Wanky McSpunkbucket. The third.’

‘Oh be still my splitting sides.’ Big Gary pointed at another of his many, many posters.

‘IT IS AN OFFENCE TO GIVE FALSE DETAILS TO THE POLICE’.

‘Let’s not make it any worse, eh?’

Blue shrugged again. Looked down at his shiny white trainers. ‘Charles Roberts.’

‘Thank you. And where do you live, Charles Roberts?’

‘No com...’

Big Gary pointed at the poster again.

‘Thirteen Froghall Crescent.’

‘There we go.’

Tufty snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and dug into the knapsack, still strapped to the kid’s back.

‘Hey, gerroff us!’

He stuck a pair of iPhones — brand new and still in their boxes — on the custody desk. Followed by half-a-dozen Samsungs: boxed, three Nokias: boxed, eight assorted smartphones: used, and four wallets. Another wallet and two smartphones: used, from the pockets of the blue hoodie.

‘I never seen them before in my life. You planted that lot.’

‘Really?’ He took hold of one of the hoodie sleeves and pulled it up. A row of three watches sparkled in the romantic overhead strip lighting.

‘You planted that as well.’

‘Don’t be a—’

The double doors banged open and in marched a heavyweight boxer in a dark suit and pale blue tie. Broken nose, narrow eyes, hair swept back from a widow’s peak. Two plainclothes uglies followed in his wake, both in matching grey suits and red ties, hipster haircuts, and I’m-So-Hard-And-Cool expressions. Like a two-man boy band. The uglies frogmarched a little guy with a grubby face up to the custody desk. The cuffs of his shirt were ragged and stained a dark reddy-brown, more stains on the front of his tattered jumper.

The boxer pointed at Big Gary. ‘Sergeant McCormack, I want Mr Forester processed, seen by the duty doctor, given a solicitor, and placed in an interrogation room within the hour.’

Steel bristled. ‘Hoy, wait your turn. We were here first.’

He turned a withering glare on her. ‘Did you say something, Sergeant?’

‘Aye. Back of the queue, mush.’

The boxer stepped closer, looming over her. ‘You seem to be a little confused, Sergeant. You’re not a detective chief inspector any more.’ He poked her with a finger. ‘And while you’re running around after shoplifters and druggies, I’m out there catching murderers.’

One of his sidekicks sniggered.

Steel’s face curdled.

But he just smiled. ‘I outrank the hell out of you now, and if I say my suspect goes first, he goes first. Understand?’

She glowered back, lips and jaws moving like she was chewing on something horrible.

‘I said: do — you — understand?’

The reply was barely audible. ‘Yes, Guv.’

‘Or would you like another visit to Professional Standards?’

She narrowed her eyes. Bared her teeth.

Oh God, it was all going to kick off, wasn’t it?

But Steel swallowed it down. Cricked her neck to one side. ‘No, Guv.’

‘Good. I’m glad we had this little chat, aren’t you?’

Please don’t hit him, please don’t hit him...

Tufty stuck a finger in his other ear and leaned back against the meeting room wall. Next to the whiteboard with a huge willy drawn on it in black and red marker pen. ‘Yes... No... I think that’s OK, isn’t it?... Were we? Sorry, didn’t know.’

Idiot.

Roberta let her head fall back, over the back of her leather chair, and stared up at the ceiling with its regular grid of toothpaste-white tiles. OK, the view was a bit dull, but it was still better than looking at Harmsworth.

She snuck a peek anyway.

He was sitting on the other side of the long oval meeting table, feet up on one of the big blotter-sized notepads, peering at a copy of the Aberdeen Examiner like someone who’d forgotten his glasses. Chubby wee sod that he was, with his receding hairline and a face that looked as if it’d never smiled in its life. A miserable balding bloodhound in a rumpled brown suit. Picking his nose when he thought no one was looking.

Oh she got all the ‘special’ ones on her team, didn’t she?

Roberta’s phone ding-dinged at her. Incoming text:

She smiled and thumbed out a reply:

Send.

Harmsworth was digging away in his nose again. Well if he was searching for a brain he was excavating the wrong end of his body.

Ding-ding:

Sit down and break bread with Logan Traitorous Scumbag McRae? Rather break the casserole dish over his sodding head.

Then make him eat all the jagged broken bits...

Oh for goodness’ sake: Harmsworth was still at it.

He glanced up and caught her looking. Popped his finger out. Sighed. Then droned on in that depressing Marvin-the-Paranoid-Android voice of his, ‘Listen to this:’ he ruffled his newspaper, ‘“Blackburn residents live in fear of sex pest pervert. ‘I can’t even cook dinner with the blinds open,’ said Janice Wilkinson, brackets, thirty-one. ‘What if one of the children look out of the window and see him?’”’ Another sigh. ‘You’d have to be a bit funny in the head, wouldn’t you?’

Roberta grimaced back at him. ‘I used to be the one catching murderers. And now look at me. Stuck here with you pair of neeps.’

Tufty laughed. ‘I know... Yeah. Probably.’

‘I mean, who wakes up one morning and thinks, “You know what I fancy? Sticking on a superhero mask and having a wank outside someone’s kitchen window while they’re doing the dishes.”’

The boy idiot put a hand over the mouthpiece of his phone. ‘Sarge? That’s our boy ready to interview.’

‘Oh joy.’ She let her head fall back again, then blew a big wet raspberry. ‘Urgh...’ A drizzle of cold spittle drifted back down across her face. She sat up and wiped it off.

Tufty went back to his phone. ‘Yeah, we’ll be right down.’

Harmsworth gave his paper another theatrical ruffle. ‘Speaking of wankers, did you see this?’ He turned it around, showing off a two-page spread. A photo of a skinny wee nyaff sat beneath the headline ‘“POLICE CORRUPTION BLIGHTS ABERDEEN” CLAIMS MISCARRIAGE OF JUSTICE VICTIM’. Jack Sodding Wallace, wearing his going-to-court suit, standing outside the council offices on Broad Street. He was holding a sheet of paper up, as if that meant anything, looking all serious and concerned at it. Raping wee shite.

Harmsworth sniffed. ‘Jack Wallace says we’re all a bunch of useless dodgy bastards.’

‘Jack Wallace can roll himself up sideways and shove it up a llama’s bumhole!’

‘Says all we do is fit up innocent people and take bribes.’

She stabbed a finger in Harmsworth’s direction. ‘I’m no’ telling you again, Constable.’

A huff and he went back to his newspaper. ‘Don’t know why I bother. No one ever appreciates it.’

Tufty put his phone away and pointed at the door. ‘Sarge?’

Harmsworth was still groaning on. ‘I should just go jump under a bus. Give you all a laugh. Oh look at Owen, he’s all squished and dead. Isn’t that funny? Ha, ha, ha.’

‘Well, we can all dream.’ Roberta stood. Twinged a bit, then had a dig at her treasonous left underwire. Whoever designed bras to have sharp pokey bits of metal in them needed a stiff kick up the bumhole. ‘Meantime: get your backside in gear. Two teas, interview room...?’ She looked at Tufty.

‘Three.’

‘And see if you can scare up some biscuits too.’

A groan, then Harmsworth made a big show of folding his paper and stood. Smeared a martyred expression across his miserable face. ‘Oh, just order Owen about, why not? Not as if he contributes anything to the team, is it? No. Make the tea, Owen. Find some biscuits, Owen...’ He slouched from the room, leaving the door to swing closed behind him.

Idiots. Morons. Whingers. And tosspots. Why couldn’t she get dynamic go-getting sex bunnies in her team? How was that fair?

She glowered at the ceiling. ‘I swear on the sainted grave of Jasmine’s gerbil, Agamemnon...’

The door opened again.

For God’s sake!

Roberta turned the glower into a glare. ‘Two sodding teas and a couple of biscuits! How difficult can it—’ But it wasn’t DC Moanier-Than-Thou Harmsworth, it was a lump of uniformed officers all clutching notebooks and clipboards.

The guy at the front had inspector’s pips on his broad shoulders. He looked over the top of his little round glasses at his watch. Oh, I’m so important! ‘What are you doing in here?’

‘Inspector Evans. It’s been yonks, hasn’t it? How’s your piles these days?’

He stiffened. ‘I’ve got this meeting room booked till five.’

‘Just keeping it warm for you.’ She stood and hooked a thumb at Tufty, then at the door. ‘We’re leaving anyway.’

Tufty followed her out into the corridor, and as the door swung shut Inspector Evans’s voice went up an octave. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake! Who keeps drawing willies on all the whiteboards?’

II

‘No comment.’ Charles Roberts shoogled in his seat, setting his white Tyvec suit rustling. Even the extra small was way too big for him, the sleeves and legs rolled up about six inches so they didn’t flop about. Cleaned up and out of his shoplifting gear, he looked even younger. Nine years old, maybe ten at a push?

Interview Room Three had more stains than carpet on the floor. A weird wet patch in the corner by the window that looked a bit like Joseph Merrick if you squinted. A radiator that gurgled, pinged, and whistled away to itself.

Roberts was on the naughty side of the chipped Formica table, his appointed solicitor sitting next to him in an ill-fitting suit. She looked about as bored as it was possible to be and not die from it. Apparently being a middle-aged lawyer doing Legal Aid wasn’t the non-stop party bus it was cracked up to be.

A sad older man in a baggy grey cardigan was squeezed in at the end of the table in a chair nicked from the office across the hall. Grey cardigan. Grey hair. Grey moustache. Grey face.

Steel dunked a chocolate Hobnob into her tea and sooked the molten brown off.

She was braver than Tufty. No way he was risking a sip of the suspiciously milky beverage DC Harmsworth had banged down on the table with a sinister mutter about how nobody ever appreciated him. Five people. Two teas.

Tufty picked up an evidence bag from the blue plastic crate at his feet. Held it out. ‘I am now showing Mr Roberts Exhibit Nine.’ One of the brand new iPhones, still in its box and cellophane wrapper. ‘What about this one, Charles, do you recognise it?’

A rustly shrug. ‘Never seen it in me life before.’

‘You stole it this morning, didn’t you?’

Rustle. ‘No comment, yeah?’

Steel finished her Hobnob and sooked her fingers clean. Shifted in her seat. Yawned. Didn’t say a word.

‘You and your accomplice in the red hoodie stole a large number of phones from the shops on Union Street. I saw you do it.’

‘Nah you didn’t.’ He turned to his solicitor. ‘They’re totally lying. Me and Billy never nicked nothing.’

Steel slumped forwards, hands covering her face. ‘Oh God, I’m so bored.’

Captain Cardigan sighed. ‘Come on, Roberta, play nice.’

She sagged back again. ‘It’s all right for you, you don’t have to do this day after day. “No comment.” “It wasnae me.” “A big boy did it and ran away.” Over and over and over... You social workers don’t know you’re born.’

Roberts’ solicitor shuffled her paperwork. ‘Perhaps this would be a good time to take a short break?’

Steel closed her eyes and jerked forwards, arms straight, palms flat down on the table, head hanging. ‘Oooooooooooooo... OOOOOOoooooo...’

Everyone stared.

The solicitor shrank back a bit in her seat. ‘Is she OK? Do we need to call a doctor?’

But Steel’s voice belted out, ‘Big Chief Lionel Goldberg, are you there?’

‘Is this meant to be some sort of joke?’

‘Knock once for yes, twice for no.’

Captain Cardigan rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, Roberta, this isn’t helping anyone.’

‘Big Chief Lionel Goldberg, I beseech you: guide me from the spirit world!’

Roberts’ solicitor scowled. ‘Whoever heard of a Red Indian chief called “Goldberg”?’

‘Ooooooo-oooo-oooooh... OOOOOOooo...’

‘For goodness’ sake.’ A sigh from Captain Cardigan. ‘I could’ve retired last year. Could be on the golf course right now.’

‘Tell me, oh wise and powerful spirit, what does the future hold?’

The solicitor’s papers got stuffed in a satchel. ‘I’m going to make a formal complaint. This is simply not acceptable.’

Steel held up a hand. ‘Big Chief Lionel Goldberg him say, “Hud yer wheesht, quine.” The future... yes, I can see it now!’

Charles Roberts grinned. ‘She’s mental. Proper in-the-head mental.’

‘We shall sit in this stinky wee room for the next hour and a half, wasting our time, listening to him denying everything. Then we’ll stick him in a cell and... and we’ll get the CCTV footage from Union Street, and the security camera stuff from the shop, and do him for nicking all those phones anyway...’

‘Nah, you planted them, like. Remember?’

‘What’s that, Big Chief Lionel Goldberg? And then we’ll check the records for the last three weeks? What will we find, oh mighty spirit?’

‘I insist you stop this ridiculous charade, right now! My client will not answer any further questions under these circumstances!’

Tufty shared an apologetic smile with the other side of the table. ‘Sorry about this.’

‘OOOooooo... We’ll find that the six phone shops on Union Street have reported over twenty grand’s worth of stock stolen? And they’re certain it was Charlie-boy here and his mate Billy that did it?’

‘Nah.’ Roberts shook his head. ‘And you can’t do nothing about it, cos we’re just kids. We ain’t responsible.’

‘And Charlie will get three years in a young offenders’ institution? Maybe a nice comfy borstal?’

Roberts’ solicitor slammed her hand down on the table. ‘All right, that is ENOUGH!’

Steel sat back. Had a scratch at her armpit. Stared at their junior-issue shoplifter. ‘Where’s your mum and dad, Charlie? How come we had to get a social worker in to be your appropriate adult?’

Roberts pulled up the hood of his rustly suit, shrinking into it. Looked away. All bravado gone. ‘No comment.’

Steel thumped Tufty on the arm. ‘Call it.’

‘Interview terminated at twelve twenty-six.’

The sound of voices floated up the stairwell from somewhere below. The rattle and clank of cutlery and crockery coming from the station canteen, joined by the smell of cauliflower, sausages, and chips.

Steel tugged her jacket on, fighting with the sleeves. ‘Lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch.’

Tufty followed her downstairs. ‘A fiver says they’re going to make a complaint.’

‘I’m feeling a bit pizza-ish. That or noodles.’

‘I thought you were trying to keep a low profile?’

‘Maybe a baked tattie?’

Tufty sighed. ‘The boy was right: you’re off your head. You know that, don’t you?’

‘What’s wrong with baked tatties?’

‘Not baked potatoes, the complaint!’

A small man in a sharp suit was on his way up the stairs. Short, but wiry and powerful looking. The kind you always had to watch in a fight, because he had something to prove. He looked up, raised an eyebrow. Then stopped in the middle of the stairs, reached out, and took hold of both handrails. Blocking their path. ‘Detective Sergeant Steel, what’s this I hear about you holding a séance in Interview Three?’

‘Oh, Detective Chief Inspector Rutherford, can you believe it?’ She bit her bottom lip and put the back of one hand against her forehead, looking a bit like a B-movie damsel in distress. ‘DC Quirrel here thinks there’s something wrong with having baked tatties for lunch.’

‘“Big Chief Lionel Goldberg”?’

‘They were all out of Native Americans at the spirit guide shop.’

There was a hint of a smile. ‘Witnesses from beyond the grave aren’t admissible in court, Sergeant. And you can consider yourself lucky Charles Roberts’ solicitor isn’t making a formal complaint.’

She frowned. ‘I think I was right in the first place: ham-and-mushroom pizza, with extra cheese.’

‘I’m serious, Roberta.’ All hint of that smile disappeared. ‘The last thing you need is another visit from Professional Standards. Might not get off so lightly next time.’

Her expression hardened. ‘Thank you, Guv.’

‘And what about the other shoplifter, this “Billy” character?’

Steel shrugged. ‘That’ll be Billy Moon. Him and Charles Roberts have been tag-team nicking things since they could walk. He’ll lay low for a few days, then he’ll be out on the streets again, five-finger-discounting everything he can grab. Don’t worry, we’ll get him.’

‘Excellent. In the meantime we have twenty-three thousand, eight hundred and sixty pounds’ worth of missing phones out there somewhere. That would be a significant amount of stolen property to recover, don’t you think?’

‘Guv.’ All the warmth of a fridge freezer.

‘Then you’d better go recover it, hadn’t you?’

She stuck her hand against her forehead again, bottom lip trembling. ‘But... But pizza?’ Ham-and-mushrooming it up.

‘Remember: the road to redemption is paved with little victories.’ He let go of the handrails and stepped past her.

Tufty slunk back, out of his way. Watching as the detective chief inspector disappeared up the stairs.

Then his voice echoed down from the floor above. ‘And no more séances!’

Tufty waited until the sound of a door shutting rang out. ‘So... We still can has pizza?’

Steel sagged. ‘Sodding hell.’

III

The police van rattled and squeaked its way past a big red-brick building with a pagoda sticking out the middle of it.

Tufty indicated right and drifted the van into the turning lane. Waiting for the traffic on the other side of the dual carriageway to open up.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Steel had her feet up on the dashboard, digging away at some itchy spot at the back of one knee.

The Proclaimers sang away on the radio, boasting about how many miles they’d walk for the honour of collapsing, knackered, outside someone’s front door — when surely it would make a lot more sense to just drive over there, leaving you with plenty of energy for a nice cup of tea, a fondant fancy, and a bit of frisky naughty business.

But it was fun to hum along to.

Steel held up a hand. ‘Warrant?’

DC Barrett scooted forward in his seat, bringing with him a waft of aftershave mixed with cheese-and-onion. He held out a sheet of paper. ‘Signed, sealed, and dated.’ In the rear-view mirror he looked bigger than he was. Blond, snubbed nose. Prominent ears. A bit more overbite than was healthy in a grown man.

‘Thanks Davey.’ She stuck the warrant in her pocket without so much as a glance. ‘Now, anyone set on doing a formal recap of the whole plan, or can we just get on with the important bits?’

Right, then up the hill and over the railway bridge.

The van was fitted out with a cage at the back for ferrying the very naughty from arrest to the station. In front of that were two rows of seats, facing each other. And when Barrett sat back down again, Harmsworth and DC Lund were revealed in the mirror. Harmsworth looking like someone had just told him he had twenty-four hours to live, but all the shops were shut. And Lund looking like someone’s mum had gone on a fitness kick and then fell asleep at the hairdresser’s.

Tufty drove into a big housing estate of terraced council flats, built in the standard Aberdeen configuration: blocks of six, sharing a front door, stitched together in a long, featureless row. The front doors had been painted in jaunty primary colours, but the buildings themselves wore a coat of faded dirty white.

Barrett consulted his clipboard. ‘Thirteen Froghall Crescent — address supplied by one Charles Roberts when questioned about the large quantity of stolen mobile phones in his possession at time of arrest. Flat’s owner is one Miss Harriet Ellis, currently residing in a residential care home in Portlethen. Early onset dementia. No relation to young Master Roberts. And I couldn’t find any next of kin for her on the system, so the place is probably being used as a squat.’

Lund leaned forward. ‘Dogs?’

‘Not that we know of. But I’m definitely taking my can of Bite Back with me.’

‘Yeah... Bags being the one to batter down the door. You three can charge in and get bitten first.’

Harmsworth groaned. ‘I should go last. It’s not my fault dogs find me extra tasty.’

‘Tough.’ Lund picked up a riot helmet from the seat next to her and held it out, upside down to Steel. Little bits of blue and red paper were just visible in there.

Another right and Tufty pulled onto a street where the terraces gave way to twin rows of squat granite semis with tiny front gardens. Some paved over to provide off-road parking.

‘Are we ready?’ Steel turned and rummaged in the helmet, one hand covering her eyes. She came out with two bits — unfolded and peered at them. Held them out at arm’s length to get them into focus. ‘Right. Today’s expletive of choice is...’

Tufty gave a little drum roll on the steering wheel. ‘Tant-ta-ta-taaaaa!’

‘“Motherfunker.” And if something’s good it’s, “Snake-alicious.”’

Another groan from Grumpy Harmsworth. ‘Oh not again.’

Barrett nodded. ‘Got to love the classics.’

‘Why can we never have the ones I suggested?’

‘Because the ones you suggested are crap.’

Tufty tightened his grip on the steering wheel. ‘And three. Two. One!’ He jammed his foot down on the accelerator and the Maria surged forward, then a hard left brought the front wheels up onto the pavement outside a semidetached with an overgrown front garden and all the curtains drawn.

He slammed on the brakes before they hit the short brick wall.

Flicked off his seatbelt.

And, ‘Go! Go! Go!’

Steel hit him. ‘Hey, I say that!’

Too late. Harmsworth lunged, snatched the riot helmet from Steel’s hands and stuck it on his head, bits of paper flying free. Barrett hauled open the big sliding door and Lund jumped out. Then Barrett. Then Harmsworth — grabbing a riot shield on his way, strapping it on as he ran. Tufty joined them, charging up the path to the front door.

But Steel just popped out into the afternoon sun and leaned against the van, hands in her pockets.

Lund got to the house first. Squared up to the door with the Big Red Door Key and swung it back while Barrett and Harmsworth flattened themselves against the wall to either side.

She grinned. ‘Hot potato!’

The mini battering ram slammed into the door, just below the handle. A solid crack morphed into a BOOM as the whole thing burst inward, taking most of the frame with it.

She ducked back out of the way and Harmsworth pushed past, shield up.

‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’

Barrett hopped in after him, followed by Lund and tail-end Tufty. Because the better part of valour is not getting your nadgers bitten off.

The hallway stank of rancid cheese — probably coming from the knee-high stack of filthy trainers piled up against the shabby wallpaper. Crayon graffiti laced its way around and overhead, complete with stick figures. Some of whom seemed to have been based on a naked Pamela Anderson. Junk mail made a slippery mat on the lino.

Lund took the first door on the right, bursting through with her truncheon out. ‘EVERYONE DOWN NOW!’

Barrett barged into a room on the left. ‘POLICE!’

And at the far end of the hall, Harmsworth kicked the door open and lunged inside. ‘YOU! ON THE FLOOR! I SAID— AAAARGH! MOTHERFUNKER!’

Oh crap...

Tufty legged it, slithering over the junk-mail slick and into a kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months. Harmsworth lay in the middle of the filthy floor, hands clasped over his eyes. Bright-red stains covered his skin, his shirt rapidly turning a very dark pink.

The back door hung open, and through the gap came a flash of someone legging it. Male, six foot, dressed in cargo pants and a green Action-Man jumper. Crew cut. He snatched a look over his shoulder, showing off a short Vandyke and a worried expression.

Tufty turned and bellowed back into the house, ‘OFFICER DOWN! REPEAT, OFFICER DOWN!’

Then leapt over Harmsworth’s whimpering body and thumped out into the back garden.

Action Man had already crossed the yellowed patchy grass — clambering over the fence into the garden of the house behind this one.

‘POLICE! COME BACK HERE!’ Tufty cleared the garden in eight strides and leapt, swinging himself over the fence and into a much nicer space with fruit trees and patio furniture.

Where was... There: Action Man, he’d nipped down the side of the house, shoving out through a full-height gate towards the front.

Oh no you don’t.

A burst of speed and Tufty was only six, seven feet behind him.

BANG, through the gate and out onto the driveway.

A young woman in a yellow summer dress was frozen in the middle of unloading an armful of shopping from the boot of a little hatchback. Staring at the two men charging towards her.

Action Man grabbed her arm and sent her spinning, practically throwing her right at Tufty.

She hit with a squeal and down they both went, crashing to the lock-block in a clattering hail of tins and packets. They rolled to a halt against the grey harling wall. Which was when she started slapping him. ‘Get off me, you pervert! HELP, POLICE!’

Thunk — that was a car door slamming. Then the engine roared into life.

Tufty struggled free, just in time to see Action Man stick the car in gear and look back over his shoulder. The hatchback’s tyres screeched and it jerked backwards, off the driveway in a cloud of blue smoke... BANG — right into the side of a Volvo parked on the other side of the street.

A piercing shriek filled the air: the Volvo’s car alarm screaming in indignation, hazard lights flashing.

Then the sound of grinding gears and the hatchback lurched forwards again, just as Tufty reached the kerb, swinging round and— Too close! Too close! He jumped back and the bumper snatched at the leg of his trousers. Missed by about half an inch. Then away, engine and tyres squealing in protest.

Miss Sundress staggered into the road beside him. ‘Come back with my car, you bastard!’ She grabbed up a fallen tin of beans and hurled it after the departing hatchback. But it fell too short, buckling against the tarmac as the car screamed down the road, round the corner, and out of sight.

‘Can you smell that?’ Barrett looked up from his clipboard. ‘For some reason, I’ve got a strange craving for stovies.’

Harmsworth scowled at him. ‘Oh ha, ha. Very funny. Let’s make jokes at poor Owen’s expense.’

The living room was... OK, it was a hovel. Piles of pizza boxes on the floor, heaps of shoplifted clothes in the corner — most with the security tags still on. A carpet that... Aye, well, probably best no’ to think about what made it so sticky. But for all the overwhelming mank they had an impressive collection of kit. A huge TV and just about every games console going. Roberta settled into the leather couch, arms along the back. Probably the only clean thing in the entire house.

Harmsworth dabbed at his face with a towel again, turning more of it scarlet. ‘You’re all horrible to me.’

‘We do our best.’ Barrett noted down the details of another iPad, sealed it into an evidence bag, then placed it into one of his blue plastic evidence crates. Happy as a wee squirrel, gathering nuts for winter.

The boy, Tufty, was on the phone again, standing in the corner with one finger in his ear. Presumably to stop his brain from falling out that side. ‘Yeah.... Yeah, OK, thanks.’ He hung up. Pulled a constipated face. ‘Nothing from the lookout request.’

Roberta shook her head. ‘Motherfunker...’

‘Hmph.’ Harmsworth made a big thing of wiping his eyes. ‘I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.’

Barrett slipped a mobile phone into another bag. ‘Got to be thousands and thousands of quids’ worth here.’

‘Not as if someone tried to blind me or anything.’

Then Lund’s dulcet tones came screeching down from somewhere upstairs. ‘SARGE? SARGE, YOU BETTER COME SEE THIS!’

No thanks.

Roberta stretched out a bit. Enjoying the farty squeak of the leather.

‘SARGE, I’M SERIOUS!’

Wonderful.

She hauled herself up from the couch’s leathery embrace and stepped around the soggy pink figure of Harmsworth. ‘Don’t be such a crybaby, Owen. He chucked a jar of beetroot at you, no’ sulphuric acid.’

‘Pickle vinegar really stings!’

‘Blah, blah, blah.’ She slouched out of the manky living room and up the manky stairs to a manky landing decorated with more stick-figure-porn graffiti.

Lund poked her head out of a room at the end. ‘Sarge?’

‘Why can no bugger do anything without me holding their hand?’

But Lund just ducked back inside again.

‘Swear to God...’ Roberta dragged herself down to the end of the landing and into a bedroom that stank of socks and sweat and something a bit sweet and funky smelling. Cannabis hiding beneath the BO.

Five single mattresses were lined up on the floor: some with duvets, some with sleeping bags. All surrounded by drifts of dirty clothes.

A built-in wardrobe with mirrored doors took up nearly the whole wall opposite the curtained windows. Lund was hunkered down in front of it, peering in through a gap between two of the sliding doors.

‘You better no’ be coiling one out there, Veronica. You’re no’ in Elgin now.’

Lund held out a hand to the wardrobe, voice low and gentle. ‘It’s OK. No one’s going to hurt you.’

Roberta frowned, then shuffled around till she could see what Lund was looking at.

Oh...

Two wee boys cowered in the wardrobe, between the coats and things. The pair of them filthy, wearing nothing but grubby T-shirts and grubbier underpants. Five, maybe six years old? Poor wee sods.

She crouched down next to Lund. ‘Hey, guys, are you OK? Want to come see your Aunty Roberta? We’ve come to take you home to your mummies.’

The wee boys didn’t say anything. Then one of them reached out, took hold of the wardrobe door and slid it closed. Leaving Lund and Roberta staring at their own reflections.

Great.

The back garden looked like the kind of place plants went to die. And then get widdled on. Nowhere to sit. So Roberta turned a bucket over and sat on that instead. A modern-day version of Oor Wullie, only much sexier.

She took a long draw on her e-cigarette, dribbling the vapour down her nose as she chased an itchy bit around her left armpit. Mobile phone clamped between her ear and shoulder. ‘No, they’re no’ saying. But the snottery one in the SpongeBob T-shirt’s got a Belfast accent, so maybe no’ even local.’

‘Hmmm...’ DCI Rutherford sounded a bit distracted, as if he had something more important to do. Tosser. ‘You’d think someone would miss a five-year-old boy...’ The clickity sound of a keyboard being fingered rattled out of the earpiece. ‘We’ve got nine missing children in Aberdeen-slash-Aberdeenshire right now: four girls, five boys. Six of them “allegedly” abducted by a parent. Remaining three are early teens.’

‘Social Services are on the way. Maybe if we get them cleaned up and photographed...?’ Roberta rubbed at her eyes as the weight of it all dragged her shoulders down another inch. ‘Wee kids, hiding in a wardrobe.’

‘We just have to do what we can.’

She took the e-cigarette out of her mouth and spat into the yellowy grass. ‘Yeah. Suppose so.’

Didn’t make it feel any better, though.