Now We Are Dead

I

Steel stopped on the stairs for a scratch. ‘Will you stop whinging?’

Division Headquarters was surprisingly quiet for a change. Peaceful. Probably because everyone else — all the lucky people — had actually managed to go home.

Tufty peered over the stack of evidence bags, shifted the large plastic crate in his arms. Biceps already wobbling with the strain. ‘This weighs a ton!’

‘Whinge, whinge, whinge, whinge, whinge.’ She gave up on the scratch and started up the stairs again. ‘And when you’ve signed that lot in, you can sit down with Lund and get an e-fit done. I want to know who our kidnappy scumbag is.’

He groaned.

Sergeant McRae was right — the woman was a nightmare.

He manoeuvred the heavy evidence crate around the half-landing, puffing. ‘Shift ended two hours ago...’

Steel paused at the top of the flight of stairs. ‘You’re no’ in uniform any more, Dorothy; CID doesn’t go home till the job’s done. And just for that, when you’ve finished the e-fit you can...’ Her eyes bugged, mouth hanging open as she stared at something Tufty couldn’t see.

‘What?’ He struggled up beside her.

She was staring at the double doors that led off to the third floor. Muffled voices came from the other side.

Then one of the doors twitched.

‘Quick!’ Steel grabbed him, bustling them both into a room just off the stairwell.

She stood there, one eyebrow raised as the trough urinal along one wall flushed, fresh water glistening across the suspicious limescale streaks that striped the stainless steel. The sound echoed around the gents’ toilet. A row of cubicles lined the wall opposite the trough, a row of sinks down the middle. That eye-nipping smell of urinal cakes and ancient piddle. ‘Oh.’

She didn’t... Did she? Was this supposed to be some sort of sex thing? Dragging him into the gents to have her wicked way with him?

Noooooooooo!

Not that she wasn’t — well, let’s be honest she really wasn’t — but it was still sexual harassment!

Tufty backed off a couple of paces. ‘Er... It... I mean, I’m flattered and I’m sure you’re a lovely—’

She slapped a hand over his mouth. Stared at the toilet door.

Which began to open.

‘Eek!’ She dragged him and his box backwards, thumping open a cubicle door and shoving him inside. Squeezed in there with him and swung the door shut, catching it at the last moment so it wouldn’t bang.

Her body was warm, pressed against him like that — the toilet roll holder digging into the small of his back.

He opened his mouth to complain but she just tightened her grip on his face and pulled panicked faces.

‘Shhhh!’

A voice bounced back and forth against the tiles outside their cubicle. ‘Inspector McRae.’

And then the Sarge’s voice: ‘Charlie.’

Well, not ‘Sarge’ any more, not since the promotion, but old habits and all that.

Piddling noises joined the echo chamber.

Steel adopted a hissing whisper, the words barely audible. ‘What the hell is he doing here? Supposed to be in Bucksburn with the rest of his Satan-worshipping mates!’

Tufty tried for: ‘I don’t think you’re being very fair to Sergeant McRae,’ but all that came out was, ‘Mmmphnnn, gnnnnphnnn innng, pfffnnnnggg,’ muffled by her hand. And where was that weird garlicky-onion taste coming from?

Steel shook her head. ‘Well, I don’t know, do I?’

Someone’s phone burst into an upbeat ringtone.

McRae answered it. ‘Hello?... Hi, Susan... Yes, looking forward to it. Erm, will she be there?’

OK, another go: please get your stinky oniony hand off my mouth. ‘Mmnnff, ffnnnphm mnnnnfffnn nnnnnnffn mmmmnf ff mmnnfff.’

She shrugged, keeping her voice low. ‘Well... look on the bright side: at least he’s no’ in the cubicle next to us making smells. Bloody place stinks like a dead tramp’s Y-fronts as it is.’

‘No, not a problem for me, but you know how she gets... Yeah.’

‘Mmnph?’

Steel glowered at him. ‘Don’t you dare!’

A hand dryer roared, drowning everything else out. Then clunk, the door closed.

Steel peeled her oniony hand from Tufty’s mouth. ‘Is he gone?’

Urgchhhh. He machine-gunned out a barrage of teeny spits. ‘Your hands taste horrible!’

She stuck her ear against the cubicle door, just next to a bit of biro graffiti about what a lovely bottom some PC named Mackenzie had. ‘Maybe we’d better wait a bit? Just in case.’

He shifted his grip on the evidence crate. ‘Listen, while we’re here—’

‘Don’t care what freaky sexual fantasy you’ve got, the answer’s no.’

‘Shudder!’ He shook his head. ‘No: the Blackburn Onanist — I’ve been thinking. They say the events are all random, right? But I has a clever!’

‘Shhh!’ She slapped a hand over his mouth again. ‘Was that the door? Did you hear the door?’

He wriggled free. ‘The first time he goes out for a wank, he has another one the very next day. Then it’s twenty-five days till he does it again. Then twenty-eight days. Then seven—’

‘All right, Rain Man.’

‘—Then sixteen. Then one. Then eleven— Ow!’

The rotten sod hit him.

Steel’s voice went back to its smoky whisper. ‘There’s someone out there!’

He copied her, so quiet even he could barely hear it. ‘Then sixteen, then one, then six—’

And again with the oniony hand: squeezing his cheeks so he couldn’t escape this time.

The cubicle door swung open and there was Inspector Evans, with a copy of the Racing Post tucked under one arm. A look of horror spread across his face. ‘What the hell are you doing in here?’

Steel let go of Tufty’s face, reached out, and grabbed the door. ‘Do you mind? I’ve got this meeting room booked till seven.’ Then pulled it shut again and snibbed on the lock.

‘Hello?’

‘Anyway...’ Tufty gave up on the whispering. ‘There was this article in New Scientist about some new open-source pattern recognition software they’re using to re-examine the data from the Large Hadron Collider — which is completely super cool — and I thought, why not apply it to the Blackburn wanking dates?’

She sighed at him. ‘I need a big success, Tufty, no’ a bunch of wee kid shoplifters. No’ some pervert playing slap-the-Womble in other people’s back gardens. A big success.’

Inspector Evans’s voice took on an imperious tone. ‘I insist you come out of there this instant!’

‘Yeah, but listen: I modelled the whole sequence with the days and dates. He never plays with himself on a Monday or Wednesday, or at the weekend.’

‘Do you have any idea how hard it is to work your way back up to detective chief inspector?’

‘And he’s got these blocks where nothing happens at all. So I thinks to myself, “What if he’s a shift worker?” Eh?’

Evans knocked on the door, rattling it. ‘You can’t be in here, this is the gents!’

Steel bared her teeth. ‘Use another cubicle, this one’s occupied!’

‘Right, that’s it — I’m calling Professional Standards. We’ll see what they say about this.’

She opened the door and stepped out. ‘OK, OK, we were just leaving anyway.’ Snapped her fingers. ‘Detective Constable Quirrel: heel!’

Inspector Evans stared after them. Then ruffled his copy of the Racing Post, shuddered, and stepped into another cubicle.

Tufty dumped the evidence crate alongside the other ones — pretty much covering the creaky desk in the corner. ‘So, anyway: if it’s just him working shifts it’d be a more straightforward pattern, wouldn’t it?’

Did the wee sod never shut up?

The CID office had all the charm of a cat with diarrhoea: the paintwork peeling from the walls and woodwork, the carpet tiles an archaeological record of every spilled cup of tea and coffee going back decades. Half the ceiling tiles were missing too, showing off an impressive collection of spiders’ webs, speckled with teeny black fly carcases.

Wasn’t like this when she was a detective chief inspector, was it. No, course it sodding wasn’t. Office of her own. A coffee machine that worked. A window you could crack open if you fancied a crafty cigarette. All the minions stuffed into a different room so they weren’t underfoot and asking stupid questions the whole time.

Roberta pulled on her coat. Keys. Keys. Keys... Where the hell were her keys? ‘Have you seen my keys?’

‘There wouldn’t be all this numerical variation to the pattern.’

‘Who moved my keys? Why does everyone have to fiddle with things?’

‘But what if there’s someone else in the house who works nights sometimes? And that’s when he slips out to bash Uncle Bulgaria. Spank Madame Cholet. Tug the Tobermory.’

There they were! Hiding under that stack of crime statistics she was technically supposed to have finished last week. ‘Do you never shut up?’ She stuck them in her pocket along with various bits, bobs, and her phone. Which made a ding-ding noise as soon as she picked it up.

A text message from Susan:

Come home, Roberta. Don’t do this again.

J&N need to see their father.

Humph... She wasn’t stopping them, was she? No. She was being nice and staying away. If anything Susan should be thanking her for no’ coming home and ramming one of those golf trophies right up Logan Sodding McRae’s backside.

Tufty still hadn’t taken the hint. ‘Our wanky little friend did it last night. And I’ll bet you a fish supper he does it again tonight. We can catch him pink-handed!’

She scowled at him. ‘It’s red-handed, you neep. Red-handed.’

‘Nah, think about what he’ll be holding, Sarge. We’re only going to catch him red-handed if he’s squeezing really hard.’

Idiot.

And why was it suddenly her fault? She wasn’t the one who’d clyped to Professional Standards. She wasn’t the traitorous bastard.

‘Sarge? Are you all right? Only you look like something’s just thrown up in your mouth.’

‘Being a sperm donor doesn’t count.’

He stared at her. ‘O — K...?’

She thumbed out a reply on her phone:

I’ll be late home. Got a pervert to catch.

Then stuck it in her pocket. Sniffed. ‘Go down to the desk and book out a pool car. We’ll see if you owe me a fish supper or no.’

Steel curled her top lip, shifting in the passenger seat, elbows in, hands curled so she wouldn’t touch anything. ‘Could you no’ have picked a cleaner one?’

‘This was all they had. And you’re welcome.’ Though, to be fair, the pool car was a bit of a tip. It rustled with discarded crisp packets, chocolate wrappers, biscuit packets, polystyrene takeaway containers, paper bags from Burger King and McDonald’s, crushed Irn-Bru tins, Coke, Fanta, ginger beer... They littered the footwells and piled up on the back seat. And crumbs — crumbs everywhere.

‘Hmph.’ She crossed her arms and stared at her own reflection in the passenger window. Ungrateful lump.

Woods reared up to the right of the dual carriageway, its greenery burnished with gold and amber as the sun sank its way down to a hazy horizon. A patchwork quilt of fields, stitched together with drystane dykes, blanketed the land. The pointy bits of Bennachie just visible in the distance.

Tufty snuck a look at his sulky passenger. ‘Er, Sarge?’

Grunt.

‘I kinda noticed... you’re avoiding Inspector McRae?’

She crossed her arms even tighter, putting a bit more freckly cleavage on show, and grunted again.

‘Only, I worked with him for what, two and a half years? And he was a good boss. A bit obsessed with his cat, and God knows he could put away the lentil soup, but he stood his hand in the pub. Didn’t play favourites.’ Shrug. ‘He’s a good guy.’

‘Don’t make me wash your mouth out with soap and water, Constable.’

‘He always said nice things about you.’ Sort of. If you didn’t count all the horror stories.

‘Because I will if you don’t shut up.’

Ah. Fair enough.

He cleared his throat. ‘OK, so you want to know how I know the Blackburn Womble-Spanker’s going to spank again tonight?’

She turned and scowled at him. ‘And for your information: Logan Scumbag McRae can away and crap in his hat. Then wear it.’

Roberta sat forward and rubbed a clear patch in the fogged-up passenger window. Scowled out at the identikit houses. No’ one hundred percent identical, but imperfect clones of each other. With grey harled bits, stonework details, grey tiled roofs. New enough for the gardens to still look as if they’d just been planted yesterday.

She sighed. ‘Bored.’

‘I wanted to play I Spy, but noooo, that was too childish.’ Tufty didn’t even look up from his mobile phone. Just sat there like an idiot playing some stupid game — it binged and wibbled to a backdrop of irritating plinky-plonky music. ‘And when I tried to discuss quantum chromodynamics, suddenly quarks and gluons were “stupid and boring”. Do you remember that bit? Because—’

She hit him. ‘Where is he then? The World’s Wiliest Womble Walloper?’

More bings and wibbles. ‘Patience, Grasshopper.’

‘And it’s cold. Cold and boring.’ Roberta thumped back into her seat. Then did it again. Like a petulant teenager. Hamming it up with a big long-suffering sigh.

Should’ve brought a book.

She folded her arms. Unfolded them again.

It killed five or ten seconds.

Gah...

Roberta poked a finger at the dashboard, making a dull thunking sound. ‘You know what? We should go visit every house he’s wanked outside. At least then we could scam a cup of tea and a bit of a warm. Maybe even a biscuit or two?’

Roberta dunked her Jaffa Cake in her tea. Bone china, believe it or no’, the tea poured from a pot, with milk in a wee jug. Biscuits in a porcelain dish. Very swish.

It was a nice wee conservatory. Right at the back of the house, it had a view out over stubble fields, angled just right to catch the setting sun. All reds and yellows. Blue shadows reaching out from the drystane dykes. A comfy set of couches flanked a glass-topped coffee table artfully littered with the kind of magazines normally reserved for dentists’ waiting rooms. A couple of wicker chairs with chintzy cushions.

Mrs Rice sat in one of them, fiddling with the pearls around her throat. Couldn’t have been a day over thirty and she was actually wearing a twinset to go with it. Pastel blue. As if she was ninety. She shifted, making the wicker groan. ‘Honestly, I didn’t know where to look. Standing right there in the back garden... pleasuring himself.’ She pointed out at the manicured lawn and shuddered. ‘We had to throw the garden gnomes out in the end. I couldn’t bear to look at them leering.’

Tufty nodded, making a note in his book. Swot. ‘And he was...’ He stared at Roberta as she licked the chocolate off to get at the orangey bit in the middle. ‘Sorry. And you say he was wearing a superhero mask?’

Mrs Rice pulled a face. ‘About all he was wearing. I ask you, when you’re making spaghetti Bolognaise for four, is that really what you want to see through your kitchen window? Spider-Man playing with himself?’

Another note went in Tufty’s book. ‘And did he...?’ A euphemistic hand gesture. ‘You know?’

‘What?’

Thick as two shorts.

Probably better help the poor thing. Roberta leaned forward and put a chocolaty hand on her knee. ‘Did he arrive? Did he succeed in his endeavour? Did he finish his fun?’ A wink. ‘Did he squirt his filthy man-mayonnaise all over your begonias?’

Mrs Rice stared back, horrified.

Roberta popped the remaining half biscuit in her mouth. ‘Cos if he did, then my constable here can scoop it up and we’ll run some tests. Maybe find out who your saucy wee friend is.’

‘Oh...’ Her face curdled for a moment, then she forced an unconvincing smile and reached for the pot. ‘Oh. Er... More tea?’

The kitchen was minuscule, nearly every flat surface covered in carrier bags and boxes of cereal and plates and pots and pans. More carrier bags on the floor.

Mrs Morden shook her head and poured boiling water into four mugs, sending up the burnt-toast scent of cheap instant coffee. Her tracksuit looked nearly as tired as she did.

Tufty shuffled his feet in one of the few patches of clear linoleum. Pen poised.

‘Urgh...’ She stirred the burnt brown liquid with a fork. ‘Well, it’s not every day you see the Caped Crusader having a batwank in your back garden, is it? The security lights came on and everything.’

The kitchen spotlights glittered back from the polished black granite worktops. Oak units. Slate tiles on the floor.

A man in jeans, a Jeremy-Corbyn-as-Che-Guevara T-shirt, and flip-flops handed Steel a mug of tea. ‘Yeah, he was wearing this Incredible Hulk mask. Only the Incredible Hulk is meant to be big and green. And he was neither.’ A wink. ‘If you know what I mean.’

Kids’ toys littered the living room: Lego, Night Garden, SpongeBob, Transformers, My Little Ponies, balls, ray guns, teddy bears... Mrs Allsop wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered as Steel helped herself to yet another Penguin biscuit. ‘Oh it was horrible.’

Tufty nodded. ‘I know. I’m sorry, but you say he was wearing a mask?’

II

Tufty checked his notebook, with his back to the lay-by, reading by the pool car’s headlights. ‘So: that’s one Incredible Hulk; one Iron Man; three Spider-Mans... Spider-Men? no, definitely Spider-Mans; an Asterix the Gaul; two Batmans; one of “those horrible Ninja Turtle things”; and, for some unknown reason, a Peppa Pig too.’

The car’s engine was running, radio on, volume turned up, newsreader booming out her local reports, but it still couldn’t cover the disturbing sounds coming from the bushes at the side of the road.

Steel groaned. ‘Oooooh... that’s better.’

‘... outside the Music Hall from six tomorrow.’

‘Oooooohhhhh... Bit steamy, mind.’

Urgh. The shudder rippled all the way through Tufty wearing cloggity boots. ‘Too much information!’

‘Complaints are pouring in after farmers threatened to bring Union Street to a halt this weekend in protest against the proposed changes to farm subsidy payments.’

‘Should’ve nicked some toilet paper from that last place.’

A man’s voice growled from the car’s speakers. ‘We’re sorry it’s had to come to this, but the government’s left us no choice. If farming’s going to survive in this country, we need this sorted now!’

Tufty stared straight ahead. ‘Could you not have just gone when we were there?’

And the newsreader was back. ‘Finally, miscarriage of justice victim, Jack Wallace, is to sue Police Scotland for what he calls its gross negligence and culture of lies.’

‘Oh don’t be such a girl, Tufty. The bladder wants what the bladder wants.’ Steel emerged from the bushes, wiping her hands on her trousers. ‘Better out than in.’ She froze, staring at the car as Jack Wallace came on the radio.

‘The only way Police Scotland are ever going to change is if we, the people, stand up and sue them. They think they can get away with murder and I’m here to say, “No, you can’t!”’

Steel snarled at the car. ‘Dirty wee shite.’

The newsreader took over again. ‘Police Scotland have declined to comment at this time. Weather now, and there’s sunshine on the way this weekend as high pressure...’

‘Turn it off.’

Blackburn glittered in the darkness — ribbons of yellow streetlight coiling around each other, windows glowing as people settled down to a night in front of the telly. All visible through the windscreen of their wheelie-bin pool car, parked on the outskirts of the dormitory town. Only ‘town’ was stretching it a bit. If you sneezed while driving through the place you’d miss half of it.

Roberta let out a long, slow breath. Sod this for a game of soldiers.

She took her feet off the dashboard. ‘I’m calling it. This was a complete waste of time. Why on earth did I listen to you?’ A quick backhand to the arm had him flinching. ‘You are a detective constable of Very Little Brain!’

‘Ow! Hey, no fair...’

She was gearing up to hit him again, when her phone launched into the theme tune from Cagney & Lacey. The caller ID was enough to make everything taste bitter and coppery. Like sucking on a dirty penny. ‘TRAITOR BASTARD’.

Tufty pointed. ‘You going to answer that?’

‘How did you work out tonight was wanking night?’

‘Might be important.’

She turned in her seat to face him. ‘It’s no’ important. It’s that tosser McRae.’

‘Oh... OK. Well, when I figured out there was probably two shift patterns involved I put one set on one side and one set on the other and shoogled them about till there was a match with the nights he... I thought you wanted to know this?’

Roberta stared past him, through the driver’s window at a little path that snaked away from the road, skirting the back gardens at the edge of Blackburn. There was a shape in the darkness, just visible in the pale grey moonlight that oozed its way through the clouds. A figure, picking its way through the gloom. ‘Over there. By the trees.’

Something must’ve triggered the security light in the garden beyond, because it cracked on.

The figure froze. A man, middle-aged, paunchy, parka jacket with the hood pulled up. Two steps and he was in the gloom again.

Roberta narrowed her eyes. ‘He look suspicious to you?’

Course he did.

She declined the call on her phone and stuffed it in her pocket. Clambered from the car. Closed the door without making a sound.

Her breath fogged around her head.

Tufty got out of the driver’s side and joined her. Standing there in plain view like a vast twit. At least he was bright enough to keep his voice down: ‘What now?’

The guy in the parka jacket was hunched over, fiddling with something at groin height.

She whispered, nice and quiet. ‘Think I owe you a fish supper.’

They crept across the road, sticking to the cover of the whin bushes that grew like massive rustling beasts along the pavement. Closer. Closer.

What was he fiddling with? Please be his willy. Please be his willy...

The moon broke through the clouds — full, heavy, and round — casting its ghostly light over everything.

Closer...

Then her phone launched into Cagney & Sodding Lacey again.

The wee man gave a little squeak, flashed a glance over his shoulder at them, then ran.

Tufty jumped up from his crouch. ‘Come back here!’

Idiot.

She hit him again. ‘Don’t just stand there!’

He lurched into a run, giving chase. Getting faster with every stride.

That was more like it.

She hammered after him, following their pervert across the road, away from the streetlights and back gardens. Over a drystane dyke and into a stubble field. Into the brown, heavy scent of wet earth that squelched beneath her feet.

Moonlight turned the world into a shadow play — silhouettes in shades of blue and grey, the trees: spidery ink blots. Shining patches of silver where puddles reflected back the lunar glow.

The masturbating wee turd had a head start and he was fast, but Tufty was faster. Closing the gap.

Water sploshed up Roberta’s leg as she charged through a hidden puddle. ‘Gahhh!’ Cold. And wet. Slippery too.

A handful of sheep stopped doing whatever it was sheep did at half nine on a Monday night to watch the three of them squelch past. Tufty almost on him. Roberta bringing up the rear. ‘Sodding horrible, muddy, clarty, slippy...’

The filthy sod jinked left, then right, just as Tufty made a grab for him.

Tufty’s hands closed on sod-all. A brief squeak of terror, and he windmilled his arms, trying to stay upright. Then went splattering down in a dark muddy patch, skidding to a halt flat on his back with his arms and legs in the air like a tipped-over tortoise. ‘Aaaaargh!’

The pervert glanced back at the muddy scream, which was why he didn’t see her cut right in front of him, one hand out to snatch at the parka’s hood. She grabbed a handful of furry collar and dug in her heels.

‘Ulk!’ His feet kept going forward, but the rest of him stayed where it was, suspended in mid-air for a breath... before slamming down into the mud with a wet squelchy thump. Right on his backside at Roberta’s feet.

She loomed over him, grinning. ‘Your Womble Whapping days are over, sunshine!’

Tufty dragged their prisoner back across the squelchy field, over the drystane dyke, across the road, and under a streetlight. Ooh, yeah. Tufty was filthy. No’ just a wee bit grubby, but completely and utterly clarted in mud. All up his back. And most of his front. Kind of a funky smell about him too...

Roberta gave him a sniff, then recoiled — wafting a hand in front of her face. ‘Aye, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you fell in more than just mud.’

He grimaced, looking down at his filthy, filthy self. ‘Argh...’

Under the streetlight, their prisoner emerged from the shadow of his parka’s hood. No’ exactly George Clooney. No’ even George Clooney’s ugly brother. A forgettable wee man with a forgettable face and squint glasses.

Roberta fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Do you come here often? Pun intended.’

The nasty wee wanker drew himself up to his full five-foot-four and stuck his chin out. ‘Let go of me, or... or I’ll call the police!’

‘That’s a coincidence: me and my sharny little friend here are the police.’ She patted the whiny sod on his shiny cheek. ‘Now, how can we help you? Having difficulty getting it up? Trouble deciding which house to wank outside?’

He pulled that forgettable chin in again. ‘What?’

‘We know it’s you, sunshine. Now, let’s get you down the station, into a cell, and onto the sex offenders’ register.’

‘But I haven’t done anything!’

Tufty spun him around a half turn, so they were face to face. ‘Oh yeah? Then why did you run?’

‘It’s the middle of the night and you were chasing me. Of course I ran. You could’ve been anyone.’

Tufty loomed. ‘We’re the police.’

‘Well why didn’t you say anything? I thought you were muggers.’ He dug into his parka’s pockets and came out with a dog lead and what looked like a filled plastic poo-bag. ‘I was walking Sheba, and next thing I know I’m being attacked by you pair of maniacs!’

‘Ah...’

Still, could be a ruse. She pointed at the bag. ‘Detective Constable: examine the evidence.’

He stared at her. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘Just give it a squeeze or something. Make sure it’s really poo.’

‘Oh for...’ But he curled his lip and reached out anyway. Gave the bag a quick squeeze. ‘Urgh, it’s still warm.’

‘I see.’ Roberta cleared her throat and looked away. ‘You were walking your dog?’

‘And God knows where she’s got to now. Greyhounds are incredibly sensitive.’

‘Well, you can understand why we thought—’

‘Probably spend half the night looking for her. Thank you very much.’

Roberta shuffled her feet. ‘Yes. Well, no one’s perfect, are they?’ She straightened his jacket. Brushed a bit of mud off his shoulder. ‘Still no harm done, eh?’

‘I’m going to make a complaint, just you see if I don’t!’

Of course he was.

‘Oh joy.’

It just wasn’t fair. Here she was, knocking her pan in, trying to make a difference, and what did she get? Lumbered with a mud-slathered idiot for a sidekick, a night stuck in a manky pool car that smelled like the inside of a wheelie-bin, and a complaint from a poo-gathering member of the public. Because she needed more complaints on her file, didn’t she? Because there weren’t enough on there already.

Pffffff...

Roberta groaned, letting one arm flop across her face. Lying draped across the back seat of the car, one leg dangling over the edge. Making rustling noises in the garbage with her boot.

Tufty had himself another whinge. ‘Come on, it’s freezing out here.’

‘No’ till you’re dry. We’re in enough trouble as it is without—’

Her phone launched into Cagney & Lacey again.

‘Gah...’ She pulled it out and peered at the screen.

Same caller ID as last time: ‘TRAITOR BASTARD’.

The orchestra joined in with the tootly horns as the theme tune really got into its stride.

Tufty knocked on the car window. ‘You’re going to have to talk to him sometime.’

‘Where did it all go wrong, Tufty?’

‘Might have been when you tried to fit Jack Wallace up on kiddy-fiddling charges? Just a guess.’

‘I’m in my prime here.’

‘Please can I get back in the car? I can’t feel my toes.’

‘Arrrrgh!’ She covered her face with both hands, as the phone belted out its tune. ‘Should be catching killers and getting commendations and medals. Nothing snake-alicious ever happens to me...’

‘Look, I’ll answer it if you like?’

‘I am no’ talking to that back-stabbing, two-faced, Judas-licking... motherfunker.’

The phone fell silent. Finally.

Ding-ding. Incoming text. She snuck a glance:

I heard about Wallace suing Police Scotland.

Do you want to talk about it? I’m still at yours.

Logan.

No she sodding wouldn’t. You’re getting deleted, sunshine.

Delete.

Then the car’s police radio had a go. ‘All units: anyone in the vicinity of Blackburn? Got reports of an unidentified individual performing a solo sex-act in the caller’s back garden.’

Ha!

She sat up, grabbed her phone before it disappeared into the drifts of crisp packets. ‘We’re on!’

Tufty jammed on the brakes and the patrol car screeched to a halt outside an identikit house at the end of an identikit street. He flicked off his seatbelt and jumped out into the night. Steel scrambled out of the passenger side, puffing after him as he sprinted up the driveway.

She grabbed the back of his muddy jacket and pointed. ‘Go round the back: catch the bastard!’

He peeled away, running along the front of the house and around the side. A six-foot wooden fence blocked the way. Damn it: gate was locked too.

Two steps back, then lurch forward and jump... clambering over the top and dropping down into the back garden. The whole thing was lit up like a football pitch, a cordon of security lights blazing away. Tiny shed on one side, a collection of kids’ plastic tat toys: Wendy house, tipper truck, swingset, a rocking horse in the shape of a dinosaur — all of it glowing in its Technicolor splendour.

A man stood on the other side of a rotary dryer, in a dressing gown, waving a spade, shouting over the back fence and into the darkness. ‘AND THERE’S MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM, YOU PERVERT FREAK!’ He spun around and the dressing gown flared out, revealing a Darth Vader T-shirt and a pair of tartan jammie bottoms. Bared his teeth at Tufty. Then jabbed the spade at him like a rifle with bayonet fitted. ‘Another one, eh? Come on then!’

Tufty skidded to a halt, hands up. ‘Woah, woah. Police. I’m the police.’

Steel barged out through the kitchen door. ‘Did you get him?’

Mr Spade grinned. ‘Oh I got him all right.’ He jiggled his spade, swinging it about. ‘Right in the face. Pang!’

Tufty went for the back fence, foot on the centre rail, and up... Coming to a halt with one leg straddling the top.

The houses stretched away to the left, hiding behind their own timber fences, but on the right it was nothing but fields bathing in the moonlight. Sinister grey shapes moved across the stubble, their eyes gleaming like jackals’. Sinister sheep. Sheeping sinisterly. But they were the only living things out there. No sign of anyone else.

Sod.

He hopped back down again. ‘Gone.’

‘Damn it!’ Steel did a three-sixty, fists clenched. ‘Motherfunker!’

Mr Spade backed off, nostrils flaring as he grimaced at Tufty. ‘What have you been rolling in?’

Steel grabbed at the guy’s dressing gown. ‘Did you recognise him? The man you hit?’

‘He was wearing a mask. One of those cheap plastic kids’ things.’

She let go of the dressing gown and snatched the spade off him instead. Holding it under the nearest security light, turning it back and forth. ‘Can’t see any blood. Might get some DNA off it, though.’

So close.

Tufty got out his notebook, flipping it open at the last marked page. Pen poised. ‘Right, let’s start at the beginning.’

III

The manky pool car was still slewed half on the road and half on the pavement. Steel slouched back against the bonnet, puffing away on her fake cigarette, making a fog bank all of her own. It gleamed like a solid thing in the moonlight.

Tufty’s phone was warm against his ear, notebook pinned to the roof of the car. He wrote the word ‘MAYBE’ in it and underlined it three times. ‘Yeah. OK. Thanks. Bye.’ He hung up. ‘Maud says she’ll do her best, but the lab’s backed up as it is.’

Steel pulled the e-cigarette from her mouth for long enough to spit in the gutter. ‘Which is secret SEB code for “no’ a chance in hell”. Sod.’

‘This still means you owe me a fish supper, though, right? I mean, I predicted he’d be out and about tonight. And, ta-daaaa!’

But Steel just stared off into the distance, eyebrows knitting away at something just inside her head. ‘You fiddled about two shift patterns to work it out?’

About time she took an interest.

‘Told you: I has a clever.’ He leaned over the bonnet at her. ‘It was pretty obvious he was on a two-week cycle, so probably works offshore. The tricky part was the other shift pattern, but then I had an even cleverer!’

She stared at him. ‘Did your mum drop you on your head when you were a kid?’

That was the trouble with old people — no appreciation of popular culture.

‘See, it had to be a really weird shift pattern to match up them being on nights while he does his thing. And the only shift pattern I could think of that’s that screwed up is the one I had to do for three years up in Banff, back when I was divisional police officer. So...?’

A slow smile dawned as the penny dropped.

‘He’s living with a cop. Some spod in uniform’s boyfriend is the Blackburn Womble Whacker!’ Steel hauled out her phone and dialled, puffing away. ‘Come on, come on, come— Ernie? How many uniform we got living in Blackburn?... Uh-huh.’ She looked up at Tufty. ‘He’s got three.’ Back to the phone. ‘How many off duty tonight?... Two? Oh Ernie: you’re a sexy wee fish, you know that, don’t you? Now give me a name and address for the one who’s working.’

The house wasn’t as big and grand as the last one they’d visited, but it’d been squeezed out of a similar mould. Grey harling, stonework features around the windows, grey tiles on the roof. They’d put the effort in and planted a tree right in the middle of the teabag-sized front garden, though. It didn’t look healthy.

Steel thumped her car door shut with a flourish. Then held her arms wide, beaming. ‘Isn’t it a lovely night?’ She swaggered up the path, leaving a trail of vape behind her that glowed in the moonlight.

Woman was insane. But Tufty followed her anyway.

At the front door she gave a couple of hoppity-skippity dance steps then swept into a curtsey, one hand gesturing at the letterbox. ‘If you would be so kind, my dearest Constable Quirrel?’

Completely crackers.

He rang the bell.

She rocked back and forth on her heels. Hands in her pockets. Grin on her face. ‘Oh, the excitement!’

A shadow moved on the other side of the frosted glass pane set into the middle of the door. Then a muffled mushy voice joined it. ‘Hello?’

Steel pressed the doorbell again.

‘This better not be Jehovah’s Witnesses! I told you lot last time.’ The door opened and there was Mr Parka, only he’d ditched the jacket for a Winnie-the-Pooh sweatshirt, boxer shorts, and slippers. He had a bag of frozen sweetcorn in one hand, holding it over his nose and mouth.

He took one look at them and his bloodshot eyes widened. ‘Oh...’

Steel grinned at him. ‘Mr Corbet? Mr Alan Corbet? Your wife’s at work tonight, isn’t she? Pounding the beat, while you’re out pounding your meat.’

He lowered the sweetcorn, showing off two swollen lips and a pair of nostrils with toilet paper sticking out of them — bright red where it disappeared up inside his head. He licked his top lip, setting a crack bleeding again. ‘It...’ A deep breath, then Mr Parka stuck his chest out, chin up. ‘Have you found my dog yet?’

Steel’s grin got even wider.

Steel whistled a happy tune as she swaggered her way out of Interview Room Four, paused on the threshold and cast a wink back at the room’s remaining occupants. ‘I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone for a minute. No inappropriate touching though, this is a family show.’

Alan Corbet sat on the other side of the interview table, the skin around his eyes darkening to a lovely shade of reddish-purple. Bottom lip trembling. Shoulders quivering. He reached up with cuffed hands and wiped tears from his cheek.

Sitting next to him, his solicitor sighed and dug a hankie out of her suit pocket. Handed it over as Tufty closed the door.

Steel beamed. ‘Oh, I enjoyed that.’

Tufty sagged and little flakes of dried mud tumbled from his filthy suit to the grey terrazzo floor. ‘Can we go home now?’

‘Don’t be daft: it’s time to celebrate!’ She grabbed him by the shoulders like she was going in for a kiss, then cringed back a bit. Sniffed at her hands. ‘Pffffff... On second thoughts, you really, really need a wash. Gah...’ She wiggled her fingers, then wiped them on the wall. ‘Just make sure you get Mr Corbet back to his cell, before—’

‘ALAN!’ An officer stormed up the corridor in full uniform kit, complete with stabproof vest, utility belt and high-viz waistcoat. Her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Face like the underside of a hammer as it whistles down towards a nail. ‘Where is he, I’LL KILL HIM!’

Steel hissed at Tufty out the side of her mouth. ‘Run away!’

Ahh... Water lapped across Tufty’s chest, bringing a cloudscape of bubbles with it. Frothy white bubbles. Warm and lemony-scented. He reached out and picked his mug of tea off the toilet lid. Had a sip.

Bliss.

OK, so it wasn’t the biggest bathroom in the whole world — wasn’t the grandest either — but right now there was nowhere better. Four walls of off-white tiles, a medicine cabinet, a sink, a wee plastic doodah for holding your toothbrush, a heated towel rail, a toilet of his very own, and a bath. A lovely, luxurious, bubbly bath. Just the thing to share with an old friend.

Mr Einstein floated out from the cumulonimbus foam, orange beak first, followed by his tubby yellow body. Tail last to emerge from the bubbles.

‘Hello, Mr Einstein.’

Tufty put on a high-pitched pirate voice. ‘Arrrrr Jim lad. Ye better watch yerself, there be a vast scary beastie lurkin’ in the water, right next to the hairy islands! Arrrrrrr...’

‘Oh noes, Mr Einstein! What if it’s — dan, dan daaaaaa! — the Cockness Monster? What if—’

The phone on the toilet lid buzzed, then launched into its generic ringtone.

‘Ah... bums.’ He dried his hands on the towel lying by the bath and answered the thing. ‘Hello?’

Steel’s voice grumped out of the phone at him. ‘For your information, Constable, I didn’t fit Jack Wallace up... OK, so maybe I did, a little, on the paedophile charges, but he’s still a raping scumbag, understand?’

Great. Because Tufty wasn’t allowed to have five minutes’ peace, was he?

‘I’m in the bath.’

‘Four women. That’s how many he brutalised. And we couldn’t lay a finger on him for it. So yes, I fitted him up. Does that make me a bad person?’

‘Well, technically—’

‘I mean, what was I supposed to do, let him get away with it? Let him attack more women? Is that what you want?’

Tufty shared a look with Mr Einstein, rolling his eyes and pulling a face. ‘I didn’t say anything! I’m an innocent bystander here. In the bath!’

‘That’s right, avoid the question. Just like a bloody man. And while we’re at it: have you done that sodding e-fit yet?’

‘What? No. We went out to Blackburn and caught—’

‘For God’s sake, Constable, do I have to do everything? I want that on my desk seven a.m. tomorrow morning!’

Silence.

She’d hung up.

Lovely.

Tufty put his phone down on the toilet lid, clutched Mr Einstein to his chest, and slowly sank below the bubbles. ‘Motherfunker...’

And then there was nothing but foam.

Roberta scowled out through the windscreen. The sky licked at the roofs of the buildings — granite terrace on this side of the road, granite semis on the other. Trees making the whole place look quaint and olde-worlde. Sulphur-yellow streetlights painting it in shades of yellow and black. Like a wasp. Dangerous.

Her MX-5 was a lot tidier than the pool car, but then she wasn’t a complete sodding pig.

She cracked the window, letting in the cool night air. A faint whiff of decomposing leaves oozed out from Victoria Park, down at the end of the street. A hint of roses from the garden she’d parked outside.

The house on the other side of the road was dark.

Expectant.

Waiting.

Her phone dinged at her.

Susan:

She thumbed out a reply:

Ding-ding:

Oh for God’s sake...

‘All right, all right.’ She stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. Sat there for a minute with the engine running.

Wherever Jack Wallace was, he wasn’t here.

Just had to hope he wasn’t off attacking some poor bloody woman somewhere. Because, right now, there was sod-all she could do about it.

One last glare, then Roberta put her MX-5 in gear and drove away into the night.