Now We Are Dead

I

Sunlight washed in through the French doors, making the kitchen work surface gleam like an oiled stripper.

Susan took a sheet of paper and pinned it to the fridge door amongst all the other kids’ pictures: frogs, princesses, unicorns, dragons, and monster trucks. All of which looked as if they’d been done during Picasso’s Off His Face period. The new one was some sort of dinosaur/unicorn hybrid wearing a pirate hat.

She still had a lovely arse — Susan, no’ the dinosaur — firm and round and spankable. The kind of bum you could really sink your teeth into. The rest of her wasn’t bad either. A curvier Doris Day in her heyday, wearing a sundress covered in little pink flowers. Shame about the Crocs, though.

The perpetrator of the fridge’s latest artistic travesty was sitting at the breakfast bar, shovelling cornflakes into her gob and swilling down the orange juice. Her wee sister, on the other hand, wheeched round and round the floor with a toy truck, making roaring noises.

The toast went chlack! and Susan fished it out. Dumped both slices on a plate. ‘Come on, Robbie, it wouldn’t kill you to speak to the man.’

Roberta took hold of the litter tray and gave it a shake, evening out the wooden pellets and making dark things rise from the depths. She scooped them out with a plastic bag. Held it up for the world to see. ‘Oh look, Mr Rumpole’s made a little Logan McRae! Isn’t that clever? Looks just like him.’

‘The girls need to see their father.’

The turd went in the bin, and her hands went under the tap. ‘Am I stopping them?’

‘I’m serious.’

‘And I’m late.’ She kissed Jasmine on the head—

‘Gerroffus, Mum.’

— swept Naomi up for a hug and a kiss.

Giggles.

Then groped that magnificent arse of Susan’s, gave her a smooch, accepted the proffered slices of hot buttered toast and swept from the room.

Susan’s voice thumped out from the kitchen as Roberta marched down the hall. ‘Don’t be late tonight! We’re going to see that play. And remember to pick up my trophy from the engravers!’

‘Love you.’

Photos of every family holiday they’d ever taken lined the walls. Just the two of them in Benidorm, Margate, Normandy, Shetland, Edinburgh, Wales. Half a dozen pictures of Susan on her own, showing off her latest golfing trophy. That trip to New York when Susan was six months pregnant. Then more holidays with the addition of a teeny weeny Jasmine — getting bigger and bigger. And finally: all four of them on the sands at Lossiemouth, everyone but Naomi grinning at the camera — she was too busy trying to eat a flip-flop.

Roberta grabbed her jacket from the coat rack, chomping on toast as she plucked car keys from the bowl and pulled out her phone. Bumping out the front door, dialling and chewing all at the same time. Multitasking.

Sunlight dappled through the trees, making leopard-spot shadows undulate across the garden. Next door were getting their roof redone — the whole place shrouded in scaffolding, their builders far too well behaved to wolf whistle. Well, Rubislaw Den was a classy area. Couldn’t have riff-raff swinging from the scaffolding with their sexual harassment and hairy arse-cracks on show.

Barrett’s voice sounded in her ear, all efficient and polite. ‘CID office, can I help you?’

‘Aye, aye, Davey. Is everyone in?’

‘In and working, Sarge.’

‘God, that’ll be a first.’ She plipped the locks on her MX-5 and clambered in behind the wheel. Propped the toast up on the dashboard. ‘What about Beatrice Edwards?’

‘Your rape victim? Nothing so far.’

She started the car and pulled away from the kerb. ‘But they’ve arrested that crenelated fudgemonkey Wallace, right?’

‘Actually, the word of the day is—’

‘Don’t mess with me today, Davey.’

‘Sorry, Sarge.’

She turned left at the bottom of the street, past rows and rows of pale granite homes. ‘I’m off to pick up Tufty. With any luck that bash on the head will have dunted some sense into it.’

‘Well, we can always dream, can’t— Oops. Hold on, got a visitor.’

A muffled voice in the background sounded suspiciously like Detective Chief Infector Simon Stinky Rutherford. ‘Where’s Detective Sergeant Steel?’

‘Don’t you dare, Davey!’

‘Sir. She’s just left to collect Constable Quirrel from the hospital.’

‘Oh. Good. And what about these phones and things: progress?’

‘Tell him to jam them up his fundamental orifice.’

‘Got our first batch of people coming in to collect their property later today.’

‘Excellent. Well, keep up the good work, and tell DS Steel I need to see her as soon as she gets back. Top priority.’

‘Will do, sir.’ He lowered his voice, all conspiratorial. ‘You get that?’

‘Oh I can hardly wait.’

She locked her MX-5 and sauntered across the car park, puffing away on her fake cigarette. Making clouds of watermelon steam. That was the trouble with real cigarettes, they didn’t come in fun fruity flavours. And ‘menthol’ didn’t count. That was just like smoking a rolled-up old person.

Anyway: twenty to nine and the hospital car park was already crowded with the usual collection of rustbuckets and massive four-by-fours that never had to deal with anything more ‘off-road’ than the potholes on Great Western Road.

Nice day, though. Warm and sunny.

What was that, four days in a row? Probably due a monsoon by the end of the week, then. Or snow. After all, it was only July. Probably be sledging down School Hill in—

The harsh breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep of a car horn made her jump, then scuffle off to the side as a hatchback growled past on lowered suspension and alloy rims. Peugeot 208 with an oversized spoiler and a neon-orange paintjob. The wee turd behind the wheel couldn’t have been much past seventeen: a baseball cap on backwards and a pair of oversized dark sunglasses perched on a long nose. Young woman in the passenger seat.

The words ‘TOMMY & JOSIE’ were printed on a strip at the top of the windscreen. Did people really still do that?

And it was a bit early in the day for boy racers too.

The Peugeot stopped at the end of the row, as close as you could actually get to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary in a car these days. Then the passenger door popped open and the young woman got out. Blonde hair long enough to reach the small of her back, a mole on her right cheek. She turned and blew a kiss back into the car, with pouty red lips.

Well, well, well. If it wasn’t the star of Tufty’s erotic bathroom photo shoot — the one on the stolen phone. Which meant the guy behind the wheel was the phone’s owner. Just as well he was barely out of nappies, because in real life, with her clothes on, his photographic model didn’t look a day over fifteen. Skin-tight jeans, bright-red crop top, denim jacket, and shiny-white trainers with three-inch soles.

Little Miss Porn Star trotted around to the driver’s side and he buzzed the window down, letting out his horrible Bmmmm-tsh-Bmmmm-tsh-Bmmmm-tsh techno music. She gave him a quick snog, winked, then blew him another kiss, hopped over the wooden barrier and skipped across the road towards the hospital’s main entrance. ‘TOMMY’ watched her all the way. Probably ogling her fifteen-year-old backside, having nasty filthy thoughts about what he’d do to it later.

Roberta marched over, narrowed her eyes, leaned forward and stared into the car.

‘JOSIE’ disappeared through the automatic doors and ‘TOMMY’ faced front again. Saw Roberta staring at him and flinched.

‘The hell you looking at, Granny?’ He gave her the finger, cranked up the tunes, and drove off. BMMMM-TSH-BMMMM-TSH-BMMMM-TSH...

Who the fudgemonkeying motherfunker was he calling ‘Granny’?

She whipped out her phone and took a photo of the Peugeot’s number plate before it disappeared. Little sod was about to find out what happened when you screwed about with the Sexual Offences (Scotland) Act 2009.

Roberta thumbed out a quick text to go with the picture:

The Peugeot BMMMM-TSHed its way along the road skirting the car park, then zoomed off with a boy-racer roar of oversized exhaust.

Dick.

Her phone launched into Cagney & Lacey.

‘Gordy?’

‘Aye, hold on. System’s running like a one-legged dog the day... OK. Registered owner is Angela Shand, sixteen Oldfold Gardens, Milltimber.’

‘He didn’t look much like an Angela.’

‘Checking insurance details... Here we go: named driver is Thomas Corona Shand, seventeen, resident at the same address.’

‘Seventeen? Insurance must be costing them a sodding fortune.’ Still, if ‘JOSIE’ was fifteen instead of fourteen, Tommy would have a decent chance of getting off when it came before the Procurator Fiscal. A less than two-year difference got him a free pass under Section Thirty-Nine.

Two years and a day got him a stint at Her Majesty’s Pleasure and his very own place on the Sex Offenders’ Register.

Roberta looked back towards the hospital entrance — a dirty-grey cantilever overhanging a clot of smokers in their hospital dressing gowns, at the end of a turning circle marked ‘NO ENTRY’ and ‘BUSES ONLY’.

OK, so ‘JOSIE’ hadn’t exactly looked as if she was being coerced in the photos, but that didn’t mean Tommy Shand hadn’t pressurised her into it. Or that the photography session was the first time. Or that she wasn’t fourteen in real life.

And it’d only take a minute to check.

‘We done?’

‘Aye. Thanks, Gordy.’ She hung up and hurried across the road. Skirted the smoky clot, and stepped in through the automatic doors. No sign of ‘JOSIE’ in the wee shop just inside the main entrance. Roberta peered over the balustrade at the stairs leading down to the lower level. No sign of ‘JOSIE’ there either.

There were rows of plastic chairs, bolted to the floor in front of the reception desk at the far end of the lobby. A half-dozen wheezy-looking men and women peppered the rows... and there she was, sitting on her own, head down so her hair hung forward over her face nearly into her lap. She was fiddling with the ends, knees together, one leg jumping up and down on its own.

Roberta sank into the seat next to her. ‘Aye, aye.’

She flinched upright, eyes wide and startled.

‘It’s OK, I’m a police officer, no’ a pervert.’ Roberta flashed her warrant card. ‘See?’

‘Hello?’ A wee voice, wobbly, nervous. Like the smile.

‘You OK? Cos you look—’

‘Dad’s got cancer.’ The smile slipped a little. One shoulder came up in a lopsided shrug. ‘It’s moved to his lungs and his spine.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’ Roberta cleared her throat. ‘So... you in visiting?’

A nod. ‘Waiting for Mum, Aunty Vicki, and Uncle Pete. Don’t want to go in on my own.’ She shrank a little in her seat, her voice shrinking too. ‘He’s going to die.’

‘That sucks arseholes.’

She nodded. Blinked a couple of times. Ran a hand across her eyes.

‘I’m Roberta, by the way.’

A sniff. Another nod. ‘Josie.’

‘How old are you, Josie?’

‘Fifteen.’ She went back to fiddling with her hair. ‘But I’ll be sixteen in January.’

So Tommy probably wasn’t going on the register. But the randy wee sod was still getting charged. Shagging a fifteen-year-old. There were things you could turn a blind eye to, and things you couldn’t. Plus there was the ‘Granny’ thing. But mostly the underage sex.

Roberta pointed towards the entrance. ‘Your boyfriend drop you off?’

Another nod. ‘We grew up next door to each other.’

‘No’ easy being fifteen, dealing with stuff like this.’ She dug a business card out of her pocket and wrote her mobile number on the back. Held it out. ‘If you’re ever in trouble, I want you to give me a call, OK?’

Voices came from the lobby behind them: ‘No, Pete, I don’t have to agree with you. You know nothing about it.’

‘I’m not fighting with you, Vicki, I’m just saying that if I’d taken Anderson Drive we would’ve got stuck at the roadworks.’

Josie looked over her shoulder. Stood. Pulled on her wobbly smile again. ‘Mum.’

Roberta creaked to her feet and turned.

Two women and a man were bustling towards the seating area.

The women couldn’t have looked more different if they’d tried. One was short, with a shoulder-length tumble of nearly-blonde curls, with half an inch of roots showing. Round cheeks and a slightly piggy nose. Terrible clothes, though, as if she’d bought the entire outfit from Frumps-R-Us. The other woman was tall, with long features and a short brown bob, tweed jacket and jeans. Oh aren’t I so stylish?

Josie hugged the frumpy one, while Aunty Vicki had another go at Uncle Pete: ‘For goodness’ sake, could you not have put on a tie? Why do you always have to look like a slob?’

Pete sighed. ‘I don’t need to wear a tie to visit my own brother!’ A tie probably wouldn’t have helped, he’d still be a middle-aged man with greying sideburns and a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. High forehead. A little chubby. The kind of person who coached under-fifteens’ football and spent his life ferrying his kids to dance class and chess club. The kind whose neighbours ended up on Crimewatch saying what a nice guy he was and how no one could have guessed that he’d finally snap and bury his dismembered wife under the patio.

Josie’s mum gave one last squeeze and backed away a couple of steps. Put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. ‘Did you have a nice sleepover at Emma’s, sweetheart?’ Then she seemed to notice Roberta, standing right there beside her daughter. ‘I’m sorry, are you...?’

Josie pointed. ‘Mum, this is Roberta, she’s a police officer.’

Her mum paled, reached out a hand and grabbed the back of a seat. ‘Is Dan... Is... Did he...?’

‘Nah, I was just passing and Josie looked a bit worried. Thought I’d see if I could help.’

Aunt Vicki stuck her hands on her hips. ‘If you’re looking for something to do, Officer, I’d suggest tracking down the animal that attacked that poor woman yesterday!’

Cheeky tweed-wearing cow.

Roberta took a step towards her, but Uncle Pete got in the way.

‘Come on, Victoria, she was only trying to be nice to Josie.’

‘Don’t fawn, Peter.’ Aunt Vicki couldn’t even look at him. ‘If the police did their jobs properly that kind of thing would never happen!’

‘She doesn’t mean it.’

‘Yes I bloody do!’

Roberta sniffed. ‘It’s OK. I was just leaving anyway.’ She gave Josie a wee hug. ‘Don’t lose that number.’ Then turned and sauntered off, hands in pockets.

With any luck Uncle Pete would snap sooner rather than later. And there wasn’t a jury in the land that would convict him for it.

Meantime, she had a detective constable to collect.

Tufty stepped out of the ward and gave her a smile. ‘I did has scrambled eggs for breakfast.’ They’d taped a bit of gauze to the back of his head and his left eye was aubergine-purple around the outside — the white marred with a fingernail-sized splodge of red — but other than that he looked OK. Or as OK as he ever did. Scrawny wee spud that he was.

Roberta stuck her hands in her pockets and slouched against the wall. ‘No Cone of Shame, then?’

‘Don’t know what they did to it, though. Tasted like linoleum laced with furniture polish.’

A nurse hurried out of the ward, pretty in a pneumatic, spank-me-Matron, jolly-hockey-sticks kind of way.

She bustled up to Tufty and handed him a bit of paper. ‘Just in case.’ She winked, then sashayed away, putting a bit of bum into it.

Unbelievable.

Roberta raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh aye?’

Tufty stuck the note in his pocket and grinned. ‘So, what we doing today?’

‘Nurses by the look of it.’ She shook her head. ‘What the hell do perky young things see in you? Two in two days. Look at you: a whippet that’s been bashed by the ugly stick.’

‘Jealous much?’

‘I’ll never understand heterosexual women as long as I live.’ She led the way down the corridor, making for the lifts. ‘Back in the real world — your mate and mine: Kenny Milne. Going to lean on him a little bit.’

‘Ah...’ Tufty pulled a face. ‘Without a lawyer?’

‘I don’t give a toss about “admissible in court”, I care about the wee kids he had hiding in his wardrobe. And if we’re lucky, he’ll be too off his face on painkillers to remember we did it.’

Tufty sneaked up the corridor to the ward door. Checked both ways. No one else in sight, just him and Steel. She’d done something different with her hair today, like comb it with an angry badger. ‘Clear.’ He opened the door and slipped inside.

Steel followed with a very rude groaning noise.

The ward beds were nearly empty, just an old man snoring away and a young man playing something on his iPad, headphones on. Kenny Milne was in the bed by the window. And going by the state of him, it was clear he wouldn’t be messing with Grand Master Police Ninja Tufty ever again. He had one leg in plaster, one arm too. His face was a road map of bruises, and that nose of his would never be straight again.

‘Bloody hell, Tufty, what kind of animal are you?’

A shrug. ‘Can’t take all the credit. Those two auld mannies had a go at him while I was fighting off that drunk wifie. Think they battered him with the RNLI collecting tin.’

She grabbed the privacy curtain and hauled it around Kenny’s bed, setting the rail rattling, sealing them in. ‘Kenny. Kenster. Ken-fit-I-mean. How they hanging?’

Milne’s head came around slowly, eyes big as dung beetles and twice as shiny. That was a lot of painkillers. He blinked at them. ‘Mmmm... Thirsty...’ Ooh look, missing teeth.

Seriously injured and off his face on drugs. There was no way questioning him was legal. ‘Sarge, you sure about this?’

‘Go wait outside, then. Kenny and me’s having a wee chat.’ She settled on the side of the bed. ‘So, Kenny, be honest now: have you been fiddling with the wee kiddies we found at your place?’

‘Sore.’

‘Good. Where’d you get the kids from?’

‘You wanna know a secret?’ He leaned forward, wobbling, one bruised hand coming up to put a finger to his battered lips. ‘Shhh... See when a prozzie has a kid? No one cares about them, right? No one cares... So, I care. Yup. Care, care, care...’

‘You saying their mums don’t mind you interfering with them?’

‘Not interfering!’ A scowl. ‘I’m... I’m, you know, running a day care centre! Should get a medal. Looking after... after prozzies’ kids... No one cares, but me.’ He grabbed Steel’s hand. ‘Teaching them a trade, aren’t I? Looking after them and teaching them a trade. Something to fall back on.’ He nodded, agreeing with himself. ‘So what if their mums are on... on the heroin and smack? I’m teaching them a trade.’

‘You sure you’re no’ interfering with them?’

‘Gotta pick... pick a pocket...’

Steel let out a little sigh, clearly a bit relieved by that. ‘The two wee kids, I need their mums’ names.’

‘Is a secret.’

‘No’ between us though, right, Kenny? You and me are best mates.’

His face made a passable impersonation of someone thinking. ‘Oh... OK. I forgot. Yeah...’

‘Come on then, Kenny, the mums’ names, soon as you like.’

‘Right. Daphne... Daphne McClellan and... and Sally Gray.’

She glanced over at Tufty. ‘You get that?’

Oh. Right. Erm... ‘You don’t want me to write it down in my notebook, do you? The one that could get seized as evidence if anyone found out that we did,’ Tufty waggled a finger in a circle taking in the curtained-off bed, ‘this?’

‘Fair enough.’ She prised Kenny’s hand off her own and pushed him back into his pillows. ‘Me and my performing monkey here are off to do important police things. You don’t be a stranger, OK?’ Then she hopped off the bed and swept out through the curtains.

Tufty wiggled his fingers in front of Kenny’s face, putting on a ghosty-hypnotist voice. ‘You are sleeeeping and you dreeeeamed all this. Weeee were never heeeere...’

Worth a try anyway.

By the time he escaped the curtains and then the ward, Steel was already halfway down the corridor.

He hurried after her, catching up as she marched straight past the lifts. ‘Thought we were going back to the station?’

‘Soon as we’ve made a wee stop.’

Yeah... Why did that sound ominous?

II

Steel marched through the warren of corridors, boot heels clacking out a drumbeat against the patchwork floor.

Tufty trotted along beside her. ‘Wherever we’re going, it’s not going to get me into trouble, is it?’

‘Let’s no’ spoil the surprise, eh?’

Yeah... That was ominous.

They turned a corner and there was a lanky wee PC poking away at a vending machine, a plastic cup of coffee in his other hand. The machine whirred and clunked, something falling down into the retrieval tray. He collected his purchase and stood, turned, clapped eyes on Steel and flinched like he’d been slapped.

She grinned at him. ‘Hope that Twix is for me.’

‘I didn’t tell anyone!’

‘Good boy.’ She helped herself to his coffee. ‘Beatrice Edwards said anything yet?’

Lanky sent Tufty a pleading look: help me. Help me!

Tufty shrugged back. You’re on your own, sunshine.

Steel poked him on the arm. ‘Sometime today would be good, Constable.’

Lanky sniffed. ‘It... She still can’t remember anything. Doctors say it’s the trauma.’

Another poke. ‘Aye, well, you won’t mind if I have a wee chat with her, will you? Maybe she’ll speak to—’

A voice growled out behind them. Big and extremely hacked off. ‘Detective Sergeant Steel! What exactly do you think you’re doing here?’ DI Vine.

Oh lovely.

They were going to get fired for certain now.

Steel had a sip of her stolen coffee. ‘Needs more sugar.’

Vine stormed up, dragging his two sidekicks with him in all their silly-haircutted glory. ‘I’m talking to you, Sergeant!’

Sidekick Number One sniggered.

‘Were you, Guv? Sorry, didn’t notice.’ Another sip. ‘DC Quirrel and me were just on our way past and the constable here stopped us to ask a question.’ She stared at Lanky. ‘Didn’t you, Constable?’

‘Er... Yes?’

Vine crossed his arms and loomed. ‘And?’

‘Er...’ There was that look again: help me. HELP ME!

Oh all right, then.

Tufty stood to attention like a good little boy. ‘He wanted to know about the new minimum sentencing tariffs for possession with intent.’

‘Yes. Right. That’s what I was asking! Sentencing tariffs.’

Steel patted him on the shoulder, then stole his Twix. ‘Glad I could help.’ Before marching off in a hail of clattering boot heels.

Tufty shared a wee pained smile with Lanky, then hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I’d better... Yeah.’

Escape!

Steel waltzed into the CID office, arms out like she was about to bless them all. ‘Davey, my little man, what news from the coalface?’

The desks were still covered in phone chargers and extension leads, Lund and Harmsworth making calls on other people’s mobiles.

‘... Hello? Yes, this is DC Lund, I’m calling about a stolen mobile phone?’

Harmsworth folded forward and banged his head on the desk. ‘No. No, we don’t want to arrest your neighbour just because he’s English...’

‘No, sir, I didn’t steal your phone. This is the police?... That’s right.’

Barrett pointed at his precious evidence crates. ‘That box are contacted and waiting pickup. That one’s phones we can’t unlock. And that—’

‘Yeah, blah, blah, blah.’ Steel hauled up her trousers. ‘What about my look-out request on Philip Dog-Murdering-Fudgemonkey Innes?’

He checked his clipboard. ‘They’re still looking. And “fudgemonkey” was yesterday. Today we’re saying “felchbunny” for bad stuff, or “sproing!” if it’s good.’

‘Hmph, takes all sorts.’

Another thump as Harmsworth dunted his head off the desk again. ‘Because I’m calling about your mobile phone, remember?... No.’

Steel settled on the edge of her desk. ‘Chase up the look-out. And remind me to check in on Agnes Galloway too. Make sure she’s doing OK.’

Barrett made a note. ‘Are you remembering DCI Rutherford?’

Yet another thump. ‘Because being English isn’t a crime, that’s why!’

‘Don’t spoil my good mood, eh, Davey? Who’s in charge of working girls these days?’

‘DI Beattie’s team.’

Steel groaned. ‘God help us.’

‘Look, do you want this phone back or not?’

Barrett checked his clipboard again. ‘Oh, and Tufty? A PC Mackintosh came past wanting to talk about some Yorkshire terrier’s funeral arrangements?’

Steel nudged him in the ribs with an elbow. ‘She’s a bit of a hottie too. Nurses and Wildlife Crime Officers chasing after you? You’re like ugly catnip for short-sighted women.’

Tufty beamed. ‘I has a popular!’

‘Aye, well, there’s no accounting for taste. Now get your arse on those phones, I want as many of them reunited with their rightful owners as possible before I have to brave DCI Rutherford and his Horrible Meeting of Doom.’

You could tell a lot about a police officer by looking at their office. Which was why Detective Inspector Beattie’s office was a complete and utter craphole. Piles of paperwork on the desk. Piles of paperwork on the floor. Piles of paperwork on the filing cabinets. Evidence bags heaped on top of the piles of paperwork on the filing cabinets. A whiteboard solid with scribbled stuff. And sitting behind the desk, five-foot-eight of pure useless in a saggy suit. Biscuit crumbs mixed with beardy dandruff all down the front of his off-grey shirt. What was probably egg yolk on his brown tie.

He was on the phone, one hand scrunched over his eyes as Roberta barged in. ‘I don’t care... Do I look like I care? No... No, because I don’t. Now get your finger out!’ Beattie looked up as Roberta collapsed into the only visitors’ chair no’ covered in crap. Scowled and hung up. ‘You’re supposed to knock. And if this is about that sponsored swim, I’m skint, OK?’

Rude little fudgemonkey.

She stretched out her legs, hands linked behind her head. ‘You’re in charge of the Prozzie Patrol, Beardie. I need details on two of your congregation: Daphne McClellan and Sally Gray. And a cuppa wouldn’t go amiss either.’

His face darkened. ‘I do not make tea for sergeants, Sergeant.’

Roberta let her smile grow cold. Stared right back.

He held her gaze for a couple of beats — three seconds tops — before looking away. Then stood and rifled through a filing cabinet. ‘Daphne McClellan; AKA: Daphne Macintyre; AKA: Natasha Sparkles, back when she was lap-dancing at Secret Service.’ He pulled out a file and held it out.

She stayed where she was, hands behind her head.

Beattie shuffled forward and placed it in her lap. Then went back to the files. ‘Sally Gray, AKA: Sally Anderson. Moved over here from Northern Ireland in the noughties.’ He pulled out another file. ‘Just bring them back when you’ve finished.’

Had to hand it to the useless hairy wee lump — he IDed both girls off the top of his head. Didn’t mean she was letting him get away with that ‘I don’t make tea for sergeants’ dig, though.

She nodded at the files. ‘Why don’t you summarise them for me.’

A blush reddened the skin beneath the beard. Beattie gathered up both files and scampered back to the safety of his desk. Clearing his throat as he flicked through them. ‘Pretty much identical. Form for soliciting, possession, assault, shoplifting... Social services. Methadone. Relapse. Possession again. And again. And again. Public urination...’ A sigh. ‘If it wasn’t for the drugs, maybe? But life’s not like that for these girls.’

‘What about kids?’

Beattie checked the files again. ‘Sally’s got four. Two in care. Daphne has three: they stay with her mother in Stonehaven.’

Aye right.

Roberta had a dig at her underwire. How come no bugger could make a bra that fitted properly? Wasn’t as if boobs were a new invention. ‘We picked up two wee kids at Kenny Milne’s house, day before yesterday. Kenny says they’re Daphne and Sally’s. He’s been training them up Fagin-style and—’

The office door battered open and a PC scuttered into the room, nearly colliding with a pile of boxes. He was far too young to be shaving, never mind wear a police uniform. A tenner said he couldn’t get served in a pub. Probably didn’t even have pubes yet. He completely ignored Beattie, which was nice, and turned to Roberta instead. Face all shiny, breathing like a pervert in a changing room. ‘Sergeant... Sergeant Steel?... The DCI’s... looking for you... and... and he’s... I mean a hundred percent right now.’

Pff...

Ah well, better get it over with.

And hopefully, by now, the team had been in touch with enough stolen-phone owners to make DCI Rutherford shut up about his stupid press conference.

She creaked to her feet. ‘Thanks for the info, Beardie. Get some biscuits in for next time, though, eh?’ She poked the panting PC. ‘Come on then, sweaty, don’t want to keep the big man waiting, do we? He might blame you.’

The nervous, sweaty wee PC hopped from one foot to the other as Roberta pushed through into the CID office. ‘He really did say it was urgent!’

‘Blah, blah, blah.’ She frowned. ‘Where’s everyone gone?’

The only person in the room was Tufty, with his stupid gauze and stupider black eye. He tossed a re-boxed phone into the crate marked ‘CAN’T UNLOCK’. ‘Harmsworth was moaning so much that Lund wheeched him off for a cup of tea and a Wagon Wheel. Barrett’s taking the latest batch of mobiles down to Lost-and-Found for collection. And I am working away like the brave little soldier I am.’

‘I mean, really, really, really urgent!’

She sighed. ‘Everyone with a pip on their shoulder says it’s urgent. Whatever they want, they want it now. Does them good to wait for it every now and then.’ She pointed at Tufty. ‘Did Barrett leave his Blessed Clipboard of all Knowledge?’

Tufty nodded. ‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘Good: grab it and follow me. You can pretend to know what you’re talking about when the DCI starts asking questions about all the mobile phones we’ve returned.’

The nervous, sweaty, wee PC’s bottom lip was trembling. ‘Please?’

‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ She shoved him towards the door. ‘Honestly, you’re panicking over nothing. It’s just a wee meeting. Nothing to worry about.’

Nothing to worry about at all.

The sweaty wee PC opened the meeting room door and Roberta sauntered in, hands in her pockets. Be nice to get a pat on the back for a...

She stopped.

Sodding cockwombling hell.

Jack Wallace was in here, sitting at the oval meeting table right next to Hissing Sid. The lawyer’s suit probably cost more than Roberta made in a month, grey and well cut, a scarlet hankie poking out of the top pocket, matching silk tie. Grey hair swept back from a high forehead. A nose that never really went straight again after getting broken.

Which, incidentally, was a magnificent highlight of an otherwise miserable year. And all caught on camera too.

Wonder if the footage was still on her hard drive somewhere? Hadn’t watched it in ages.

Anyway... What the hell were Tweedle Rape and Tweedle Sleaze doing here?

DCI Rutherford had the head of the table, jaw clenched, little twitchy bit going at the side of one eye. No’ a happy Weeble. The dick Vine was in the seat beside him, looking smug and vindictive all at the same time.

Sod.

She slumped down into one of the spare chairs. ‘Sorry we’re late, Boss, Constable Quirrel had a bit of a dizzy turn, but he’s all right now. Aren’t you, Tufty?’

Tufty nodded, retreating behind Barrett’s clipboard as if that would save him. ‘Yes, Sarge. Thank you, Sarge.’

Rutherford didn’t even look at him. ‘Mr Wallace is here with his legal representative. But then you know Mr Moir-Farquharson, don’t you, Sergeant?’

She gave Hissing Sid a wee wave. ‘Sandy. You here to get this raping scumbag off?’

That got her a thin smile. ‘I don’t remember you being quite so hostile when I was representing you, Sergeant Steel.’ He held up a hand. ‘If we can take the righteous indignation and acerbic banter as read, please, some of us have other appointments.’

Dirty wee fudgemonkey.

‘Now: to business.’ He took the top off a fountain pen and laid it next to a leather-bound notebook. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Rutherford, my client is aware that a number of your officers erroneously consider the unfortunate attack on that young lady in Victoria Park yesterday to be his fault. He is here to assure you that it was not.’

The raping wee scumbag shook his head. ‘Wasn’t me.’

‘And, as your officers have a rather unsavoury track record when it comes to framing my client for crimes he didn’t commit, we’re rather keen to make sure that doesn’t happen in this instance.’

Wallace did his best to look sympathetic. It was like watching a dog hump a pillow. ‘When was this poor woman raped? Between nine and midnight, wasn’t it?’

Silence.

He shrugged. ‘Cos I was at the pictures with friends.’

‘Oh aye?’ Roberta gave him the ‘that’ll be shining’ stare. ‘And you can prove that, can you?’

Hissing Sid opened his briefcase. ‘Indeed we can, Sergeant.’ He pulled out a slimline laptop that binged into life at the press of a button. Twisted it around so the screen faced out into the room. Then reached over and pressed a key.

The screen filled with four sets of security camera footage — all different views of a shopping centre. Union Square from the look of it. No sound, just pictures.

Window Number One: upper level of the car park. Wallace and two blokes were getting out of a Range Rover, laughing. One of them, the fat bald one, pointed a fist at the car and the lights flashed.

They walked towards the exit.

But Wallace stopped, turned, looked right into the security camera and waved.

A line of text at the bottom of the window displayed yesterday’s date and a timestamp that ticked through the seconds as the footage played, ‘18:28:40’.

Window Number Two: upper concourse. The same three men wandered past a line of restaurants and into the cinema. More laughter. Wallace waved at the camera again.

‘18:30:16’.

Window Number Three: cinema lobby. They walked up to a man standing at a wee podium in front of the doors to the screens and handed over their tickets. Then disappeared through the doors. A small pause, then Wallace popped back into the lobby, smiled and waved at the camera. ‘18:31:25’.

Window Number Four: the same view as Number Three, only this time the timestamp read ‘21:55:04’. A crowd of people surged out through the double doors: laughing, shoving. Wallace stopped right in the middle of the flow, forcing people to walk around him. He looked right at the camera again, smiled and waved.

Hissing Sid pressed a key, freezing all the windows. ‘As you can see from the timestamps, my client was nowhere near Victoria Park at the time of the attack. You are, of course, welcome to examine the footage for yourselves. It will only confirm what we’ve told you.’

DI Vine poked a finger at his notes. ‘I’ve looked into it and the Union Square footage is correct. We’ve got witnesses confirming that Mr Wallace remained in the cinema for the duration of the film—’

A nod from Wallace. ‘All three hours of it.’

‘—and then went to Frankie and Benny’s for several drinks and dinner. They left when it closed at eleven and went to the Secret Service gentlemen’s club on Windmill Brae till one a.m.’

‘Yeah, and I went home with one of the dancers, didn’t I? Kept me up all night. Haven’t got any CCTV of that though.’ He winked at Roberta. ‘Sorry. Know you’ve got a thing for dirty pictures.’

Hissing Sid placed a sheet of paper on the table. ‘I have here a sworn statement from the young lady in question, a Miss Strawberry Jane.’

Vine poked his notes again. Dick. ‘Do you understand, Detective Sergeant Steel?’

Ooh... It was like squeezing out a pineapple suppository.

She gritted her teeth and pushed. ‘Yes, Guv.’

‘Good.’ Wallace spread his hands on the table, leaning forward. Oh, look at me, I’m so concerned. ‘I have nothing but sympathy for this poor woman. I hope you do everything in your power to catch the monster who did this.’

And how the hell were they supposed to do that when the monster was sitting right there in front of them with an airtight alibi?

III

Yeah, that wasn’t awkward, was it? Watching Steel eating a dirty big jobbie sandwich and having to pretend it tasted lovely. No prizes for guessing who she’d take it out on either. Him. Muggins. Alas, poor Tufty! I knew him, Horatio...

He huffed out a breath.

Look at her, sitting there, fuming like an undersea vent as the meeting broke up.

DCI Rutherford was talking to the lawyer, Moir-Farquharson, the pair of them keeping their voices down — so probably up to something. Going by the body language, Rutherford was begging not to be kicked in the crotch again.

The nervous little PC who’d fetched Steel from the CID office shifted against the wall next to Tufty. ‘It wasn’t my fault she wouldn’t come when I said.’ He blinked watery eyes. ‘You’ll tell them that, won’t you? It wasn’t my fault? I didn’t...’ His mouth snapped shut as DI Vine approached. Stood to attention. ‘Boss.’

Vine ignored him. ‘Detective Constable Quirrel. How’s the head?’

‘Bit rattly at the time, but OK now, Guv.’

There was a pause as Vine stared at PC Weenie. ‘Don’t you have some work to do, Constable?’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ He scurried off.

‘Should think so too.’ Vine lowered his voice and leant back against the wall beside Tufty. Nodded at Steel. ‘That, right there, is a disaster waiting to happen.’

She was sitting on her own, still chewing on a wasp, glowering at Wallace’s lawyer.

‘A land mine. A tripwire.’

Wallace got up from the table and wandered round to where Steel was sitting.

‘An unexploded bomb. And if you’re standing too close to it...’ Vine mimed an explosion, mouthing the word ‘Boooooom.’

Wallace stuck out his hand and, when Steel refused to shake it, he leaned in and said something to her. Something too quiet to hear from here. But from the expression on Steel’s face, whatever the something was, it wasn’t very nice.

Vine pulled his chin up. ‘I was impressed by your work on the Blackburn Onanist case, Constable Quirrel — figuring out the shift patterns like that. Other teams had been trying for weeks and got nowhere.’

‘Thanks, Guv.’ Playing it cool. But deep inside? Totally woot!

Nice to be appreciated for a change.

Steel flinched, but Wallace kept talking.

One of Vine’s hands thumped down on Tufty’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘DS Steel might not be with us for that much longer. And when she goes, I want you to come work for me.’ He gave Tufty a little shoogle. ‘Put that brain of yours to work in a decent team for a change.’

Steel sniffed, scowling out through the glass-fronted reception area at the sunny day outside.

Tufty grinned. ‘If the wind changes, your face will stay like that.’

Not so much as a flicker.

She didn’t even look at him. Just kept on scowling. ‘What were you and Arsebucket McVine talking about behind my back?’

Outside, DCI Rutherford stopped half a dozen paces from the front door. He said something to Moir-Farquharson, face all serious and ingratiating, then shook the lawyer’s hand. Did the same with Jack Wallace.

Wallace patted him on the arm, like they were old friends, then walked away, hands in his pockets. Down the slope and out onto the street. Leaving the DCI and the lawyer standing on their own.

More talking.

Steel swung around and poked Tufty. ‘Well?’

A shrug. ‘He thinks I has a genius for catching the Blackburn Womble Whapper. Thinks I should go work for him instead. Thinks I’m totally sproing!’ Wink.

‘He’s sodding welcome to you!’

DCI Rutherford grimaced, then shook Moir-Farquharson’s hand again, before marching back through the station entrance and right up in front of Steel. Trembling slightly. Eyes bugging a bit. Voice like a hammer covered in razor blades. ‘I meant what I said, Sergeant, you will stay away from that man. You will track down your phone owners. You will busy yourself with bits and bobs. You will stay — away — from Jack Wallace! Are we clear?’

She just looked at him.

‘I said, ARE — WE — BLOODY — CLEAR?’ Little flecks of spit gleamed in the light.

‘Guv.’

‘Good!’ He stormed off, thumped through the key-code door and away into the station. No doubt to spread his very own brand of joy and happiness.

The lawyer still hadn’t moved, stayed where he was, basking in the sun. Like a crocodile.

Tufty put on his innocent voice. ‘Speaking of which: what did he say to you? Wallace. At the end of the meeting?’

Her face hardened. ‘Nothing.’

Earlier... (in which Roberta has a flashback)

Look at them all, congratulating themselves like the smug bunch of turdmagnets they were. Roberta tightened her grip on the arms of her chair, teeth grinding.

Hissing Sid was off talking to Rutherford, probably doing some sort of dodgy deal to stitch her up again. The idiot Tufty, talking to Vine. More dodgy deals. The only one no’ talking was the raping sack of vomit sitting on the other side of the meeting-room table, fiddling with his phone.

Jack Wallace.

Six months in HMP Grampian hadn’t done him any harm. He was leaner. A bit more muscle on that nasty wee frame of his. Must’ve spent a lot of time in the prison gym. Maybe so he could enjoy the communal showers with his fellow perverts.

He looked up from the phone and caught her staring. Smiled. Stood. Then wandered around the table and sat on it, right next to her. ‘No hard feelings?’

Wallace stuck his hand out for shaking. No way in hell she was touching him.

He leaned in close, voice dropped to a whisper. ‘It’s you gave me the idea. After all, if Mr Moir-Farquharson can get a guilty, lying piece of shit like you off, what’s he going to do for a properly innocent client?’

She bared her teeth at him, matching his whisper. ‘You’re no’ innocent. You’re a raping cockwomble and I’m going to prove it.’

‘No you’re not. Cos I know you’ve been hanging about outside my house at night. I’ve got proof. You’re harassing me.’ His smile became a grin. ‘And if you don’t sod off, I’m going to tear your little world to pieces. Understand?’

Tufty raised his stupid eyebrows at her. ‘Wallace didn’t say anything at all?’

Roberta shrugged. ‘Nothing important.’

Hissing Sid was still out there. As if he was waiting for something. Or someone. He raised a hand and waved at her.

Fair enough.

‘Tufty, get your arse back to the office and light a fire under your fellow halfwits. You heard the DCI — phones, back with their owners.’

‘Sure you don’t want me to—’

‘Now, Constable.’

‘OK... Wow.’ He backed off, hands up. ‘I’m going, I’m going.’

She turned her back on him and pushed out through the reception door, into the sunshine. The rumble of traffic punctuated by screeching seagulls.

Hissing Sid just stood there, smiling at her. ‘Ah, DS Steel. I’m sorry our reunion had to be under such unpleasant circumstances.’

Unpleasant? She’d give him sodding unpleasant.

‘How could you, Sandy? How could you represent that nasty raping wee bawbag?’

He tilted his head to one side. ‘I make no moral judgement of my clients: a criminal act is a criminal act. Whether it’s yours or his.’

What?

‘You did not just compare me to Jack Bloody Wallace!’

‘So it’s all right for me to have you found “not guilty” when you perverted the course of justice, but not for me to defend Wallace for a rape he didn’t commit?’ A tiny theatrical frown. ‘That’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it?’

Gah!

She marched off a couple of steps then back again. ‘Who’s paying for all this? We know you’re no’ cheap, Sandy, where’s Jack Wallace getting the cash?’

‘You know I can’t tell you that. Let’s just say that as your friends came to your aid during your hour of need, so did his. Isn’t it nice to have friends?’ He turned his face to the sun and sighed. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to pick up some ice lollies on the way back to the office. Give everyone a bit of a treat. In the meantime...’ Hissing Sid put a warm hand on her shoulder. ‘Try and stay out of trouble.’

Aye, well... Going on past performance that wasn’t very likely.

Gloom shrouded the CCTV room, the only light coming from the bank of TV monitors that covered nearly one entire wall. Lots of little views of Aberdeen and its citizens going about their business. A control desk ran down the middle of the room, manned and womaned by three support staff, each one fiddling with a wee joystick — shifting the cameras by remote control.

Tufty looked as if he was bursting for the toilet: shuffling from foot to foot, making uncomfortable faces, constantly glancing towards the door. Big girl’s blouse that he was.

‘Right, here we go.’ Inspector Pearce pointed at a screen mounted on its own at the back of the room, behind the consoles. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Then poked a couple of buttons on her keyboard. ‘And then Wallace comes out here.’

Roberta leaned in for a better look.

The camera was mounted about halfway up Windmill Brae, the cobbled street sweeping downhill from there until it finally disappeared under Bridge Street. Nightclubs, kebab shops, and bars stretched all the way down one side; more nightclubs on the other. Knots of drunken men and women staggered in or out of them. A couple opened and shut their mouths in unison — could be singing? — but no sound came out of the speakers. Probably just as well.

The timestamp clicked off the seconds, ‘23:10:05’, ‘23:10:06’, ‘23:10:07’.

Wallace and his two mates appeared around the corner from Bath Street. As they passed beneath the camera Wallace paused, smiled, and waved at it. Then followed them into Aberdeen’s classiest titty bar: Secret Service.

Inspector Pearce set the scene flickering into fast forward. ‘He doesn’t leave till six minutes past one.’

Revellers came in pulses then thinned out as the timestamp passed midnight. By the time she slowed the footage back to regular speed again there were just the stragglers left. Everyone wobbling their weary boozed-up way home.

Wallace emerged from the strip club with his arm around a young woman’s shoulders. She had a long fur coat on over a very short skirt and sparkly top. Heels high enough to give Sherpa Tenzing a nosebleed. Long blonde hair and lots of make-up. That would be Strawberry Jane then. She staggered a bit as they crossed the road, climbing the hill. Probably a bit blootered.

And again, Jack Wallace stopped beneath the camera to smile and wave. ‘01:06:46’.

Inspector Pearce fiddled with her keyboard again and the scene jumped to the corner of Crown Street and Union Street, looking across the box junction towards the columned portico of the Music Hall.

Wallace and his ‘date’ hurried across the road. As soon as he reached the opposite pavement, he turned and gave them a wave. ‘01:08:02’. Then he wrapped Strawberry Jane in an arse-groping snog and led her away down the side of the Music Hall towards Golden Square.

‘And the last time we see them is on Rosemount Viaduct.’

One more go on the keyboard and they were looking across the junction as Wallace and Strawberry strolled arm-in-arm past the Noose & Monkey. He stopped. Nipped back to the traffic lights, gave them one last wave, then hurried after his drunken pole dancer. ‘01:12:56’.

Roberta leaned in even closer, till her nose was inches from the screen. ‘How does he know?’

Tufty tugged at her sleeve, like a wee kid. ‘Can we get out of here now? What if DCI Rutherford finds out?’

‘All the smiling and waving: how does he know? No’ just where the cameras are — that’s easy enough — but he’s doing this to be seen. How did he know he’d need an alibi?’

And how the hell did they break it?