Now We Are Dead

I

The muster room was packed — nightshift and dayshift all crammed in together, uniform and plainclothes, all grumbling and moaning.

Standing in front of the door, Chief Superintendent Tony Campbell held up his arms and the angry muttering gave way to resentful silence. ‘Look, I know it’s not ideal, but we have reason to believe both camps have been infiltrated by violent elements.’

The grumbling started again.

Slumped against the lockers, Steel leaned over and hissed in Tufty’s ear. ‘You still look like a beetroot, by the way.’

Tufty gave her his best evil eye, but she just grinned back at him.

The Chief Superintendent let the complaining go for a couple of beats then stomped it into submission again. ‘I will not have people coming into my city and treating it as a battlefield!’ He gave them all a good hard stare. ‘Attendance at tomorrow’s farmers’ protest is mandatory. All leave is cancelled. And everyone will be in uniform. That includes you, CID! There will be a kit inspection at oh nine hundred hours.’

Steel covered her face with her hands. ‘Noooooooo...’

‘We will be a united front. We will control the situation. And we will arrest the living bejesus out of anyone who crosses the line!’ He held out a hand and his deputy passed him a peaked cap. ‘We have a duty to protect Aberdeen and its citizens. We’re not going to let them down.’ He stuck his hat on. Straightened it. ‘Nightshift: go home and rest, you’ve got a green shift to work tomorrow. Everyone else: get out there and make a difference.’

He turned and marched from the room, back straight as an ironing board.

As soon as he was gone, the complaining started again. One by one the nightshift officers drifted away, moaning about having to work a double shift tomorrow. Then the dayshift slouched out, off to patrol the streets and all that kinda jazz.

Steel crumpled her face and stared at the ceiling tiles. ‘Uniform! I haven’t had to wear a sodding uniform since we buried DI Ding-Dong Bell.’

Oh boo-hoo.

The crowd of dayshift uniform parted slightly and there she was: PC Mackintosh, standing over by the vending machine, jabbing away at the buttons and hitting the thing with the side of her hand.

‘Look at me!’ Steel held her arms out. ‘I’m no’ built to wear a uniform like the rest of the plebs, I’m built for Armani, Gucci, Dolce and Gabbana...’

‘Says the woman in the Primark suit.’ Tufty pushed off the lockers and did his best impersonation of a swagger all the way across the muster room’s scuffed floor to the vending machines.

PC Mackintosh thumped the machine again, voice a low bitter mumble: ‘Give me my goddamned Lion Bar, you thieving hunk of metallic...’ She froze. ‘There’s someone right behind me, isn’t there?’

‘Constable Mackintosh. No, I don’t mean Constable Mackintosh is behind you — that would be silly — you’re Constable Mackintosh.’ Yeah, this wasn’t going all that well.

She turned and stared at him over the top of her glasses.

He tried for a smile. ‘But you probably know that.’ Tufty’s mouth soldiered on, even though his brain was sounding the retreat. ‘I mean, it’s your name and everything.’ Shut up. ‘Well, not “Constable”, who calls their child “Constable”, and how weird would it be if they joined the police?’ SHUT UP! ‘I’m sure you’ve got a perfectly lovely first name. Nice. I meant nice first name. I wasn’t trying to sexually harass you in the workplace or anything...’ And finally, at long last, his mouth finally clicked shut. Leaving nothing behind but a high-pitched, ‘Eek...’

Slick.

She pulled her chin in. ‘What happened to your face?’

He licked his lips.

‘Only it’s a weird red colour and you’ve got a massive black eye.’

DO SOMETHING!

‘Sometimes it helps if you give the machine a bit of thump-and-shoogle.’ He bumped it with his hip and then his shoulder, rocking it on its feet.

The errant Lion Bar wobbled, then tipped off the end of its coil and into the dispensing tray. And, as an unexpected bonus, a bag of Skittles decided that if the Lion Bar was going — it was going too.

He jabbed both hands into the air. ‘Yay!’ Then lowered them again, heat flushing across his cheeks and up into his ears. ‘That would’ve been a lot cooler if I hadn’t done that last bit, wouldn’t it?’

She dropped down and retrieved the machine’s offerings. Stood and gave him the Skittles. ‘I couldn’t get a burial plot for Pudding, but I pulled in a couple of favours and the council will do us a cremation for free. We don’t get an urn or anything, but they’ll give us the ashes in a cardboard box so Mrs Galloway can scatter them somewhere nice.’

‘Oh.’ He frowned down at the Skittles. ‘Given... you know, what happened to him, don’t know if cremation’s maybe a bit...?’

Her cheeks went pink. ‘Ah. Yes. I see what you—’

‘No, but I’m probably being a little over—’

‘—poor wee thing, but a coffin and a burial plot cost so much and—’

‘Honestly I think it’s a great idea. I was being daft...’ He huffed out his cheeks. ‘Sorry.’

Steel’s voice came floating across the room like a vulture. ‘FOR GOD’S SAKE, SHUT UP AND SNOG HER YOU IDIOT!’

PC Mackintosh’s blush darkened a couple of shades. ‘I better go.’ Her glasses were steaming up a smidge too.

‘Wait!’ He stuffed the Skittles in his pocket and pulled out a Police Scotland business card. Scribbled his mobile number on the back. ‘Call me.’ Argh. Now it definitely looked like he was coming on to her. ‘So we can work out the arrangements? Erm... For Pudding?’

She reached out and took the card. Her fingertips were warm and smooth, the nails short and bitten ragged.

‘HUMPY, HUMPY, HUMPITTY, HUMP!’

Tufty turned and glared at Steel. ‘You’re not helping!’

But by the time he turned back, PC Mackintosh was already hurrying from the room. She thumped through the door, leaving Tufty alone with the Wrinkled Filthy Horror of Doom.

Steel grinned at him. ‘Think you’re in there.’

‘I hate you.’

‘Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, chocolate...’ Roberta nibbled the coating off the top of her Jaffa Cake, exposing the tangy orangey bit sitting like a rubbery splot on top of the sponge base.

Was there any finer word in the English language than ‘chocolate’?

Well, except for ‘Keira Knightley’, ‘nipples’, and ‘moist’.

Better yet, a combination of all four.

She had a lick of the orangey bit.

The CID office was abuzz with the sound of pointless policework.

Lund, Barrett, and Harmsworth were on the phones again — busy as busy buzzy bees being busy — reuniting stolen mobiles with their owners so DCI Pain-in-the-Rear Rutherford would take his pain and insert it in someone else’s rear for a change.

No idea where the idiot Tufty was, though. Probably off having a stationery-cupboard fumble with his perky Wildlife Crime Officer. Dirty, lucky, wee sod that he was.

A list of the day’s jobs was up on the whiteboard, along with the words ‘CRUDWEASEL’ and ‘RIPPA!’, two wanted posters: Lord Lucan and Philip Innes, and a drawing of a big hairy willy — which was hairy enough to be Harmsworth’s, but no’ small enough and no’ floppy enough either.

Barrett ticked something off on his clipboard. ‘Hello? Yes, I’m calling from Police Scotland. Has your mobile phone been stolen recently?... Yes, that’s right.’

The office door opened and Tufty backed into the room, carrying a tray laden with mugs.

Lund helped herself to one. ‘Ooh, thank God for that. I’m gasping!’

Roberta gave him a squint. ‘About sodding time! Running out of Jaffa Cakes here.’

He handed her a mug. ‘If it’s not spanky hot don’t blame me. Got waylaid by DI Vine on the stairs.’

‘Oh aye? And what did Buggerlugs McVine want?’ She had a sip of her coffee. Bland and anaemic with a bitter edge to it. ‘Urgh... Did you put sugar in this?’

‘Two. And you’re welcome.’ He dumped a mug down in front of Barrett — got a thumbs up in reply. Did the same for Harmsworth.

‘That’s not my mug.’

‘It’s a mug and it’s clean.’

‘My mug has a thistle on it.’

‘It wasn’t there, I looked, OK?’ Tufty helped himself to the last one, then perched his cheeky wee bum on the edge of Roberta’s desk. ‘Spoke to the hospital this morning: Mrs Galloway woke up.’

Now there was some good news for a change. ‘Excellent. We’ll pop over and—’ Her phone Cagney-&-Laceyed at her. ‘Hold that thought.’ She picked it up. ‘This better be important, I’ve got Jaffa Cakes on the go.’

‘Aye, it’s Benny. You wanted to know next time Tommy Shand’s spotted behind Airyhall Library? He’s there now.’

Ha!

Her cheeks tightened as a massive grin snapped into place. ‘Ooh, see if you weren’t so ugly? I’d kiss you, Benny.’ She hung up and grabbed her coat. ‘Tufty: forget your horrible coffee, we’ve got a drug dealer to lift.’

The pool car snaked along Union Grove, engine growling as Tufty changed down and overtook a delivery van. Trees flashing past the windows. Grey tenements little more than a blur.

Steel leaned across from the passenger seat and thumped his arm. ‘Come on, come on! Foot down!’

He kept his eyes on the road. ‘I’m doing fifty.’

‘Well put on the blues-and-twos.’

‘Do you want to drive? Cos I can pull over, you know!’

She hit him again. ‘You drive like an old lady.’ Then reached across the car and honked the horn. ‘MOVE IT, GRANDAD!’

The Volkswagen in front of them didn’t.

‘Oh for... Right. That’s it. Pull over.’

Tufty kept driving. ‘I’m not—’

‘Pull over, you big damp jessie. It’ll be Christmas by the time we get there.’

You know what? Fine.

He slammed on the brakes and pulled into the kerb. ‘Happy now?’

She scrambled out of the passenger side and ran around the bonnet. Hauled open the driver’s door. ‘Shift over you idiot!’

Tufty groaned and clambered over the gearstick and handbrake. He’d barely got his legs into the footwell before the tyres gave a tortured-pig screech and the car fishtailed away from the kerb again. ‘Let me get my seatbelt on!’

She jabbed the ‘999’ button on the dashboard and the siren wailed, blue-and-white lights flickering out through the front grille — reflecting back from the Volkswagen’s rear as they got closer, closer, closer...

‘Too close, too close, too close!’ Tufty clutched at the grab handle above his door, other hand fumbling with the seatbelt catch. ‘Aaaargh!’

She wrenched the steering wheel to the right and they swung out around the Volkswagen, right into the path of an oncoming Clio.

‘Car! Car! Car!’

They lurched to the left with only inches to spare as the Clio slithered to a halt in a cloud of blue tyre smoke.

‘Are you trying to kill us?’

She didn’t slow down for the roundabout onto Cromwell Road, throwing them around it like a runaway rollercoaster.

Finally! The seatbelt buckle clicked into its holder as they flew past the playing fields.

‘I should never have let you drive!’

‘Will you shut up whinging? I’m concentrating here.’

The houses screamed by and there was the roundabout with Anderson Drive. Anderson Drive the dual carriageway. The dual carriageway that was packed with traffic. Traffic like the dirty big articulated lorry just pulling onto the roundabout right now!

And Steel wasn’t slowing down.

‘No, no, no, no, no!’ Tufty grabbed at the dashboard.

It was going to hit them, going to hit them, going to hit them!

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

Steel accelerated. ‘WHEEEEEE!’

The pool car roared onto the roundabout and everything slowed to a crawl. The shrubs growing in the middle of it, in vibrant shades of emerald and olive. The blue of the sky. The massive enormous lorry with its black cab — the driver’s face pale, eyes wide, mouth open — big chunks of oil-industry machinery strapped to the back. The terrifying evil grin on Steel’s face. The pebbly surface of the dashboard as Tufty braced himself...

And then it was back to full speed again.

There was a brief crunching noise, swallowed by the lorry’s outraged horn, and the pool car flashed across the roundabout. Drivers on the north-bound carriageways hammered on their brakes, screeching to a halt halfway across the outside lane.

Oh God... They were still alive!

Seafield Road was a blur after that, the siren’s wail barely making it through the pounding surge of blood in Tufty’s ears.

Steel poked the ‘999’ button again and the siren fell silent. Slowed to a more modest thirty miles an hour.

She turned to him and put a finger to her lips. ‘Be vewy quiet, we’re hunting dwug deawers...’

He peeled his fingers off the dashboard. ‘You’re completely and utterly insane!’

‘Aye? Well you look as if you’ve just crapped yourself.’

‘WE COULD’VE DIED!’

‘But we didn’t. So stop moaning.’ She drifted across the junction with Springfield Road, right beside Airyhall Library. ‘Where are you Tommy? Where are you...’

The pool car pulled into the library car park.

A neon-orange Peugeot sat beneath a tree, parked nose to tail with a lime-green Honda Civic — the drivers’ windows level with one another. Both had stupidly huge spoilers and racing skirts, oversized exhausts poking out the back.

Tufty tried a few deep breaths. Wiped a hand across his damp forehead. ‘Going to need fresh underwear after that one.’

‘Here we go.’ The pool car did a sweeping turn, coming to a halt right across the front/back of the two cars, blocking them in. ‘Now, do you think you can act like a big boy, or does Aunty Roberta have to kiss it all better for you? No? Good.’ She climbed out into the morning and thumped the door shut.

Horror. She was a cast-iron three-hundred-and-sixty-degree Horror, with a capital ‘H’.

He reached for the passenger door handle, but there was no way he could actually open the thing — she’d parked too close to the other cars.

Great.

Tufty clambered back over the gearstick and handbrake again.

Complete and utter Horror.

Roberta sauntered around to the Peugeot’s passenger window and knocked on it. A wee pause, then Tommy Shand peered out at her. Buzzed the window down.

‘Hoy, shift your car, Granny.’ He was wearing a baseball cap — the wrong way around — a pair of sunglasses perched across the top like a black plastic tiara. Tracksuit top, black polo-shirt, and jeans. A couple of gold chains glinting around his neck.

‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Tommy Shand.’ She flashed her warrant card. ‘Keys. Take them out of the ignition and hand them over.’

‘We wasn’t doing nothing!’ Voice getting higher and squeakier with every word. No’ very gangsta.

‘Give me the keys and get out of the car.’ She snapped her fingers at Tufty as he finally struggled his way into the sunshine. ‘You: search the other one.’

Tommy handed over his keys. ‘This isn’t fair!’

Tufty marched around to the Honda and banged on the roof. ‘Out of the car.’

‘Come on, man, this is harassment!’ A pause. ‘What happened to your face?’

‘Out — now!’

The two cars were parked too close together to open the drivers’ doors, so Tufty’s idiot had to clamber out the passenger side.

Roberta grinned. Didn’t matter how often she made people do it, it was still great. Especially the look on their faces when the gearstick nearly went up their bums.

What emerged from the Honda Civic was another rap-star wannabe. One of those stupid bowl haircuts that were shaved at the sides; a Manchester United football shirt — number seven with ‘RONALDO’ across the back; gold chains; and sunglasses.

She gave the Peugeot another knock. ‘You too, Tommy: out you come.’

‘But we haven’t done anything.’

‘I have reason to believe that you’re currently engaged in a criminal offence, Tommy boy. Now get your backside out of the car.’

‘Man...’

Ronaldo flounced in place as Tufty searched him. ‘Wasn’t doing no criminal offences.’

‘Sure you weren’t.’ Roberta snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Stretched the rubbery skin down between her fingers. ‘You got anything sharp in your pockets I should know about, Tommy? Any knives or needles or kittens?’

A pout. ‘We wasn’t doing nothing!’

‘Hands on the car roof. Assume the position.’ She gave her gloves one last proctologist-style snap then started in on his jeans pockets. ‘You know how long you can get for drug dealing, Tommy?’

‘We wasn’t dealing no drugs. We was just, you know... talking and that.’

‘Aye, right.’ Nothing in the pockets or turn-ups of the jeans. Nothing around the inside of the belt either.

‘We was!’

‘In the car park, round the back of the library? At half nine in the morning? Aye, and all hours of the day and night too. You’ve been spotted, Tommy boy.’

Time to give the tracksuit top a rummage.

‘Wasn’t like that.’

No drugs, in there, just a wallet, a lucky rabbit’s foot, and a big flat chunk of smartphone with a leather cover. No’ the stolen Nokia with the scratched case and dirty pictures of an underage girl. Roberta gave the wallet a quick look through — about thirty quid in cash and some bank cards. A photo of Josie Stephenson grinning out from a laminated window. No drugs.

She kept the phone.

Tufty waved at her. ‘This one’s clean.’

‘So search his car!’

Honestly, did she have to think of everything?

Roberta held up the smartphone. ‘What’s this, Tommy, more porn?’

‘Eh?’ He pulled his chin in a bit. Frowned. ‘Porn?’

‘Right, let’s check the vehicle, shall we?’

II

Ronaldo huffed and puffed, making a big show of straightening his Man United top as Tufty shut the Honda Civic’s boot.

Roberta had a wee peek in through the back window. ‘Anything?’

‘Not so much as an aspirin.’

‘Told you we wasn’t doing nothing.’ He was probably aiming for righteous indignation, but being a bowl-haircutted wee nyaff all he managed was ‘sulky child’.

Tufty gave him a loom. ‘Bit of advice? People who deal drugs get caught. Doesn’t matter how careful you are, we’ll get you. And you’ll go to prison for a very long time.’ Then a smile and a cheery wave. ‘Drive carefully.’

Ronaldo clambered back into his car, through the passenger side, over the intimate prodding of the gearstick, thumping into the driver’s side. Cranked the Civic’s engine over and sat there with his oversized exhaust growling. Scowling out through the windscreen.

Roberta gave Tufty a poke. ‘You’ll have to shift the car, or he can’t leave.’

‘I know.’ A nasty wee smile on his face. Arms folded. Going nowhere.

Fair enough.

Tommy stood leaning back against the horrible-orange Peugeot. Scowling and pouting all at the same time.

His spare wheel, tyre iron, and jack lay on the tarmac by the open boot, the cartridge from the CD changer balanced on top.

Tufty nodded at Tommy’s car. ‘How about you?’

‘No.’

Roberta pulled out the confiscated smartphone and poked at the buttons till the screen came to life. Password protected. She held it out to Tommy. ‘Unlock it.’

‘God...’ Tommy’s shoulders drooped and he stared up at the bright blue sky for a moment. ‘Dad’s right, we’re living in a fascist police state.’ But he typed four numbers into the screen then handed it back.

Roberta found the pictures icon and went digging through the folders. Selfies. Selfies. Selfies. What the hell was wrong with kids these days? More selfies, but at least these had Josie Stephenson in them. Fully clothed, but it was a start. More selfies. For goodness’ sake... How many photos did one seventeen-year-old need of themselves?

The last folder was a set taken at Aberdeen Beach. Josie starred in most of them, but the most racy shot was her paddling in the sea with her trousers rolled to the knee. Roberta flipped the cover closed. ‘Where’s the other one?’

‘Other what?’

‘Phone. Where’s the other phone? The one you picked up from the station last night.’

A frown. ‘Yeah... No idea what you’re talking about.’

Roberta poked him in the chest. ‘You’re sodding lucky you’re no’ on your way to jail, Tommy.’

He hauled his shoulders back. ‘I told you: Noel and me wasn’t doing nothing!’

‘Josie Stephenson is fifteen years old. The only reason I’m no’ arresting you right now, is you got that phone back before I could do you under Section Twenty-Eight of the Sexual Offences, Scotland, Act!’

He shrank back against the car. ‘What?’

‘She’s fifteen, you randy wee shite! That means you should be on the Sex Offenders’ Register.’

His eyes widened. ‘I didn’t... I... We never—’

‘Don’t bother, I’ve heard it all before. And delete those dirty photos off your phone, show some damn respect.’

‘But I don’t—’

‘HER DAD’S DYING OF CANCER, YOU WEE SHITE!’ Little bobbles of spit glittered and shone in the sunlight.

Tommy shrank down a bit, his weaselly little face just begging for a fist. ‘What photos? I don’t have no photos.’

‘What photos?’ Begging for more than just one fist — begging for a whole army of them. ‘The photos on your phone! The phone that got stolen? The photos of you getting balls-deep in a fifteen-year-old girl, in a fancy bathroom!’

‘Nah, I swear.’ Tommy slithered along the Peugeot’s side, hands up. ‘I swear that’s not me. That is so not me.’

‘I saw them!’

He slid off the back end, retreated a couple of steps, till Tufty stepped right behind him.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, Josie’s lovely and that, but...’ Deep breath. ‘Look, I haven’t had sex with her, OK? I haven’t. I’m...’ He licked his lips, then his voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the traffic on Springfield Road, ‘I’m gay. That OK with you? I’m gay. That’s why I’m hanging about in a library car park miles away from home.’ Getting louder and bolder with every word. ‘I’m meeting my boyfriend!’ He jabbed his arms out, as if he was being crucified.

Roberta stared at him. Then in through the windows to the Honda Civic and Ronaldo with his nasty bowl-haircut. Then back at Tommy again. ‘You’re gay? Oh... Congratulations.’ She patted him on the shoulder. ‘Welcome to the club.’

He lowered his arms and drooped back against the car. ‘Josie pretends we’re all loved up, so no one finds out. You don’t know what my mum’s like, she’s all “born again” and that. Thinks Graham Norton and Julian Clary are gonna burn in hell...’ Tommy paled, one hand clutching at his stomach. ‘Oh God, you can’t tell her! She’ll kill me if she finds out!’

Poor wee sod.

Seventeen years old and too terrified of his mum to come out.

Roberta stepped forward and gave him a quick hug.

He went rigid. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Being nice. Don’t get used to it.’ She let go, pulled out her e-cigarette and had a couple of hard puffs on it. Hissed pineapple-flavour vapour out of her nose. ‘If you’re Josie’s fake boyfriend, who’s the real one?’

‘She doesn’t have one.’ He pulled his chin in again. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? She doesn’t. Says she wants to concentrate on her exams. Josie’s my best friend — she’d tell me if she was seeing someone.’

Aye, you keep telling yourself that.

‘So basically,’ Tufty scowled across the car at her as Anderson Drive drifted by the windows, ‘we nearly got killed by that lorry for nothing.’

‘I’m on the phone, you divot.’ Roberta put her feet up on the dashboard. ‘No’ you, Gary, I was talking to another divot.’

‘Don’t you get all huffy at me!’

‘I’m no’ “getting all huffy”, Gary, I just want to know who picked up that sodding phone!’

‘Yes, you are.’ A crunch came from the earpiece and Big Gary’s voice went a bit chewy and muffled. The fat sod was eating something. Bet it was biscuits. ‘And how am I supposed to know? Am I psychic now?’

The car paused for a second at the roundabout with Queen’s Road to let a bendy bus grumble by.

‘So ask Jeff Downie. He’s the idiot who gave it away.’

‘Oh, I see. Why didn’t you say?’ The biscuit muffling went away, replaced by a singsong tone — as if he was talking to a wee kid. ‘Sergeant Downie was on nightshift. He’s at home now, going sleepy bye-byes.’

‘Oh for... crudweasels.’ She had a dig at the itchy bit under her left boob. ‘Well, he must’ve written it down somewhere! Find it.’

‘With the greatest of respect, Detective Sergeant Steel, pucker up and French-kiss my fuzzy bumhole.’ Then silence: the cheeky biscuit-munching scumbag had hung up on her.

‘Gah.’ She stuck the phone back in her pocket. ‘I miss being a detective chief inspector. People did what they were sodding well told, back then.’

Tufty overtook a car waiting to turn left into the business park. ‘Think we should stop somewhere and buy Mrs Galloway a bunch of grapes?’

‘Grapes are Satan’s haemorrhoids, Tufty. Chocolate’s where it’s at.’

‘Oh, wow...’ Tufty pointed. The brake light and indicator on the right of the pool car was a jagged hole fringed with broken plastic. So that’s what the crunch was when they almost got flattened by the eighteen-wheeler. ‘Look at it!’ He pointed again, but Steel just wandered off, puffing on her rotten e-cigarette again. He locked the car. Hurried to catch up. ‘I’m putting in the logbook that was your fault.’

‘Don’t be silly, little Tufty, I can’t have been driving. You were the one signed the car out.’

‘Oh no you don’t!’

‘Oh yes I do.’ She hopped over the little wooden rail thing and marched out across the road towards the hospital entrance. Weaved her way through the clump of smokers. In through the main doors.

‘How is that fair? You nearly kill me and I’m the one gets the blame for it!’

She smiled over her shoulder at him and slipped into the wee shop just inside the doors. ‘You heard DCI Rutherford: my crimes will be your crimes. Might as well cut out the middle man.’ She stopped and pointed at the shelves. ‘Now, see if you can find the novelty teddy bears.’

Somehow, Steel didn’t look so scary with a ‘Naughty Nurse’ teddy bear tucked under one arm; a big Toblerone, a couple of magazines, and an oversized get-well-soon card under the other; and a silver helium balloon with a happy face printed on it bobbing about above her head.

The lift doors pinged open and Tufty followed her out into the corridor. Institution-green with strips of duct tape holding patches of the floor together. Framed tapestry things on the wall.

They marched all the way down to the end, where the words ‘AGNES GALLOWAY’ were printed in wobbly red letters on a small whiteboard.

Steel breezed straight through into the private room.

Mrs Galloway lay huddled in the bed, a drip running through a blue boxy machine on a stand and into the back of one hand. If anything, she looked even worse than last time. The bruises had merged and aged, developing a patina of greens, blues, and yellows around the edges, dark plum-purple in the centre. They must have changed her bandages recently, because they were all shiny and white. That cast on her other arm was a dirty grey, though — a bright orange and green flower drawn on the fibreglass surface in childish felt pen.

‘Hello, Agnes.’ Steel arranged their purchases on the bedside cabinet with the couple of cards already there. Tied the balloon to the end of the bed, then sat on the edge of the mattress. ‘You’re looking well.’ She took hold of two of Mrs Galloway’s fingers, steering clear of the cannula. ‘Be out of here in no time.’

Mrs Galloway stared down at her cast. ‘I don’t...’

Silence.

‘And look at all the lovely cards you got.’

A floor polisher whummed past in the corridor.

Someone a few rooms down tried to cough up a lung.

Steel shoogled a little bit closer. ‘I need a favour from you, Agnes. I need you to tell me what happened so Constable Quirrel here can write it down. And then we can go arrest the nasty flap of skin who did this to you.’

Tufty got out his notebook. Pen at the ready.

‘I...’ Mrs Galloway looked at him for a moment, eyes all bloodshot and swollen. Then went back to staring at her cast. ‘I used to work on the railways. Was the RMT union rep. I ran marathons. I did karate...’

Steel shoogled closer. ‘Who was it, Agnes? I need you to tell me their name.’

‘When did I get so old and useless?’ Her voice got a little mushy; a couple of tears pattered down onto the starchy white blanket.

‘They won’t give me a warrant without corroboration, Agnes. You don’t want him to hurt anyone else, do you?’

She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her hospital robe. ‘In my twenties I could’ve kicked his arse from here to Stonehaven! Could’ve done it in my thirties and forties too.’

‘Then help me kick his arse now.’

‘I just... I just sat there...’ A sob jagged through the words. ‘He killed... killed my poor wee Pudding!’

‘Hey, hey.’ Tufty put a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault, it’s the guy who did it. He broke your arm. He...’ Deep breath. ‘We’ll take good care of Pudding, sort everything out for the funeral. I promise. You just take care of getting better.’

‘I just want it all to be over.’ She put her cast across her eyes, hiding her face. ‘The real me died years ago. I died and I went to hell. This is hell.’

Steel forced a smile. ‘Come on, Agnes. We can beat him, I know we can.’

But Mrs Galloway turned away in the bed, face creased up into a bruised pain-filled knot. ‘Please, just leave me alone.’

Steel barged out through the main entrance doors, yanked out her fake fag and puffed on it. Leaving a trail of fruity vape behind her. She got three steps out from beneath the portico and stopped. Stared up at the sky.

OAPs, pregnant people, people with various limbs in casts, one cadaverous man with a drip on a wheelie stand, clumped together on one side. All smoking. Some texting. About as much joie de vivre as an asthmatic hamster.

Tufty stopped beside Steel. Shrugged. ‘Maybe she’ll change her mind?’

A deep breath, then: ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

Everyone stared as she stormed off.

Yeah, she was definitely losing it.

He hurried after her. ‘Look, maybe we should—’

‘How the goat-buggering hell am I supposed to catch Philip Innes if no one will sodding talk to me? ARSEHOLES!’

‘Actually, the word of the day is “crudweasel”, so—’

‘Do not fuck with me today, Tufty!’

OK...

She marched across the road, to the car park. ‘Did you see the state of that poor woman? Am I supposed to just let that go?’

‘Well, maybe we could—’

‘Cos I’m no’ letting it go!’

An Audi estate turned into the row from the boundary road and slammed on its brakes, scrunching to a halt inches away from hitting her. Its horn brayed out, the driver making watch-where-you’re-going! faces through the windscreen.

She stuck two fingers up at them. ‘Awa’ an’ boil yer heid!’ She marched on till they got to the pool car. Stood there, snarling at it. Then turned. Narrowed her eyes at Tufty. ‘You know what? There’s nothing I can do to make people talk. Nothing at all. Nothing legal, anyway.’

‘If we give her time, I know Mrs Galloway will change her mind. Innes killed her dog. She can’t let him get away with that.’

Steel twisted her head, eyeing him the way a lion eyes a particularly tasty-looking zoo keeper. ‘So maybe what we need is something that’s no’ legal? Maybe...’ She drifted off into silence and stared into space.

A slow evil smile spread across her face.

Oh no.

Tufty backed up a couple of paces. ‘Sarge? Please tell me you’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do.’

‘Get in the car.’

III

Birdsong chittered through the garden centre, the frrrrrrp of little wings marking the passing of tiny little birds as they flitted from the rafters to the floor and back again. Tufty turned on the spot, following a chaffinch, or blue tit, or whatever it was popping along the back of a ‘PARK-STYLE BENCH ONLY £159.99!’

The air was sharp with the smell of vegetation, underpinned by the yeasty-stale-bread scent of compost and fresh-turned earth. A coffee shop took up one corner of the massive warehouse space. The delicious welcoming aroma of something pastry-ish baking wafted out like a grandmother’s hug.

The rest of the place was packed with bedding plants, fruit trees in pots, ornamental box hedges, roses in tubs, ferns, flowers and all the rest. A huge collection of ugly earthenware animals and uglier gnomes.

Yeah, not quite what he’d been expecting, given the evilness of Steel’s smile.

She marched ahead, stopping in front of a young woman transferring seedlings from a tray into individual teeny pots. Hair pulled back in a pair of Heidi pigtails. The garden centre logo sat right in the middle of her blue apron, just beneath a big red badge with ‘STACEY IS ALWAYS HAPPY TO HELP’ on it.

Steel knocked on the potting table and ‘STACEY’ looked up. Smiled.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Aye, Big Jimmy Grieve about?’

She pointed at a door in the wall at the end of the warehouse. ‘Garden sheds and gazebos.’

‘Cheers.’ Steel marched off, past a display of water features and out through the door.

Tufty loped along beside her. ‘Who’s “Big Jimmy Grieve”?’

She kept marching.

A twelve-foot-high chainlink fence was lined with shelves of landscapy stuff — bags of gravel, fencing panels, rolls of wire, that kind of thing. They surrounded a collection of pre-built sheds that formed their own little shantytown, painted in jaunty outdoor colours.

An old man was fiddling about with bits of wood, building himself a gazebo on the outskirts of Jaunty Shed Shantytown. Doing a good job of it too. Which was just as well, because you’d have to be suicidal to tell him he was doing anything other than a good job.

He was huge. Grey hair cropped close to his head. Broad shouldered. Big arms and hands. Powerful. Like a rugby player and a boxer gave birth to a bouncer.

Steel came to a halt behind him. Leaned against a pastel-blue shed.

He didn’t look round. Picked a nail from the box at his feet and pounded it in with three mighty blows.

She waited for the thumping to stop. ‘Mr Grieve. Didn’t have you down as the green-fingered type.’

He froze. Then turned.

Nyah... There was a face to frighten the living hell out of Rottweilers. Chiselled with creases. Eyes of frozen granite. But when he opened his mouth, the words didn’t boom out, they slid softly. Calm. Controlled. Still. ‘Roberta Steel. What brings you out?’ He didn’t move either, didn’t fidget. Just stood there impersonating a very menacing statue.

‘Oh, just passing, Mr Grieve, just passing...’ A shrug. ‘How’s Sheila and the grandkids?’

A smile deepened the lines around his eyes. ‘They’re good, thanks. Macy’s at big school now. Says she’s going to be a systems architect, whatever that is.’

‘That’s nice. Give them my best.’

A nod. He picked up the next bit of the gazebo kit, lining it up with the bit he’d just nailed on.

She stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘You ever heard of a wee scroat called Philip Innes?’

‘Should I have?’ Still and menacing again.

‘A wee birdie tells me he’s loansharking at Cairnhill Court. You grew up there, didn’t you?’

‘Long time ago.’

‘This Philip Innes attacked a little old lady. Put her in hospital. Microwaved her dog. Sad, isn’t it?’

Big Jimmy Grieve’s voice got quieter. Harder. ‘So why don’t you arrest him?’

‘Can’t touch the guy.’ A sigh. ‘You know how it is: everyone’s too scared to say anything. Whole place has come down with amnesia, laryngitis, and a nasty dose of selective blindness.’

‘I see.’

Something uncomfortable shifted in Tufty’s stomach. Made the back of his neck go all clammy. This was definitely a very, very bad idea.

‘Wasn’t like that in your day, was it, Mr Grieve?’ Steel shook her head. ‘OK, so no one went clyping to the police, but they didn’t have to, did they? They knew the building took care of its own.’

Big Jimmy Grieve stared down at the hammer in his massive hand. Like he was feeling its weight. Said nothing.

‘You stepped out of line in those days — you smacked an old lady about? — you got slapped down. Hard. No’ today, though...’ Another sigh, then she reached up and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Ah well, enough reminiscing. I better get back to work.’

He stood there, still and cold as a granite headstone, staring at the hammer.

‘Tell Sheila I said, “Hi.”’ Steel turned and walked off.

Oh no, she was not leaving him alone with Big Jimmy Grieve.

Tufty scurried after her, not even trying to look cool.

He caught up halfway across the warehouse. Grabbed her arm. ‘What did you just do?’

Steel turned and stared at him.

OK. Maybe no grabbing.

He let go.

She started walking again. ‘I said hello to an old friend.’

‘An old...?’ Tufty dropped his voice to a hissing whisper as they passed ‘STACEY’ and her amazing pigtails. ‘He looks like a serial killer!’

‘Is it lunchtime yet? I’m feeling lunch-ish.’

‘Why can’t you do anything by the rules?’

‘Lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch.’ She pushed through the main door and into the car park.

‘Who’s Big Jimmy Grieve? What’s he going to do to Phil Innes?’

‘I’m thinking: fish supper, avec les onions pickled and peas à la mush.’

Tufty nipped around in front of her, blocking the way. ‘What if he beats Phil Innes up? What if he kills him? Are we accessories to murder now?’

Steel smiled back. ‘You worry too much.’

Then she stepped around him, sauntering away to where they’d parked the pool car.

Tufty stayed where he was. Risked a glance back towards the garden centre.

Big Jimmy Grieve’s carved granite face stared out at him from just inside the main doors. Still and lifeless. Watching.

Oh they were so screwed.