Partners in Crime

DI Steel’s Bad Heir Day

December 23rd

‘Sod…’ DI Steel stood on one leg in the doorway, nose wrinkled up on one side. ‘Thought I smelt something.’ She ground her left foot into the blue-grey carpet, then dragged it along the floor behind her as she lurched into the briefing room: a hunchless wrinkly Igor in a stain-speckled grey trouser suit. Today, her hair looked like she’d borrowed it from an angry hedgehog.

DC Allan Guthrie chucked another spoon of coffee in a mug and drowned it with almost boiled water. Topped it up with milk, and chucked in a couple of sugars. No point asking if she wanted one. ‘Guv?’

She stopped, mid-scrape. Standing completely still. Not looking at him.

Half past four and the CID room was quiet, everyone off dealing with Christmas shoplifters and snow-related car crashes, leaving the little maze of chest-high cubicles and beech-Formica desks almost deserted. The whole place smelled of feet and cinnamon.

Allan dumped the teaspoon on the draining board. DI Steel just stood there, like one of those idiots who appeared every summer outside the St. Nicholas Centre, spray-painting themselves silver and pretending to be statues. ‘Guv, is everything OK?’

Someone’s phone rang.

Allan cleared his throat.

She still hadn’t moved.

‘Guv?’

Not so much as a twitch.

‘Guv, you all right?’

‘If I stay really still you can’t see me.’

Mad as a fish.

‘OK…’ He held out the mug. ‘Two and a coo.’

She sighed, shoulders drooping, arms dangling at her sides. ‘See, this is what I get for no’ bunking off home after the Christmas shopping — accosted by chunky wee police constables.’

‘I’m not chunky. It’s a medical condition.’

‘It’s pies.’ She took the coffee, sniffed it, then scowled up at him. ‘I just stood in something that smells better than this.’

He pulled the envelope from his pocket — a thick, ivory, self-sealing job with the DI’s name in spidery script on the front. ‘Courier dropped it off about ten.’

‘Don’t care.’ She snatched a roll of sticky-tape from the nearest desk, turned on her heel, jammed her shoe down again, and lurched back towards the door. ‘Two hours of fighting grumpy auld wifies for the last pair of kinky knickers in Markies has left me all tired and emotional. Soon as I’ve finished pinching everyone’s Sellotape, I’m offski. Taking the wee one to the panto tonight and there’s no way in hell I’m going sober.’

Allan waggled the envelope at her. ‘Looks kinda important.’

She stuck her fingers in her ears, singing as she scraped her shoe across the carpet tiles. ‘Jingle Bells, Finnie Smells, Rennie’s hair is gay…’

Detective Constable Rennie stuck his head up above his purple-walled cubicle, blond mop jelled into spikes, eyebrows pinched together in a frown. ‘Hey, I heard that!’

Steel disappeared down the corridor, still doing her Quasimodo impersonation. Then came the slam of an office door. Then silence.

Woman was an absolute nightmare.

Allan slipped the envelope back in his pocket. Just have to try again tomorrow when she was in a better mood. That was the thing about detective inspectors, you had to manage them like little children, or they stormed off in a huff and spent the rest of the day thinking up ways to make your life miserable.

A thump echoed out from the other side of the CID door, then an angry voice: ‘Aw, for… Who made sharny skidmarks all over the carpet?’

December 24th — Christmas Eve

DI Steel’s office looked like Santa’s grotto… Assuming Santa worked in a manky wee room with greying ceiling tiles, a carpet covered in little round burn marks, and a desk festooned with teetering stacks of forms and folders. The three filing cabinets lined up along one wall were topped with stacks of presents, all wrapped in brightly coloured paper by someone who obviously favoured enthusiasm and sticky tape over skill.

The inspector was behind her desk, fighting with a roll of dancing-penguin paper and a big cardboard box.

Allan knocked on the doorframe. ‘Guv?’

She peeled an inch-long strip of Sellotape from the corner of her desk, and forced down a flap of wrinkly penguins. ‘I’m no’ in.’

‘Got a memo from the boss.’ He pulled it out of the folder and held it up.

Another strip of tape. ‘Well? Don’t just stand there looking like a baked tattie: read it.’

Allan did.

She scowled at him. ‘Out loud, you idiot.’

‘Oh, right. “To all members of staff — the cleaners have lodged a complaint about the state of the carpets in the CID wing. If I catch whoever it was that wiped dog-”’

‘Blah, blah, blah. Anything else? Only I’m up to my ears in urgent police work here.’ She tore off another length of tape.

‘Yeah, you’ve got a missing person.’ Allan dumped the mis-per form on the inspector’s desk, next to a bright-yellow Tonka tipper truck. ‘Mrs Griffith says her husband-’

‘Give it to Biohazard or Laz.’ She gave the box another lashing of sticky tape. ‘Better yet, palm it off on those shiftless layabouts in GED. No’ like they’ve got anything better to do, is it?’ She stuck out a hand. ‘Pass us the scissors.’

Allan did. ‘DS McRae and Marshall aren’t in today — firearms refresher — and General Enquiry Division’s already passed: they say it’s a CID case.’

‘Typical.’ Steel’s tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth as she snipped a raggedy line through the wrapping paper, disembowelling half a dozen penguins in the process. ‘How come I’m the only one round here who ever does any work?’

Allan just stared at her.

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Cheeky sod.’ The parcel went on the floor, then Steel dug into a green-and-white plastic bag and produced a set of something lacy and skimpy. More paper. More sticky tape.

He pulled out the thick ivory envelope with its spidery script. ‘There’s this too.’

Steel held out her hand. ‘Give.’ She grabbed it off him, ripped it open, and squinted at the contents, moving the letter back and forward, as if that was going to help.

‘You want to borrow my glasses?’

‘I don’t need glasses. How come no one can write properly anymore? It’s like a spider got blootered on tequila, then threw up green ink everywhere.’

‘So what do you want to do about this missing person?’

‘You know what kind of person uses green ink? Nutters, that’s who. Nutters, freaks and weirdos.’ She chucked the letter across the desk at him. ‘Read.’

‘Erm…’ The whole thing was packed with almost impenetrable legalese, but it was just about understandable. ‘It’s from a law firm on Carden Place. Says you’ve been left a chunk of cash in someone’s will.’

The inspector sat upright, a smile rearranging the wrinkles on her face. ‘How much?’

‘Doesn’t say. They want you to go into the office and discuss it.’

‘Well, whoever’s snuffed it, they better be rich.’ She picked up her phone. ‘Give us the number.’

Allan read it out and she dialled, swivelling back and forth in her seat, singing ‘I’m in the Money’ while it rang. Then stopped, licked her lips. ‘Aye, hello, this is Detective Inspector Roberta Steel, you sent me a… Uh-huh… Uh-huh… Yeah, terrible tragedy. How much?’ Silence. Her eyes widened. ‘Really?’ The smile turned into a grin. ‘Oh, yes, aye, couldn’t agree more… Uh-huh… Yeah, one thing though: who is it? Who died?’ And the grin turned into a scowl. ‘I see. Excuse me a moment.’ Then she slammed the phone down and embarked on a marathon swearing session. Threw her Sellotape across the room. Banged her fist on the desk. Swore and swore and swore.

Allan fiddled with the folder and waited for her to finish. ‘Good news?’

‘Don’t you start.’ She snatched the letter back, crumpled it up into a ball, and hurled it into the bin. Then spat on it.

‘So … missing person?’

‘All right, all right — missing person. Honestly, you’re worse than Susan. Nag, nag, nag. Go get a car, we’ll pay Mrs … Gifford? Guildford?’

‘Griffith.’

‘Right. Get a car and we’ll pay Mrs Griffith a visit.’ Steel thumped back in her chair, face all pinched, jaw moving like she was chewing on something bitter. ‘Maybe stop off for a few messages on the way.’

Allan sat in the driver’s seat, hands wrapped around the steering wheel, gritting his teeth every time someone blared their horn at him. They’d made it as far as the Trinity Centre before Steel had slammed her hand on the dashboard and told him to pull in for a minute. That was half an hour ago.

The car’s hazard lights blinked and clicked, digging orange knives into his forehead.

A loud BREEEEEEEEEP! sounded behind him, then again. And again. Then a bus grumbled past, sending up a spray of grey-brown slush to spatter against the pool car’s windows. A couple of the passengers gave him the two-finger-salute on the way past.

Like traffic on Union Street wasn’t bad enough at the best of times. A thick rind of dirty white was piled up at the edge of the kerb, the road covered in a mix of compacted snow, ice and filthy water. Pedestrians slithered by on the pavement, bundled up in thick coats, scarves and woolly hats, fresh snow coating their shoulders like frozen dandruff. Every now and then someone would stop and stare into the car, as if it was his fault he was stuck here, holding up the rotten traffic.

Soon as Steel got back he was going to give her a piece of his mind. Put her in her place. Let her know this wasn’t acceptable. He hadn’t joined the force just so she could go on shopping expeditions.

Clunk. The passenger door swung open and an avalanche of plastic bags clattered into his lap.

Steel clambered in, pulled the door shut, and shuddered. ‘Oooh, bleeding heck: brass monkeys out there.’ She frowned. ‘How come you’ve no’ got the heating on?’

Allan glowered at her. ‘With all due respect, Inspector, you-’

‘Don’t be a prawn, or you’ll no’ get your present.’

‘Present?’ That was more like it. He turned the key in the ignition and cranked up the heater. ‘Is it good?’

‘Course it’s good. Has your aunty Roberta ever let you down?’ She dug into one of the plastic bags and came out with something bright red with white furry bits. ‘Here.’

He turned it over in his hands, the smile dying on his lips. ‘Oh…’ It was one of those cheap Santa hats they flogged in the Christmas market on Belmont Street.

‘Well, put it on then.’

‘It’s … not … with the uniform and everything…’

Steel poked his black stab-proof vest with a red-painted fingernail. ‘Put — it — on.’

Brilliant. Allan hauled the hat on over his head, the bobble on the end dangling against his cheek. Like he was being tea-bagged by a Muppet.

She peered at him for a bit. ‘It’s missing something.’ Then she leaned over and grabbed him by the lapel, hauling him towards her.

Oh God, she wasn’t going to kiss him, was she? But there wasn’t so much as a sprig of mistletoe in the car. It wasn’t fair! You couldn’t just go about kissing people — you had to give them fair warning about stuff like that. It was sexual harassment!

Run. Get out of the car and run. RUN!

She grabbed the bobble on the end of his Santa hat and something inside went ‘click’. Little coloured lights winked on and off inside the fur. Like it wasn’t undignified enough in the first place.

Then again, given the alternative…

Steel nodded. ‘Much better.’

A deafening HONNNNNNNNNNK! belted through the air behind them and a massive eighteen-wheeler loomed in the rear-view mirror, lights flashing.

She peered over her shoulder. ‘Well, don’t just sit there: you’re holding up traffic.’

Mrs Griffith scrubbed a soggy hanky under her plump red nose, getting rid of the twin lines of silver. She sat on the couch in an over-warm living room, her pale-pink twinset and pearls looking all rumpled and out of kilter. As if she’d got dressed in the dark then fallen down the stairs a couple of times. Her chocolate-brown hair was starting to go grey at the roots, watery eyes blinking behind Dame Edna glasses. A big woman who wobbled when she sniffed.

A Christmas tree sat in the corner of the room, decorated with scarlet bows, gold dangly things, and white lights — very tasteful. A mound of presents sat on the floor, beneath a thin layer of fallen pine needles, much more professionally wrapped than the Frankenstein’s monsters in DI Steel’s office. The mantelpiece was covered in cards, and so were the sideboard and the display cabinet by the large bay windows. Popular couple.

Allan underlined the words ‘MISSING SINCE LAST NIGHT’ in his notebook. ‘And your husband’s never gone off like this before?’

She blinked and shook her head. Not looking at him.

Couldn’t really blame her. When you call the police to help find your missing husband, you probably don’t expect a uniformed PC to turn up wearing a flashing Santa bobble hat.

‘And he didn’t mention anything that was bothering him?’

Mrs Griffith sniffed again, blinked, then stared up at the ceiling as the sound of a toilet flushing came from the floor above. Nice house. Fancy. Three bathrooms; four bedrooms, one en-suite; dining room; living room; drawing room; kitchen bigger than Allan’s whole flat; conservatory; dirty big garden hidden under a thick blanket of snow. Had to be at least knee deep out there.

‘Well, it’s early days yet. Might just have got stuck in the snow, or something. Did you try his work?’

Mrs Griffith stared down at the crumpled hankie in her thick fingers. ‘I… I phoned the hospital all night, just in case he’d … you know, with the icy roads… An accident.’ A single drip swelled on the tip of her nose, clear and glistening in the lights from the tree. ‘Then I tried his work first thing this morning…’

It was the most she’d said in one go since they’d got there.

‘I see.’ Allan made a note in his book. ‘And where does your husband work?’

She tortured her hanky for a bit. ‘He doesn’t.’ The drip dropped, splashing down on the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘The man I spoke to, Brian, he was Charles’s boss. He said… He said Charles was made redundant three months ago. Said they couldn’t keep everyone on with the economic downturn.’ She gave a little moan in the back of her throat. ‘Why didn’t Charles tell me?’

Clump, clump, clump, on the stairs, then the living room door opened and DI Steel shambled into the room, hauling up her trousers with one hand. ‘Sorry, went to the panto last night. Too many sweeties always go right through me. You know what they say: you don’t buy chocolate buttons, you just rent them.’ She collapsed down on the other end of the sofa, then patted Mrs Griffith on a chunky knee. ‘Went for a rummage through your bedroom while I was upstairs, knew you’d no’ mind.’

Mrs Griffith opened her mouth, as if she was about to disagree, then closed it again. ‘What am I going to tell the children?’

Steel wrinkled her lips and raised one shoulder in a lopsided-shrug. ‘You sure there’s nothing missing? Clothes, toothbrush, razor, stuff like that.’

‘He wouldn’t just run out on Jeremy and Cameron and me. He dotes on those boys, nothing’s too good for them.’ Her eyes flicked towards the pile of presents under the tree. ‘Something must have happened. Something terrible…’

‘Found this stuffed under the mattress.’ The inspector produced a big clear plastic envelope thing, with ‘Ho-Ho-Ho! HAPPY SANTA SUIT!’ printed in red and white on a bit of card. The hanger was stuffed inside, but there was no sign of the costume. ‘Your Charlie like to dress up for a bit of kinky fun?’

Mrs Griffith sank back in her seat, eyes wide, one chubby hand pressing that soggy hanky to her trembling lips. ‘No! Charles would never do anything like that.’

‘Shame. Partial to a bit of the old “naughty nun” myself.’ Steel patted her on the knee again. ‘Any chance of a cuppa? Digging through other people’s drawers always gives us a terrible drooth.’

A bit of flustering, then Mrs Griffith hauled herself up from the couch and lumbered off to the kitchen, sniffing and wobbling.

Allan waited till the kitchen door clunked shut, before leaning forward. ‘You’ll never guess — the husband was made redundant-’

‘Three months ago, aye, I know.’

‘How did-’

‘Found a P45 in his bedside cabinet, along with two Playboys, one Big-’N-Juicy, and a stack of receipts.’

‘Oh.’ Allan stuck his notepad back in his pocket.

‘Something a wee bittie more interesting too…’ She produced a slip of yellow paper and waggled it at him. ‘It’s-’

The door thumped open again and Mrs Griffith backed in, carrying a tray loaded down with china cups, saucers, and an ornately painted teapot.

Steel smiled. ‘That was quick. Don’t suppose there’s any chance of…’ She peered into the tray as Mrs Griffith lowered it onto the coffee table. ‘Chocolate biscuits. Perfect.’

‘I didn’t know if you’d want. What with…’ Pink rushed up Griffith’s cheeks, clashing with her twinset. ‘Your digestive problems.’

The inspector helped herself, talking with her mouth full. ‘I’ll risk it.’ Chomp, chomp, chomp. ‘Your husband ever mention someone called Matthew McFee?’ Crumbs going everywhere.

‘Em…’ She fussed with the teapot, eyes down, the pink in her cheeks getting darker. ‘I don’t think so…’

Steel nodded. ‘Well, probably not important anyway.’

Allan eased the car out onto the main road, the front wheels vwirrrring and slithering through the thick white snow, blowers going full pelt. ‘So who’s this Matthew McFee?’

‘You’ve no’ heard of Matt McFee? Wee Free McFee?’ Steel slouched in the passenger seat, fiddling with her bra strap. ‘Pin back your lugs and learn something for a change. Matthew McFee’s what you might call an unregulated personal finance facilitator.’

Ah. ‘Loanshark?’

‘I remember there was this one woman, single mother, got into a bit of trouble with her council tax. Borrowed three hundred quid from Wee Free McFee; couldn’t pay it back. The interest was crippling, literally. He broke both her legs, then did the same to her wee boy. Gave her two weeks to come up with the cash, or he’s coming back to do their arms.’ Steel breathed on the passenger window, making it all misty, then drew an unhappy face with her fingertip. ‘Poor cow was too scared to press charges, so soon as she gets out of the hospital: that’s it.’

Allan slowed down to let a bus out. ‘Did a runner?’

‘Locked herself and the kid in a car. Hosepipe from the exhaust.’ Steel gave her left breast one last hoik, then pointed at the windshield. ‘Crown Street. I fancy spreading some Christmas cheer.’

Matthew ‘Wee Free’ McFee stood in the doorway, arms folded. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was wide, like he’d been squashed. Cold little eyes, a squint nose, and a ridiculous Magnum-PI-moustache. He was wearing an ugly jumper with a couple of deformed reindeer knitted into the pattern. ‘No, you can’t come in.’

Steel stomped her feet, hands jammed deep into her armpits, voice streaming out on a cloud of white as thick flakes of snow spiralled down from the pale grey sky. ‘Charles Griffith.’

‘Never heard of him. Now, if you don’t mind…’ McFee tried to close the door, but the inspector jammed her foot into the gap. He looked down. ‘You’re dripping in my hall.’

Inside, the house must have been huge — a big chunk of grey granite, halfway down Crown Street; iron railings out front, fencing off a little sunken courtyard with patio furniture just visible under a thick crust of snow. Allan stood on his tiptoes and peered over McFee’s head into the hallway: antique furniture, hunting prints on the wall. Looked nice and warm in there too…

Steel pulled out the slip of yellow paper again. ‘That’s funny, cos right here it says Charles Griffith owes you four grand.’

A shrug. ‘Overcommitted himself for Christmas, didn’t he? I offered to help him out, seeing how it’s the season of good will and that. Didn’t want to see his kiddies going without.’

‘Four grand down. What’s he owe now, after you’ve stuck your usual extortionate interest rate on it?’

McFee folded his arms. ‘Extortionate interest rate? Nah, that’d be illegal. Was just Christian charity, wasn’t it? He can pay me back when he’s on his feet again.’ McFee smiled. It was all little pointy teeth, small yellow pegs set in pale-pink gums. ‘No problems.’

Steel leaned forward. ‘Listen up, sunshine, Charles Griffith’s gone missing. And I don’t mean he’s done a bunk, I mean he’s disappeared. See if he turns up dead in a ditch, I’m coming right back here, hauling your hairy backside down the station, and pinning everything I can on you. We clear?’

‘You’re letting all the heat out.’

She stepped back onto the pavement and McFee slammed the door.

Allan cupped his hands and blew into them, making a little personal fog bank. Didn’t make his fingers any warmer though. ‘Back to the ranch? Or we could go and see those solicitors, if you like? About your inheritance?’

She just scowled at him.

‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Allan dropped a gear, the engine growling and complaining as it struggled to haul the pool car around the Denburn Roundabout, wheels shimmying through the slush. ‘You see that pile of stuff under their Christmas tree? Griffith probably spent a fortune kidding on he’s not been fired. Borrows four grand to keep up appearances, can’t pay it back.’

‘Mmm…’ Steel just scowled out of the passenger window.

‘Then last night, McFee turns up on Griffith’s doorstep, roughs him up a bit, Griffith drops everything and limps off into the sunset before McFee comes back with a pair of pliers. He’ll be halfway to Barbados by now.’

‘Mmm…’

‘Well, not if he’s flying out of Heathrow, but you know what I mean.’

Silence.

They were only doing fifteen miles an hour, but the car still fishtailed its way onto the Gallowgate.

Steel thunked her head against the glass. Sighed.

Allan feathered the clutch, finally getting the thing under control. ‘How come you’re so bent out of shape about someone leaving you loads of cash?’

‘None of your business.’

‘I mean, if someone wanted to give me a dirty big handout, you wouldn’t catch me complaining. Bet Charles Griffith wouldn’t say no either.’

Steel hauled out a packet of Benson amp; Hedges and a lighter, the wheel making scratching noises against the flint as she quested for fire. Lit up. Puffed out a lungful of smoke. Then the grumble of traffic oozed into the car, riding a breath of frigid air as she buzzed the window down. ‘Get a photo and description out to all the hospitals in Scotland. If Charlie-boy has done a bunk after a visit from McFee, he’s going to need a doctor. If he’s no’ already in the mortuary.’

‘I mean, who couldn’t do with some more cash?’

A cloud of smoke broke against Allan’s cheek.

‘I’m only-’

‘I’m not taking money from that…’ She puckered her lips. ‘Just shut up and drive.’

The solicitor’s receptionist was making eyes at him. Or maybe she was making eyes at the pot plant in the corner? It was kind of hard to tell, the way that they both pointed off in different directions like that. Long curly blonde hair, little chin, heart-shaped face, scarlet lips. Cute, in a sort of Marty Feldman meets Christina Aguilera kind of way. She pulled off her glasses and polished them on the hem of her skirt, flashing an inch of milk-bottle-white thigh and the top of a hold-up stocking. A smile, squint like her eyes. ‘I’m sure they won’t be long. Would you like another cup of tea?’

It was an old-fashioned kind of room, with wooden panelling and dark red carpets, the walls covered in framed watercolours and certificates.

Allan shifted in his green leather armchair. ‘No, thanks. I’m good.’ Tea and coffee were just wheeching right through him today. Must be the cold. ‘So … have you worked for Emmerson and Macphail long?’ OK, not the smoothest of lines, but slightly better than, ‘Do you come here often.’

‘Two months. Mostly it’s just answering the phones and making tea.’ She bit her bottom lip, one eye lingering its way up his body — while the other went off for a wander on its own — coming to rest on the flashing Santa bobble hat at the very top. ‘We don’t usually get anyone as exciting as the police in here. Are you working on a case?’

‘Actually,’ he scooted forward, lowering his voice, ‘we’re-’

The office door banged open and the inspector stormed out, arms going in all directions. ‘Don’t you sodding tell me to calm down, you patronising, sanctimonious, hairy-eared, old-’

‘But Mrs Steel,’ a baldy-headed man shuffled out after her, the front of his white shirt soaked through with what looked like tea, ‘you have to understand, we’re talking about a considerable sum of money here. At least think about it.’

She marched straight through the reception area and out the main door, slamming it hard enough to make a wall full of pictures shudder.

‘Oh dear.’ He ran a hand across his forehead, then stood there, dripping on the carpet. ‘She really is quite excitable.’

Allan stood. Pointed at the door. ‘I’d better, probably-’

‘Constable, can you do your inspector a favour?’ The solicitor pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his damp face. ‘Tell her the time limit contained in the behest is very precise. Mr MacDuff will be cremated at three o’clock on the twenty-seventh, whether she’s there to deliver the eulogy or not. And considering how much is at stake… Well, it would certainly be in her best interests.’

‘Er, exactly how much are we talking about?’

‘I really don’t think it would be appropriate for me to discuss that.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘Daphne, can you be a dear and fetch me a towel? I appear to have had an accident.’

December 27th

Half past nine and Allan was in the canteen, piling foil-wrapped bacon butties onto a brown plastic tray. Good job he wasn’t one of those evangelical vegetarians, or he’d be spitting in every one. CID were just a bunch of lazy sods. Should be getting their own damn butties. Whatever happened to good will to all men?

He squeezed in half a dozen assorted coffees at the other end and carried the lot down to the CID wing. Really it was just of a handful of rooms lurking at the end of a smelly corridor they still hadn’t managed to scrub the brown streaks out of, but that didn’t sound quite as impressive.

DI Steel was lurking in her office, scowling at the phone and drumming her nails on the desktop. ‘Took your time.’

Allan dumped a buttie and a big wax-paper cup beside her in-tray. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘Don’t start.’ She unwrapped the floury roll and sank her teeth into it. ‘Mmmph, mnnnnphmmm?’

‘Today’s the twenty-seventh.’

‘Stunning powers of observation there, Constable Guthrie. You’ll go far.’

‘What I mean is, it’s the funeral today. Of your mate, MacDuff.’

‘Desperate Doug MacDuff’s no sodding mate of mine.’ Another mouthful, washed down with a scoof of coffee. ‘Get a car.’

‘How much?’ Allan turned to stare at her.

‘Watch the road!’

He snapped back just in time to see the back end of a bus. Slammed on the brakes. The pedal juddered under his foot, the ABS twitching as the car slid into the kerb. So much for the weather getting better after Christmas. The roads were like glass, and everyone drove like an idiot. ‘Stupid bus driver…’ Allan wrangled the car back out onto the road. ‘Fifty-four thousand quid, and all you have to do is deliver the guy’s eulogy?’

‘It’s no’ as simple as that. I’d have to be nice about him. And if his greasy lawyer thought I’d no’ been enthusiastic enough, I’d get sod all. Enthusiastic, about Desperate Doug MacDuff?’ She stared out of the window, mouth a narrow, pinched line. ‘Man worked as an enforcer for the McLeods, Wee Hamish Mowat, and Malk the Knife. Killed at least six people we know of, probably a hell of a lot more. Then there’s the beatings, abductions. Rape…’

‘So lie. Fifty-four grand! Say he was a great guy, a credit to his family, loved by women, admired by men. Take the money and run; who cares if he was a complete scumbag?’

‘I care.’

‘No answer.’ Allan stuffed his hands back in his pockets.

‘Try it again.’

The Griffiths’ street was like Dr Zhivagoland — everything covered in rounded mounds of white. Cars, hedges, trees, the lot. Icicles made glass fangs from the guttering, twinkling in the morning light. Sky so blue it was almost painful to look at.

He leant on the doorbell again and a deep brrrrrrrrrrrrrring sounded somewhere inside. ‘Maybe she’s gone out?’

Steel shook her head. ‘Look at the drive.’

Someone had dug it clear, all the way to the slippery road; a snow-blanketed Range Rover was parked in front of the garage, one of those big ugly Porsche Cayennes blocking it in. The paintwork frost-free and glistening. ‘She’s got visitors.’

‘Once more with feeling.’

Allan ground his thumb into the brass bell, keeping the noise going. ‘You know, there’s still plenty time to head out to the Crem.’

‘I’m no’ telling you again.’

‘Just saying: fifty-four grand goes a long way when you’ve got a wee kid to bring up. Good nursery, maybe a private school, couple of nice holidays. Otherwise, what, the Taxman gets it?’

‘Where the hairy hell is…’ Steel screwed her eyes up, peering through the glass panel beside the door. ‘Here we go.’

A muffled voice. ‘Who is it?’

The inspector stepped forward and slammed her palm into the wood. ‘Police. Open up.’

‘Oh… But, I-’

‘Now.’

A clunk and rattle, then the door creaked open a crack and a big pink face stared out at them. ‘Have you found Charles? Is he all right?’ Her cheeks were all flushed, a pale fringe of hair sticking to her glistening forehead.

Steel smiled. ‘Can we come in?’

‘Ah… Well, I’m… It’s not really convenient, right-’

The inspector placed a hand against the door and pushed, forcing her back into the hall. ‘Won’t take long.’

Allan followed Steel inside, clunking the door closed behind him, shutting out the cold.

Mrs Griffith stood in the hallway, one hand clutching the front of her silk kimono, keeping everything hidden. Thank God. ‘Look, can’t this wait till-’

‘Where is he?’

The pink on her cheeks darkened. ‘I… Don’t know. That’s why I called you. He’s missing and I’m very upset.’

‘Oh aye. But no’ upset enough to put you off a wee bit of the old mid-morning delight, eh?’ Steel wandered over to the foot of the stairs, leaning on the polished wooden banister.

Mrs Griffith stuck her nose in the air, stretching out the folds in her neck. ‘I think you should go.’

‘Come out, come out wherever you are! Game’s a bogey, the man’s in the lobby!’

‘I must protest, you shouldn’t-’

Steel cupped her hands into a makeshift megaphone. ‘Come on McFee, I know you’re in here, I recognised your car! Lets be havin’ you!’

Silence. Then a voice echoed down from upstairs. ‘Erm… I’m a little tied up at the moment. Well, handcuffed, technically…’

The inspector grinned. ‘Bingo.’ She bounded up the stairs two at a time, Mrs Griffith lumbering after her, making little groaning noises.

‘It’s not what you think, really!’

Allan followed them up to a plush bedroom that could have come straight from the pages of a swanky magazine. Oatmeal carpet, red velvet curtains, polished oak units, and a big four-poster bed with a naked man manacled to it. Wee Free McFee, wearing nothing but a smile and a couple of crocodile clips in a very sensitive location. OK, so the magazine would have to be Better Homes and Perverts, but it was the thought that counted.

McFee tried a shrug. ‘I’d get up, but … you know.’

Allan winced. ‘Does that not hurt?’

Steel plonked herself down on the edge of the bed. ‘No’ interrupting anything, am I?’

‘What do you think?’

Mrs Griffith grabbed the duvet and hauled it up, covering McFee’s wee hairy body. ‘I really don’t see how this is any of your business.’

‘What’s the deal, she paying off her husband’s debt in naughty favours? That it?’

‘Actually-’

Mrs Griffith put a hand on his chest. ‘Matthew and I are deeply in love. We have been for nearly a year. When Charles gets back, I’m going to ask him for a divorce.’

‘Divorce?’ The inspector bounced up and down a couple of times, making the springs creak. ‘Tell you what I think: I think the pair of you decided you couldn’t be bothered with a long, drawn out legal battle, so you killed him, dumped the body somewhere, and reported him missing. Cooked up the receipt for four grand so we’d think he’d done a bunk to get out of paying his debt.’ She smiled. ‘How am I doing so far?’

McFee looked at her for a minute, then burst out laughing. ‘We’re gonna get married. You any idea how hard it’d be for Mags to get a divorce if Charles is missing? Couldn’t even have him declared dead for what, seven, eight years? No way we’re waiting that long. Nice quickie divorce, and we can all get on with our lives.’ He winked. ‘Might even send you an invitation.’

‘Pull over.’ Steel scowled out of the windscreen, arms folded across her chest, jaw jutting.

‘You sure? It’s half two, you don’t want to be-’

‘I swear to God, Constable, if you don’t pull over right now I’m going to take my boot and I’m going to jam it right up your-’

‘OK, OK, pulling over.’ Talk about a bear with a sore bum.

The car crunched and bumped over a moonscape of compacted snow, coming to a halt outside a wee corner shop on Queens Road. A little billboard thing was screwed to the wall: ‘ABERDEEN EXAMINER — END IN SIGHT FOR WINTER CHAOS!’ Aye, right.

Steel unclipped her seatbelt and clambered out onto the crusty pavement, slipped, grabbed the door, wobbled for a bit, then straightened up. ‘No’ a word.’

‘I didn’t say anything!’

She slammed the door and picked her way into the shop.

How could someone be that miserable about inheriting fifty-four grand?

Steel was back five minutes later with a white carrier-bag clutched to her chest. Buckled herself in, then pulled out a half bottle of Famous Grouse. The top came off with a single twist, then she stared at the bottle for a moment, before knocking back a mouthful. Closed her eyes and shuddered. Took another sip. ‘What you looking at?’

‘Just thought it was kind of … you know … on duty and…’ He swallowed. She was glowering at him.

‘Drive.’

She was about a third of the way down the bottle by the time they reached the rutted driveway to the crematorium. The memorial gardens were covered in a thick layer of white, stealing the sharp edges from everything. According to the car’s temperature display, it was minus four out there.

Allan crept along the road, making for the bulky building at the end. The place was a collection of grey and brown rectangles, bolted together into a single unappealing, ugly, lump. As if just being a crematorium wasn’t depressing enough.

There was only one other vehicle in the car park, a frost-rimed 4x4. Allan parked a couple of spaces along and checked the clock: two fifty-eight. ‘Doesn’t look like he was all that popular.’

Steel took another slug of Grouse. ‘I was nineteen, only been on the beat for a couple of weeks… Was doing door-to-doors for this abduction case — woman, mother of two, snatched outside the bookies she worked at.’ Steel screwed the top back on the bottle, one eye half-shut, like it wouldn’t stay in focus. ‘And then I chapped on Desperate Doug MacDuff’s door…’

Silence.

‘Guv? You want me to come in with you?’

‘Going to go in there and tell the truth. Let everyone know what he was really like. Give that manky old git a piece of my mind. Who needs his filthy money?’ She climbed out into the snow, breath streaming around her head. Slipped the half bottle of whisky into her pocket. ‘You wait here. Might need to make a quick getaway.’

December 31st — Hogmanay

‘Guv?’ Allan peered around the edge of the door into DI Steel’s office.

She was slouched in her seat, feet up on the desk, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. The smoke curled out through the open window, letting in the constant drip-drip-drip of melting snow. A cup of coffee was growing a wrinkly skin, sitting next to a cardboard box with ‘FRAGILE — THIS WAY UP’ stencilled on the side.

‘Guv?’

Steel blinked, then swung around. ‘What?’

‘Just got a call from Mrs Griffith’s next-door neighbour. Think we’ve found the missing husband.’

Steel turned and stared back towards the road. ‘You sure you locked the car?’

‘Yes, I locked the car.’ Snow crunched and squelched under Allan’s boots as he picked his way along the edge of the next-door neighbour’s garden. It was horrible out here, cold and wet and soggy as the thaw ate its way through the drifts.

The neighbour was standing by a six-foot wooden fence, clutching an umbrella, melt-water from the roof drumming on the black and white fabric. She bounced a little on her feet as they got nearer, green eyes shining, big smile on her face, Irn-Bru hair curling out from the fringes of a woolly hat. ‘He’s over there.’ She pointed through a gap in the fence. ‘Saw him when I was trying to defrost the garden hose, and I was certain it was a body, and then I thought I can’t leave it, what if it disappears like in North by Northwest and nobody believes me? Or was that Ten Little Indians? I don’t suppose it matters really, but it was something like that, so I ran inside and grabbed my mobile and came back out and it was still there, which is great.’ All delivered machine gun style in one big breath.

Allan peered between two of the boards that made up the fence. There was a pair of legs sticking out of a drift of glistening snow: black boots; red trousers trimmed with white fur. An electrical cable was wrapped around one leg, studded with large multicoloured light bulbs. ‘Ouch. You think he’s…?’

Steel hit him. ‘Course he’s dead. Been lying upside down in a snowdrift for a week. It’s no’ like he’s hibernating in there, is it?’

The end of a ladder was just visible on the other side of the mound. ‘On the bright side, at least he’s not missing any more.’

Steel sat in the passenger seat, clutching that fragile cardboard box to her chest. Allan turned up the heater, then peered through the windscreen up at the house. Mrs Griffith was standing in the bay window of the lounge, staring as the duty undertakers wrestled her husband’s remains into the back of their unmarked grey van. It wasn’t easy — he’d frozen in a pretty awkward shape, like a Santa-Claus-themed swastika… Wee Free McFee had his arms wrapped nearly all the way around her shoulders, holding her tight as she sobbed.

Allan sniffed. ‘Still think they did it?’

‘The lovebirds? Nah. Silly sod was clambering about on the roof practicing his Father Christmas in the snow. Deserved all he got.’

The funeral directors finally forced the last bit of Charles Griffith into the van, then slammed the doors shut and slithered off into the defrosting afternoon.

Allan put the pool car in gear. ‘Back to the ranch?’

‘Nope. You can drop me off at home, I’m copping a sicky.’ Steel opened the top of the cardboard box and hauled out a brass urn that looked like a cross between a cocktail shaker and a thermos flask. A plaque was stuck to the dark wooden base: ‘DOUGLAS KENNEDY MACDUFF — IN LOVING MEMORY’. She opened the top and peered inside. ‘Hello again, Doug, you rancid wee scumbag. Your mate the solicitor says I’ve got to give you a dignified farewell. Something befitting your standing in the community.’

‘Fifty-four grand… Knew you’d see sense.’ Allan eased the car out onto the road. ‘So where you going to scatter him: Pittodrie? North Sea? Maybe out Tyrebagger or something?’

‘Litter tray.’ Steel grinned and screwed the top back on. ‘If we just use a little bit at a time, he should last for months.’