Now We Are Dead

I

Tufty stifled a yawn.

Barrett was up at the whiteboard, droning on about something, everyone watching him. Lund and Harmsworth were at least pretending to pay attention — between slurps of coffee — but Steel just fiddled with her phone. The stack of evidence crates had migrated to the middle of the office carpet, hiding one of the many, many stains that called the CID office home.

Barrett took the cap off a red whiteboard marker. ‘So remember, don’t be afraid to shout.’ Then underlined the words ‘STRANGER DANGER!!!’ ‘And last, but not least...’ He picked up a police cap off the desk and rummaged inside it, pulling out two bits of paper. One red, one blue. ‘Right: our expletive of the day is “fudgemonkey”, and if something’s good it’s, “Get down with your bad self”. OK? OK.’ He scribbled something on his beloved clipboard, then turned to Steel. ‘Sarge?’

‘Hmmmph?’ A blink. ‘Oh. Aye. We’ve still no’ IDed the wee kids we found yesterday. But our very own Tufty came up with this.’ She pointed at him.

Tufty held up the e-fit of the Action-Man wannabe he’d chased from the slum/squat yesterday. The one who’d nearly ran over him in a stolen hatchback. Really good likeness too. Which was even more impressive given that he’d been half asleep while putting the damn thing together.

Steel had a dig at her wrinkly cleavage. ‘Anyone want to take a guess?’

‘Yes.’ Harmsworth put down his coffee cup. ‘And I know no one cares what I think, but that looks like Kenny Milne to me.’

‘Well done, Owen, ten points to Hufflepuff.’

He looked hurt. ‘Hufflepuff?’

She nodded. ‘Kenneth Milne: form for assault, possession with intent, and breaking into pensioners’ houses and nicking everything he can carry. I want him found and I want him found today. I’m no’ having kidnappy scumbags making off with wee kiddies in my town. Understand?’

The resulting wave of apathy was overpowering.

‘I CAN’T HEAR YOU!’

A lacklustre ‘Yes, Sarge’ rippled around the room.

Harmsworth stuck out his bottom lip. ‘Why do I have to be a Hufflepuff?’

She ignored him. ‘Kenny Milne is a rancid wee fudgemonkey and we are putting his arse behind bars, so—’

The door opened and DCI Rutherford stepped into their humble office. ‘Ah, DS Steel, glad I caught you.’ He pointed at their collection of mobile phones. ‘This stolen property, it’s been entered into the system?’

Barrett snapped to attention, clutching his clipboard. ‘Did it last night, sir. I’m taking them down to the evidence store after the briefing.’

‘Hmm...’ The detective chief inspector made a show of thinking about that. ‘Well, given that your young man has pleaded guilty, and the fact that he’s a minor, I’ve spoken to the Procurator Fiscal and I’m delighted to say that we’ve been cleared to return these items to their rightful owners.’

Steel snapped her fingers. ‘You heard the man, Davey, bung that lot down to Lost-and-Found and we can—’

Rutherford held up a hand. ‘I favour a more proactive approach, Roberta. We want people to know that Police Scotland are here for them. That we care.’

‘Aye, but—’

‘I want you and your team to return these items to their rightful owners.’ Big smile.

Her face drooped an inch. ‘But—’

‘This is what community policing is all about, Sergeant. Imagine how delighted people will be to get their property back! We’ll see a massive PR boost from this. Hop to it.’ He turned and swept from the room.

Silence.

Barrett grimaced. ‘Oh my ears and whiskers...’

Steel stuck two fingers up at the closed door. ‘Sod that. We’ve got a Kenny Milne to catch.’

Roberta shifted in the passenger seat. What the hell was taking Tufty so long? Go in, ask a couple of questions, buy some butties, and come out again. How hard was that?

The baker’s window was all steamed up, the words ‘MRS JOHNSTON & DAUGHTERS ~ QUALITY BAKED GOODS EST. 1985’ looming through the fog. Sausage rolls and broken legs a speciality. Ask us about our protection-racket specials.

Susan’s voice took on that sharp, waspy tone it got when there was a fight brewing: ‘Are you even listening to me?’

‘Course I am.’ Roberta shifted the phone so it stayed pinned between her ear and her shoulder, keeping both hands free for the important task of drawing devil horns on Jack Wallace’s smug little rat face.

Look at him, smugging away beneath the headline. ‘MY CAMPAIGN TO CLEAN UP POLICE SCOTLAND STARTS HERE!’ Aye, right. The Aberdeen Examiner should be ashamed of itself, giving a raping wee shite like him front-page coverage. Or any coverage at all, come to that.

‘Well how about an answer then?’

‘I’m no’ saying Jasmine can’t have a party, Susan, I’m saying Logan McRae can pucker up and kiss my sharny arse if he thinks he’s getting an invite. OK?’

‘Oh for all that’s... Do you have any idea how unreasonable you’re being?’

‘Yup.’ She blacked out a couple of Jack Wallace’s teeth, for luck.

‘Honestly, Robbie, you’re going to have to talk to him sometime.’

‘Nope.’

The pool car’s door creaked open and Tufty got in, clutching a couple of greasy paper bags and two Styrofoam cups with lids. He held out one of each. ‘Sausage butty with red, and a flat white.’

Steel dumped her pen on the dashboard and took both. ‘Sorry, Susan, got to go. Official business.’

‘You do know I can hear him, don’t you?’

‘OK, love you.’ She hung up and opened her paper bag. Took a big bite of butty: an instant hit of flour and tomato sauce, silky butter and soft bap, then the dark-brown savoury crunch of deep-fried sausages. Ooh, hot. But tasty. She chewed around the words ‘Any news?’

Tufty unwrapped his own butty. Bacon from the look of it. ‘They haven’t seen Kenny Milne round here for about a month. Sodded off and didn’t pay his tab, so if he turns up again they’ll definitely tell us. After he’s fallen down a few times.’

‘He didn’t pay his tab? God, Milne’s a braver man than me.’ Another bite of rich sausagey goodness. ‘You do not screw with Alice Johnston and her girls.’

The car’s radio crackled. Bleeped. Then, ‘Control to DS Steel, safe to talk?’

‘No. Sod off.’ Creaking the lid off her coffee.

But Tufty had to go ahead and pick it up anyway, didn’t he? Twit. ‘Go ahead.’

‘You’re in Cornhill, aren’t you? We’ve got a call — vulnerable adult not been seen for a few days. Can you check in on her?’

Roberta grabbed the handset off the soft sod. ‘Get uniform to do it. We’re busy.’

‘Can’t. There’s a riot kicking off at the crematorium, a four-car pileup on South Anderson Drive, and we’re still searching for that old dear with Alzheimer’s. Tag: you’re it.’

‘Gah...’ Rotten bunch of sods. But it wasn’t as if she had a choice. ‘Fine. But I’m finishing my butty first!’

The tower block loomed over the surrounding housing estate, monolithic and grey. Sixteen storeys of miserable Lego, dirty streaks leaking down from the corner of every single window. The other three blocks in the development were just as slab-faced, but at least they were clean. This one was like the stinky kid at school no one wanted to be friends with.

Tufty locked the car and held a hand above his eyes, blocking out the sun, counting his way up from the ground. ‘Ten. Eleven. Twelve. That’s us: Cairnhill Court, twelfth floor.’

Steel scowled at him. The effect was a bit undermined by the sausage butty’s aftermath: a tomato sauce smile over flour-whitened cheeks. Like the Joker had really let himself go. ‘How much do you want to bet the lifts don’t work?’

The lifts did work. Well, one of them anyway. Yeah, it was covered in graffiti, but it was working. Not very quickly, though. It creaked and groaned upwards, the little lights above the door marking their snail’s pace up to the twelfth floor.

A lurch, then the thing gave a particularly loud groan.

Steel curled her top lip, nostrils twitching. Trying to hide a smile. ‘That better no’ have been you.’

Tufty pulled on his best offended look. ‘Of course it wasn’t!’ Then leaned to one side and squeezed one out. Grinned. ‘But that was.’

‘Urrrgh! You filthy wee sod!’

Tee hee.

The lift doors pinged and Steel stumbled out. ‘Air! Fresh air!’

Someone had painted the corridor institution-green at some point long, long ago. Now it was cracked and scuffed. Peeling in the corners. A patch of magnolia almost managing to conceal some spray-paint graffiti. ‘ENGLISH SCUMMERS ~ FREEDOME!!!’

Think if you were going to be a bigoted arsehole you could at least get a friend to check your spelling.

Steel turned and thumped him on the arm. ‘What the hell have you been eating?’

‘You’ve got to admit the timing was lovely.’ He led the way down the corridor to the flat at the end. The front door was gouged and darkened around the bottom. Like it’d been given a stiff kicking. ‘And the embouchure! A perfect middle C.’ He knocked on the door, raised his voice to carry through the dented woodwork. ‘Mrs Galloway? Hello? Can you come to the door please?’

‘It’s no’ wholesome.’

‘You started it.’ Another knock. ‘It’s the police, Mrs Galloway. We just want to check you’re all right.’

‘I did not!’

‘Did too. Mrs Galloway? Can you hear me? Mrs Galloway, can we come in and speak to you please?’

A rattle, and a tracksuited wifie poked her head out of the flat opposite, puffing away on a rollup. A large woman with yoghurt-pale skin and her ponytail hauled back in a Torry facelift. But when she opened her gob it was like your favourite aunt: full of care and concern. ‘I’ve not seen her for three days. Normally she’s out walking her wee dog, regular as clockwork. And they haven’t seen her down the shops either, I checked.’

Tufty tried a jaunty, friendly rat-tat-a-tat-tat knock. ‘Mrs Galloway?’

Steel nodded at the door. ‘She got family? Maybe she’s staying with them?’

‘Got a son, but he’s in P.R.I.S.O.N.’ Spelling it out nice and quiet. ‘Drugs. Very sad.’

One last go. ‘Come on, Mrs Galloway, please open the door! Pretty please?’

Steel sidled over to the neighbour. ‘Haven’t got a key, have you?’

‘Give us a second.’ And she disappeared.

Steel sniffed. ‘I still say there’s something wrong with your bumhole if it produces smells like that.’

‘You’re just jealous.’

‘If smells like that came out of me, I’d be straight down the doctor’s demanding—’

‘Here you go.’ The neighbour appeared again, a toddler balanced on her hip. Holding out a key with a little rubber bone as a fob.

‘Thanks. We’ll take it from here.’ Steel gave her a smile, took the key, then slipped it into the lock. Twisted. Pushed. Whistled. ‘Wow...’

Tufty peered over her shoulder.

The hallway was a complete and utter tip. If a tornado had touched down in here it couldn’t have made more of a mess. Pictures torn from the walls. Coats and shoes hurled around. Holes gouged in the plasterboard.

Steel backed up a step. ‘You better go first. In case it’s dangerous.’

Oh that was fair. Because detective constables were a hundred percent more disposable than detective sergeants, weren’t they? Even saggy old wrinkly ones.

He squeezed past and crept down the hall, feet crunching on broken glass from the picture frames. Scuffing through a duffle coat. ‘Mrs Galloway?’

A door led off to one side. Tufty pushed it open: bathroom. The medicine cabinet lay in the middle of the floor, its contents spilled out like pill-bottle confetti.

Another door opposite: bedroom. The mattress was up on its side, blocking the window, its underside exposed and slashed, nylon fibre guts hanging out in long dangling swathes.

One door left, at the end of the hall.

Sobbing filtered through from the other side.

Tufty eased it open. ‘Mrs Galloway?’

It was a living room, or at least it used to be. Now it was more like a day at the dump. Even with the curtains closed, the devastation in here was obvious. Broken furniture lay sprawled across the floor. The smallest member of a nest of tables poked out of the smashed screen of an old-fashioned cathode ray tube TV.

That sobbing was coming from a little old lady, sitting on the floor in the corner, surrounded by her wreckage, rocking back and forwards with one hand clasped against her chest and the other clenched over her eyes.

He squatted down next to her. ‘Mrs Galloway, are you all right?’

OK, so it was a stupid question, but what else was he supposed to say?

Steel picked her way through the debris and pulled the curtains open.

Light flooded in.

Mrs Galloway flinched back into the corner. ‘Aaaaaaagh...’ Almost every visible inch of skin was covered in dark purple bruising, already starting to yellow and green around the edges.

Steel’s face darkened. ‘Who did this?’

Mrs Galloway perched on the edge of an armchair, curling away from the sunlight. The room didn’t look a lot better with the furniture the right way up, but at least they’d made the effort. Even if it had taken that idiot Tufty ages to sort it out.

Roberta hunkered down at the side of the armchair, placed a hand on Mrs Galloway’s knee. It was like squeezing a lump of bone, but hot — a bone that been left too long in the oven. ‘Shh... It’s going to be OK. You tell me who did this and we’ll take care of it. OK?’

Mrs Galloway just shook her head.

‘You’ll feel better with a nice cup of tea in you. Then we can all go take your wee dog out for a walk. You’ll like that, won’t you? Bit of fresh air?’

A gulping noise, then Mrs Galloway blinked at her. Mouth trembling. An acre of pain and longing in those watery bloodshot eyes.

Cup of tea, cup of tea, la, la, la, la, cup of tea.

Tufty turned the cold tap and filled the kettle.

At least the kitchen hadn’t been trashed. Everything clean and tidy. All nice and easy to find. So now three china mugs sat in a row, each with a budget-brand teabag in it. He stuck the kettle on to boil.

Sniffed.

Funny smell in here, though. Sort of meaty and gritty. Maybe a bit burnt?

Now: milk and, indeed, sugar.

The fridge was bare, except for a can of dog food — the top covered with tinfoil. Which had to be the only food in the place. All the other cupboards were empty. Well, except for the crockery and pots and pans and things. Not so much as a digestive biscuit.

He wrinkled his nose again.

Maybe it was the dog food?

He peeled back the tinfoil and sniffed.

Smelled like mystery meat mixed with BO and manky socks, AKA: dog food. So nope.

It had to be coming from somewhere though.

He had a peek in the bin while the kettle boiled.

Nope.

Tufty did a slow three-sixty. Maybe...

A microwave sat in the corner, by the toaster. That’s where the stink was coming from. There were dark stains underneath it too, spreading out along the worktop. Brown and sticky looking. Yeah, definitely the microwave.

He reached out and opened the door.

Oh shit.

He shut it again.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

It took two goes to get his voice to work. ‘Sarge?’

Roberta leaned both hands on the windowsill and stared out at the day. Look at it. All bright and shiny. Green on the trees, blue in the sky, sunlight sparking back off the windscreens of passing cars. And out, past the rooftops and the wiggly streets, the North Sea was a hazy shade of sapphire, a couple of cheery-coloured offshore supply boats waiting their turn to come into harbour.

She clenched her teeth tighter, jaw trembling with the pressure.

How? How could anyone do that?

How could any human being—

‘Sarge?’

She looked back, over her shoulder. Tufty stood in the kitchen doorway with a bin-bag dangling from one hand. There was something in it — no’ big, but heavy enough to pull the black plastic tight.

Mrs Galloway covered her eyes. ‘I... Please...’

Roberta took a deep breath. Turned to face the window again. ‘What was its name? Your wee dog.’

‘Pudding. Had him... since he was a puppy.’

Tufty’s voice was soft and gentle. ‘There isn’t a scrap of food in the house. When did you last eat?’

‘What kind of dog was he?’

‘Yorkie.’ Mrs Galloway dragged in three or four jagged breaths. ‘He’s... he’s a Yorkshire terrier.’

Roberta nodded. Turned. Tried very hard no’ to growl it out: ‘So someone kicked their way in here, beat the crap out of you, and did that to your dog. And you won’t tell me who it was?’

‘I... can’t.’

‘Do you want them to get away with it?’ Getting harder and sharper with every word.

Tufty shifted the bin-bag behind his back, where Mrs Galloway wouldn’t see it. ‘Come on, Sarge, maybe this isn’t the best—’

‘Do you want them to do this to someone else? To someone else’s dog?’

Mrs Galloway shrank into her armchair, hand over her eyes, tears running down her cheeks. ‘Please. I... I just want to be left alone.’

II

Steel stormed out of the flat and into the corridor, slamming the door behind her.

Tufty shuffled his feet. Cleared his throat. ‘Sorry about that, she gets a bit... involved.’

Mrs Galloway just kept on sobbing.

‘Right. Yes.’ He shuffled backwards towards the lounge door, keeping himself between her and the bin-bag. ‘Don’t worry about Pudding. We’ll take good care of him.’ Poor little thing. ‘Anyway, I’d better... you know.’

He let himself out.

Steel was pacing up and down the corridor, face like a ruptured haemorrhoid, mouth moving like she was chewing on something bitter. She marched straight past him to the window at the end of the corridor and turned back again. ‘Screw this. I’m no’ letting this one go. Not a chance in sharny Satan’s shiny hell!’

She marched the three steps to the neighbour’s door and hammered on it. ‘A wee dog.’

The neighbour opened it and frowned across the hall. ‘She OK?’

‘Course she bloody isn’t! Who did it? I want a name.’

‘He wasn’t well, you know: Pudding. Had to have this operation. Really expensive.’

Steel jabbed a finger at Mrs Galloway’s door. ‘Someone killed her dog. Who?’

‘How’s an old lady like Agnes supposed to afford something like that? Vets think we’re all made of money.’

That stopped her. Steel narrowed her eyes. ‘She borrowed the cash, didn’t she? She borrowed it from someone who doesn’t do credit checks, they break your legs.’

‘He was a lovely wee dog.’

Steel leaned in, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper. ‘So tell me who it was.’

And at that, the neighbour’s face set like cement. ‘Mrs Galloway had a wee dog. I’ve got a wee boy. And I’m saying nothing more than that.’

Tufty pulled away from Cairnhill Court, driving nice and steady, but Pudding’s bin-bag still slithered across the back seat when he turned onto the main road.

Steel scowled back through the rear window at the tower block as it faded into the distance. ‘I want this bastard, Tufty. I want him really, really—’

Her phone launched into its Eighties cop-show tune.

She sighed, then answered it, stabbing the speaker button. ‘This better be important!’

DCI Rutherford’s voice crackled out into the car. ‘I don’t think I quite got that, Sergeant.’

Steel slumped in her seat and mouthed a very rude word. ‘DCI Rutherford. Sir. Thought it was someone else.’

‘I see... Well, I need to know how you’re getting along with returning those stolen phones. The Chief Superintendent wants to put out a press release.’

‘Working on it as we speak, Boss.’

Fibber.

‘Good, good. Well, keep me informed. I expect to see some real results ASAP on this one.’

She forced a smile. ‘Will do.’ Then hung up. Sagged even further into the passenger seat. ‘Sodding fudgemonkeys.’

Tufty checked the sign fastened to the corridor wall: ‘WILDLIFE CRIME OFFICER’. He shifted his grip on the bin-bag and knocked.

‘Come.’

OK.

The room was about the same size as his bathroom back at the flat. Only without the bath, Mr Einstein, sink, or toilet. Or tiles. Instead it had a row of five filing cabinets that took up one entire wall. Opposite them was a desk, crammed in under the window, leaving just enough space for a saggy office chair that you probably had to wheel out into the corridor if you wanted to open the filing cabinets. A stack of box files filled the last available corner, beneath a whiteboard covered in tiny blocks of perfect handwriting.

A young woman sat at the desk, poking away at an antique computer — beige with a state-of-the-ark monitor that took up nearly a third of the available space. The Wildlife Crime Officer turned and looked up at him, a little row of creases between her eyebrows. Dishwater-blonde hair in a loose half-ponytail thing. Glasses. Cute, in a fellow-police-officery, mutual-respect, let’s-not-have-any-sexual-harassment-in-the-workplace kind of way. Quirky smile...

The smile slipped a bit.

Oh, yeah, he was probably staring like a creepy person.

Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Hi.’

Not a bad start. The smile was back at least. ‘Can I help you...?’

Was it getting hotter in here?

‘Erm, Stewart. I mean, Detective Constable Quirrel.’ Definitely getting hotter. ‘Or “Tufty” if you want? You know, to my friends? Ahem.’

Nowhere to sit, so he stayed where he was.

‘And what can I do for you, Constable Quirrel?’

‘Oh, right. Yes. Reason for visit.’ He held up the black plastic bag. The weight inside set it swinging. ‘I’m kinda new here. We found an old lady’s Yorkshire terrier, and I...’ A shrug. ‘Look, I know this is going to sound daft, but is there a council cemetery for people’s pets or something? She’s not got any money and someone killed her dog and...’ He licked his lips. ‘Name was Pudding. The dog’s name, not the old lady’s.’ The tips of his ears were ablaze. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know who else to ask. Because you’re the Wildlife Crime Officer...’

And babbling like an idiot was a great way to make a first impression.

She looked from him to the bag and back again.

Now would probably be a good time for a meteor to hit the earth and wipe out all life on the planet.

Then she sighed. ‘Poor wee thing.’

Not entirely certain if she was talking about him, or the dog.

The Wildlife Crime Officer pointed to the stack of file boxes. ‘There’s a chair under there. Why don’t you dig it out and tell me all about Pudding?’

Definitely the dog then.

Every single desk in the CID office was a spaghetti-nightmare of phone-charger cords and extension leads. Barrett had his clipboard out again, checking that everything still in its original packaging was correctly entered and cross-referenced before loading it into a plastic crate marked, ‘RETURN TO PHONE SHOPS’. Lund scrolled through the contacts on an old Sony, tongue poking out of the side of her mouth.

Harmsworth was hunched over his desk, forehead an inch from the wire-strewn surface, face scrunched up in obvious mental distress, a big Samsung job pressed to his ear. ‘Yes, we’ve recovered your mobile phone... No, it’s right here... No, I know it is, because I’m talking to you on it.’

The woman on the other end of Tufty’s phone sighed. ‘OK, OK, I’ll come in tomorrow and pick it up. Happy?’

‘That’d be great.’ You ungrateful lump of lumpiness. He hung up and slid it back into its little brown cardboard box. Scribbled ‘OWNER COMING IN TOMORROW’ on the form printed onto the outside.

Look at them all, working like a proper team. All pulling together for the same goal.

Made you proud.

Even Steel was on the phone. Mind you, it wasn’t one of the stolen ones, it was her own, but it was the thought that counted. She swung her feet up on the desk and rubbed at her forehead. ‘I’m no’ asking you to clype on the Cosa Nostra, Bobby, I’m just asking who’s loansharking in Cornhill these days?’

Harmsworth groaned. ‘No, I’m sure it’s your phone. That’s how I got your number, you saved it under “Home”.’

‘There must be someone, Bobby!’

‘Yes, I know that means you’re paying for this call, Miss, but—... Yes. I do understand that...’

Tufty dumped his re-boxed phone in the ‘COMING TO COLLECT’ crate and wandered over to the array of mobiles charging on his desk. Picked a slabby Nokia smartphone at random, unplugged it from its lead, and powered it up.

‘Bobby... No, Bobby it’s—... Bobby! I’m looking for a scumbag who microwaves people’s dogs if they don’t pay him back. He’s no’ going to be easy to forget.’

Lund settled back in her seat. ‘Hello? Who am I speaking to please?... Mr Morrison, this is the police, we’ve found your mobile phone...’

The Nokia came to life with a binglety-bing. Wasn’t even locked. He poked at the screen, selecting ‘PEOPLE’, and scrolled through till he found the entry called ‘HOME’.

He set it ringing.

‘Yes, I know... No, we just need you to come down to the station and pick it up, Mr Morrison.’

A click sounded in Tufty’s ear. Then, ‘Yes?’

‘Hello?’

‘Hello?’ A man’s voice. Not all that bright sounding.

Harmsworth bounced his forehead off the desk. ‘I know money doesn’t grow on trees, Miss, but we’re trying to return your phone.’

Tufty stuck a finger in his other ear and moved away to the opposite side of the office, by the whiteboard, where it was slightly less noisy. ‘Who am I speaking to?’

‘Look, is this some sort of PPI marketing nonsense, because—’

‘It’s the police. Was your phone stolen recently?’

‘Oh? You found my phone? Right. Well, don’t suppose it really matters now: got a replacement. Was due an upgrade anyway.’

‘If you come down to Queen Street you can fill in a claim form and get it back.’

‘But I don’t really need... Actually, you know what?’ Doing his best to sound super nonchalant. ‘There’s probably photos and things on there.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Sentimental reasons. That kind of thing.’

Which probably meant filthy, filthy pics of his girl-and-or-boyfriend.

‘You’ll need proof of purchase and the serial number so we can make sure it’s definitely yours, otherwise we have to go through a whole big red-tape exercise to prove ownership.’

‘Right. Yes. I’ll pop down tomorrow-ish and pick it up. Thanks.’

Tufty hung up and waved at the others. Pointed at the phone and gave them a big cheesy grin. Then wrote the words ‘DIY PORN!!!’ on the whiteboard in big red letters.

Steel’s eyes widened. She got up from her desk and hurried over, still on the phone. ‘Yeah well, ask around, Bobby, and maybe those parking tickets will disappear.’

Harmsworth pointed at the mobile in his hand and rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, I do understand that, Miss, but—... No... Yes.’

Lund gave them the thumbs up. ‘Just come past tomorrow and that’ll be grand.’ She stuck the phone back in its little cardboard evidence box and dumped it in the ‘TO BE COLLECTED’ crate. Joined them at the whiteboard. ‘Come on then.’

Tufty opened up the ‘PICTURES’ menu and a bunch of folders filled the screen. No names, just dates. He picked one at random and opened it. Flicked through the contents.

A bunch of blokes staggered their way through a drunken night out. Next folder: a middle-aged couple taking a Rottweiler for a walk along Aberdeen beach.

Steel hit him. ‘You said there was porn!’ Then back to her own phone. ‘No, no’ you, Bobby. This idiot here.’

He tried the next folder... ‘Bingo.’

The screen filled with a topless woman in a fancy tiled bathroom — long blonde hair, mole on her right cheek, pouty red lips. Then the same woman from various intimate angles all the way to bare-arse naked as he scrolled through the pics. Then the same woman unzipping the photographer’s trousers.

Barrett blushed. ‘Oh my ears and whiskers.’

The next ones were even more explicit.

‘Ooh, no wonder he wanted his phone back!’

Steel widened her eyes, eyebrows raised all the way up to her disastrous hairline. ‘Bobby? I’m going to have to call you later.’ She snatched the mobile from Tufty’s hand and leered at the screen. ‘I may need some alone time...’

Duncan sat on the park bench, rubbing at his forehead while Ellie banged on and on and on and on...

Didn’t matter what day it was, she always had something to bitch and whinge about.

Little children squealed and roared and laughed and giggled as they chased each other around the playground. Hung upside down from the swings. Scooted down the slide on their backsides. Twirled and yelled and screamed on the spinning roundabout.

Look at me, Mummy! Look at me, Daddy!

Oh to be five again. When the only things you had to worry about was how many marbles you could fit up your nose and how dinosaurs brushed their teeth with those stubby wee arms of theirs. When the scariest thing in the world was running out of chocolate biscuits and the monster that lived under your bed.

Well you know what? The monster that lived under his bed had nothing on Ellie.

God knew how something as lovely and warm and wonderful as Lucy came out of that frozen, frigid monster’s fanny.

She was still at it. ‘... you should’ve known better. For Christ’s sake, Duncan!’

‘How is this my fault, Ellie? You’re the one who—’

‘And if you think you’re getting her for the holidays, you can bloody well whistle.’

‘No. No, that’s not fair and you know it!’

Lucy roared past, both arms held out, making aeroplane noises, curly blonde hair bouncing out behind her. ‘Look at me, Daddy! Look at me!’

‘Yes, Daddy can see you, darling.’ Back to the phone. ‘You’re being completely unreasonable, Ellie.’

‘Don’t you take that tone with me, Duncan Nicol. She’s my daughter and if I say she’s coming with us to France, she’s coming with us to France.’

Lucy made another pass, strafing the dog-poo bin. ‘Rrrrrrraaaaaawww... Dugga-dugga-dugga-dugga! Neeeeewwww... BOOOM!’

‘It’s called “joint custody”, Ellie. Joint!’

‘Are you watching, Daddy?’ Lucy was looking back at him, eyes so big and bright, smile so wide. Not paying any attention to where she was running. ‘Are you watching—’ She crashed into the bushes and went headlong, disappearing into the greenery with a squeal.

Duncan jumped to his feet. ‘Lucy? Lucy!’

‘What’s happening? Has something happened?’ Ellie’s voice got even shriller as he ran over to the bushes. ‘Duncan, what have you done to our baby?’

‘Lucy! Lucy, are you... Oh thank God.’

She crawled out of the bushes on her hands and knees, little bits of rhododendron poking out of her curls.

He swept her up. Kissing her on the forehead and cheeks. ‘You silly sausage. Are you OK?’

She nodded at him, eyebrows down, mouth clamped into a line — her serious face. ‘I fell down.’ Then she glanced over her shoulder at the undergrowth and back again. ‘Daddy? There’s a lady in the bushes and she’s all crying and sticky.’

Lucy held up her hands. They were clarted with blood.

Oh no. No. Oh no...

She almost slipped out of his arms. The phone bounced off the grass at his feet, Ellie’s voice barely audible.

‘Duncan? Duncan! I demand you tell me what’s happened this instant!’

The bushes.

A woman.

Blood.

Duncan swallowed. Then inched his way forward, one hand on the back of Lucy’s head, keeping her face snuggled in against his neck so she couldn’t see anything. He peered in through the leaves.

Oh Christ. Oh dear, bloody Christ.

The woman lay on the dirt, between the rhododendron branches and roots, twisted, crying. Most of her clothes were gone, bits, like the cuffs of her shirt, still attached — the fabric tattered and frayed where the rest had been torn off. Blood oozed down her arms and legs, deep red gashes carved into pale skin.

She looked up, right at him. Reached out with a filthy hand. ‘Help... help me...’

Duncan screamed.

Dirty, rotten, useless, halfwit bastards.

Roberta stormed down the corridor, uniforms flattening themselves against the walls, getting the hell out of her way. Good. Tufty scuffled along behind her, trying to play the voice of reason. Aye, good luck with that.

Time for reason was past.

‘Come on, Sarge. Maybe if you had a cuppa or something? Calmed down a bit before you...’

She barged through the door to DCI Rutherford’s office, letting go of the handle so the thing banged off one of the filing cabinets. The git himself was behind his ‘look how important I am’ desk, DI Vine taking up one of the visitors’ chairs, one of Vine’s sidekicks over by the whiteboard. Case notes and photos spread out across the desk.

Everyone stared at her.

Tufty grabbed her arm, hissing in her ear. ‘Really don’t think this is a good—’

She shook him off. ‘It’s Wallace, isn’t it? He attacked that woman.’

Vine looked down his nose at her. ‘We’re in a meeting, Sergeant.’

‘Victoria Park, same place he attacked Claudia Boroditsky—’

‘You’ve got a bloody cheek bursting in here!’

‘—in the bushes with a sodding knife. Do I have to draw you a diagram before you’ll get it through your thick skulls?’

Vine stood. ‘That is ENOUGH!’

He was right, it was. Time to rearrange some teeth.

She stepped forwards, fists curling, but Tufty grabbed her again with a little eeking noise.

From the safety of his desk, DCI Rutherford held up a hand. ‘Now, now, let’s all just take a deep calming breath before we do or say something we can’t take back.’

No one moved.

‘Good.’ Rutherford pointed at the chairs. ‘Sit down, John. And Roberta, I know you mean well, but you need to walk away from this one.’

‘He raped that—’

‘We don’t know that yet. We can’t prove it.’ He lowered his hand. ‘But I can assure you DI Vine will liaise with the Divisional Rape Investigation Unit and we will find the man responsible.’

Oh yes, that was such a comfort. ‘Jack Wallace is a vicious, raping, scheming little—’

‘And given your history with the man, I would hope you’re bright enough to never get involved with him again!’ Rutherford screwed his face up for a moment. Took a deep breath. Spread his hands out on his desk. ‘Look, Roberta, it almost cost you your career last time. Leave this one to DI Vine. Walk away. That’s an order.’

It was like swallowing broken glass.

But she bared her teeth and did it anyway. ‘Yes, Boss.’

The hospital room had that throat-catching disinfectant stink: slightly smoky, laced with iodine and Jeyes Fluid. They had the blinds down, shutting out the harsh morning sun, leaving the place cloaked in gloom. The only light, other than what seeped through the blinds, came from the array of machinery hooked up to every one of the four patients in here.

The starchy sheets crackled as Roberta shifted her bum along the edge of the bed. A little whiteboard was fixed to the metal frame at the head end, just big enough to have ‘BEATRICE EDWARDS AB RHD —’ on it, a laminated sheet of paper Blu-Tacked up beneath with: ‘NIL BY MOUTH’ in thick laser-printed letters.

Roberta squeezed Beatrice’s hand, the skin cool and clammy like the recently deceased. Bandages wrapped around Beatrice’s wrists, reaching all the way up to her elbows — yellow and red stains leached out into the fabric. Defensive wounds. She’d fought back.

They’d taped a wad of gauze across the gash in her face and the dressing stood out bright white against the bruises. Her eyes, hooded and heavy, the pupils dilated like shiny black buttons.

Roberta cleared her throat. Swallowed. Tried again: ‘Are you sure, Beatrice?’

It took a while for her to respond and when she did the words were thick and slurred. ‘Was dark... So dark... Knife.’

‘How about his voice, did he threaten you? Did he say anything?’

A slow-motion blink. ‘Tired... Sleep...’

‘Did he have an accent? Anything?’

The word, ‘There!’ hissed out from somewhere over by the door, followed by, ‘There she is.’

Roberta glanced up from Beatrice’s bandaged wrist. A fat nurse in pale blue scrubs stood in the doorway, nearly filling it, fists on her hips. Nose in the air. She dwarfed her companion — a weedy uniformed PC with greasy hair Brylcreemed into a hard side parting as if he’d just fallen out of the 1950s.

The wee sod jabbed a finger at Roberta, then at his feet. He adopted the same hissing rasp. ‘You: get over here! What do you think you’re doing?’

She took out one of her Police Scotland business cards and put it in Beatrice’s hand. Closed the cold fingers around it. ‘If you remember anything, anything at all. You call me, OK?’

The weedy PC bustled up. ‘You can’t be in here! This woman’s been attacked!’

His lardy sidekick was right behind him. ‘It’s not even visiting hours! You should be ashamed of yourself.’

Roberta gave Beatrice’s hand another gentle squeeze. ‘It gets better. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it does. There comes a time when you won’t flinch if someone touches you. When your heart doesn’t feel like you’re going to die if you hear footsteps coming up behind you. When the darkness doesn’t make you want to scream.’ She stood, leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Trust me. I know.’

The nurse folded her arms, chin up. ‘I demand you leave this ward at once!’

Roberta stuck two fingers up, blew a very wet raspberry, then sauntered from the room, pausing to grab the PC by the ear on the way, taking him with her.

He squealed like a wee piggy. ‘Ow, ow, ow!’

A disdaining sniff as his sidekick turned to watch them leave. ‘Horrible woman. How anyone could—’

The ward doors clunked shut behind them, cutting her off.

Roberta dragged the weedy PC across the corridor to the vending machines, keeping a plier-like grip on his lug. ‘You know who I am?’

His face contorted for a moment or two, then it must have dawned, because his eyes bugged. ‘DCI... I mean Detective Sergeant Steel. You— Ow!’

She gave his ear another twist for luck.

‘Ow!’

‘Let’s try that again. Do — you — know — who — I — am?’

His face creased, little hands twitching at his sides. Then finally he got it. ‘No?’

There we go.

‘Good boy. Keep it that way.’ She released his ear and patted him on the cheek. ‘Now buy me a KitKat.’

Tufty stood in front of the pool car, scuffling from foot to foot. Face all creased and fidgety.

Roberta polished off the last of her pilfered KitKat. ‘You look like a dog with worms. Been calling you for ages!’

‘Nice people switch their phones off in Hospitals, you wormy wee spud.’ She crumpled up the KitKat wrapper and lobbed it in through the open passenger window. ‘Come on then: out with it.’

‘Mrs Galloway’s next-door neighbour: she says there’s two big thugs round there right now hammering away on the old dear’s door, yelling at her to open up!’

Roberta stared at him. ‘So get some sodding backup sorted!’

‘We’re closest. Going to be at least fifteen minutes till anyone else is free.’

Thugs.

Mrs Galloway. A grin spread across Roberta’s face, hard and sharp. ‘Get down with your bad self!’

Tufty backed away, chin pulled in. ‘Sarge? Why are you smiling?’

Because the dirty wee sods that beat up an old lady and microwaved her dog were about to come down with a serious dose of police brutality. ‘In the car, now!’

III

The lift juddered to a halt on the twelfth floor. Soon as the doors creaked open, shouting boomed in from the corridor outside.

‘Open up, you old bitch!’

‘Don’t be stupid, Agnes, you’re only making it worse on yourself!’

Roberta cranked her smile up a notch and charged out of the lift, Tufty right beside her.

Two massive bruisers, dressed all in black, battered on Mrs Galloway’s door. Boxers’ noses and rugby players’ ears. They could’ve been twins, except one was boiled-egg bald while the other had a stringy blond mullet and sunglasses. Both with Seventies’ porn star moustaches.

The bald one thumped on the door again. ‘I’m not kidding around here!’

His mate kicked it. ‘Open the bloody door!’

Roberta dug into her jacket and removed the extendable baton lurking there. Clacked it out to full length. ‘HOY, CHUCKLE BROTHERS!’

Tufty did the same with his baton, a wee canister of pepper spray in his other hand. ‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’

Chuckle Brother Number One turned and peered at them over the top of his sunglasses. ‘Here to back us up, are you?’

She thwacked her baton off the corridor wall, adding to the scuffs and dents. ‘Oh, I’m going to enjoy this.’

Number Two held up his hands. ‘Nah, you got the wrong end, like.’

‘You battered an old lady. You wrecked her flat. YOU KILLED HER DOG!’

They both backed away at that, chins pulled in where their necks should’ve been.

Number Two frowned at Number One. ‘Dog?’

A shake of the head sent lanky blond wisps floating at the back of Number One’s head. ‘Nah, we’re totally not that.’ He pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘Bailiffs. Got a court order to seize goods worth two thousand pound, don’t we?’

‘We never killed no dog!’ Number Two’s face contracted around his broken nose. ‘What kinda people you think we are?’

Roberta stared at them. ‘You’re bailiffs?’

‘I got two cocker spaniels!’

The bailiffs stood in the middle of the living room, heads bowed, feet shuffling, hands clasped in front of them — a pair of schoolboys waiting for a thrashing from the headmaster. Only bigger. And more muscly. With the occasional tattoo poking out from the necks of their black T-shirts.

Mrs Galloway sat in her wonky armchair, somehow even thinner and older and frailer than she’d been this morning, a fibreglass cast on her arm. Trying no’ to make eye contact with anyone. Especially the massive pair of thugs who’d been battering on her door two minutes ago.

Roberta poked Bailiff Number One. ‘Go on then.’

He cleared his throat. Looked at his mate. Then back at the poor battered auld wifie sitting there like a broken sparrow. ‘Erm... Mrs Galloway? Rick and me got this warrant and...’ He swivelled his head from side to side, taking in the shabby wee room. ‘And I’m really sorry to hear about your wee dog.’

Bailiff Number Two, AKA: Rick, nodded. ‘That’s a shitty thing to do. See if I ever get my hands on the bastard what did that, I’ll—’

‘Anyway, we can see you got nothing worth two grand. So I’m gonna go back to the office and see what we can do about a payment plan, or something, right? Spread the costs?’

Rick tightened his fists. ‘A wee dog...’

The pair of them were waiting for the lift as Steel and Tufty stepped out of Mrs Galloway’s flat.

Tufty closed the door, pulling on the handle till the Yale lock clicked into place. ‘Think she’ll be OK?’

Steel marched over to the lifts.

Baldy shook his head, jaw tight and clenched. ‘I mean, what did a wee dog ever do to anyone? I tell you, Marty, I’m seriously gonna end that scummer.’

Mullet nodded. ‘Bastard.’

Ping: the lift doors slid open and Steel stepped inside, a small pause, then the bailiffs joined her. Tufty squeaking in just as the doors started to shut.

Steel stared at Baldy and Mullet. Cracked her knuckles. ‘You’re getting one chance to answer this, then I’m kicking both your arses for you: who are you working for?’

‘Landlord.’ Mullet nodded his head at the lift doors. ‘Owns about half the flats in the block. The old lady’s not paid her rent in, like, four months.’

Baldy shrugged. ‘Sent her dozens of letters, hasn’t he? But these auld biddies?’ A grimace. ‘Wishful thinking, innit? You don’t open the post, it don’t count. Maybe the Denial Fairy makes all that back rent you owe disappear. Then me and Marty got to pay them a visit.’

She poked him in the chest. ‘Someone’s loansharking down here. I want to know who.’

Baldy growled. Bared his teeth. ‘He the one microwaved that poor dog? Cos if it is...’

Mullet folded his massive arms across his chest, like a big red-neck genie. ‘Can do you better than a name. I’ll show you where you can find him.’

‘Here youse go.’ Chuckle Brother Number One, AKA: Marty, opened the door, revealing the lounge bar in all its retro glory. Red vinyl on the seats, a sticky lino floor, dark wooden tables and bar. A line of optics for Bell’s and Grouse and own-brand vodka. The pub’s name spelled out in red-and-blue on the mirror behind the bar: ‘THE BROKEN SPIDER’.

Roberta stepped inside, Tufty tagging along like an idiot puppy.

Jimmy Shand’s accordion diddledy-twiddled out of the jukebox, competing against the bings, squeaks, and electronic sirens coming from the puggy machine at the end of the bar. A knot of wee loons were poking away at it in their mismatched tracksuit tops, bottoms, hoodies, and baseball caps — most of which were on the wrong way around. All ten of them looking as if they’d failed the audition for Crimewatch.

The remaining patrons were never going to see forty again. Drinking pints of Export, having a game of dominos, keeping an eye on the racing playing quietly on the telly.

Bailiff Rick closed the door and stood in front of it, blocking the exit.

Then Bailiff Marty raised a hand and pointed at a table in the corner, by the gents. ‘That’s him: Phil Innes.’

A bruiser sat there on his own, back to the wall, nursing a Guinness and a nip. Big bloke. Expensive-looking leather jacket, silk shirt, side parting in his blond hair. Designer stubble and a diamond earring.

‘Right, you wee shite.’ Roberta marched over and flashed her warrant card. ‘Philip Innes, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act, because I believe you to have committed a crime punishable by imprisonment.’

Innes took a sip of stout. Nodded at Rick and Marty. ‘Rosencrantz, Guildenstern.’

Oh, aren’t I so cool?

No’ this time.

Roberta hooked a thumb at the ceiling. ‘On your feet.’

He stayed where he was. ‘And what is it you think I’ve done?’

‘Constable,’ she snapped her fingers, ‘handcuff him.’

And nothing happened.

Typical Tufty: paying no attention to what was actually going on. Instead he was frowning at the troop of wee schemie neds playing the puggy machine. Useless sod.

She pulled out her own cuffs and dangled them in front of Innes. ‘You killed an old lady’s dog. You wrecked her flat. You beat the crap out of her. Now: on — your — feet!’

Innes had a sip at his nip. Pursed his lips. ‘She told you that, did she?’

Tufty inched closer to the tracksuit baboons. Could the boy no’ focus for two sodding minutes?

‘You’re a loanshark, Philly-boy. You prey on the weak.’

‘Let me get this straight — you’re saying some little old lady accused me of killing her dog? That right?’

Tufty turned back and grabbed at her sleeve. ‘Sarge?’

‘Get off me you idiot.’ She pulled herself free. ‘I said, on — your — feet.’

‘I never laid a finger on anyone’s dog. I like dogs. She must have been thinking of someone else.’

‘Sarge!’ The wee sod grabbed her again, pointing at the guy feeding pound coins into the puggy. ‘Kenny Milne!’

At the name, the guy looked up, and it was. Kenny Milne. Nasty kidnappy, child-abducting scumbag that he was.

Oh you wee dancer. They’d got themselves that most sexy of arrests: a twofer — Milne and Innes, both in custody in the one shout.

One by one Milne’s gang of underaged neds turned to stare. None of them looked a day over twelve, and each and every one of them held a tin of extra-strong cider.

That made it a threefer — the landlord was coming down the nick too.

Kenny Milne’s mouth snapped shut. Then, ‘Shite! Splinter!’

And that’s exactly what his troop did, baying like dogs as they ran for it.

Rick grinned at them, chest out, massive arms stretched wide. Get past me, if you can.

They leapt on him, dragging him to the ground, whooping.

Milne sprinted for the exit, only this time Tufty was faster. He launched himself into a rugby tackle, smashing into Milne’s waist and sending him staggering sideways.

The pair of them crashed into a table, sending pints and dominos flying.

An auld mannie in a tweed jacket shook his fist. ‘I wis winning!’

His mate threw his bunnet at him. ‘You wis cheating!’

‘You dirty wee...’ He lunged at his bunnetless mate. They grappled with each other, all false-teeth snarls and muttered swearing. There was a half-arsed attempt at a headlock and they lurched against someone else’s table. A pint of lager tipped over, flooding into its owner’s lap.

She reared upright, eyes glassy, face red. ‘HOY!’ Her fist swung wide, missed the old blokes, and clobbered the back of someone else’s head instead.

And that was it: instant bar brawl. Everyone throwing punches, kicking, biting.

Tufty and Milne rolled around on the sticky floor, grunting and grappling.

Someone thumped the drunk woman with a bar stool, only it didn’t break like they did in the movies. She did. Avalanching down on top of Tufty and Milne.

An auld mannie hurled a chair over the bar — shattering optics and The Broken Spider’s mirror.

Innes just stayed where he was, taking sips from his pint. He nodded at the wrestling match taking place on the floor between the tables. ‘You going to help your little friend?’

One of the neds went flying, following the chair. Cleared the taps and crashed into the till.

The auld mannie in the tweed jacket landed a solid right hook on his bunnetless opponent — walloping him backwards to bounce off the puggy machine — his knees wobbled then gave way, spilling him across the floor as the machine bleeped its tinny fanfare and paid out an avalanche of pound coins.

Roberta glared at the ceiling for a heartbeat. ‘Fudgemonkeys.’ She yanked her extendable baton free and whapped it out to full length.

Innes raised an eyebrow. ‘And I thought you were just pleased to see me.’

‘Stay there.’ She jabbed it in his general direction. ‘I’m no’ finished with you!’

Deep breath, then Roberta turned and waded into the fray.

‘Ow...’ Tufty wobbled on his bar stool, a tea towel full of ice clamped to his face. Poor wee sod. Blood smeared one side of his collar, turning the blue fabric a dirty reddish-purple.

Blue-and-white light flickered in through the pub’s front window, as if someone had set up a miserable disco right outside.

Roberta glanced around the room. Upturned tables, broken bottles, spilled pints, smashed chairs, the mirror behind the bar all cracked and broken — reflecting back a jagged patchwork version of the wreckage. ‘Get the feeling we’re probably barred?’

‘Urgh...’

She picked up a bar stool, brushed off the dust, and set it next to Tufty’s. Slumped herself onto it. ‘Susan’ll kill me when she sees the state of this suit. Look at it.’ She held up an arm — the thing was rumpled and stained with beer. The shirt beneath it hung down over her fingertips, torn and dirty. Ah well. She still looked a hell of a lot better than Tufty. Roberta patted him on the back. ‘The world stopped spinning yet?’

He poked at the inside of his mouth with his tongue. ‘Think I chipped a tooth.’

‘You’re supposed to arrest people, no’ bite them.’ She peeled the tea towel from his grip and he blinked back at her, one eye no’ quite in time with the other. So she flipped him the Vs. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

‘Three?’

‘Yeah, you’re going to hospital.’

He weebled round on his stool, till he was squinting into the corner where Philip Innes used to sit. ‘What happened to the dog-murdering fudgemonkey?’

Her teeth clenched, but she forced a smile. ‘Come on, let’s get you into the car. And if you’re really lucky, a nice nurse will take your temperature the naughty way...’

The doctor eased the ward door shut, then turned and gave Roberta a little smile. ‘Sorry about that.’ Tall and wide, with freckles and big hands — a traditional Northeast farmer’s quine. The kind of daughter you could trust with the lambing, hurling bales of hay, or lifting a whole tractor by herself. She led the way down the corridor to the nurses’ station where she flicked through a set of notes. ‘OK, well, he’s definitely got concussion, and I think he’s probably in for a lovely black eye, but other than that he’ll be fine.’

Roberta nodded at the ward, with its array of auld mannies laid out beneath their itchy blankets. Tufty was in the far corner, one eye screwed shut, the other staring at a wee individual carton of fruit juice. ‘Fine enough to go back on duty?’

They watched him for a minute, trying to get the straw in through the little circle of foil in the top. And failing.

The doctor sucked a breath in through her teeth. ‘Yeah... I think we’d better keep him in overnight. Unless you’re going to stay up with him in case something happens?’

‘Aye, that’ll be shining. I’ll pick him up tomorrow.’ Roberta sniffed. Looked away. ‘Take care of him, OK? He’s an annoying wee spud, but he’s ours.’

That got her a warm smile and a squeeze on the arm from one of those massive hands. ‘We’ll do our best.’

The same weedy PC was on guard outside Beatrice Edwards’ room. Which didn’t pose much of a challenge in itself, but that tosser DI Vine was there with one of his Eighties-reject sidekicks too. Honestly, the ugly lump was two rolled-up jacket sleeves away from being in a Miami Vice cover band.

So maybe best no’ to pay a visit.

Roberta backtracked down the corridor to the lifts, then up a couple of floors, along a squeaky corridor lined with questionable art, and left into another ward. The nurses on station were all sitting drinking tea and reading dirty novels.

She rapped on the desk and a thin birdy one looked up from Fifty Shades of Anti-Feminist Smut. ‘Aye?’

‘Kenny Milne.’ Roberta flashed her warrant card.’

A larger nurse put down The Story of O. ‘He’s sedated. Strictly no visitors. It’s disgraceful how much police brutality that poor man’s suffered. Violence solves nothing!’

‘Says the woman getting all hot and bothered reading about BDSM.’

Her nose came up. ‘It’s called a book club, thank you very much! Some people are interested in literature.’

‘Dirty nurses!’ Roberta wagged a finger at them, then turned, sauntering from the room, singing:

‘Whips and chains excite me,

They make my love life spicy,

We spank both hard and lightly,

And dream of Aphrodite,

Spreading jam on Keira Knightley...’

Roberta frowned at the form on her computer screen. Who the hell came up with this rubbish? Just because one little officer had been bashed on the head and hospitalised for the night, suddenly three tons of sodding paperwork needed filling out.

Presumably they were talking about the warrants there, no’ the people.

And of course they were all yes/no tick boxes so you couldn’t even type ‘SOD OFF!’ into them.

Bloody Tufty and his delicate useless head.

Bet he did it on purpose, just to make more work for her.

See when she got her hands on him tomorrow—

Someone knocked on the door.

Pause. One. Two. Three. Four...

For God’s sake.

Roberta took a deep breath and bellowed it out, ‘WELL? DON’T JUST STAND THERE LIKE A NEEP, COME IN!’

The door opened and a rather sexy young hottie stepped into the CID office. Pert. Fresh. Browny-blonde hair all the way down to the perky swell of her gorgeous breasts. Naughty-librarian glasses, and I’ve-been-a-bad-girl-spank-me smile. Dressed in a PC’s black T-shirt and standard-issue itchy black trousers.

Come in, my precious, let me relieve you of those nasty itchy things.

The delicious perky wee constable blinked at her. ‘Sorry, did you say something?’

‘No’ out loud, I hope.’ Roberta slid her keyboard to one side. ‘Now, what can I do to you?’

She checked her notebook. ‘I was looking for Detective Constable Quirrel?’

‘Oh, were you now.’ Disappointing. ‘And what do you want our wee Tufty for? He’s no’ got you in the family way, has he? He’s a scamp that one.’

Was that a blush? It was.

Roberta settled back in her seat. ‘Of course it’s my fault really: kept meaning to have him fixed, but you know what they’re like at that age.’ A shrug. ‘We’d definitely have to make him wear the Cone of Shame, though. He’d have his stitches out otherwise.’

‘No! No. I mean... no, it was...’ She took a couple of breaths to compose herself. It made exciting things happen underneath her T-shirt. ‘He came past earlier with a Yorkshire terrier’s remains. Wanted to know if there was some way to get Pudding a proper burial...’ Frowning just made her sexier. ‘What? Why are you smiling at me?’

Roberta shrugged. ‘He asked you that?’

‘He said the old lady who owned Pudding couldn’t afford a funeral.’

OK, so Tufty was a pain in the backside, an idiot, and a total waste of skin, but organising a burial for Mrs Galloway’s poor wee dog? Right now Roberta could’ve kissed him. She held a hand out. ‘Detective Sergeant Roberta Steel. You’ll have heard rumours of my sexual prowess.’ A wink. ‘Tufty’s no’ here right now, but you can leave a message after the beep.’

‘Right. Well. Detective Sergeant Steel.’ The blush deepened a couple of shades. ‘When Constable Quirrel gets back, can you tell him that PC Mackintosh came past about Pudding? I’m the Wildlife Crime Officer.’

Roberta grinned at her. ‘And does the lovely PC Mackintosh have a first name?’

The blush went nuclear. ‘Kate.’

‘Don’t worry, Kate, I shall make sure Constable Quirrel gets your message first thing tomorrow.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ Then for some bizarre reason she did a proper about-face turn and marched from the room, back straight, arms swinging as if she was back on the parade ground at Tulliallan.

Nice bum too.

Before she’d managed to close the door behind her, Roberta launched into, ‘Kate and Tufty, sitting in a tree, H.U.M.P.I.N.G.’

Ah young love...

The cursor blinked at her on the computer screen.

Should really get back to those forms.

Nah, sod that. It was half six on a balmy Tuesday in Aberdeen. Time to go home, crack out the barbecue, get Susan a bit squiffy on sauvignon blanc and take advantage of her.

There’d be time for crappy paperwork tomorrow.