Now We Are Dead

I

The sound of happy munching filled the CID office, joining the heady scents of a team lunch from the baker’s in the Castlegate. Welcome to Buttytopia, population: five. Well, four and a bit, because Steel hadn’t touched her bacon-egg-and-black-pudding yet. Instead she was hunched over her desk, phone clamped to her ear, completely ignoring the lovely cup of tea Tufty had made for her.

He picked up his butty and wandered over. ‘I’ll eat that if you don’t want it?’

‘Come on, Agnes, pick up the phone...’

‘No luck?’ He took another bite. All crunchy and meaty and chewy, with slatherings of butter, English mustard, and tomato sauce.

Steel hung up. ‘She’s a little old lady, living in a tower block, with no friends and no dog. Where’s she going to go?’ A frown. ‘What the hell are you eating?’

‘Maybe she can’t pay the phone bill?’

‘No seriously, what is that?’

He held it up, every millimetre the proud father. ‘Steak pie butty. That’s what Tufties like best.’

‘Freak.’ She pulled her own butty over and took a big bite. The egg popped, dripping yolk onto her desk as she chewed through the words. ‘We’ll swing by Cairnhill Court while we’re out chasing down Beattie’s prozzies. Make sure Mrs Galloway’s OK.’

Tufty had a quick look around. Everyone else was busy stuffing their faces. He put on a whisper anyway, just in case. ‘Sarge? Erm... The CCTV room. That’s it, isn’t it? We’re done? No more Jack Wallace?’

‘Maybe take her a packet of biscuits. Some milk. A decent box of teabags. And I need to pop past that trophy shop on Rosemount Place too.’

‘Only I’d really like not to get fired.’

Another massive bite got ripped out of her butty. Egg all down her chin. ‘Pshaw, little Tufty, would I ever get you into trouble?’

Of course she would.

Today’s pool car was a bit cleaner than yesterday’s, but it had a weird plastic-floral kind of smell. Like someone was trying to hide something. And in a police car, that usually only meant one of three things. None of which were in the least bit hygienic.

Tufty drove them down the Kirkgate and up onto Schoolhill. Past the graveyard.

Lunchtime had brought out all the office workers, some lay sunning themselves on the gravestones, others marched along the street, sipping iced lattes and being all smiley. Enjoying the Costa del Aberdeen. Skirts were getting shorter, tops getting smaller, trousers swapped for shorts, shoes for flip-flops, exposing more and more Nosferatu-pale skin. They’d probably head back to the office in an hour with all that milky-white flesh turned baboon’s-bottom red.

And for once, Steel wasn’t having a good ogle at all the young ladies on display. Instead she was slouching in the passenger seat with her feet on the dashboard, mobile phone clamped to her ear. ‘Oh, aye, and before I forget, Davey: give Social Services a shout. See if they can get Agnes Galloway into a nice sheltered housing unit somewhere. Poor old soul deserves a bit of peace... Yeah, OK... Thanks... Bye.’ She put her phone away, then turned and grinned at him.

Creepy.

Suspicious.

Tufty pulled his chin in. ‘What?’

‘Pop quiz, Tufty: Sexual Offences, Scotland, Act, 2009. Section Twenty-Eight. Go.’

‘Ah. OK...’ He dredged it up from the last refresher course. ‘If someone older than sixteen has sex with someone younger than sixteen it’s an offence. Having intercourse with an older child?’

‘Ten points to Slytherin. For a bonus, and a chance to go through to the semi-final, what’s a relevant defence?’

‘Erm... Section Thirty-Nine? If you genuinely thought they were older than sixteen at the time you did it.’

She made a loud buzzing noise. ‘Childhood friends, so no: try again.’

‘If the difference in your ages isn’t more than two years?’

‘And you win the cuddly toy!’

‘Yay!’

They passed the art gallery and the Cowdray Hall — two kids had climbed on top of the big granite lion sitting outside the hall, riding it like a pony and eating bags of crisps.

The lights were red, so Tufty coasted to a halt at the junction. Then frowned at her. ‘I know it’s an honour just to be nominated, but why are you asking?’

‘Because a little birdie called Davey just told me Tommy Shand is twenty-six months older than Josie Stephenson. Two months past the expiry date on his get-out-of-jail-free card. And I’m going to nail the randy wee shite to the wall by his balls.’

‘Ah!’ Tufty nodded. ‘Right. OK. Got you.’ A small pause as the lights turned green. ‘Who’s Tommy Shand?’

The woman in the grey-green overalls curled her top lip at Tufty’s warrant card. Folded her thick arms over her thicker torso. Hair swept back from her face. Little flecks of magnolia paint on her cheeks and overalls. ‘Sally Gray doesn’t live here any more. Do you have any idea how hard it is to evict someone these days?’

He took out his notebook. ‘Where’s she living now?’

‘She was using the place as a drug den and a brothel! I can’t even begin to describe what that does to property values.’

‘Mrs Webber, please, we just need to speak to her. Did she leave a forwarding address?’

‘Do I look like the Post Office? I served the eviction notice and she disappeared. Oh yes, but not before trashing the place.’ A full-on shudder made everything wobble. ‘You will not believe what she smeared all over the walls. Filthy cow.’

Tufty climbed back in behind the wheel. ‘Isn’t it lovely when members of the public help?’

Steel didn’t look up from her phone, kept poking away at a text with her thumbs. ‘She give you an address?’

‘Gave me an earful about how the law cares more about the scumbags who trash their landlords’ flats than the poor landlords who have to paint over the dirty protests they leave behind. No forwarding address.’

‘Pffff...’ A shrug. ‘Nothing for it, then: to the docks, dear Tufty. We’ve got some ladies of wobbly virtue to question. One of them’s bound to know where Sally Gray’s got to.’

The lunchtime rush for an illicit kneetrembler can’t have been that great on a sunny Wednesday, because only a couple of girls were out plying their trade. Well, not so much girls as middle-aged women with hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. Lank hair. Spots around their mouths. Short black skirts in cheap-looking fabric. Arms and legs that were just bones covered in bruise-speckled skin. One with dyed blonde hair, the other in an unconvincing auburn wig.

Steel puffed away on her e-cigarette, sending out pineapple-scented smoke signals. ‘Come on, Sheryl, have another look at the picture. You know Sally Gray.’

Tufty held the picture out again and the woman in the wig glanced at it, biting at the skin around her fingernails. They were a mass of raw flesh and scabs. ‘I don’t... Don’t... Haven’t. No.’

Steel’s shoulders dropped an inch. ‘When did you last eat, Sheryl?’

‘Just trying to get by. That’s... Get by. Yup.’ A nod. ‘Get by.’

‘How about you, Lynda? You know where Sally’s rinsing out her fishnets these days?’

Lynda’s long-sleeved lacy top wasn’t quite thick enough to hide the trackmarks tattooing her veins. ‘Maybe... Maybe if, you know, you could lend us a couple of quid I’d remember?’ Eyes glittering away in the darkness of her skull. ‘Just a twenty or something?’

‘Aye, cos there’s no way you’d just go spend that on smack, is there?’

‘A tenner then. Just a tenner. You can afford it, right?’

‘I’m no’ giving you money to spend on drugs, Lynda.’ Steel sighed. ‘God’s sake. Come on.’ She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Follow me.’

Tufty backed out of the chipper, a paper parcel in each hand trailing the enticing scent of hot batter, chips, and vinegar. He hurried around the corner and there were Steel, Lynda, and Sheryl, right where he’d left them: sitting on a low wall behind the chandler’s yard.

‘I stuck a couple of pickled onions in there too. Bon appétit.’ He handed one parcel each to Lynda and Sheryl.

They unwrapped them, picking away at the fish suppers, peeling off chunks of battered haddock.

Steel held out her hand to Tufty. ‘Hoy: make with my change, you thieving wee sod.’

‘Give us a chance.’ He dug out the one pound twenty she was owed and dropped it into her palm.

‘Is that it?’

‘Yes. And you’re welcome.’

‘Pfff...’ She stuck the cash in her pocket. ‘Right, you two. I need to speak to Sally Gray. Where is she?’

They shared a look. Then Lynda shrugged. Popped a chip in her mouth and chewed. ‘Don’t know where she’s living, but I know who she gets her gear from. He might?’

‘Last chance, Shawn.’ Steel leaned in close. ‘Either you tell us where Sally Gray lives, right now, or I’m going to make your miserable wee life a living nightmare.’

Shawn licked his lips and hunched his shoulders forward, like someone had hollowed him out. He didn’t look like a big-time drug dealer, he looked like a schoolkid trying to grow a beard. The result was a sparse smattering of wiry black hairs. More scrotumy than anything else. ‘I... It’s not... I mean, I don’t really know her or anything. You know. I’ve got a girlfriend and that.’

‘You sell her gear, Shawn, you know where she lives.’

‘Gear? No, no. Not me. I don’t sell gear. Nah, that’s illegal, man. Definitely not.’

She lowered her voice. ‘A living nightmare.’

‘Who says I sell gear? Cos I’ve never sold gear in my life...’

‘In five. Four. Three.’

Shawn stared at Tufty. ‘But—’

‘I’d be terrified, if I was you. Seriously bricking it.’

‘Two. One—’

‘OK! OK. Yeah. Sally. She’s got a place in Torry, belongs to an aunt or something.’

Steel patted him on the cheek. ‘Saved by the bell, Shawn. Now give us the address.’

The street was a canyon of depressing grey. Two identical rows of terraced flats faced each other across a strip of fading tarmac — the usual set-up of six flats to one door copy-and-pasted until they ran out of road. Rows of once-black wheelie-bins standing to attention between the pavement and the thin strip of unloved grass that passed for a front garden.

More like a gulag than somewhere for human beings to live.

Austere and soulless.

Roberta had a wee dig at her itchy bra as she clambered out of the pool car.

A mangy greyhound was tethered to a stake in the middle of the grass — it trotted round and round in the biggest circle the chain around its neck would allow. Whining and yowling.

Tufty led the way up the path to a door halfway down the street. He peered at the intercom. ‘Here we are: Sally Gray. Top floor left.’ A wee grimace. ‘Aren’t neighbours lovely? Someone’s written “Dirty Prozzie Bitch” on her name tag.’ He poked the button, making it buzz.

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

Roberta frowned at the greyhound. ‘What did Hissing Sid mean?’

‘Nope, no idea who that is either.’

More buzzing.

‘Hissing Sid, AKA: Sandy Slithery Moir-Farquharson, AKA: Greasy Lawyer-Faced... what’s the word of the day?’

‘“Felchbunny.”’

Buzz.

‘Oh, he’s definitely that.’ She slapped Tufty’s hand out of the way. ‘Don’t be so damp. This is how the grown-ups do it.’ She mashed all the buttons with her palm, holding it there. Making them all buzz. ‘Hissing Sid said Wallace’s friends “came to his aid” when he needed them. “Just like mine.” What’s that supposed to mean?’

The door hummed, then clicked open.

‘Told you.’ She let go of the buttons and gave the door a shove, stepping into a shabby hallway. Stairs marched up to the floors above, the scent of lemon furniture polish overlaying a bleachy note. Shabby, but clean.

A little old lady peered out of the ground-floor flat on the right. ‘Hoy, Quasimodo: stop ringing that bloody bell! This isn’t nineteenth-century Paris!’

Roberta marched past and up the stairs, Tufty trotting along at her side. She thumped him. ‘And for the record, no one “came to my aid”.’

Tufty shrugged. ‘Well... he’s a swanky expensive lawyer, right? Maybe Wallace’s friends all chipped in to cover the legal costs?’

‘First sign of trouble, my so-called sodding “friends” dropped me like a radioactive jobbie.’ Round the landing and up the next flight of stairs.

‘I mean, he’s got to be really expensive, right? Lawyer that swanky.’

‘And then some.’

Tufty stopped on the top step. ‘So how did you afford him?’

‘Didn’t. He did it pro bono, on account of all the times he’d been a pain in my arse in court, getting murderers and rapists off. Guilty conscience.’ A sniff. ‘Even lawyers do the right thing now and then.’

The top floor was shabbier than down below, the scent of furniture polish joined by the chemical-floral hit of too much air freshener — making the air thick enough to cut with a spoon. A child was crying somewhere inside one of the flats, the sound echoing back from the bare walls.

Roberta pointed and Tufty wandered over there and knocked. ‘Miss Gray? Sally? Can you come to the door please?’

No reply. But the crying got louder, so that was something.

The theme to Cagney & Lacey blared out into the stairwell. Roberta answered her phone. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Sarge?’ Barrett.

‘Davey, my little disaster-monkey, what have you got for your lovely Aunty Roberta?’

‘Dug up some dirt on Tommy Shand, Sarge. Been complaints about his vehicle hanging round the car park behind Airyhall Library late at night. Local residents think he’s dealing. There’s a bunch of unsolved break-ins at the community centre too.’

Tufty tried again. ‘Miss Gray? It’s the police. I need you to open up.’

‘You wee dancer, Davey. Who’s investigating?’

‘Let me check... OK. DI McPherson’s running that one.’

‘McPherson? He couldn’t catch a fart in a bubble bath. But I can. Cheers, Davey.’ She slipped her phone back in her pocket. ‘You giving up already?’

Tufty wasn’t knocking any more, he was bent double, hands on his knees, sniffing at the letterbox. Then backed off a couple of paces, face all wrinkled. ‘Can you smell that?’

She inched forward and gave the letterbox a sniff. Recoiled. No wonder the whole landing stank of air freshener, someone was trying to cover up the rancid-meat stench coming from Sally Gray’s flat. ‘Kick it in.’

Tufty slammed his boot into the door. It battered open, bouncing off the wall inside.

That wailing child’s cry got louder, accompanied by the dark heavy buzzing of far too many flies.

‘Oh Jesus...’ Tufty stuck a hand over his mouth, pinching his nostrils shut. ‘You want me to call it in? Sarge?’

She stepped over the threshold into the flat.

There was nothing in the hall. No carpets, no coats, no shoes, no mail, just bare floorboards scuffed with dirt.

‘Sarge?’

The door at the end of the hall was shut. She tucked her hand into the sleeve of her jacket and turned the handle. Pushed it open.

That rotting meat stench collapsed out through the doorway like an avalanche, burying her in its greasy embrace.

Her bacon-egg-and-black-pudding butty lurched... But stayed down.

A bare mattress sat on the bare floor, bathed in the sunlight streaming in through the living-room window. And right in the middle of that warm spotlight was a body: female, half naked, skeletally thin. Skin blackened and furred with mould. Stomach swollen.

Fat bluebottles made lazy circuits of the room — probably startled when Tufty put the door in. One by one they settled back onto the body.

A couple of needles lay on the floor beside the mattress. A blackened teaspoon. A lighter. Some cotton wool. A bottle of distilled vinegar.

Tufty appeared at Roberta’s side, staring down at what was left of Sally Gray. ‘Sarge?’

What a waste.

What a stupid, bloody, sodding...

The crying. It was coming from the corner behind them.

She turned. ‘No, no, no...’

A rickety crib sat in the corner. A little boy was imprisoned inside it — couldn’t have been more than nine or ten months old — standing on the bundled-up jacket that covered the bottom of the crib, holding onto the bars and wailing. Wearing nothing but a filthy T-shirt and a filthier nappy.

Roberta lurched over, legs stiff as boards.

Little red cuts covered the wee boy’s fingers, the tip of his nose and chin — semi-circular scrapes on his cheeks and around both wrists.

A lump of brambles knotted in her throat. Made it hard to swallow.

A bunch of those sports drinks bottles with the flip-top caps lay suckled dry and crumpled in the corners of the crib.

Empty tins of dog food littered the floor around the cot. All licked clean.

No...

A few of the ring-pull lids sat further out, crusted with dried brown lumps, too far away for a wee arm to reach.

She stared. Blinked as the world went a little blurry.

Do not cry in front of Tufty.

Do not.

A deep, shuddery breath.

Poor wee thing...

Roberta reached into the crib, pulled the toddler out of the crib, and hugged him tight.

II

‘Sarge?’ Tufty knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Sarge, you in there?’

The child’s wails boomed out from the other side of the scarred wood.

He knocked again. ‘Sarge?’

Yeah. Probably better go in and hope she wasn’t on the toilet.

He pushed the door open.

The flat’s bathroom was manky filthy. Dirty grey-brown water in the sink, a thick black tidemark around the inside of the bath. The jagged yellow reek of a toilet that never got cleaned. Discarded crap littering the cracked lino floor.

Steel was on her knees, in front of the bath. She’d got a bright-red jumper from somewhere — dipping it into the sink then dabbing it at the screaming little boy’s naked bottom. ‘I know, I know. Shhh... Who’s a brave wee soul?’

Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Ambulance is here.’

The little boy screeched again.

‘There’s no hot water and he’s all covered in sores. Shhh...’

Which explained the colour of the water in the sink. Tufty pulled the plug, letting the scummy water swirl away. Then filled it again. ‘Next door say they haven’t seen her for five days.’

‘Five days.’ Steel screwed up her face. Then dipped the jumper in the fresh water. ‘Five days in a filthy nappy, scraping dog food from tins, while your mum decomposes into a mattress...’ She blinked. Sniffed. Took a deep breath. ‘Right. Ambulance.’

Tufty indicated left, taking them out onto the main road. Something upbeat and cheery bingled out of the car radio — a woman singing about how it was a lovely day for love and everyone should get out there and dance.

He glanced across the car at Steel.

She was slumped in the passenger seat, staring out of the window. Hands loose in her lap. Face dead and expressionless.

He forced a smile. ‘Well... look on the bright side. Imagine what would’ve happened if we hadn’t gone round and kicked the door in!’

No reply.

‘He would’ve died, wouldn’t he? We saved that little boy’s life today.’

Still nothing.

‘He’s only alive because of—’

‘They didn’t call the police.’ Her voice was as dead as her face. ‘They sat in their flats and they listened to that poor wee boy crying his arse off and didn’t do a thing about it.’

‘Yeah, but—’

‘And then, when Sally started to smell, they still didn’t call us. They got out the air freshener and tried to hide the stench.’ Steel’s head dipped. ‘You know what, Tufty? I sodding hate human beings.’

The window at the end of the corridor was half boarded-up, the remaining half a mess of cracked grey glass. Graffiti crawled down the walls. Not the fancy arty type either — the type that was all swearing and crudely scrawled genitals. Bin-bags stacked in stinky heaps along the skirting boards.

The guy who’d opened the ground-floor flat’s door squinted one eye shut, the other had a pupil black as treacle and big as a bowling ball. He scratched his crotch, ruffling his dirty Y-fronts and stained T-shirt. One grey-brown sock with a toe poking out. Dirt and bruises mingling on the pale hairy skin of his arms and legs.

Tufty held up the photo. ‘Try again.’

Steel nudged a bin-bag with her boot. ‘Come on, Shuggie, it’s no’ hard: where’s Daphne McClellan? Two of you are shacked up, aren’t you?’

He wobbled a bit, staring at the picture, holding onto the doorframe. Then a slow smile dawned across his filthy face. ‘Nah, you mean Natasha, right? Natasha Sparkles.’ Jazz hands. ‘Not in, is she. Out. Out. Out.’

‘Of course she is.’ Steel gave him a glower. ‘Where?’

Music oozed through the Regents Arms: Kylie encouraging everyone to do the Locomotion. Which was never going to happen here. Most of the gloomy bar’s denizens looked like they’d struggle to walk in a straight line, never mind pretend to be choo-choo trains.

Ten to four on a Wednesday and the regulars were well into their fourth or fifth pint — the empties littering their tables. Some hadn’t even bothered changing out of their overalls before coming in to quench the demon thirst.

The wall behind the bar was covered in apostrophes, all of which looked like they’d been stolen from other signs. At least three of them had definitely spent time attached to the front of a McDonald’s. The guy in charge of the collection took one look at the photo in Tufty’s hand and sighed. Then pointed at a table over by the cigarette machine.

Steel hunched her shoulders and marched over.

Tufty gave the barman an apologetic smile. ‘She’s having a bad day.’

‘Hmmph.’ He went back to stacking alcopops in the fridge.

Fair enough.

Tufty hurried over to catch up with Steel as she came to a halt in front of the table.

Daphne McClellan was there, sitting with an older man — grey hair, grey jumper on over a white shirt and grey tie. He had his eyes closed, both hands on the tabletop. Daphne was all done up in knee-high PVC boots, a short skirt and lacy top that showed off a skeletal figure so lacquered with fake tan she could’ve been one of those mummies they fished out of peat bogs.

She had one hand inside the flies of her friend’s trousers. Working. A bored expression on her face as her arm jiggled up and down.

Steel gave the table leg a kick, setting the glasses on top clinking. ‘Hope you’re wearing gloves, Daphne. Practising safe sex and all that.’

She snatched her hand back. ‘Urgh, not this again.’ Daphne rolled her eyes, then sagged. ‘I’m not doing nothing!’

Her friend scrabbled at his flies and jumped to his feet. ‘I wasn’t... This isn’t... We—’

‘You: Old Aged Pervert.’ Steel hooked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Go spend your pension somewhere else.’

He legged it, straight out of the pub.

Steel hauled out a chair and sat in it. Staring across the table at Daphne McClellan. ‘How many kids have you got, Daphs?’

A shrug rearranged the bones beneath that leathery skin. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘You’ve got three.’ She leaned in, growling it out. ‘And you’re supposed to be their sodding mother! Where are they?’

‘At... At my mum’s. The court gave her custody. I see them when I can, but it’s—’

‘THEN WHY DID WE FIND YOUR WEE BOY COWERING IN A CUPBOARD AT KENNY MILNE’S HOUSE?’ Steel’s voice echoed around the bar. Everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at her.

Then Daphne lowered her eyes, those formerly busy hands of hers picking at the tabletop. ‘No comment.’

Steel barged through the station’s back doors, slamming them against the walls with an echoing BOOOM...

Yeah. Her mood definitely hadn’t got any better.

Tufty marched Daphne into the custody suite, struggling to catch up. Getting there just as Steel banged her hand down on the desk.

‘Shop!’

Big Gary put down his colouring book. Sighed. ‘And what can we do for you today, Your Royal Rumpled Majesty?’

The words came out like she was chewing on sick: ‘Child endangerment. Neglect. Soliciting. Sex in a public place. And anything else you can think of.’ She turned to go.

Big Gary reached for her. ‘Wait, aren’t you going to—’

‘No. I’m done. No more.’

Tufty stared after her as she stomped out through the double doors back into the sunshine again. Then the doors swung shut, and they were alone at last.

‘Hmph.’ Big Gary shuffled his paperwork. ‘What the hell’s got into her?’

‘Yeah... sorry about that.’ Tufty wheeled out the same apologetic smile he’d been peddling since the shift started. ‘She’s having a really bad day.’

Roberta wound the passenger window down another inch, letting the cloud of cherry-flavoured steam escape out into the sunny afternoon.

Sunlight sliced across one half of the Rear Podium car park, leaving the row of patrol cars bathed in the shadow of Division Headquarters — it’s bulk towering seven storeys above her. Someone lumbered up the stairs from the mortuary, still wearing their green scrubs and white wellington boots. Escaping the stink of death to enjoy some fresh air and a fag.

Roberta poked away at the screen of her mobile phone:

Send.

Her phone did its ding-ding incoming message noise.

She thumbed out a reply:

Send.

The driver’s door opened and Tufty sank into the seat with a sigh. ‘Lund and Barrett say they’ll interview her soon as she’s seen a duty solicitor.’

Roberta shook her head. ‘I swear to God, Tufty, if I have to deal with one more scumbag today...’

Ding-ding:

She smiled. Ah, Susan, you saucy, lovely, cuddly minx.

Send.

Ding-ding:

Sod. No.

Tufty pulled on his seatbelt. ‘So where are we off to?’

‘Mrs Galloway’s. And don’t forget to stop off for milk, tea and biscuits. We can pop in by that trophy shop on the way.’

Tufty shifted the carrier bag from one hand to the other, going for the punchline as the lift juddered to a halt. ‘So the other nun says, “If that’s the case, why’s he been shagging a penguin all night?”’ He grinned at her.

Nope.

The lift doors juddered open.

‘You see, because the bishop thought the penguin was the Mother Superior.’

Roberta stepped out into the corridor. ‘Don’t give up the day job.’

‘Oh, come on. It’s funny.’

‘You keep telling yourself that.’ She sauntered down the corridor to the flat at the end. Stopped.

Mrs Galloway’s front door hung squint from one hinge, the wood all buckled and scraped. Someone had kicked it in.

Oh sodding hell...

Roberta knocked on the splintered doorframe. ‘Mrs Galloway? Agnes? Are you OK?’

She stepped inside, Tufty right behind her.

‘Mrs Galloway? It’s DS Steel. Hello?’

A voice behind them, cold and hard: ‘You’re too late.’

Roberta turned, peering past Tufty.

The woman from the flat across the hall stood there in her disappointed tracksuit, arms crossed, face pinched and creased.

‘What happened?’

‘What do you think happened? You were supposed to save her! Instead, she’s in intensive care, half dead, because you screwed it up!’

‘She’s...’ A lump swelled in Roberta’s throat, like a tumour. She swallowed it down. ‘Intensive care?’

‘Should be ashamed of yourself!’ The neighbour slammed a hand against the twisted door. ‘HE — CAME — BACK!’

She was so tiny, lying there on the other side of the glass, in her crisp-white hospital bed, dwarfed by the machines gathered around her. Everywhere no’ covered in bandages, casts, or dressings was covered in bruises instead. The almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest was the only sign that she was still alive.

Roberta put a hand against the window through to the High Dependency Ward, its glass cool beneath her palm.

The doctor flipped the page in her notes and kept droning on in a flatline nasal monotone: ‘... four broken ribs, punctured lung, ruptured spleen, broken ankle, dislocated shoulder...’

So small. So fragile. So broken.

‘... fractured cheekbone, detached retina, broken wrist, internal bleeding—’

‘She going to be OK?’

The doctor sighed. Scrubbed a hand across her face, tugging the bags beneath her eyes out of shape. ‘No. Maybe. Someone her age... It’s a lot of trauma. She’d be better off if he’d run her over with a car.’

The neighbour was right: it was all her fault.

She’d screwed up and Agnes Galloway had paid for it.

‘Look, I know I’m not meant to say this, but speaking as a medical professional...’ The doctor put a hand on Roberta’s shoulder. ‘If you catch the bastard who did this, I want you to batter the living crap out of him.’

Tufty was waiting for her, fiddling with his phone as she marched out of the ward. He stuck it away in his pocket and fell into step beside her. ‘Is she all right?’

Idiot.

‘Of course she’s no’ all right! How would she be all right? Philip Innes nearly killed her.’ Roberta curled her hands into claws and glowered at the ceiling. ‘AAAARGH!’

An old man pushing a drip on a stand stopped to stare.

‘Keep moving, Grandad!’ She stormed past him, down the corridor and into the waiting lift. Mashing the button with her thumb. Glowering at the numbers as the doors slid shut. ‘We should’ve had uniform watching the place! Why didn’t you remind me to get someone watching the place?’

Tufty shrugged. ‘Concussion, remember?’

Useless git.

‘Oh, come on, Sarge: this isn’t our fault! We didn’t do it, Phil Innes did.’

She hauled out her phone and called Control. ‘What the hell’s happening with my lookout request? You were supposed to find Philip Innes! Why isn’t he in sodding custody?’

Ding.

She swept out into yet another bland corridor. ‘Well?’

There was silence from the phone. Then, ‘For your information, Detective Sergeant Steel, we are not here for you to yell and shout at. If you want an update you can ask nicely!’

‘Fine!’ Roberta clenched her teeth, squeezing the words out: ‘Can I pretty please have an update on my lookout request?’

‘There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’

‘I swear to God I’ll come down there with a claw-hammer!’ She barged through a set of double doors, and up to a reception area where a lumpy male nurse in green scrubs squinted at a computer screen.

‘Philip Innes hasn’t been spotted. Patrol cars and foot patrols have been asked to keep an eye out.’

‘AAAAARGH!’ She hung up. Rammed the phone back in her pocket. Poked a finger at the nurse. ‘Police. Wee boy, brought in earlier. Eaten nothing but dog food for days.’

The nurse didn’t even look up from his computer. ‘Antibiotics for the sores, fluids for the dehydration, social workers for the rest of it. No visitors.’

‘Well... sod you then!’ She turned on the spot and stormed out again, grabbing a handful of Tufty’s sleeve on the way, hauling him with her. ‘We’re going to find Philip Innes. We’re going to arrest him. And somewhere along the way he’s going to fall down a LOT of stairs!’

III

Cairncry Drive was a nice street, very fancypants. The houses were of the semidetached-bungalow-with-attic-conversion type in pink granite. Neat and tidy front gardens with crisp-edged box hedges and artistic shrubs.

Tufty locked the pool car and followed Steel up the path to number thirteen. A Jaguar sat out front. A new-looking one with leather seats and bags of extras. And they said crime didn’t pay? Had to admit, standing outside Phil Innes’s fancypants house on his fancypants street with his fancypants car parked outside, loansharking looked a hell of a lot more lucrative than police work.

Steel’s face was set like angry concrete, both hands clenched into fists.

Yeah, that was a good sign.

Tufty rang the bell. ‘Erm... Sarge? You’re not going to do anything silly, are you? You were only joking about him falling down stairs, right?’

‘No.’ She hammered on the door. ‘PHILIP INNES! POLICE! GET YOUR BACKSIDE OUT HERE, NOW!’

‘Only, you know, Professional Standards—’

‘EITHER YOU OPEN UP, INNES, OR WE KICK THIS DOOR DOWN!’ More hammering.

‘He’s probably not even here. I mean, surely if you’ve got a lookout request out for you someone checks your house first, right? A patrol car or something?’ A shrug. ‘Stands to reason.’

‘INNES!’

The door swung open, and there was Phil Innes, dressed in a denim shirt and tan chinos. Very preppy. ‘What’s all the shouting— Hey!’

Steel grabbed him, spun him around, slammed him against the side of the house and pinned him there. Pulled out her handcuffs and snapped them on. ‘Want to know what happens to scumbags who beat up old ladies? They’re going to tear you apart in prison.’

She shoved him towards Tufty. ‘Get this piece of crap in the car. We’re going for a drive.’

Interview Room Four had the same sharp cheese-and-vinegar smell as a pair of manky old trainers left out in the rain, then brought in to dry on a radiator. The only upside was the expression on Philip Innes’s face as he sat there breathing it in.

His solicitor was a baby-faced young man in a slightly crumpled suit. His hair cut short to try to hide the baldiness happening on top of his head.

Roberta sat back in her seat and shared a look with DC Lund. ‘That sound like a lie to you, Veronica? Sounds like a lie to me.’

Innes pulled an affronted face. ‘Well it’s not.’

‘You seriously expect us to believe you had nothing to do with it? Nothing at all?’

‘Yes, I’ve visited Mrs Galloway from time to time, but only to help out with shopping or if she needs a hand. Ooh, I don’t know... changing a plug? That sort of thing. I would never attack her. She’s an old lady, for goodness’ sake!’

‘You’re a loan shark, Phil-pot.’

Baby Face tapped his pen against the desk. ‘Do you have any evidence of that, Detective Sergeant Steel?’

‘Ask anyone.’

He smiled at her, making little dimples form in his chubby wee cheeks. ‘That’s not evidence, that’s hearsay. And it’s not admissible in court.’

Cheeky sod. ‘He put Agnes Galloway in hospital!’

‘Do you have any witnesses, Sergeant? No. Do you have any CCTV? No. Do you have any evidence against my client whatsoever? No.’ He rocked his baldy wee head from side to side. ‘No. No. No. No evidence at all.’

She leaned forward, snarling it out. ‘Then we’ll get some.’

‘Yeah...’ Tufty leaned back against the wall, and swapped his phone to the other ear. ‘Nothing so far.’

Steel’s voice growled out like an angry bull terrier that smoked sixty a day. ‘How could no one see anything?’

Down at the end of the corridor, Barrett and Harmsworth knocked on the last doors on this floor. Stood there waiting for the occupants to answer.

‘We’re doing everything we can, Sarge.’

‘Philip Scumbag Innes is going to walk.’

‘Yeah, but DNA—’

‘Oh he’s already covered that one. He “pops round from time to time” doing “odd jobs” for her.’

‘And my bumhole’s a mariachi band.’

‘Then stop buggering about and find me some sodding witnesses!’ She hung up.

Got to love a well-crafted motivational speech.

He stuck his phone in his pocket and went back to work.

A thin woman with nervous, watery eyes peered out at him through the tiny gap between her door and the frame — she hadn’t even opened it wide enough to pull the chain tight. ‘I didn’t see anything.’

Tufty held up the photo of Phil Innes again. ‘Are you sure, because—’

‘Why would I see anything? Because I didn’t. I didn’t see anything.’

Of course she didn’t.

The old man adjusted his glasses, fiddled with his hearing aid. Squinted at the photo Tufty handed him. Sniffed. Fiddled with his glasses again. From somewhere in the flat behind him came the sound of a TV quiz show turned up far too loud.

He handed the photo back. ‘I don’t know anything. Stop asking me questions.’

Then slammed the door.

The toddler was dressed up in a paleontologically-inaccurate dinosaur onesie, staring up at Tufty like he was the — most — exciting — thing — ever!!! His mum, on the other hand, did pretty much everything she could not to look at him at all. Her mop of Irn-Bru curls was fraying at the edges, dark bags under her eyes. The end of her nose had a faint pink glow to it, her eyes puffy and red. Another shrug and she handed the photo back to Tufty.

‘No, I didn’t hear anything.’ Shrug. ‘Nothing at all.’

He pointed upwards. ‘Mrs Galloway’s flat is right above yours and you didn’t hear anything? It looks like a bomb went off in there! How could you not hear anything?’

She hugged her dinosaur baby closer and looked away again. Shrugged. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’ One last shrug for luck. ‘Please, I have to go. I can’t help you.’

The flat door swung closed, shutting Tufty out in the corridor.

Ten down, fifteen to go.

Steel stormed the length of the CID office then turned around and stormed back again. ‘Bloody, felchbunny, fudgemonkeying, motherfunkers!’

Phones, chargers and extension leads still cluttered everyone’s desks, but Tufty, Lund, Barrett, and Harmsworth all sat with their chairs facing the middle of the room, watching Steel storm up and down and up and down.

She did another circuit. ‘None of them? No’ a single sodding one?’

‘Well,’ Harmsworth flared his nostrils, ‘why would they want to help the police? It’s not as if we do anything, is it? No, we just sit about on our fat backsides eating doughnuts all day.’

Barrett checked his clipboard. ‘Every single household spoken to.’

‘No offence,’ Lund held up a hand, ‘but maybe you were doing it wrong? Maybe a woman’s better at—’

‘Oh please, don’t start that again.’

‘I’m just saying, Davey, it’s—’

‘AAAAAAAAAARGH!’ Steel screamed at the patchwork ceiling tiles. ‘FOR GOD’S SAKE!’ She grabbed the plastic crate marked ‘CAN’T UNLOCK’ and hurled it at the whiteboard. It split open, showering the floor with Nokias, iPhones and Samsungs.

No one made a sound as she stood there, glaring at the fallen phones.

Then Tufty sighed. ‘They’re scared. They’ve seen what Innes can do and they don’t want it happening to them or their families. It’s not their fault.’

‘Then whose sodding fault is it?’

‘Phil Innes.’

DCI Rutherford really didn’t look the same, dressed in lounging jammie bottoms, furry slippers, and an Aberdeen Football Club T-shirt. He stood in the doorway to a two-up-two-down in Cults.

His mouth tightened as he turned over the last photograph: Agnes Galloway, taken by the hospital before they got to work patching her up. Her frail wee body crippled and twisted.

Roberta leaned forward and poked the picture. ‘Philip Innes.’

‘What have we got on him?’ The DCI’s hands shook, his words terse and clipped. ‘Witnesses? Forensics? Anything?’

‘I want a warrant to go through his place with a nit comb. He’s got to have something incriminating in there.’ She counted them off on her fingers: ‘Payment books for the loan-sharking, the shoes he used to kick an old lady half to death, the gloves he punched her with, the bloodstained clothes he wore.’

‘We can’t get a warrant without probable cause,’ DCI Rutherford stared down at the photo, face souring, ‘you know that.’

‘So give me a warrant and I’ll find some!’

A teenager drifted by on a bike, waving as she passed. ‘Evening, Mr Rutherford.’

He pulled on a smile. ‘Kerry.’ It disappeared as soon as she was out of sight. ‘I want this bastard caught, prosecuted, and banged up. But to make it stick in court we need corroboration. I need a complaint from the victim or I need a witness. Get me something I can use!’

Airyhall Library looked a lot better from the front.

The bit round the back was more functional: a big block of council recycling bins sat beside a wee recess where the back door was. Beige walls with brown trim. A Rorschach inkblot stained the tarmac, where some poor librarian’s car had been dripping oil. They were all gone now, of course. Twenty to nine and the car park round the side was empty.

Airyhall Community Centre looked pretty empty too. Or at least the lights were off. The side that faced the library was a featureless grey-beige wall, with a wee sticky-out bit where a red door led into the building proper. The whole thing lurking on the other side of a chest-high wall, topped by a handrail.

No’ the greatest of views.

Probably wasting her time sitting there, but after today even a tiny success would be terrific. A minute achievement. A microscopic win. Anything to dull the image of that poor wee boy, standing in his crib, bawling his eyes out.

All those tins... Were his teeny fingers strong enough to lever the lids off himself, or had his darling mother done that for him before shooting up?

And what sort of scumbag fed their toddler dog food? Even if it was the expensive stuff you didn’t need a tin-opener for. After all, if you’re going to shoplift, why no’ shoplift the best?

Aye, well. Wasn’t as if she’d be doing it again, was it?

Or anything else, come to that.

Overdosing in front of her wee boy — what was wrong with people?

For once in his miserable life, DI Beardie Beattie was right: if it wasn’t for the drugs...

Stop it.

Sitting here brooding wasn’t helping.

Roberta puffed on her e-cigarette, billowing out clouds of strawberry-and-lime-flavoured steam.

Come on, Roberta: focus.

There was a perfect view between the recycling bins and the back of the library. If anyone turned up to do something dodgy, she’d be on them like stupid on Tufty.

Mind you, twenty minutes parked here and what did she have to show for her one-woman surveillance operation? Sod, and indeed, all.

No sign of Tommy Shand or his horrible orange Peugeot.

Pfff...

Well, it’d been a long shot anyway.

Should probably just show that mobile phone to the Procurator Fiscal and do Tommy for making indecent images and having sex with an older child. But getting him for possession with intent as well? That would be the bacon in the butty.

She pulled out her phone and poked at her contacts, setting the thing ringing.

‘Control Room.’

‘Aye, Benny: Tommy Shand. If anyone phones up to complain he’s dealing behind Airyhall Library again, I want you to call me. OK?’

Benny tutted at her down the phone. ‘You do know that’s DI McPherson’s case, don’t you? He’s first point of—’

‘Do you want me to tell your boyfriend what you get up to on those Police Scotland team-building away days?’

‘Ah... I thought we had an... understanding about that. After last time? You promised!’

‘You hear anything, you call me, Benny.’

A groan. Then, ‘All right, all right. Jesus.’

‘Good boy.’

She hung up. Drummed her fingers on the steering wheel.

Sodding Tommy Sodding Shand. Here she was, ready to take this crappy, crappy day out on him and he didn’t even have the common decency to bother showing up. Selfish felchbunny.

Her phone ding-dinged at her:

Naughty old Susan.

Poor old Susan too. She deserved better than a grumpy wife, stomping about the house, swearing about how people were all scumbags.

Roberta thumbed out a reply:

After all, just because Tommy Shand was a no-show, didn’t mean she couldn’t take her crappy day out on somebody else. And one person in particular deserved it more than anyone.

Jack Wallace was out washing his fake four-by-four as Roberta pulled into the residential street.

He scrubbed away at the car’s roof with a big yellow sponge. Headphones on. Oblivious as she drove by his house in search of a parking spot. A Hoover sat on the pavement, under one of the trees lining the road — an extension lead snaking up the path and in through the raping wee shite’s open front door. Very suburban and domesticated.

No’ the sort of thing predators were meant to do.

And who washed their car at five to nine on a Wednesday night anyway?

People trying to get rid of evidence, that’s who.

She pulled into a spot on the other side of the road, about four houses down. Sat there, watching him in the passenger wing mirror.

Couldn’t arrest him for washing his car. Couldn’t arrest him for anything at all.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t rattle his cage a bit. See what fell out.

Roberta climbed out of her MX-5 and balled her fists. Marched up the middle of the road and—

A hand grabbed her arm.

She spun around, fist at the ready...

Tufty let go and danced back a couple of steps, eyes wide, even the black one. ‘Whoa!’

She lowered her fist. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Then turned back towards Wallace. ‘You know what? Don’t care.’

Tufty grabbed her again. ‘Don’t!’ He scurried around till he was in front of her. Blocking the way. ‘DCI Rutherford will mount your head on a pike outside the castle wall. You heard him: we have to stay away from Jack Wallace!’

‘Get out of my sodding way.’

‘I followed you, OK? Because I knew you’d do something daft.’

She stepped forward, but he didn’t move.

‘What happened to Agnes Galloway wasn’t your fault. What happened to Sally Gray’s kid wasn’t your fault either. Doing what you’re doing won’t help them!’

She closed her eyes. ‘Felchbunnies...’ For once Tufty was right. Fronting Wallace up was about as bright as punching a wasps’ nest. Her shoulders slumped. ‘The poor wee sod was living on dog food, in a five-day-old nappy.’

‘I know. But—’

‘Well, well, well.’ A voice behind her. ‘What have we got here?’

She turned, and there was Jack Wallace, smiling at them, headphones around the back of his neck, bucket of soapy water in one hand, frothy sponge in the other.

‘Have to admit, I really didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come back here, Detective Sergeant Steel. My lawyer’s going to be very upset when I tell him you’ve been harassing me again.’

She glared at him. ‘We’re just leaving.’

‘So soon? You don’t want to come in and plant some evidence? Like you did last time?’

‘How did you know?’

‘That you planted evidence?’ He laughed in her face. ‘I knew, because I’m not a kiddy fiddler.’

‘No: how did you know you needed an alibi that night? All that waving at the cameras: how did you know?’

‘You never learn, do you?’ He walked back to his car and placed the sponge on the roof. Hefted the bucket. Time to rinse off the bubbles.

‘How did you know you needed an alibi, Jack?’

Tufty tugged at her sleeve. ‘Don’t get drawn in. Let’s go.’

‘Well? Come on, Jacky Boy: impress us with your brilliance.’

‘OK.’ He swung the bucket at the car, swivelling at the very last moment, swinging wide. The soapy water arced out like a big wet tongue.

Roberta scrambled sideways and the whole lot went splosh — all over Tufty. He stood there with his arms out, dripping. ‘Aaaargh...!’

She hauled out her handcuffs. Grinned. ‘You just assaulted a police officer! Jack Wallace, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen—’

‘You don’t even know how much trouble you’re in right now.’ He grinned right back at her. ‘But you’re about to find out.’

DCI Rutherford glared at them from behind his desk. At least he’d changed out of his T-shirt and jammie bottoms. Tufty stood to attention in the middle of the room, his fighting suit two shades darker than it had been at the start of the shift. Damp as a dishcloth.

‘Well?’ Rutherford’s voice was just this side of shouting, his face just this side of aneurism-red. ‘What the bloody hell did you think you were playing at, dragging this soggy idiot along with you? Is chucking your own career in the septic tank not enough? Do you have to ruin his as well?’

Tufty eeked.

Roberta patted the silly sod on the back. ‘Constable Quirrel was there trying to stop me. He had just succeeded when Jack Wallace attacked us with a bucket of soapy—’

‘DON’T INTERRUPT!’ Rutherford was on his feet now, fists resting on his desk, spittle gleaming on his bared teeth. ‘Your reckless, idiotic antics have made NE Division look like a bunch of bloody halfwit amateurs!’

She shrugged. ‘To be fair—’

‘You were given a second chance, Sergeant. We could’ve fired you for what you did, but we thought, for some godforsaken reason, that you’d learn from your mistake. Well, apparently we were wrong!’

The only sound came from the radiator, pinging and gurgling like an unfed stomach.

Outside, in the corridor, someone laughed.

The mobile phone on Rutherford’s desk buzzed twice then went silent.

She pursed her lips. Maybe a bit of contrition would make him feel a bit less shouty? ‘Actually, Guv, if you—’

‘ENOUGH!’ He stabbed a finger at his office door. ‘Get out of my sight. I need to decide what to do about you.’ Rutherford curled his lip in disgust and turned away. Couldn’t even look at her. ‘You’re an embarrassment.’

Sunset painted the granite houses in fiery shades of amber and peach. The trees glowed. And Roberta sat there, in her car, parked outside her own house for a change.

She closed her eyes and curled forward till her forehead came to rest on the steering wheel. Let her arms dangle either side of her knees.

‘Sodding, felchbunnied, fudgemonkeying...’ Deep breath. ‘MOTHERFUNKER!’ Bellowing it out into the footwell.

Was there ever a crappier day?

One: Agnes Galloway battered into intensive care. Two: Philip Sodding Innes sitting happily at home while half the idiots in NE Division were out looking for him. Then having to let him go! Three: Jack Wallace walking free. Again. Four: a full-on bollocking from DCI Rutherford. And last, but crappiest of all, Five: Sally Gray’s poor wee boy.

Dog food.

No’ just the fact he’d been fed on it, but that he’d eaten the lot. Every last scrap. How long had he stood there, in his filthy nappy in his filthy cot while his mother rotted into a filthy mattress in that filthy hole of a house? Starving. Licking the tins out again and again till his little fingers and wrists and nose and cheeks were a network of sharp little cuts from the metal edges.

And the sores... All up and down his legs and bottom.

No child deserved that.

No one did.

Roberta’s phone ding-dinged at her.

She hauled it out.

Great.

A long hard sigh, then she climbed out of the car. Got the box with Susan’s trophy in it out of the boot. Plipped the locks. Slouched up the path to the front door.

It swung open and there was Susan, posing in a low-cut lacy negligée, bottle of fizzy wine in one hand, champagne flutes in the other. ‘I cheated: saw you parking when...’ Little creases formed across her brow. ‘Oh, Robbie, what’s wrong?’

The hallway got all wobbly, the breath sharp and lumpy in her throat.

Susan opened her arms and swept her up into a hug. Warm and soft and comforting. ‘Shhh... It’ll be OK. I promise.’

Roberta just stood there and cried.