Now We Are Dead

I

‘Gah...’ Roberta pushed the scrambled eggs around her plate some more. It’d gone all cold and congealed, greyed by the liberal application of Worcestershire sauce, the toast beneath it turned to soggy linoleum.

Which pretty much summed this whole week up.

Susan pushed a cup of coffee in front of her. ‘What’s wrong with my scrambled eggs?’

A shrug.

‘Honestly, some people.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Right, Naughty Monkey Number Two: do you want more soldiers?’

Naomi squealed in her high chair, a big smile on her face as she painted herself with baked beans.

‘No. OK, then. Naughty Monkey Number One, what do you fancy for your packed lunch: peanut-butter-and-banana, or cheese-and-pickle?’

Jasmine stuffed another spoonful of Rice Krispies in her gob, chewing as she talked. ‘Chicken jam!’

‘Chicken jam it is. And don’t talk with your mouth full.’ Susan reached for the chicken pâté, spreading a thick layer onto a round of soft white bread. ‘Robbie, are you going to be late tonight? Because I thought we could go to that new French place on Holburn Street. Cheer us up a bit. Dolly says she’ll watch the kids.’

Roberta stared into the lumpy grey mess clarting her plate. ‘Mmmph.’

‘Robbie!’

When she spoke the words came out all flat and dead. ‘Sorry. Not really hungry.’

Susan put down the knife, sooked her fingers clean, then took hold of Roberta’s face. Stared right into her eyes. ‘Do you want to quit? Because if you do, you march in there today and you tell them to take their horrible job and ram it so far up their backsides a spelunking team couldn’t get it out.’

Her mouth twitched. ‘That far?’

‘Further.’ Susan leaned in and gave her a kiss, soft and warm and faintly chickeny. ‘Sod them.’

Barrett was up front at the whiteboard again, that clipboard of his clutched to his chest like a teddy bear. ‘... so keep an eye out if you can.’

Harmsworth slouched in his seat, digging away at one ear with a relentless finger. Lund stifled a yawn, both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. Steel, on the other hand, wasn’t really there. She sat staring out of the window, face droopy as a basset hound, drumming out a funeral beat on her desk jotter with her hand.

Only Brave Sir Tufty was paying any attention to the morning briefing. He’d taken notes and everything.

‘Finally...’ Barrett dug out the upturned police cap and went a-rummaging. Pulled out one blue bit of paper and one red. Unfolded them both. ‘Today’s word of approbation is “Spanktastic” and for disapprobation we have “Funkbiscuits”. And that concludes morning prayers. Sarge?’

Everyone turned to look at her.

No reply.

Barrett tried again, only louder. ‘Sarge?’

She sighed. Shrugged. ‘Finish with the phones.’ You could’ve ironed your shirt on those words, they were that flat.

‘OK, you heard the lady: phone time!’

While everyone else picked a new mobile to try, Tufty stuck his heels into the carpet tiles and backward-walked his office chair over to Steel’s desk. Put on a bit of a whisper: ‘Are you OK, Sarge? Only you seem a bit... suicidal.’

She sagged a bit further. ‘Ask no’ for whom the bell tolls, Tufty, today it tolls for me.’ Steel checked her watch. ‘In five, four, three, two...’ She pointed at the office door.

It opened bang on time and the nervous PC from yesterday stuck his head into the room. God knew what facial expression he’d been aiming for, but he’d wound up with a cross between a smile and a grimace. Like he’d tried for a fart and got an unpleasant surprise instead. ‘DS Steel? They’re ready for you.’

‘Course they are.’ She stood, slapped a hand down on Tufty’s shoulder. ‘Come on, then. You can hold me back if I try to kill anyone.’

They’d arranged themselves down one side of the meeting room table, like this was some sort of job interview. Or a firing squad.

DCI Rutherford, DI Vine, Jack Wallace, and his solicitor Moir-Farquharson. The first two looked like someone had just rammed a lit Catherine wheel up their backsides, Wallace smugging it up big-time in the middle, the lawyer deadpan.

Leaving Steel and Tufty to stand on the other side of the table.

Rutherford scowled at them. ‘Detective Sergeant Steel, do you have anything to say in your defence?’

‘Aye. Constable Quirrel had nothing to do with it. He was there trying to talk me out of confronting Jack Wallace.’

‘I see.’

She nodded. ‘He did good. This is all on me.’

Which was really nice of her. Given the option, most senior officers would shoot you in the kneecap so the bear would eat you while they ran away. Wouldn’t even blink.

Rutherford poked the table. ‘I specifically ordered you to stay away from Mr Wallace and you went there anyway.’

She bared her teeth. ‘All that smiling and waving at the CCTV cameras — he knew we’d check, so—’

‘Stop — right — there!’ The finger stopped poking and pointed right at her. ‘You had no business harassing Mr Wallace. You were ordered not to.’

Steel shrugged. Her shoulders might have been all nonchalant and ‘whatever’, but her face looked one red button away from going intercontinental. BOOOOOOOOM... At least three megatons.

Tufty hissed it out the side of his mouth, as quietly as possible so no one but her would hear. ‘Please don’t.’

DI Vine opened the manila folder in front of him and pulled out three sheets of paper. ‘The results of Miss Edwards’ rape kit came back from the lab. The DNA they found doesn’t match Mr Wallace. He has an alibi for the evening. He has a witness who stayed with him until eight in the morning. Do you understand, Sergeant?’

Steel’s chin came up. ‘So whose DNA did it match?’

‘Say it with me: “Mr Wallace had nothing to do with it.”’

‘Then how come he knew he’d need an alibi?’

Wallace spread his hands, palm up. ‘Didn’t. But I know you and your wee mates like to keep an eye on me, so I smile and wave when I pass a CCTV camera. Just to show there’s no hard feelings.’

The lawyer glanced at his watch. ‘If I may, gentlemen, time is moving on.’ He smiled at Steel. ‘Detective Sergeant: my client has very generously asked your superiors not to demote or fire you for your actions. In exchange for which he will not sue Police Scotland for harassment.’

OK, that was a bit unexpected.

Tufty smiled.

Woot — they were going to get away with it!

So how come Steel didn’t look so happy?

She stared back, one eyebrow slowly creeping its way up her forehead.

Hissing Sid nodded. ‘This is on one condition: you apologise.’

The eyebrow slammed back down again, joining its neighbour in a scowl.

Sitting there, flanked by Vine and the lawyer, Wallace grinned. ‘And you do it like you mean it.’

Oh God...

Time to sound the four-minute warning...

DCI Rutherford thumped down behind his desk and treated Steel and Tufty to a family-sized portion of the evil eye. Morning sunlight streamed in through the office window, turning the whole room into one big microwave oven, great sticky waves of heat making sweat prickle across the back of Tufty’s neck. Or maybe it was the upcoming bollocking?

Steel moved towards one of the visitors’ chairs.

‘Don’t even think about it!’

She slouched to attention instead. ‘Boss.’

Rutherford shuffled some paperwork out of his in-tray and back again. ‘I think you understand what’s coming next.’

‘Aye, got a fair idea.’

‘You will not go anywhere near Jack Wallace. And Constable Quirrel here is going to be held responsible if you do.’

What?

No, no, no, no, no.

Tufty pulled his chin in. ‘But that’s not—’

‘You clearly don’t give a toss about your own career, Roberta, so let’s see if you care about his. Your crimes will be his crimes. One more complaint from Jack Wallace and DC Quirrel gets a black mark on his record so big they’ll be able to see it from the International Space Station. Are we clear?’

He held up a hand. ‘Boss, sir, can I just—’

‘No you can’t.’ Rutherford leaned forwards, half out of his seat, fists on the desk again. ‘Well, Sergeant?’

Tufty stared at her. Tell him no! Tell him it’s not fair to lumber poor Tufty with the sins of the Sergeant! Tell him—

Steel nodded. ‘Guv.’

Nooooooooooooo!

‘Good.’ A nasty little smile appeared beneath Rutherford’s nose. He selected a sheet of paper from his in-tray. ‘And to make sure: I have a very special assignment for you and your team. Maybe this time you’ll learn your lesson?’

Something inside Tufty curdled a little.

It was going to be one of those days, wasn’t it?

‘Now, children, we’ve got a real treat for you.’ Mrs Wilson clapped her hands and beamed out at the rows and rows of little kiddies sitting cross-legged on the gym hall floor. Standing there on the little stage, she looked more like the kind of person who sold life insurance than ran a primary school — black suit, purple top, kitten heels, hair piled up in a plume of smoky curls.

Had to be at least a hundred kids in here, all staring up at her. About thirty of them were dressed as Disney princesses — boys as well as girls — all sitting in a sequin-and-lace clump at the back. Clearly, St Henry’s Primary was a lot less strict with its dress code than the school Tufty went to.

A dozen teachers sat in plastic chairs dotted around the room. Eyes scanning the kids like the searchlights on a prison watchtower.

Steel slumped against the wall bars at the side of the stage, with her head in her hands. ‘Susan was right: I should’ve just resigned.’

Harmsworth and Barrett shifted from foot to foot, like they were getting ready to bolt at any minute. But Lund was rubbing her hands, a cheery smile on her face. Was she actually looking forward to this?

She was.

Freak.

Mrs Wilson pointed at the five of them. ‘These nice police officers have come here to talk to you all about staying safe! Isn’t that lovely?’

The kids chorused back, ‘Yes, Mrs Wilson.’

‘Look at them.’ Steel curled her top lip, like she’d caught a whiff of something stinky. ‘Sticky wee children. Thousands of them.’

Tufty nudged her in the ribs. ‘Thought you liked kids?’

‘This is all Jack Raping Turdbadger Wallace’s fault.’

‘Is it? I thought we were being punished because you were round his place harassing...’ Yeah, the look on her face meant it probably wasn’t a good idea to finish that sentence. Tufty cleared his throat. ‘I mean, look on the bright side: they could’ve fired you. And me. Both of us. And I don’t want fired.’

Harmsworth sniffed. ‘You know what they say, don’t you? Kids are the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse. War, Famine, Plague, Death, and the Under Twelves.’ He shuddered, making his chins wobble. ‘This’ll all end in tears. Doom, disaster, horror, the dead rising from their graves...’

Mrs Wilson clapped her hands. ‘So come on, children: let’s have a big St Henry’s welcome for Detective Sergeant Steel and her police friends!’ Then she led everyone in a round of applause as Lund dragged Steel up onto the stage.

The two of them stood there, Steel all droopy, Lund grinning out at the evil horde.

Tufty, Barrett, and Harmsworth stayed right where they were, thank you very much.

So Lund launched into get-over-here-you-lazy-sods! hand gestures, bugging her eyes at them, and mouthing, ‘Now!’

‘It’s the End of Days, I swear to God.’ But Harmsworth lumbered onto the stage anyway.

Barrett and Tufty followed him.

The sea of wee faces had a... predatory look to them. Even the ones dressed up as Disney princesses. Actually, they were the worst of the lot. Six-year-olds with glittery dark eyes to match their glittery costumes. Like someone had rolled a load of hyenas in sequins and lurid nylon.

Hungry and ready to feed.

Harmsworth was right.

Lund stepped to the front of the stage and held her arms wide. ‘Hello, boys and girls! Who wants to learn all about “Stranger Danger”?’

Squeals of delight throbbed up from the audience.

Steel mimed gagging on her own vomit.

Soon as the nine o’clock bell went, the teachers all vanished. One second they were there, the next it was like the rapture had come early and decided it’d forgotten to install child seats, so the kids would all have to stay behind. After all: the police dealt with riots and football hooligans all the time, didn’t they? What could possibly go wrong?

The Disney princesses crowded in around Tufty, Steel, Barrett, Lund, and Harmsworth, making a multi-coloured sea of gap-toothed smiles, magic wands, tiaras, fairy wings, and sticky fingers.

Harmsworth shrank back, bumping against Tufty. ‘Oh God. It’s like a George Romero film...’

A little girl, dressed as Belle from Beauty and the Beast, held up her wand. ‘I can make nasty boys turn into frogs! I can!’

Lund pulled an impressed face. ‘Ooh, that’s very clever. I’ve got a magic wand too, do you want to see it?’

Lots of happy squealing as the kids jumped up and down. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’

Harmsworth curled his hands against his chest, elbows in, not touching anyone. ‘You know they’re just walking disease vectors, don’t you?’

‘Ready? Here we go!’ Lund pulled out her extendable baton. ‘Abra-ca-dabra!’ She flicked it out to full length with a hard clack.

The unisex princesses ooh-ed and ahh-ed as they shuffled closer, eyes wide.

Yeah, Harmsworth was right. This was way more Night of the Living Dead than Balamory.

Closer. Closer. Sticky hands out like horrid little—

A hand grabbed Tufty’s arm. ‘Aaargh!’ He spun around... but it was only Steel.

She hauled him away from the pack, leaving Harmsworth, Barrett, and Lund to their fate. ‘What we need is a plan.’

Ooh, good idea.

‘Finish up here and go for tenses?’

‘No, you neep. A plan about Jack Raping Funkbiscuit Wallace.’

Tufty backed off, hands up. ‘No — no — no — no — no! We are not having a Jack Wallace plan!’

Harmsworth’s voice carried across the princesses’ squeals. ‘Colds. Flu. Salmonella. Botulism. Bubonic plague...’

A little boy Snow White jumped up and down in front of him. ‘Do you have a magic wand too, Mr Policeman?’

Steel poked Tufty in the chest. ‘He knew he’d need an alibi for that night. How? How did he know? Because he’s involved, that’s how.’

Not this again. ‘You heard DCI Rutherford: if we go within a million miles of Wallace, we’re screwed.’

Harmsworth curled away from Snow White, hands and arms raised like he was trapped in a nettle patch. ‘And don’t get me started on C. difficile and MRSA. Kids are an Ebola outbreak waiting to happen.’

‘Mr Policeman? Do you have a magic wand like the lady?’

‘Rutherford can kiss my sharny hoop. Jack Wallace is up to his armpits in this and I’m going to sodding well prove it.’

‘No!’ Tufty stared at Steel. ‘Do you even listen to yourself? You’re obsessed! He wasn’t there. He didn’t do it. It’s not his DNA.’

‘I’m no’ saying he did it, I’m saying he’s involved. He knew!’

‘Mr Policeman? Magic wand, Mr Policeman! Magic wand!’

‘Urgh,’ Harmsworth curled away again. ‘Get off me. You’re getting sticky fingerprints on my suit.’

‘We can’t just go around arresting everyone you think is dodgy.’ Tufty chucked his hands in the air. ‘Rutherford was right, you’re unhinged! You’re—’

‘Don’t you speak to me like—’

‘—walking nightmare who ruins everything!’

‘—pasty-faced wee turd-sniffer: Wallace is guilty.’ Glaring back at him. Teeth bared. Toe to toe and nose to nose.

The kids launched into a chant. ‘Magic wand! Magic wand! Magic wand!’

‘Get off me, you little horrors!’

Tufty’s ears fizzed, blood whoomping in his forehead — burning in his throat. And OK: it was probably career suicide to shout at a senior officer, but if she was going to get him fired anyway, what difference did it make? Might as well throw in a poke for good measure.

So he did, right on her collar bone. See how she liked it for a change. ‘I’m not chucking away four years in the police just because you can’t take a funkbiscuiting telling!’

She poked him back. Harder. ‘Did you see what happened to Beatrice Edwards? Did you see what he did to Claudia Boroditsky? Wallace has to be stopped!’

The princesses crowded in on Harmsworth, forcing him to retreat. ‘I’ll arrest the lot of you!’

Lund sighed. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Owen, just play along for once in your life.’

‘I will not be bullied by a bunch of snottery wee kids!’

Another poke. ‘It — wasn’t — him!’

‘He knew about it! He...’ Steel wasn’t glowering at Tufty any more, she was staring at the group of kids as Harmsworth stumbled back, tripped and went down with a thump.

Nobody spoke. The princesses froze.

The sound of the older kids whooping it up in the playground filtered in through the windows.

Then a little girl Pocahontas stabbed her fairy wand up into the air sideways, William-Wallace-broadsword style. ‘PILEY-ON!’

They did. All of them. Leaping onto Harmsworth. Burying him beneath an avalanche of Disney princesses.

‘GET OFF ME! HELP! HELP!’

Steel ran a hand across her face, still staring. ‘Why did he need an alibi, then? Why did Jack Wallace need an alibi for a crime he didn’t commit?’

‘Just because your career’s nearly over, doesn’t mean I want mine chucked away too!’

‘AAAAAAARGH! NO BITING!’

‘My career’s no’ “nearly over”, you cheeky wee shite!’

One of Harmsworth’s shoes came flying out of the piley-on, bounced off the gym floor and skittered four or five foot before coming to a halt. His other shoe followed the first. Then a sock.

‘FOR GOD’S SAKE, LUND, GET THEM OFF ME!’

Lund moved, but Barrett grabbed her arm.

‘Actually we’re not supposed to have any physical contact with the kids.’

She smiled. ‘You know, I think you’re right.’

‘AAAAAAAAARGH!!!’

Steel escalated the poking war. ‘Well, come on, then: how did Wallace know?’

‘It... I...’ Yeah, she had a point. ‘Look, I’ve no idea. Maybe he is involved, somehow, but we still can’t do anything about it. It’s DI Vine’s case, we have to let it go.’

‘And what happens when another woman gets raped?’

‘AAAAAAAAAARGH! STOP BITING ME! LUND! LUND, HELP! BARRETT!’

Barrett shrugged. Grinned. ‘Sorry, we’d love to, but it’s the rules.’

‘GET OFF ME! HELP! HELP!’

A suit-jacket sleeve went flying, fluttering to the ground like a wounded bird. It was followed by a chunk of trousers. Then more scraps of clothing — bits of shirt, a vest, another sleeve, more trousers.

Steel shook her head. ‘It has to be him.’

‘It isn’t! Didn’t you learn anything from last time? Just because you want Jack Wallace to be guilty, that doesn’t magically make it happen!’

‘NO! DON’T YOU DARE, YOU WEE SHITE! AAAAAAAAARGH!’

Tufty jabbed a hand at the far wall, indicating the entirety of Aberdeen. ‘I want to be something, OK? I want to catch killers. I want to make a difference! You are not dragging me down with you!’

Steel turned. Teeth bared. Snarling like a police Alsatian.

‘HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME FOR GOD’S SAKE!’

He backed away a step. ‘You know when I first wanted to be a policeman? Five years old. Dad ran off with a traffic warden to Paisley and Mum climbed up on the roof of our tower block.’ Tufty wrapped his arms around himself. ‘This policeman came and talked her down and I thought: that was it. That was what I wanted to do with my life. Make people better. Help people.’

Steel’s face softened. ‘Five?’

‘Please don’t make them fire me.’

‘NO! NOT THE PANTS! NOT THE PANTS!’

A wee boy dressed as Elsa appeared from the depths of the piley-on, holding a pair of Y-fronts above his head, triumphant grin on his freckled face. They weren’t the newest or whitest; Harmsworth’s underwear had the perished-elastic sag that marked them out as antiques.

‘GIVE ME BACK MY PANTS!’

‘NEVER!’ Elsa ran off, Harmsworth’s Y-fronts held high like a captured enemy flag. The rest of the Disney Princess Posse hammered out after him — all squealing and giggling — clutching various torn bits of Harmsworth’s clothing.

They banged through the door to the playground, disappearing outside.

Tufty, Steel, and Lund stared.

There, left all alone, lying on the gym floor between the lines for netball and tennis, was a stark-naked Harmsworth. His uncooked-cookie-dough skin was covered in little red bite marks. Both hands clamped over his intimate masculine area. Eyes screwed shut. A high-pitched keening noise coming out of his mouth.

He had a hairier back than expected. Hairier bum too.

A smile broke across Steel’s face. She snorted. Sniggered. Then creased up, hands on her knees, hooting it out. Lund guffawed, pointing at Harmsworth’s poor furry backside.

Tufty tried not to laugh, he really did.

Didn’t help, though.

‘You’re all a bunch of bastards!’ Harmsworth struggled to his feet, one hand still clutching his original sin, bottom lip trembling. His head snapped left and right, eyes raking the school gymnasium, then he scurried across the wooden floor, his other hand shielding his furry bottom as he ran for a stack of gym equipment. He dived behind a pile of blue floor mats, hauling them over himself.

Then a pasty, hairy arm poked out from beneath the makeshift fort, pointing at the doors to the playground. ‘Don’t just stand there, go get my pants back!’

Steel hammed-up a massive grin at Lund, Barrett and Tufty and they all rushed over to the window — noses pressed against the safety glass.

The princesses paraded around the swings, marching like the soldiers of a strangely-dressed sparkly-sequinned army. Once round the roundabout, across the hopscotch squares, and back around the swings again. Following Elsa and his triumphant trophy — held aloft on the tip of a magic wand, the grey fabric flapping in the breeze as they chanted their victory cry in unison: ‘PANTS! PANTS! PANTS! PANTS! PANTS!’

Lund wiped a tear from her eye. ‘Some days, I love my job.’

II

Everyone sat facing the front in the police van. No one making eye contact with anyone else. Because every time they did...

Barrett sniggered. Coughed. Cleared his throat.

Lund bit her bottom lip and blinked a few times, shoulders quivering.

Steel let out a shuddery breath.

Tufty glanced in the rear-view mirror.

And there was Harmsworth, all crunched down into himself on the very back row of seats, a hairy grey blanket pulled tight around his hairy bare shoulders. A foul scowl on his face. ‘I bloody hate the lot of you!’

And that just set them all off again.

Roberta leaned back against the metalwork and munched her way through a cold sausage roll. The bridge wasn’t huge, only big enough for three people to stand side by side on the wooden decking, but it thumped straight out through the trees and across the River Don. The water crawled by underneath, sparkly and blue.

Metal crossbeams made three-foot-high asterisks above the handrail, leaving just enough space between them to squeeze your head and shoulders. No’ the prettiest of bridges in the world, but it was nice and quiet, and lovely and warm in the sun.

Tufty dipped into the Tesco carrier bag and came out with two tins. ‘You want Irn-Bru, or Coke?’

She polished off the sausage roll and held out greasy pastry-flecked fingers. ‘Bru. And a gentleman would open it for a lady.’

He looked skyward for a moment, shook his head a little, then did the business and handed over the Irn-Bru.

‘Why thank you, kind sir.’ She knocked back a scoof of fruity fizz. Belched. ‘You know what? Seeing Owen diving for cover, wee wrinkled willy flapping in the breeze, kinda makes life feel worthwhile again.’

Tufty dipped back into the bag again. ‘Samosa, or mini pork pie?’

‘Pie me.’

He did.

‘We should make a tradition out of it. Every time we have a crappy day, Harmsworth has to run around naked.’

‘Yeah,’ the word was mumbled through a mouthful of samosa — no manners at all, ‘maybe not. I never want to see that ever again. Can you believe how hairy he was? Like a bar of prison soap.’ A shudder.

‘Don’t be such a killjoy.’ She ripped a bite out of her pie, all savoury and crumbling pastry and jellified pork bits. Chewing through the words, ‘Did your dad really sod off when you were five years old, or was that just a cunning lie to—’ Her phone blared out its theme tune. ‘Oh, what fresh hell is this?’ She took another bite of pie and answered it. ‘What do you want?’

‘That what passes for manners in your house?’ Big Gary.

‘Make it quick, Gary, I’ve got a pie on the go.’

‘You wanted to know when someone came in to pick up a stolen mobile phone.’

‘I did?’ Frown. Mobile phone. Mobile phone... Aha: Tommy Shand’s phone. The one with the dirty photos of Josie Stephenson on it. The one that was going to get him sent down for three or four years as a sex offender. ‘So I did.’ Another bite of pie.

Could just get Lund or Barrett to detain Shand under a Section Fourteen...

But why deny herself the pleasure of making the dirty wee sod squirm? Tommy Shand would keep.

She popped the last chunk of pie in her mouth. ‘We’re going to be a while, tell him to come back later. I want to be there when he gets it.’

‘But of course, Your Majesty. Anything else while I’m running around after you?’

‘Bye, Gary.’ She hung up. Frowned down at the water crawling by underneath.

Tufty stuffed a couple of Skips in his mouth. Sooked the prawn-cocktaily dust off his fingers. ‘Problem?’

‘Tommy Shand wants his phone back. Because of course I’m going to let him get away with an amateur porn shoot starring a fifteen-year-old model. Trouble is, if I do him for the phone now, I can’t catch him dealing drugs round the back of Airyhall Library and do him for that as well. Decisions, decisions.’

‘A sex offender in the hand is better than two in the bushes.’

Roberta sighed. Picked up a stick lying on the bridge deck. ‘Why does the world have to be full of perverted funkbiscuits?’ She turned, reached through the metalwork and dropped her stick on the upstream side. Sauntered over to the other side to watch it float by. ‘You really think we shouldn’t go after Jack Wallace?’

Tufty nodded. ‘They’ll fire you and they’ll screw me. Besides,’ a shrug, ‘DI Vine’s a professional pain in the bumhole: no way he’s going to let whoever raped Beatrice Edwards get away with it. Even just out of sheer bloody-mindedness — he’ll get them.’

‘Yeah. Probably.’ Maybe.

She sent a second stick after the first. ‘Doesn’t mean we can’t go after Philip Dog-Murdering Innes, though.’

‘True.’ Tufty tried a stick of his own. Scuttling over to the other side and poking his head and shoulders through the metalwork railings. ‘Mind you, it’d help if we had some evidence. Maybe we could try going door-to-door again? Someone might change their mind and talk to us.’ He made a wee boat out of the paper bag his samosa came in and dropped it at the exact same time Roberta released Stick Number Three.

They looked at each other for a heartbeat, then raced to the other side.

‘Come on, Boaty McBoatface!’

‘Come on Sticky McStickface!’

Tufty stuck his arms in the air. ‘I has a win!’

‘What else have we got?’

He dug into the carrier bag and came out with two Eccles cakes.

She took her one and held it out through the railings. ‘On three, two, one... go!’

Rush to the other side.

‘Ha: two-nil to the Magnificent Detective Constable Quirrel!’

‘Yeah? Well I know something that’ll wipe the grin off your smug wee face.’ Roberta marched back to the car and popped the boot. Rummaged through the bits and bobs gathered there. Where the hell were... Ah. Bingo. She grabbed two of them and hurried back to the bridge. Held one out to Tufty.

He recoiled. ‘That’s a massive dildo!’

‘Don’t be such a wet blouse, it’s no’ been used.’

He stuck his hands into his armpits. ‘Why...? What?’

‘From the Great Rubber Willy Burglary last year. Two blokes broke into Ann Summers and filched half the stock. I sort of forgot to sign three or four into evidence. Oops.’

‘Never been used?’

‘No’ so much as a dry humping.’

‘OK, then.’ He took the big purple one and they rushed to the side of the bridge again.

‘On three, two, one...’

Sploosh!

‘Oh.’ He leaned out through the railings, frowning down at the water below. ‘I was expecting them to float.’

Roberta hit him. ‘Waste of two perfectly good—’ Cagney & Lacey wailed out from her phone. ‘No’ again! Leave me alone, it’s lunchtime!’ But she pulled it out anyway, holding her other hand above the screen to block out the sunlight. ‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’.

She pressed answer. ‘Hello?’

‘Miss me?’

Took a second to place the voice, but there it was — like a sour taste in her mouth: ‘Wallace.’ Dirty raping wee turd. ‘What the hell do you want?’

‘Did you enjoy grovelling this morning? Feel good to be on your knees?’

‘Listen up, sunshine, you’re going to screw up sometime and when you do I’m going to ram my boot so far up your...’

Tufty was staring at her, pointing at the phone and mouthing, ‘Jack Wallace?’

She pressed the button to put it on speaker.

‘—never learn, though. Do you really think I’m stupid enough to...’ Pause. ‘Did you just put me on speakerphone?’

‘Course no’: I’m in the car. Hands free.’

‘Yeah, I’m not a moron, Sergeant.’

And the line went dead. He’d hung up.

Roberta wiggled the phone at Tufty. ‘You heard that.’

‘Yeah... Well, I heard you threaten him, then him say he wasn’t stupid. It’s not exactly Watergate, is it?’

Of course it wasn’t. Because there was no way Jack Wallace was going to say anything incriminating with witnesses present.

‘Sodding hell.’

‘No chance.’ Mrs Galloway’s neighbour crossed her arms and jerked her chin up. Her toddler clung to her tracksuited knee, staring at them — thumb in his mouth.

Tufty held out the photo of Phil Innes again. ‘Please, just think about it, OK?’

Steel sniffed. ‘Come on, Helen, you know who this is, and I know that you know, so why no’ save us all a heap of time and talk — to — me.’ Really leaning on the words, forcing them in like a blunt knife.

‘You don’t get it, do you?’ She nodded at the sooking toddler. ‘I’ve got a wee boy. You think I’m putting Justin at risk?’

‘Has Innes threatened you?’

The round cheeks darkened, pink spreading upwards from the neck of her T-shirt. ‘No one’s threatened me. And they won’t, because I’m not doing your bloody job for you!’

‘My job? Have you forgotten what he did to Agnes Galloway?’ Teeth bared. ‘Have you?’

Tufty stepped between them. ‘OK, let’s all just calm down a little.’

Steel thumped him on the arm. ‘Calm?’ She marched away a couple of paces, then back again, arms jabbing away for emphasis. ‘How can I do my job when none of you buggers will say a sodding word? They won’t give me a warrant unless I’ve got corroboration! Witnesses! Evidence!’

The chin came up a little higher. Voice a little louder. ‘That’s not my fault!’

‘You won’t bloody speak to me! I can’t even search the bastard’s house because of you lot!’

The toddler made whingy gurning noises.

Steel shoved Tufty out of the way. ‘I can’t get forensics from Innes without a warrant. No forensics, no evidence. And I can’t arrest him with no bloody evidence! Help me! If you don’t help, we can’t do anything!’

‘Don’t you dare!’ They were almost nose to nose now, eyes bugging. ‘You’re the police, you should know what you’re doing! That poor woman’s nearly dead because you poked your noses in and didn’t arrest the bastard!’

Steel’s right hand curled into a fist.

Tufty grabbed her sleeve. ‘All right, come on, this isn’t helping.’

‘Do you want him to keep doing it? Is that what you want? Philip Innes running this place like his own private gulag?’

‘I want you to do — your — job!’ Helen grabbed her toddler and marched back inside, slamming the door in their faces.

Steel stood there, fuming at it.

‘Wonderful.’ Tufty let go. Stepped back. ‘That went really well.’

‘Just because she’s too chicken doesn’t mean everyone else is.’

‘You’ve been spitting wasps since Jack Wallace phoned and it’s genuinely not helping. We need more softly, softly, and less shouty ranty.’

‘Arrrgh!’ She stormed off, arms in the air, bellowing it out: ‘SOMEONE IN THIS GOAT-BUGGERING TOWER BLOCK IS GOING TO TALK TO US!’

‘I said no. Now leave me alone.’ The old man thumped back inside and slammed the door.

‘I didn’t see anything, how many times do I have to tell you people that?’ Little Miss Hairy shoved the door closed again.

A watery eye stared out at Tufty through the gap, the security chain stretched tight. ‘Go away. I have nothing to say to you.’ The door clunked shut.

Tufty knocked again. ‘It’s the police. Can you open the door please?’

A woman’s voice came from the other side of the painted wood. ‘Go away, I’m not in.’

Roberta slumped against the wall beside the door. ‘Why do we bother?’ Ungrateful bunch of turdholes. You try to save them from a violent scumbag and do they help? Do they buggery.

‘I know you’re in, because I can hear you talking to me.’

‘I’m not talking to you! I’m not talking to anyone. Now go away!’

She checked her watch. Ten past seven. ‘We’re achieving sod-all here. I’m calling it.’ Then turned and scuffed towards the stairs. It wasn’t even a nice tower block. Graffiti. Peeling paint. That faint, peppery-mouldy smell.

Tufty slouched up beside her as she pushed through into the stairwell. ‘Maybe the labs will find something?’

‘Honestly, why do we bother? No one here gives a stuff about Agnes Galloway but us. They’re a bunch of selfish—’

Cagney & Lacey blared out. Again. Roberta stopped. Grimaced. ‘You know what? That theme tune was fun for the first couple of days, but it’s beginning to seriously get on my tits.’ She hauled the phone out and answered it. Barked out the word with all the welcoming warmth of a shallow grave: ‘What?’

Big Gary tutted. ‘You get worse, you know that? Your mobile phone man is in again, wanting his Nokia back.’

‘I don’t care. Tell him to go shag a bollard!’

She hung up and rammed the phone back into her pocket. Stared upwards, through the gap between the flights of stairs, all the way up to the ceiling fifteen storeys above. Hauled in a deep breath. ‘NO’ ONE OF YOU BUNCH OF BASTARDS GIVES A TOSS ABOUT AN OLD LADY GETTING BATTERED HALF TO DEATH!’ Another breath. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

Tufty raised an eyebrow. ‘Feel better?’

She stomped down the final flight of stairs, through the entrance hall, and out into the sunshine. Turned and stuck two fingers up at the tower block and its rancid occupants. ‘Sodding, badger-ferreting, FUNKBISCUITS!’

A couple of old farts on the other side of the road stopped and stared at her, their cairn terrier yapping and twirling at the end of its leash.

She gave them the Vs as well. ‘Oh, bugger off!’ Then stormed away to the car.

The in-house forensics lab was awash with blue plastic evidence crates. They were stacked up everywhere — on the floor, on the filing cabinets, on the work benches, on the superglue/fingerprint cabinet, on the two upright fridges that stood by the door... The only bit that was crate-free was the central work table with its light boxes and magnifying glasses.

CSI Miami, it wasn’t.

Tufty stood by the door, hands at his sides, shoulders hunched. Sniffing the chemical-scented air as if hunting for something that had gone off.

Roberta leaned back against one of the fridges — setting bottles inside it clinking. ‘What if I said pretty please?’

‘Urgh.’ The lab technician picked a bloody knife off the light table, holding it between two purple-nitrile-gloved fingers, and popped it back into its tube. ‘You know I can’t do that.’

Roberta gave her a smile, piling on the charm. ‘Come on, Gloria, there’s a little old lady in intensive care because of this scumbag.’

A slow, sad sigh, then Gloria pointed at a stack of evidence crates. ‘Husband came home and battered his wife to death with the iron.’ Another box. ‘Bus driver got pissed at lunchtime and flattened a motorcyclist.’ Another. ‘Bunch of teenagers gang-raped a grandmother.’ Another. ‘Brother and sister decided their parents were squandering their inheritance and took an axe to—’

‘I get it. I really, really do. But no one’s talking, Gloria. This scumbag’s going to get away with it. Right now you’re my only hope.’

Gloria’s shoulders sank. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Roberta beamed. ‘I could kiss you. And cop a feel of those magnificent breasts as well.’

‘Don’t you dare! Last time was bad enough.’ A blush darkened her cheeks as she rummaged out an evidence crate from the stack by the storeroom door. Thumped it down on top of the work table. A hand-printed label was stuck to the lid: ‘GALLOWAY MRS ~ 12-6 CAIRNHILL COURT, CORNHILL’. Gloria opened it and peered inside. ‘And I’m not promising anything. If there’s nothing there, there’s nothing there.’

‘Fair enough. But the offer of a grope still stands.’

Tufty eased the lab door closed and hurried down the corridor after Steel. Caught up to her just before the stairs. ‘Doesn’t really matter what she finds if we don’t have anything to compare it with.’

‘Blah, blah, blah.’

Through into the stairwell, their voices echoing back from the walls. ‘The whole floor could be covered in bloody footprints, but if we don’t have Innes’s shoes to match them against it’s worthless.’

She blew a raspberry at him, thumping down the stairs. ‘Are you being a party-piddler on purpose? Optimism, Tufty. Optimism.’

‘Just being realistic. If we’re going to pin this on Phil Innes we need a warrant first.’

‘Do we?’ She stopped and stared at him, eyebrows up, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. ‘Wow. Twenty years in the job and I never knew! You must be some sort of idiot savant.’

‘I’m just saying.’

‘Well don’t.’ She started down the stairs again. ‘Our luck’s going to change, Tufty, I can feel it. No more dog days for us. Success: here we come.’

Yeah, right.

III

Tufty checked his phone. Twenty to nine and the only silly sods still silly enough to be hanging around the CID office were him and Steel. Everyone else went home ages ago. Lucky spods.

He was stuck here.

Waiting.

Bum was getting sore from all the sitting as well. He shoogled in his seat. Fiddled with his keyboard. Checked his phone again. Still 20:40.

Steel didn’t look up from the notepad she was scribbling in. ‘If you’re needing the toilet, just go.’

He stopped fidgeting. ‘We going to be much longer?’

‘If you’ve finished writing up the door-to-doors: go home.’

‘Yeah.’ He stayed where he was. ‘Finished those about half an hour ago.’

She narrowed her eyes and frowned at him. ‘You’re keeping an eye on me, aren’t you?’

‘Me? No.’ Doing his best innocent face and voice.

‘You’re a terrible liar. And you can relax, Detective Constable Quirrel, I’m no’ waiting for you to piffle off so I can go round Jack Wallace’s place with a cricket bat and a blow torch.’

Oh thank God for that.

Tufty let out a long happy breath. ‘Good.’

‘I’m going to use a chainsaw.’

He stared at her. Sitting there with her hair all Albert Einstein. ‘No, but really?’

She stood and grabbed her coat. ‘I’m going home. You can follow me if you want.’ A wink. ‘But no tongues.’

Tufty followed the rear lights on Steel’s MX-5 as she drove down Union Grove, her head rocking from side to side as she went. The sky was streaked with orange and scarlet, clouds fading from purple to black. Streetlights flickered out their yellowy glow. More light spilling from the windows of the granite terraces that lined both sides of the street.

She went straight across at the roundabout, onto Cromwell Road.

Tufty did the same, his Fiat Panda making its weird grindy-rattling noise again every time he changed gear. Probably should get that looked at. But what if the garage wanted to put Betsy down? What if they couldn’t see the beauty in her rusty wings and hub caps? In that dangly bit at the back held on with half a roll of duct tape? In that burning-plastic smell that oozed out of her wheel arches if she had to navigate a bumpy road?

The playing fields drifted by on the right — all the floodlights on so some fat old blokes could pretend they were actually playing rugby.

Steel slowed for the roundabout with Anderson Drive.

OK, so it was a bit of a long way around, but they’d go right here, up the dual carriageway, and nip into... Nope. She wasn’t indicating, she was going straight across.

Tufty leaned forward, making the steering wheel creak. ‘Where are you going, you devious old horror?’ He pointed. ‘Your house is that way.’

An eighteen-wheeler trundled by, heading south.

Tufty nipped across the roundabout onto Seafield Road. A nice chunk of parkland on the left, fancy-looking granite semis on the right. He put his foot down, catching up with the Horror’s MX-5. Flashed his lights.

Two fingers appeared in the little porthole at the back of her car.

‘Daft old funkbiscuit...’

All the way up Seafield with its big houses and massive gardens. Past the Palm Court Hotel. Past the wee row of shops. And up to the junction. Straight through the green traffic lights.

‘Where are you going, you monster? Some of us have boxed sets of Buffy to get home to!’

She indicated left and pulled into a car park beside a squat ugly little building and some sort of community centre. Crawled past a chunk of council recycling bins then stopped. Reversed into a sort of hollowed-out recess in the building painted all beige and brown.

He pulled up next to it. Checked his phone.

According to the map app, this was Airyhall Library. Open nine-till-seven Monday and Wednesday; nine-till-five Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday; ten-till-five on Saturday — shut for an hour at lunchtime; and closed on Sunday. So she wasn’t here to borrow a book.

He climbed out of his car.

The sound of someone singing rattled out through the car’s soft top.

Was that Steel?

It was, belting it out. Singing along with the radio — the music all banjos and accordions.

He opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.

Steel drummed away on her steering wheel.

‘Got home today, and what do you say,

My lover’s gone Fifty Shades of Grey,

He says we’re gonna do things all his way,

And I said: “No way, Jose!”’

She was actually pretty good, in a smoky-voiced rock-granny kind of way.

She leaned over and poked him. ‘Come on, Tufters, don’t be shy.’

Yeah... No.

‘Get gone,

Get gone,

Get gone three times, I’m on my own!’

An accordion solo wheezed out of the radio.

He poked her back. ‘You said you were going home!’

‘I say lots of things.’

Tufty peered out through the windscreen at the prison-wall-blandness side of the community centre. ‘This isn’t going to get me fired, is it?’

‘Would I do that to you?’ Still drumming along in time with the music. ‘And we’re singing in five, four, three—’

‘Only I really don’t want to get fired.’

‘Got home today, but I can’t see,

What the hell is wrong with me,

Why can’t these crows just let me be,

Tormented for eternity!’

That was cheery.

‘Sarge?’

‘Get gone,

Get gone,

Cos this old world’s all made of bones...’

She grinned at him. ‘Come on, Tufty, all you’ve got to do is sing “get gone” a dozen or so times till the end. Ready? Here we go...’

He mumbled along, face getting hotter and hotter with every repetition. Till finally the DJ faded the bloody song out.

‘An oldie but a goodie! Catnip Jane there, with “Three Times Gone”.’

Tufty slumped back in his seat. ‘Thank God for that.’

‘Don’t forget, Call-in Karaoke’s coming up at eight, and we’ve got a special guest, talking about the protest this Saturday by the Northeast Farmers Union. But first here’s some messages from—’

She killed the engine. ‘You got a girlfriend, Tufty? Or boyfriend? Or favourite sheep?’

He took a look out of the passenger window — a big grey roller door, then a gap and the edge of a Portakabin kinda building. A tree-shaded path, a wee shed, and the back of a housing estate. The gap between the library’s brick wall and the recycling bins looked out on the little car park. No sign of any cars, well, except for the manky brown van abandoned in the corner with two flat tyres, a crumpled bonnet, and a ‘POLICE AWARE’ sticker on the cracked windscreen.

Tufty sat back again. ‘Jack Wallace isn’t going to suddenly appear looking to return a copy of Wind in the Willows or something, is he?’

‘Everyone should have someone to love. Someone they can trust. Someone who doesn’t need shearing twice a year.’

‘I am not shagging a sheep.’

‘Takes all sorts.’ She fiddled with the controls down the side of her seat, reclining it a bit. ‘Now, then: I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with “L”.’

Tufty pursed his lips and nodded. ‘... then I went out with Rebecca. She was nice. Sang in a country and western covers band.’

‘No accounting for taste. You give up yet?’

‘But she went off to university in Manchester, so that was that. “Bread Van”?’

‘Nope.’

‘Then there was Siobhan. Don’t know why we ended up going out; she never seemed to like me very much...’ A sigh. Didn’t matter what he did, it was always wrong. And she snored. ‘“Big Vehicle?”’

‘What about that perky Wildlife Crime Officer with the lovely breasts?’

‘What about her?’

Steel leered at him. ‘Are you shagging her yet?’

‘God, you’ve got a one-track mind, haven’t you?’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Anyway, I barely know the woman. “Brown Van”?’

‘Well what are you hanging about for — go see her! You were meant to sort out that poor wee dog’s funeral, you lazy sod.’

‘When? I’ve been running about after you all day!’ Honestly. ‘Wait, is it “Battered Van”? The one over there that looks like they dropped it off a building?’

‘About time you got that.’ She gave her fake cigarette a couple of puffs. ‘Your turn.’

‘... but then I got home from work one morning and Lisa had broken every mug in the house, stabbed the fridge with an eight-inch carving knife, and ran off with my whole CD collection.’

‘Pfff...’ Steel slumped a bit further. ‘Wish I hadn’t asked now. Your love life’s rubbish.’

Tufty turned in his seat. ‘We could talk about something else then. How about black holes?’

‘That a kinky euphemism?’

‘No, listen: particles and antiparticles pop out of the quantum foam from time to time, right? Say it’s an electron and a positron — normally they annihilate each other, but Stephen Hawking says—’

‘Tufty, you—’

‘—if it happens near a black hole’s event horizon and the electron escapes, but the positron falls in, then—’

‘Tufty!’

‘—the positron’s negative mass actually gobbles up a teeny bit of the black hole so it’ll eventually evaporate. Course that depends on no other matter falling into— Ow!’

Then she hit him again. Right in the arm. And not a soft tap either: a full-on thump.

‘Ow!’ He rubbed at the stingy patch. ‘Stop it!’

‘I changed my mind. No physics. Go back to blethering on about your sodding love life. Only try to put a bit of spice into it, eh? I want at least a few vicarious thrills before you bore me to death.’

‘... sick all down her front. She didn’t want to speak to me after that.’ He shrugged. ‘And then I went out with Hannah for three weeks. Now she was naughty.’

Very, very naughty.

In all the right places.

And once on the top deck of a night-bus to Glasgow.

A warm smile spread across his face.

Steel poked him. ‘Hoy!’

‘Sorry. “Bendy Bus”?’

‘You’re supposed to be sharing the dirty bits. And no.’

‘But her dad got done for drink-driving and suddenly every police officer was a “fascist bast”—’

She hit him. Again. Hard.

‘Cut it out!’

‘Shut up, you idiot.’ She pointed through the windscreen.

A shadowy figure, all dressed in black with a rucksack on its back, crept out from behind the recycling bins. Ninja style. Assuming the ninja had a cold head, going by the massive black woolly hat she was wearing.

Ninja Rucksack Woman took a quick look left and right, but either Steel’s car was parked in exactly the right place to be invisible or the Ninja was an idiot, because she crept across to the low wall separating the back of the library from the community centre. Hopped over it and did some more creeping to a red-painted door.

Another quick check, then she pulled a small crowbar out of her rucksack. A sharp thump at the lock and she slipped inside, closing the door behind her.

Steel fiddled her seat upright again. ‘Well, I was hoping for something a bit more drug-dealerish, but it’ll do.’

She climbed out of the car and closed the door without a sound. Looked in at Tufty with a finger to her lips. ‘Shhh...’ Then tiptoed to the wall, clambered over it and flattened herself against the bricks beside the jemmied door. Like something off of Scooby-Doo.

Woman was insane.

Ah well. Might as well.

He got out and wandered over. Swung his legs over the handrail and stood beside her, hands in his pockets. ‘So far we’ve got “malicious mischief”, “housebreaking with intent to steal”, and violation of the Civic Government — Scotland — Act 1982: Section Fifty-Eight, Part One, AKA: “going equipped”.’

‘Shhh!’ Steel stuck a finger to her lips again, whispering out, ‘Will you shut up?’

She eased the jemmied door open and sneaked inside.

He scuffed in after her into a narrow corridor with raw breeze-block walls. A stack of cleaning supplies made it narrower still.

Another door at the end opened on a much fancier corridor, one with carpet on the floor and proper walls with framed posters and things. ‘YOU CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE TO YOUR COMMUNITY!’, ‘MUMS’ BUMS & TUMS CLASSES AVAILABLE NOW!!!’, ‘TOGETHER, WE CAN DO ANYTHING!’ Doors on either side.

Steel pointed.

Down at the far end, one of them swung shut on its slow closing arm thing, cutting off rubbery scraping sounds. Like a MASSIVE cat was sharpening its claws inside.

They crept over and peered through the glass panel into some sort of coffee lounge full of plastic chairs and little tables. A couple of highchairs. And a serving hatch off to one side with a teeny kitchen behind the counter. Notice boards covered in kids’ drawings.

Ninja Rucksack Woman had dragged a stack of chairs away from the wall, which explained the scraping noises, and now she stood in front of it — rucksack at her feet — spray-painting words across the breeze-blocks in big drippy red letters: ‘MRS BROCKWELL IS A FAT STUPID COW!’

Poor Mrs Brockwell.

Tufty eased into the room.

The Ninja graffiti artist stood back to examine her work. Then added an extra exclamation mark and underlined ‘COW’ three times.

Steel made a loud, ‘Er-h’r’m!’ noise. ‘No’ exactly Van Gogh, is it?’

Ninja Rucksack Woman froze.

‘Yoo-hoo!’ Steel waved. ‘You do know we can see you?’

A whispered word floated through the silence. ‘Shite...’ Then she was off: snatching up her rucksack and sprinting for the only other exit, still holding the can of red spray paint.

‘Oh no you don’t!’ And Tufty was after her.

She leapt a row of tables with a parkour-style flip. Landed and pulled the rucksack onto her back as part of the same fluid movement. Not so much as a pause for breath.

Very cool.

Tufty hurdled the tables, sending a couple of plastic chairs clattering. She battered out through the exit, but he was right behind her, shoving into a big room with rows and rows of plastic seats arranged facing a projector screen.

She went charging through them, cutting diagonally across the room, heading straight for the curtains that made up one corner. The wake she left behind was right out of a medieval battle film — overturned plastic chairs with their metal legs pointing out in all directions like spears, waiting to skewer an unsuspecting Tufty.

Yeah, not risking that.

He went round the outside instead. Further to go, but a lot less chance of being impaled.

She yanked back one of the curtains, exposing an emergency exit. Grabbed the metal bar just as Tufty snatched a handful of rucksack.

‘You’re going nowhere!’

The door must’ve opened far enough to trip the circuit, because a shrill wailing alarm blared out of hidden speakers somewhere. Loud enough to melt bone.

‘GET OFF ME!’ Ninja Rucksack Woman swung around.

Up close, from the front, she didn’t really look like a parkour kind of person. She looked like someone’s mum: middle-aged, glasses, her hair escaping from beneath that black woolly hat in bouncy brown curls. Teeth bared. ‘GRRRRRRAH!’ She whipped the spray can in her hand up and pressed the button.

A hissing mist of bright red exploded in Tufty’s face. ‘AAAAAAAARGH!’ Got his eyes clenched shut in time, but not his mouth. Now everything tasted of chemicals and turpentine.

He let go of her and covered his face with both hands.

She kept spraying, emptying the can.

It cloinged off the carpet.

Tufty squinted out through sticky eyelashes as she shouldered her way out through the emergency exit.

No!

He launched himself at her — a rugby tackle leap — wrapping his arms around her upper legs, sending them both crashing down on the paving slabs outside.

‘GET OFF ME!’

Nope.

He crawled his way up her body — she slapped and punched at his shoulders and back.

Didn’t stop him, though.

Tufty snatched out his handcuffs and grabbed one of her wrists. Click. A bit of a twist so her hand was facing the wrong direction, a teeny bit of pressure, and...

‘AAAAAAAAAAAARGH! YOU’RE BREAKING MY WRIST! YOU’RE BREAKING MY WRIST!’

‘THEN STOP HITTING ME!’

She went limp and he forced her other arm into place and finished snapping the cuffs on. Dragged her to her feet.

She was covered in smudgy red handprints.

Steel appeared, hands in her pockets. Grinning at him. ‘You look like a baboon’s bumhole.’

Tufty just glowered back, face all sticky and tight and stinking of paint.

The wee sod was still whinging by the time they got back to Division Headquarters. Muttering and moaning. Glowering and grumping as he manhandled their prisoner across the Rear Podium. Poor thing.

‘Bloody paint, clarty everywhere, all over my poor little car...’

Wah, wah, wah, I’m all covered in paint, wah, wah, wah.

Roberta held the door open for him and he bundled their graffiti artist into the custody block. Just to cheer him up, she launched into a jaunty whistled rendition of ‘Lady in Red’.

That got her a scarlet scowl. ‘Oh you’re so motherfunking funny, aren’t you?’

Their prisoner snatched a frown over her shoulder at him. ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’

‘Oh... shut up.’ He shoved her towards the custody desk.

Sergeant Downie was on shout tonight, in all his fishbelly-pale, chinless glory. An albino worm in full Police Scotland uniform. Downie looked up from whatever it was he was reading and waved Roberta over.

Tufty thumped the woman’s rucksack onto the desk. ‘Assault. Malicious mischief. Housebreaking and vandalism by opening lockfast place. Going equipped. Resisting arrest. Failing to provide—’

‘Now,’ Downie held up a finger, ‘just one moment, Constable, the grown-ups need to talk first.’

Tufty gave a wee snarl. Difficult to tell if he was going red in the face, because of the paint.

‘My dear DS Steel, Big Gary said you were being obstreperous about someone picking up their stolen Nokia smartphone?’

She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t being obstreperous, Jeff, I was being pissed off.’

‘Well, be pissed off no longer. I managed to track said phone down in the Productions Store, so you don’t have to worry any more.’ He placed a hand over his heart. ‘No, don’t thank me! It took forever and was a vast pain in my posterior, but at least he’s got it back now.’

She stared at him.

He...

Tommy Shand’s phone?

With all the underage porn on it.

How could anyone be so...

Roberta forced out the words like little burning lumps of cat poo. ‘You let him have the phone?’ Without the phone there was no evidence to take to the Procurator Fiscal. And it wasn’t as if Josie Stephenson was going to clype on her boyfriend, was it? The whole thing was a complete goat-buggering disaster.

‘He had all the correct paperwork.’

‘Oh for...’ Her head was going to explode. It was. Any second now: bang, pop, splatter! ‘AAAAARGH!’ She leaned forward and thunked it off the custody desk.

‘If you didn’t want the phone returned, why didn’t you say something? There was no note or anything.’

‘Arrrgh...’

Thunk, thunk, thunk.

‘... aaargh, horrible, funkbiscuiting, awful...’ Half an hour in the gents’ toilet with a dirty big stack of paper towels and a bottle of turps and Tufty was still tomato coloured.

He stuck another towel over the open bottle and tipped it up, turning the paper a darker shade of green. Dabbed away at a scarlet cheek.

‘Bloody, scumbagging, motherfunking, felchrabbit—’

The door banged open and Steel danced in. ‘All hail the conquering heroine!’

‘Rotten, badger-spanking—’

‘You’ll be happy to know that our guest has admitted everything.’ She hopped up, plonking her backside down on the edge of the next sink over. ‘Turns out Mrs Brockwell disqualified her Victoria sponge for having strawberry jam in it.’

He turpsed up another paper towel. ‘I am absolutely sodding clarted!’

‘Who would’ve thought passions ran so high in the WRI?’

Blearrrrg... A rancid petrol taste filled his mouth as he wiped at his lips. He scrubbed hard, then spat. ‘Suit’s ruined. And did you see the state of my car?’

A shrug. ‘Well, we couldn’t transport a prisoner back to the station in my MX-5, could we? Doesn’t have a back seat.’ She handed him another paper towel. ‘And you think you got it bad? What about me? Was supposed to take Susan out for a nosh-up at that new French place. She’ll no’ be happy I stood her up.’

‘Oh boo-hoo!’ He turned on her. ‘I got covered in paint!’

‘That you most certainly did.’ She winked at him. ‘Come on Tufters: look on the bright side... at least I found it funny.’

He just scowled at her.

Roberta hitched up her trousers and leaned back against the windowsill. Smiled.

The ward was dark and quiet, all eight of the hospital beds occupied by a wee kid. Most were fast asleep, but a little girl’s face halfway down was caught in the blue-green glow of a handheld games console. The only other light in the place was the Anglepoise lamp above Harrison Gray’s bed. Harrison. What kind of monster called their kid ‘Harrison’? Shouldn’t be allowed.

He had his knees drawn up to his chest, the bags under his eyes darker and deeper in the harsh overhead light. Snot shining on his top lip.

She took out a hankie, spat on it, and wiped the bogies away. Kept her voice down to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘There you go, much more handsome now.’

He stared at her with big black eyes. Not so much as a peep.

‘The doctors say you’re going to be in here for a couple of days, till they get those sores of yours sorted out. Then you can go live with a proper family. That’ll be nice, won’t it?’

Nothing.

‘Proper family with proper food. No more “chicken and liver meaty chunks in jelly for a healthy coat and strong bones”.’

He blinked.

‘There’s more to life than dog food, you know. There’s pizza; and fish and chips; and soup; and steak pie and chips; and curry; and sushi; and sausages, baked beans, and chips; and egg and chips; and macaroni cheese and chips...’ Roberta licked her lips, stomach growling. ‘Pretty much anything you put with chips is good.’

Still nothing.

‘I know you’ve seen terrible things, and having a horrible name like “Harrison” isn’t going to help, but life gets better. It really, really does.’ She gave his snotty nose another spit and polish. ‘You just have to let it. OK?’

A shape appeared from the gloom. A little nurse with big hair, a squint smile, surgical gloves, and a tub of something. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s time to put some ointment on Harrison’s sores. You like that, don’t you Harrison? All nice and soothing?’

He just stared at her too.

‘That’s right.’ As if he’d agreed with her. She turned her squint smile on Roberta. ‘Don’t worry, he’s in safe hands now.’

‘Aye, well I was just leaving anyway.’ Roberta ruffled his hair. ‘You behave yourself.’ And off into the night.

Roberta rang the doorbell to her own house. Stood there with one hand behind her back. Waited for a count of ten, then rang the bell again.

Susan’s voice muffled out from somewhere down the hall. ‘All right, all right, keep your testicles on... I’m coming.’ Her shadow got bigger and bigger in the stained-glass panels flanking the door. Then the light in the peephole went out. ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’

A clunk and rattle as she undid the deadbolt and took off the chain.

Roberta stuck out her bottom lip and pulled on the puppy-dog eyes. ‘Before you say anything...’ She whipped out the bouquet of roses and chrysanthemums. ‘Ta-da!’

‘Stop by the petrol station on the way home, did we?’

‘Tesco’s, thank you very much.’

‘What happened to my lovely night out at a posh French restaurant?’

‘Operational difficulties.’ She leaned in and gave Susan a kiss on the cheek. ‘Now get your sexy bits upstairs and we’ll see how I can make it up to you.’

Susan rolled her eyes. Sighed. Smiled. ‘Roberta Elizabeth Steel: you’re a terrible trial to your poor wife, you know that don’t you?’

She buried her face in Susan’s neck and made buzzing noises till Susan shrieked and giggled.

The downstairs was in darkness, but a light shone in the bedroom. One of those four poster beds. A bunch of mirrors and paintings on the walls. And those mirrors made it easy to see all around the room. At least they did from the other side of the street with a pair of binoculars.

What was taking them so long?

Ah, there they were. The wrinkly old lesbian bitch and her frumpy dyke wife.

Snogging away, in full view, like teenagers. No shame at all.

Disgusting really.

The frumpy one danced over to the window and pulled the curtains shut, but not before the Steel bitch snuck up behind her and grabbed two handfuls of boob.

And that was it. Curtains shut. Nothing more to see.

A cat wandered past: big, fat and furry. Other than that, the street was dead.

Jack Wallace lowered his binoculars and stepped from the shadows. Took out the little metal tobacco tin with his dad’s name scratched into the paint, and ground the stub of his cigarette to a grey powdery death. Adding it to the collection.

See, some people would be pissed off right now — standing there for two hours casing the joint, nothing to do but smoke cigarettes and not attract anyone’s attention — but not him. The bit before. The calm bit. The quiet bit. The bit when they were so near every single tendon and sinew thrummed with it. That was the best.

You could shove your coke, heroin, and crystal meth: they had nothing on it.

Jack Wallace smiled up at the Steel bitch’s house. ‘Oh yeah, we’re going to have so much fun.’

He turned and sauntered off, hands in his pockets, whistling a happy tune.

So much fun.