Стюарт Макбрайд: Now We Are Dead

Roberta gave him a sniff, then recoiled — wafting a hand in front of her face. ‘Aye, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you fell in more than just mud.’

He grimaced, looking down at his filthy, filthy self. ‘Argh...’

Under the streetlight, their prisoner emerged from the shadow of his parka’s hood. No’ exactly George Clooney. No’ even George Clooney’s ugly brother. A forgettable wee man with a forgettable face and squint glasses.

Roberta fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Do you come here often? Pun intended.’

The nasty wee wanker drew himself up to his full five-foot-four and stuck his chin out. ‘Let go of me, or... or I’ll call the police! ’

‘That’s a coincidence: me and my sharny little friend here are the police.’ She patted the whiny sod on his shiny cheek. ‘Now, how can we help you? Having difficulty getting it up? Trouble deciding which house to wank outside?’

He pulled that forgettable chin in again. ‘What?’

‘We know it’s you, sunshine. Now, let’s get you down the station, into a cell, and onto the sex offenders’ register.’

‘But I haven’t done anything!’

Tufty spun him around a half turn, so they were face to face. ‘Oh yeah? Then why did you run?’

‘It’s the middle of the night and you were chasing me. Of course I ran. You could’ve been anyone.’

Tufty loomed. ‘We’re the police .’

‘Well why didn’t you say anything? I thought you were muggers.’ He dug into his parka’s pockets and came out with a dog lead and what looked like a filled plastic poo-bag. ‘I was walking Sheba, and next thing I know I’m being attacked by you pair of maniacs!’

‘Ah...’

Still, could be a ruse. She pointed at the bag. ‘Detective Constable: examine the evidence.’

He stared at her. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘Just give it a squeeze or something. Make sure it’s really poo.’

‘Oh for...’ But he curled his lip and reached out anyway. Gave the bag a quick squeeze. ‘Urgh, it’s still warm .’

‘I see.’ Roberta cleared her throat and looked away. ‘You were walking your dog?’

‘And God knows where she’s got to now. Greyhounds are incredibly sensitive.’

‘Well, you can understand why we thought—’

‘Probably spend half the night looking for her. Thank you very much.’

Roberta shuffled her feet. ‘Yes. Well, no one’s perfect, are they?’ She straightened his jacket. Brushed a bit of mud off his shoulder. ‘Still no harm done, eh?’

‘I’m going to make a complaint, just you see if I don’t!’

Of course he was.

‘Oh joy.’

It just wasn’t fair. Here she was, knocking her pan in, trying to make a difference, and what did she get? Lumbered with a mud-slathered idiot for a sidekick, a night stuck in a manky pool car that smelled like the inside of a wheelie-bin, and a complaint from a poo-gathering member of the public. Because she needed more complaints on her file, didn’t she? Because there weren’t enough on there already.

Pffffff...

Roberta groaned, letting one arm flop across her face. Lying draped across the back seat of the car, one leg dangling over the edge. Making rustling noises in the garbage with her boot.

Tufty had himself another whinge. ‘Come on, it’s freezing out here.’

‘No’ till you’re dry. We’re in enough trouble as it is without—’

Her phone launched into Cagney & Lacey again.

‘Gah...’ She pulled it out and peered at the screen.

Same caller ID as last time: ‘TRAITOR BASTARD’.

The orchestra joined in with the tootly horns as the theme tune really got into its stride.

Tufty knocked on the car window. ‘You’re going to have to talk to him sometime.’

‘Where did it all go wrong, Tufty?’

‘Might have been when you tried to fit Jack Wallace up on kiddy-fiddling charges? Just a guess.’

‘I’m in my prime here.’

‘ Please can I get back in the car? I can’t feel my toes.’

‘Arrrrgh!’ She covered her face with both hands, as the phone belted out its tune. ‘Should be catching killers and getting commendations and medals. Nothing snake-alicious ever happens to me...’

‘Look, I’ll answer it if you like?’

‘I am no’ talking to that back-stabbing, two-faced, Judas-licking... motherfunker.’

The phone fell silent. Finally.

Ding-ding . Incoming text. She snuck a glance:

I heard about Wallace suing Police Scotland.

Do you want to talk about it? I’m still at yours.

Logan.

No she sodding wouldn’t. You’re getting deleted, sunshine.

Delete.

Then the car’s police radio had a go. ‘All units: anyone in the vicinity of Blackburn? Got reports of an unidentified individual performing a solo sex-act in the caller’s back garden.’

Ha!

She sat up, grabbed her phone before it disappeared into the drifts of crisp packets. ‘We’re on!’

Tufty jammed on the brakes and the patrol car screeched to a halt outside an identikit house at the end of an identikit street. He flicked off his seatbelt and jumped out into the night. Steel scrambled out of the passenger side, puffing after him as he sprinted up the driveway.

She grabbed the back of his muddy jacket and pointed. ‘Go round the back: catch the bastard!’

He peeled away, running along the front of the house and around the side. A six-foot wooden fence blocked the way. Damn it: gate was locked too.

Two steps back, then lurch forward and jump... clambering over the top and dropping down into the back garden. The whole thing was lit up like a football pitch, a cordon of security lights blazing away. Tiny shed on one side, a collection of kids’ plastic tat toys: Wendy house, tipper truck, swingset, a rocking horse in the shape of a dinosaur — all of it glowing in its Technicolor splendour.

A man stood on the other side of a rotary dryer, in a dressing gown, waving a spade, shouting over the back fence and into the darkness. ‘AND THERE’S MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM, YOU PERVERT FREAK!’ He spun around and the dressing gown flared out, revealing a Darth Vader T-shirt and a pair of tartan jammie bottoms. Bared his teeth at Tufty. Then jabbed the spade at him like a rifle with bayonet fitted. ‘Another one, eh? Come on then!’

Tufty skidded to a halt, hands up. ‘Woah, woah. Police. I’m the police.’

Steel barged out through the kitchen door. ‘Did you get him?’

Mr Spade grinned. ‘Oh I got him all right.’ He jiggled his spade, swinging it about. ‘Right in the face. Pang! ’

Tufty went for the back fence, foot on the centre rail, and up... Coming to a halt with one leg straddling the top.

The houses stretched away to the left, hiding behind their own timber fences, but on the right it was nothing but fields bathing in the moonlight. Sinister grey shapes moved across the stubble, their eyes gleaming like jackals’. Sinister sheep. Sheeping sinisterly. But they were the only living things out there. No sign of anyone else.

Sod.

He hopped back down again. ‘Gone.’

‘Damn it!’ Steel did a three-sixty, fists clenched. ‘Mother funker !’

Mr Spade backed off, nostrils flaring as he grimaced at Tufty. ‘What have you been rolling in?’

Steel grabbed at the guy’s dressing gown. ‘Did you recognise him? The man you hit?’

‘He was wearing a mask. One of those cheap plastic kids’ things.’

She let go of the dressing gown and snatched the spade off him instead. Holding it under the nearest security light, turning it back and forth. ‘Can’t see any blood. Might get some DNA off it, though.’