Стюарт Макбрайд - Now We Are Dead

‘I mean, what was I supposed to do, let him get away with it? Let him attack more women? Is that what you want?’

Tufty shared a look with Mr Einstein, rolling his eyes and pulling a face. ‘I didn’t say anything! I’m an innocent bystander here. In the bath!’

‘That’s right, avoid the question. Just like a bloody man. And while we’re at it: have you done that sodding e-fit yet?’

‘What? No. We went out to Blackburn and caught—’

‘For God’s sake, Constable, do I have to do everything? I want that on my desk seven a.m. tomorrow morning!’

Silence.

She’d hung up.

Lovely.

Tufty put his phone down on the toilet lid, clutched Mr Einstein to his chest, and slowly sank below the bubbles. ‘Motherfunker...’

And then there was nothing but foam.

Roberta scowled out through the windscreen. The sky licked at the roofs of the buildings — granite terrace on this side of the road, granite semis on the other. Trees making the whole place look quaint and olde-worlde. Sulphur-yellow streetlights painting it in shades of yellow and black. Like a wasp. Dangerous.

Her MX-5 was a lot tidier than the pool car, but then she wasn’t a complete sodding pig.

She cracked the window, letting in the cool night air. A faint whiff of decomposing leaves oozed out from Victoria Park, down at the end of the street. A hint of roses from the garden she’d parked outside.

The house on the other side of the road was dark.

Expectant.

Waiting.

Her phone ding ed at her.

Susan:

Roberta, please. He’s gone. COME HOME!!!

She thumbed out a reply:

Can’t. Busy.

Ding-ding :

You’re not brooding outside Jack Wallace’s

house again, are you? We talked about

this: it’s not healthy. COME HOME!!!

Oh for God’s sake...

‘All right, all right.’ She stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. Sat there for a minute with the engine running.

Wherever Jack Wallace was, he wasn’t here.

Just had to hope he wasn’t off attacking some poor bloody woman somewhere. Because, right now, there was sod-all she could do about it.

One last glare, then Roberta put her MX-5 in gear and drove away into the night.

Tufty stifled a yawn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked hurt. ‘Hufflepuff?’

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

The resulting wave of apathy was overpowering.

‘I CAN’T HEAR YOU!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Aye, but—’

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

Her face drooped an inch. ‘But—’

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Well how about an answer then?’

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

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

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

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

‘Nope.’

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