Стюарт Макбрайд - Now We Are Dead

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

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

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

Mrs Galloway just shook her head.

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

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

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

Tufty turned the cold tap and filled the kettle.

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

Sniffed.

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

Now: milk and, indeed, sugar.

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

He wrinkled his nose again.

Maybe it was the dog food?

He peeled back the tinfoil and sniffed.

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

It had to be coming from somewhere though.

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

Nope.

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

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

He reached out and opened the door.

Oh shit.

He shut it again.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

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

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

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

How? How could anyone do that?

How could any human being—

‘Sarge?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘What kind of dog was he?’

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

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

‘I... can’t.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs Galloway just kept on sobbing.

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

He let himself out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘He was a lovely wee dog.’

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

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

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

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

Her phone launched into its Eighties cop-show tune.

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

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

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

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

‘Working on it as we speak, Boss.’

Fibber.

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

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

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

‘Come.’

OK.

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