Стюарт Макбрайд - Now We Are Dead

A young woman sat at the desk, poking away at an antique computer — beige with a state-of-the-ark monitor that took up nearly a third of the available space. The Wildlife Crime Officer turned and looked up at him, a little row of creases between her eyebrows. Dishwater-blonde hair in a loose half-ponytail thing. Glasses. Cute, in a fellow-police-officery, mutual-respect, let’s-not-have-any-sexual-harassment-in-the-workplace kind of way. Quirky smile...

The smile slipped a bit.

Oh, yeah, he was probably staring like a creepy person.

Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Hi.’

Not a bad start. The smile was back at least. ‘Can I help you...?’

Was it getting hotter in here?

‘Erm, Stewart. I mean, Detective Constable Quirrel.’ Definitely getting hotter. ‘Or “Tufty” if you want? You know, to my friends? Ahem.’

Nowhere to sit, so he stayed where he was.

‘And what can I do for you, Constable Quirrel?’

‘Oh, right. Yes. Reason for visit.’ He held up the black plastic bag. The weight inside set it swinging. ‘I’m kinda new here. We found an old lady’s Yorkshire terrier, and I...’ A shrug. ‘Look, I know this is going to sound daft, but is there a council cemetery for people’s pets or something? She’s not got any money and someone killed her dog and...’ He licked his lips. ‘Name was Pudding. The dog’s name, not the old lady’s.’ The tips of his ears were ablaze. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know who else to ask. Because you’re the Wildlife Crime Officer...’

And babbling like an idiot was a great way to make a first impression.

She looked from him to the bag and back again.

Now would probably be a good time for a meteor to hit the earth and wipe out all life on the planet.

Then she sighed. ‘Poor wee thing.’

Not entirely certain if she was talking about him , or the dog.

The Wildlife Crime Officer pointed to the stack of file boxes. ‘There’s a chair under there. Why don’t you dig it out and tell me all about Pudding?’

Definitely the dog then.

Every single desk in the CID office was a spaghetti-nightmare of phone-charger cords and extension leads. Barrett had his clipboard out again, checking that everything still in its original packaging was correctly entered and cross-referenced before loading it into a plastic crate marked, ‘RETURN TO PHONE SHOPS’. Lund scrolled through the contacts on an old Sony, tongue poking out of the side of her mouth.

Harmsworth was hunched over his desk, forehead an inch from the wire-strewn surface, face scrunched up in obvious mental distress, a big Samsung job pressed to his ear. ‘Yes, we’ve recovered your mobile phone... No, it’s right here... No, I know it is, because I’m talking to you on it.’

The woman on the other end of Tufty’s phone sighed. ‘OK, OK, I’ll come in tomorrow and pick it up. Happy?’

‘That’d be great.’ You ungrateful lump of lumpiness. He hung up and slid it back into its little brown cardboard box. Scribbled ‘OWNER COMING IN TOMORROW’ on the form printed onto the outside.

Look at them all, working like a proper team. All pulling together for the same goal.

Made you proud.

Even Steel was on the phone. Mind you, it wasn’t one of the stolen ones, it was her own, but it was the thought that counted. She swung her feet up on the desk and rubbed at her forehead. ‘I’m no’ asking you to clype on the Cosa Nostra, Bobby, I’m just asking who’s loansharking in Cornhill these days?’

Harmsworth groaned. ‘No, I’m sure it’s your phone. That’s how I got your number, you saved it under “Home”.’

‘There must be someone , Bobby!’

‘Yes, I know that means you’re paying for this call, Miss, but—... Yes. I do understand that...’

Tufty dumped his re-boxed phone in the ‘COMING TO COLLECT’ crate and wandered over to the array of mobiles charging on his desk. Picked a slabby Nokia smartphone at random, unplugged it from its lead, and powered it up.

‘Bobby... No, Bobby it’s—... Bobby! I’m looking for a scumbag who microwaves people’s dogs if they don’t pay him back. He’s no’ going to be easy to forget.’

Lund settled back in her seat. ‘Hello? Who am I speaking to please?... Mr Morrison, this is the police, we’ve found your mobile phone...’

The Nokia came to life with a binglety-bing . Wasn’t even locked. He poked at the screen, selecting ‘PEOPLE’, and scrolled through till he found the entry called ‘HOME’.

He set it ringing.

‘Yes, I know... No, we just need you to come down to the station and pick it up, Mr Morrison.’

A click sounded in Tufty’s ear. Then, ‘Yes?’

‘Hello?’

‘Hello?’ A man’s voice. Not all that bright sounding.

Harmsworth bounced his forehead off the desk. ‘I know money doesn’t grow on trees, Miss, but we’re trying to return your phone.’

Tufty stuck a finger in his other ear and moved away to the opposite side of the office, by the whiteboard, where it was slightly less noisy. ‘Who am I speaking to?’

‘Look, is this some sort of PPI marketing nonsense, because—’

‘It’s the police. Was your phone stolen recently?’

‘Oh? You found my phone? Right. Well, don’t suppose it really matters now: got a replacement. Was due an upgrade anyway.’

‘If you come down to Queen Street you can fill in a claim form and get it back.’

‘But I don’t really need... Actually, you know what?’ Doing his best to sound super nonchalant. ‘There’s probably photos and things on there.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Sentimental reasons. That kind of thing.’

Which probably meant filthy, filthy pics of his girl-and-or-boyfriend.

‘You’ll need proof of purchase and the serial number so we can make sure it’s definitely yours, otherwise we have to go through a whole big red-tape exercise to prove ownership.’

‘Right. Yes. I’ll pop down tomorrow-ish and pick it up. Thanks.’

Tufty hung up and waved at the others. Pointed at the phone and gave them a big cheesy grin. Then wrote the words ‘DIY PORN!!!’ on the whiteboard in big red letters.

Steel’s eyes widened. She got up from her desk and hurried over, still on the phone. ‘Yeah well, ask around, Bobby, and maybe those parking tickets will disappear.’

Harmsworth pointed at the mobile in his hand and rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, I do understand that, Miss, but—... No... Yes.’

Lund gave them the thumbs up. ‘Just come past tomorrow and that’ll be grand.’ She stuck the phone back in its little cardboard evidence box and dumped it in the ‘TO BE COLLECTED’ crate. Joined them at the whiteboard. ‘Come on then.’

Tufty opened up the ‘PICTURES’ menu and a bunch of folders filled the screen. No names, just dates. He picked one at random and opened it. Flicked through the contents.

A bunch of blokes staggered their way through a drunken night out. Next folder: a middle-aged couple taking a Rottweiler for a walk along Aberdeen beach.

Steel hit him. ‘You said there was porn!’ Then back to her own phone. ‘No, no’ you, Bobby. This idiot here.’

He tried the next folder... ‘Bingo.’

The screen filled with a topless woman in a fancy tiled bathroom — long blonde hair, mole on her right cheek, pouty red lips. Then the same woman from various intimate angles all the way to bare-arse naked as he scrolled through the pics. Then the same woman unzipping the photographer’s trousers.

Barrett blushed. ‘Oh my ears and whiskers.’

The next ones were even more explicit.