Стюарт Макбрайд - Now We Are Dead

Aye, well... Going on past performance that wasn’t very likely.

Gloom shrouded the CCTV room, the only light coming from the bank of TV monitors that covered nearly one entire wall. Lots of little views of Aberdeen and its citizens going about their business. A control desk ran down the middle of the room, manned and womaned by three support staff, each one fiddling with a wee joystick — shifting the cameras by remote control.

Tufty looked as if he was bursting for the toilet: shuffling from foot to foot, making uncomfortable faces, constantly glancing towards the door. Big girl’s blouse that he was.

‘Right, here we go.’ Inspector Pearce pointed at a screen mounted on its own at the back of the room, behind the consoles. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Then poked a couple of buttons on her keyboard. ‘And then Wallace comes out here .’

Roberta leaned in for a better look.

The camera was mounted about halfway up Windmill Brae, the cobbled street sweeping downhill from there until it finally disappeared under Bridge Street. Nightclubs, kebab shops, and bars stretched all the way down one side; more nightclubs on the other. Knots of drunken men and women staggered in or out of them. A couple opened and shut their mouths in unison — could be singing? — but no sound came out of the speakers. Probably just as well.

The timestamp clicked off the seconds, ‘23:10:05’, ‘23:10:06’, ‘23:10:07’.

Wallace and his two mates appeared around the corner from Bath Street. As they passed beneath the camera Wallace paused, smiled, and waved at it. Then followed them into Aberdeen’s classiest titty bar: Secret Service.

Inspector Pearce set the scene flickering into fast forward. ‘He doesn’t leave till six minutes past one.’

Revellers came in pulses then thinned out as the timestamp passed midnight. By the time she slowed the footage back to regular speed again there were just the stragglers left. Everyone wobbling their weary boozed-up way home.

Wallace emerged from the strip club with his arm around a young woman’s shoulders. She had a long fur coat on over a very short skirt and sparkly top. Heels high enough to give Sherpa Tenzing a nosebleed. Long blonde hair and lots of make-up. That would be Strawberry Jane then. She staggered a bit as they crossed the road, climbing the hill. Probably a bit blootered.

And again, Jack Wallace stopped beneath the camera to smile and wave. ‘01:06:46’.

Inspector Pearce fiddled with her keyboard again and the scene jumped to the corner of Crown Street and Union Street, looking across the box junction towards the columned portico of the Music Hall.

Wallace and his ‘date’ hurried across the road. As soon as he reached the opposite pavement, he turned and gave them a wave. ‘01:08:02’. Then he wrapped Strawberry Jane in an arse-groping snog and led her away down the side of the Music Hall towards Golden Square.

‘And the last time we see them is on Rosemount Viaduct.’

One more go on the keyboard and they were looking across the junction as Wallace and Strawberry strolled arm-in-arm past the Noose & Monkey. He stopped. Nipped back to the traffic lights, gave them one last wave, then hurried after his drunken pole dancer. ‘01:12:56’.

Roberta leaned in even closer, till her nose was inches from the screen. ‘How does he know?’

Tufty tugged at her sleeve, like a wee kid. ‘Can we get out of here now? What if DCI Rutherford finds out?’

‘All the smiling and waving: how does he know? No’ just where the cameras are — that’s easy enough — but he’s doing this to be seen. How did he know he’d need an alibi?’

And how the hell did they break it?

The sound of happy munching filled the CID office, joining the heady scents of a team lunch from the baker’s in the Castlegate. Welcome to Buttytopia, population: five. Well, four and a bit, because Steel hadn’t touched her bacon-egg-and-black-pudding yet. Instead she was hunched over her desk, phone clamped to her ear, completely ignoring the lovely cup of tea Tufty had made for her.

He picked up his butty and wandered over. ‘I’ll eat that if you don’t want it?’

‘Come on, Agnes, pick up the phone...’

‘No luck?’ He took another bite. All crunchy and meaty and chewy, with slatherings of butter, English mustard, and tomato sauce.

Steel hung up. ‘She’s a little old lady, living in a tower block, with no friends and no dog. Where’s she going to go?’ A frown. ‘What the hell are you eating?’

‘Maybe she can’t pay the phone bill?’

‘No seriously, what is that?’

He held it up, every millimetre the proud father. ‘Steak pie butty. That’s what Tufties like best.’

‘Freak.’ She pulled her own butty over and took a big bite. The egg popped, dripping yolk onto her desk as she chewed through the words. ‘We’ll swing by Cairnhill Court while we’re out chasing down Beattie’s prozzies. Make sure Mrs Galloway’s OK.’

Tufty had a quick look around. Everyone else was busy stuffing their faces. He put on a whisper anyway, just in case. ‘Sarge? Erm... The CCTV room. That’s it, isn’t it? We’re done? No more Jack Wallace?’

‘Maybe take her a packet of biscuits. Some milk. A decent box of teabags. And I need to pop past that trophy shop on Rosemount Place too.’

‘Only I’d really like not to get fired.’

Another massive bite got ripped out of her butty. Egg all down her chin. ‘Pshaw, little Tufty, would I ever get you into trouble?’

Of course she would.

Today’s pool car was a bit cleaner than yesterday’s, but it had a weird plastic-floral kind of smell. Like someone was trying to hide something. And in a police car, that usually only meant one of three things. None of which were in the least bit hygienic.

Tufty drove them down the Kirkgate and up onto Schoolhill. Past the graveyard.

Lunchtime had brought out all the office workers, some lay sunning themselves on the gravestones, others marched along the street, sipping iced lattes and being all smiley. Enjoying the Costa del Aberdeen. Skirts were getting shorter, tops getting smaller, trousers swapped for shorts, shoes for flip-flops, exposing more and more Nosferatu-pale skin. They’d probably head back to the office in an hour with all that milky-white flesh turned baboon’s-bottom red.

And for once, Steel wasn’t having a good ogle at all the young ladies on display. Instead she was slouching in the passenger seat with her feet on the dashboard, mobile phone clamped to her ear. ‘Oh, aye, and before I forget, Davey: give Social Services a shout. See if they can get Agnes Galloway into a nice sheltered housing unit somewhere. Poor old soul deserves a bit of peace... Yeah, OK... Thanks... Bye.’ She put her phone away, then turned and grinned at him.

Creepy.

Suspicious.

Tufty pulled his chin in. ‘What?’

‘Pop quiz, Tufty: Sexual Offences, Scotland, Act, 2009. Section Twenty-Eight. Go.’

‘Ah. OK...’ He dredged it up from the last refresher course. ‘If someone older than sixteen has sex with someone younger than sixteen it’s an offence. Having intercourse with an older child?’

‘Ten points to Slytherin. For a bonus, and a chance to go through to the semi-final, what’s a relevant defence?’

‘Erm... Section Thirty-Nine? If you genuinely thought they were older than sixteen at the time you did it.’

She made a loud buzzing noise. ‘Childhood friends, so no: try again.’