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Стюарт Макбрайд: Now We Are Dead

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Стюарт Макбрайд Now We Are Dead

Now We Are Dead: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel got caught fitting up Jack Wallace — that’s why they demoted her and quashed his sentence. Now he’s back on the streets and women are being attacked again. Wallace has to be responsible, but if Detective Sergeant Steel goes anywhere near him, his lawyers will get her thrown off the force for good. The Powers That Be won’t listen to her, not after what happened last time. According to them, she’s got more than enough ongoing cases to keep her busy. Perhaps she could try solving a few instead of harassing an innocent man? Steel knows Wallace is guilty. And the longer he gets away with it, the more women will suffer. The question is: how much is she willing to sacrifice to stop him?

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‘But—’

‘You’re not a child, for goodness’ sake. Surely you can catch a shoplifter without a SWAT team!’

Roberta wheeched around the corner, grabbing onto a big bearded guy to stay upright. ‘Well bugger you, then!’

The big guy flinched back. ‘What did I do?’

She jammed her phone in her pocket and skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs.

Oh... wow, that was a long way down.

The stairs weren’t far off vertical, at least three-and-a-half-storeys’-worth of thin granite steps, with a handrail at either side and one down the middle. Fall here and it’d be bounce, crack, bang, wallop, thump, crunch, scream, crash, splinter, THUD. Followed by sirens and nine months in traction.

Hoodie Number One was already halfway down the stairs. Taking them two at a time.

A boxed iPhone spilled from his backpack and bounced off the granite steps.

Gah...

She stuck both hands out, hovering them over the railings. And ran.

Going to die, going to die, going to die...

Down at the bottom of the stairs, Hoodie Number Two — the one dressed in red — hammered past, laughter echoing off the grey buildings.

And Hoodie Number One was nearly at the bottom too, grinning over his shoulder at her.

Where the hell was Tufty when you actually needed him?

How could one detective constable be so completely and utterly, totally

He ran into view, staring straight ahead. Which was a shame, because Hoodie Number One wasn’t watching where he was going either and smashed right into him.

BANG!

They both hit the cobblestones in a twisted starfish of arms and legs. Thrashing and bashing and crashing as she hurried down the last two flights of stairs and into the Green.

They rolled into the ‘Pedestrian Zone ENDS’ sign with a faint clang.

‘Aaaargh, gerroffus gerroffus!’

Roberta skidded to a halt at the foot of the stairs. Looked right.

Hoodie Number Two was just visible as a red smudge — running deeper into the tunnel that led under the St Nicholas Centre and out to the dual carriageway. He turned and treated them to his middle fingers. Then his voice thrummed out, amplified by all that concrete and granite, ‘CATCH YOU LATER, MASTURBATOR!’ That red smudge vanished into the gloom.

‘Sodding hell...’ Roberta bent double, grabbing her knees and puffing like an ancient Labrador.

Tufty hauled Hoodie Number One to his feet, both hands cuffed behind the wee sod’s back.

A cough, then Tufty wiped a hand over his shiny forehead. Gave his prisoner a shoogle. ‘You are comprehensively nicked.’

The wee sod just grinned and stood on his tiptoes, shouting after his friend: ‘IN A WHILE, PAEDOPHILE!’

Kids today.


Tufty pushed through the scabby grey doors into a scabby grey room. Voices echoed up from the cells below, bouncing off the breeze-block walls — some singing, some shouting, some swearing, some crying. Call it ‘NE Division’s Custody Suite Symphony’ in arrested major.

He tightened his grip on the blue-hoodied shoplifter, manhandling him over to the custody desk — chest high with a selection of that season’s Police Scotland posters and notices Sellotaped to the beech laminate front. ‘BOGUS CALLERS, SCAMMER, AND THIEVES’, ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’, ‘DOMESTIC VIOLENCE ISN’T LOVE’, ‘“NO” MEANS “NO!”’

A huge man was hunched over the desk, wearing the standard-issue black T-shirt with sergeant’s stripes on the epaulettes. No need to call in Hercule Poirot to investigate ‘who ate all the pies’ — the answer was elementary, my dear Morse: Big Gary. He had his tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he scribbled away at something.

Steel sauntered up, popped onto her tiptoes and peered over the desk. ‘Aye, aye...’ Her hand snaked out and she snatched whatever the sergeant was scribbling on. ‘Colouring-in for adults?’ She flipped through the pages. ‘This no’ a bit advanced for you, Gary? You’re supposed to stay inside the lines.’

Big Gary grabbed for it, but she skipped back out of reach. Grinning.

‘Tufty, do the honours. I’m going to draw willies on all Big Gary’s pictures.’

Another grab, another miss. ‘Don’t you dare!’

Tufty gave Blue a nudge, propelling him closer to the desk. Then mimed pinging a hotel bell. ‘Ding. Single room with en suite and a view of the lake, please.’

A tiny smile flirted with the corner of Big Gary’s mouth. ‘And what name’s the reservation in?’

Silence.

Tufty poked Blue again. ‘The nice man wants to know your name.’

Blue’s shoulders came up. His voice: small and sulky. ‘No comment.’

A sigh. Then Big Gary took a form from beneath the desk and slapped it down on the top. ‘Very good, son. But you’re supposed to save that bit for when your lawyer gets here. Now: name?’

A grin. ‘Wanky McSpunkbucket. The third.’

‘Oh be still my splitting sides.’ Big Gary pointed at another of his many, many posters.

‘IT IS AN OFFENCE TO GIVE FALSE DETAILS TO THE POLICE’.

‘Let’s not make it any worse, eh?’

Blue shrugged again. Looked down at his shiny white trainers. ‘Charles Roberts.’

‘Thank you. And where do you live, Charles Roberts?’

‘No com...’

Big Gary pointed at the poster again.

‘Thirteen Froghall Crescent.’

‘There we go.’

Tufty snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and dug into the knapsack, still strapped to the kid’s back.

‘Hey, gerroff us!’

He stuck a pair of iPhones — brand new and still in their boxes — on the custody desk. Followed by half-a-dozen Samsungs: boxed, three Nokias: boxed, eight assorted smartphones: used, and four wallets. Another wallet and two smartphones: used, from the pockets of the blue hoodie.

‘I never seen them before in my life. You planted that lot.’

‘Really?’ He took hold of one of the hoodie sleeves and pulled it up. A row of three watches sparkled in the romantic overhead strip lighting.

‘You planted that as well.’

‘Don’t be a—’

The double doors banged open and in marched a heavyweight boxer in a dark suit and pale blue tie. Broken nose, narrow eyes, hair swept back from a widow’s peak. Two plainclothes uglies followed in his wake, both in matching grey suits and red ties, hipster haircuts, and I’m-So-Hard-And-Cool expressions. Like a two-man boy band. The uglies frogmarched a little guy with a grubby face up to the custody desk. The cuffs of his shirt were ragged and stained a dark reddy-brown, more stains on the front of his tattered jumper.

The boxer pointed at Big Gary. ‘Sergeant McCormack, I want Mr Forester processed, seen by the duty doctor, given a solicitor, and placed in an interrogation room within the hour.’

Steel bristled. ‘Hoy, wait your turn. We were here first.’

He turned a withering glare on her. ‘Did you say something, Sergeant?’

‘Aye. Back of the queue, mush.’

The boxer stepped closer, looming over her. ‘You seem to be a little confused, Sergeant. You’re not a detective chief inspector any more.’ He poked her with a finger. ‘And while you’re running around after shoplifters and druggies, I’m out there catching murderers.’

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