Стюарт Макбрайд: Now We Are Dead

‘You and your accomplice in the red hoodie stole a large number of phones from the shops on Union Street. I saw you do it.’

‘Nah you didn’t.’ He turned to his solicitor. ‘They’re totally lying. Me and Billy never nicked nothing.’

Steel slumped forwards, hands covering her face. ‘Oh God, I’m so bored .’

Captain Cardigan sighed. ‘Come on, Roberta, play nice.’

She sagged back again. ‘It’s all right for you, you don’t have to do this day after day. “No comment.” “It wasnae me.” “A big boy did it and ran away.” Over and over and over... You social workers don’t know you’re born.’

Roberts’ solicitor shuffled her paperwork. ‘Perhaps this would be a good time to take a short break?’

Steel closed her eyes and jerked forwards, arms straight, palms flat down on the table, head hanging. ‘Oooooooooooooo... OOOOOOoooooo...’

Everyone stared.

The solicitor shrank back a bit in her seat. ‘Is she OK? Do we need to call a doctor?’

But Steel’s voice belted out, ‘Big Chief Lionel Goldberg, are you there?’

‘Is this meant to be some sort of joke?’

‘Knock once for yes, twice for no.’

Captain Cardigan rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, Roberta, this isn’t helping anyone.’

‘Big Chief Lionel Goldberg, I beseech you: guide me from the spirit world!’

Roberts’ solicitor scowled. ‘Whoever heard of a Red Indian chief called “Goldberg”?’

‘Ooooooo-oooo-oooooh... OOOOOOooo...’

‘For goodness’ sake.’ A sigh from Captain Cardigan. ‘I could’ve retired last year. Could be on the golf course right now.’

‘Tell me, oh wise and powerful spirit, what does the future hold?’

The solicitor’s papers got stuffed in a satchel. ‘I’m going to make a formal complaint. This is simply not acceptable.’

Steel held up a hand. ‘Big Chief Lionel Goldberg him say, “Hud yer wheesht, quine.” The future... yes, I can see it now!’

Charles Roberts grinned. ‘She’s mental. Proper in-the-head mental.’

‘We shall sit in this stinky wee room for the next hour and a half, wasting our time, listening to him denying everything. Then we’ll stick him in a cell and... and we’ll get the CCTV footage from Union Street, and the security camera stuff from the shop, and do him for nicking all those phones anyway...’

‘Nah, you planted them, like. Remember?’

‘What’s that, Big Chief Lionel Goldberg? And then we’ll check the records for the last three weeks? What will we find, oh mighty spirit?’

‘I insist you stop this ridiculous charade, right now! My client will not answer any further questions under these circumstances!’

Tufty shared an apologetic smile with the other side of the table. ‘Sorry about this.’

‘OOOooooo... We’ll find that the six phone shops on Union Street have reported over twenty grand’s worth of stock stolen? And they’re certain it was Charlie-boy here and his mate Billy that did it?’

‘Nah.’ Roberts shook his head. ‘And you can’t do nothing about it, cos we’re just kids. We ain’t responsible.’

‘And Charlie will get three years in a young offenders’ institution? Maybe a nice comfy borstal?’

Roberts’ solicitor slammed her hand down on the table. ‘All right, that is ENOUGH!’

Steel sat back. Had a scratch at her armpit. Stared at their junior-issue shoplifter. ‘Where’s your mum and dad, Charlie? How come we had to get a social worker in to be your appropriate adult?’

Roberts pulled up the hood of his rustly suit, shrinking into it. Looked away. All bravado gone. ‘No comment.’

Steel thumped Tufty on the arm. ‘Call it.’

‘Interview terminated at twelve twenty-six.’

The sound of voices floated up the stairwell from somewhere below. The rattle and clank of cutlery and crockery coming from the station canteen, joined by the smell of cauliflower, sausages, and chips.

Steel tugged her jacket on, fighting with the sleeves. ‘Lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch.’

Tufty followed her downstairs. ‘A fiver says they’re going to make a complaint.’

‘I’m feeling a bit pizza-ish. That or noodles.’

‘I thought you were trying to keep a low profile?’

‘Maybe a baked tattie?’

Tufty sighed. ‘The boy was right: you’re off your head. You know that, don’t you?’

‘What’s wrong with baked tatties?’

‘Not baked potatoes, the complaint!’

A small man in a sharp suit was on his way up the stairs. Short, but wiry and powerful looking. The kind you always had to watch in a fight, because he had something to prove. He looked up, raised an eyebrow. Then stopped in the middle of the stairs, reached out, and took hold of both handrails. Blocking their path. ‘Detective Sergeant Steel, what’s this I hear about you holding a séance in Interview Three?’

‘Oh, Detective Chief Inspector Rutherford, can you believe it?’ She bit her bottom lip and put the back of one hand against her forehead, looking a bit like a B-movie damsel in distress. ‘DC Quirrel here thinks there’s something wrong with having baked tatties for lunch.’

‘“Big Chief Lionel Goldberg”?’

‘They were all out of Native Americans at the spirit guide shop.’

There was a hint of a smile. ‘Witnesses from beyond the grave aren’t admissible in court, Sergeant. And you can consider yourself lucky Charles Roberts’ solicitor isn’t making a formal complaint.’

She frowned. ‘I think I was right in the first place: ham-and-mushroom pizza, with extra cheese.’

‘I’m serious, Roberta.’ All hint of that smile disappeared. ‘The last thing you need is another visit from Professional Standards. Might not get off so lightly next time.’

Her expression hardened. ‘Thank you, Guv.’

‘And what about the other shoplifter, this “Billy” character?’

Steel shrugged. ‘That’ll be Billy Moon. Him and Charles Roberts have been tag-team nicking things since they could walk. He’ll lay low for a few days, then he’ll be out on the streets again, five-finger-discounting everything he can grab. Don’t worry, we’ll get him.’

‘Excellent. In the meantime we have twenty-three thousand, eight hundred and sixty pounds’ worth of missing phones out there somewhere. That would be a significant amount of stolen property to recover, don’t you think?’

‘Guv.’ All the warmth of a fridge freezer.

‘Then you’d better go recover it, hadn’t you?’

She stuck her hand against her forehead again, bottom lip trembling. ‘But... But pizza?’ Ham-and-mushrooming it up.

‘Remember: the road to redemption is paved with little victories.’ He let go of the handrails and stepped past her.

Tufty slunk back, out of his way. Watching as the detective chief inspector disappeared up the stairs.

Then his voice echoed down from the floor above. ‘And no more séances!’

Tufty waited until the sound of a door shutting rang out. ‘So... We still can has pizza?’

Steel sagged. ‘Sodding hell.’

The police van rattled and squeaked its way past a big red-brick building with a pagoda sticking out the middle of it.

Tufty indicated right and drifted the van into the turning lane. Waiting for the traffic on the other side of the dual carriageway to open up.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Steel had her feet up on the dashboard, digging away at some itchy spot at the back of one knee.

The Proclaimers sang away on the radio, boasting about how many miles they’d walk for the honour of collapsing, knackered, outside someone’s front door — when surely it would make a lot more sense to just drive over there, leaving you with plenty of energy for a nice cup of tea, a fondant fancy, and a bit of frisky naughty business.