Стюарт Макбрайд: Now We Are Dead

Oop!

Fake Givenchy dungarees got way too intimate if you sat down fast.

A woman’s voice clattered out of the speakerphone, clipped and efficient. ‘Moir-Farquharson Associates, can I help you?’

‘Yes: Detective Inspector Vine for Mr Moir-Farquharson. He’s expecting me.’

‘One moment please.’ A pan-pipe rendition of ‘I Shot the Sheriff’ filled the silence.

Roberta fidgeted with the frisky dungarees’ crotch. ‘Whatever he says, he’s lying. It’s—’

Rutherford held up a finger as Hissing Sid came on the phone. ‘DI Vine. I take it this isn’t a social call?’

‘Your client has made another complaint against Police Scotland.’ He pulled a sheet of paper from the manila folder at his feet. ‘I refer you to the letter one of your interns delivered this morning.’

‘Indeed. Your officers hauled my client out of a cinema in full view of the audience, causing him considerable anxiety and emotional distress. Not to mention reputational damage. They then proceeded to question him about a rape that occurred while he was at dinner with two friends, surrounded by witnesses.’

‘And you hold Police Scotland responsible for that?’

‘Well of course I do. Many though Detective Sergeant Steel’s good points may be, her obsession with my client is both destructive and unhealthy.’

Roberta paused mid-crotch-fidget. ‘Aye, aye, Sandy. How’s yer arse for love bites?’

‘Detective Sergeant. I’m afraid you’ve exhausted my client’s capacity for forgiveness this time. We’ll be looking for punitive damages.’

DCI Rutherford rapped on the desk with his knuckles. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson, I think that’s rather unfair, don’t you? You’re implying that this was the result of a personal grudge perpetuated by DS Steel.’

‘Ah, Detective Chief Inspector Rutherford, you’re there too. How nice.’ A sigh. ‘I’m not implying anything, I’m stating it as a common fact. Your officers are harassing my client without any proof or justifiable reason.’

‘No justifiable reason?’ Rutherford frowned. ‘That is strange. You see, your client phoned DS Steel to lay down an alibi for a rape that had just been committed. He was pulled out of the cinema because he made himself a person of interest.’

‘Am I expected to believe—’

‘Aye, you are.’ Roberta stuck two fingers up at the disembodied voice. ‘And I had the wee radge on speakerphone too — the whole team heard him.’

There was silence from the other end of the phone.

Then a bit more silence.

And some more.

She went back to howking wodges of denim out of her undercarriage. ‘Maybe he’s nipped off for a pee?’

Rutherford leaned in closer to the phone. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson?’

‘I... apologise. I wasn’t aware that my client had precipitated yesterday’s actions.’

‘Ooooooh.’ Finally, the last wodge howked free. ‘Your client’s no’ hiding things from you, is he, Sandy? That’s no’ good.’

‘I will, of course, be advising Mr Wallace that the sensible course of action is to withdraw his complaint and cancel any planned litigation.’

Roberta put on her best innocent voice. ‘Because the jury’s going to throw him out of court on his hairy raping bumhole and award us a monster bag of costs and damages?’

Vine held up a hand. ‘All right, Detective Sergeant, I think Mr Moir-Farquharson gets the point.’ And he was smiling as he said it, as well. ‘Don’t you, Mr Moir-Farquharson.’

A sniff. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to my client.’

Aye, good luck with that.

Tufty powered down his computer and stood. Stretched. Sighed. Then grabbed his coat.

Steel looked at him. ‘And just where do we think we’re going?’

‘You heard the boss — I get to go home early cos I’ve been brave.’

‘Oh aye? And have we finished all our actions and written up our arrest report?’

‘Emailed them to you and everything.’

She peered at her screen for a bit. ‘Oh.’

‘Anyway: need to run a couple of errands before half two.’

‘And what happens at half two?’ She tilted her head to one side, watching him the same way a cat watches an injured mouse. ‘You got a hot date or something?’

‘Kinda. We’re taking Mrs Galloway’s dog to the crematorium. They give you the ashes back in a cardboard box if you haven’t got an urn. Thought it would be a bit... you know.’ He mimed handing a cardboard box to a poor battered old woman. ‘Hey, here’s your dog.’

A dirty smile. ‘And when you say “we”, does that mean you and your perky Wildlife Crime Officer?’

The room got a bit hotter. ‘It... Constable Mackintosh sorted out the crematorium, they’re waiving their fee and everything.’

‘Oh, Tufty, Tufty, Tufty.’ Steel shook her head. ‘I know we’re no’ supposed to promote casual sex, but if you’re no’ even on first-name terms you really shouldn’t be shagging her.’

‘I’m not... It’s... I didn’t...’

‘You’re a regular Casanova, aren’t you?’ She stood, pulled her dungarees up. ‘Come on, then. I know a wee mannie who’ll do us a good deal on a second-hand urn, no questions asked.’

‘Is your underwear really chafing? Because mine’s all hairy sandpaper.’ Steel did a little step-shuffle dance, like she was trying to work something loose down there, then pressed the intercom buzzer again.

It didn’t look very promising — a pair of big plain wooden doors, set into a featureless granite wall, buried halfway down Jopp’s Lane, ten minutes’ walk from Division Headquarters. Narrow, grey, and ignored.

Tufty shrugged. ‘Took mine off and gave them a good blow-through under the hand dryer in the gents.’

She stared at him. ‘ Sod . Should’ve thought of that.’ Another go on the buzzer. ‘Mind you, might’ve looked a bit weird: me standing there starkers in the gents’ toilets. Getting everyone all hot and bothered with my raw sexual magnetism.’

Yeah...

A voice fizzed and crackled from the intercom’s speaker. ‘Viewing is by appointment only. Good day.’

She mashed the button with the palm of her hand. ‘Open up, Haddie, or I’ll go pay your mum a visit.’

A seagull settled on the roof of a manky little Fiat, wings stretched out pterodactyl style. Pterodactyl size, too. Eyeing them.

Finally the voice was back again. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Steel. Not heard from you in ages.’

She looked up and waved at a security camera, mounted above a cracked vent. ‘I’m no’ joking, Haddie. Me and your mum have a lot of catching up to do.’

A sigh, then the left-hand door buzzed and popped open a crack.

‘Good boy, now get the kettle on.’ She pushed inside.

Tufty checked the pterodactyl wasn’t following them and slipped in after Steel.

Down a short hallway to a set of solid-looking metal doors, the kind of doors it took hours to batter through with a Big Red Door Key. It even had a speakeasy hatch set into it.

The hatch clicked open and a pair of bespectacled eyes stared out at them. ‘Is this all of you?’

‘No.’ Steel stuck her hands in her dungarees’ pockets. ‘I’ve got three hundred crack officers out there, a firearms team, and the force helicopter circling overhead. And we all want tea and biscuits.’

The hatch snapped shut.

Some clunks and rattles and scraping sounds, then one half of the big metal doors swung open, revealing a short, round man in blue overalls and dress shoes. A proper soup-strainer grey moustache and a few straggly wisps of grey hair poked out from beneath a tweed bunnet. Skin so pale it was almost blue in the flickering fluorescent lighting.