Tommy handed over his keys. ‘This isn’t fair!’
Tufty marched around to the Honda and banged on the roof. ‘Out of the car.’
‘Come on, man, this is harassment!’ A pause. ‘What happened to your face?’
‘Out – now!’
The two cars were parked too close together to open the drivers’ doors, so Tufty’s idiot had to clamber out the passenger side.
Roberta grinned. Didn’t matter how often she made people do it, it was still great. Especially the look on their faces when the gearstick nearly went up their bums.
What emerged from the Honda Civic was another rap-star wannabe. One of those stupid bowl haircuts that were shaved at the sides; a Manchester United football shirt – number seven with ‘RONALDO’ across the back; gold chains; and sunglasses.
She gave the Peugeot another knock. ‘You too, Tommy: out you come.’
‘But we haven’t done anything.’
‘I have reason to believe that you’re currently engaged in a criminal offence, Tommy boy. Now get your backside out of the car.’
‘Man …’
Ronaldo flounced in place as Tufty searched him. ‘Wasn’t doing no criminal offences.’
‘Sure you weren’t.’ Roberta snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Stretched the rubbery skin down between her fingers. ‘You got anything sharp in your pockets I should know about, Tommy? Any knives or needles or kittens?’
A pout. ‘We wasn’t doing nothing!’
‘Hands on the car roof. Assume the position.’ She gave her gloves one last proctologist-style snap then started in on his jeans pockets. ‘You know how long you can get for drug dealing, Tommy?’
‘We wasn’t dealing no drugs. We was just, you know … talking and that.’
‘Aye, right.’ Nothing in the pockets or turn-ups of the jeans. Nothing around the inside of the belt either.
‘We was!’
‘In the car park, round the back of the library? At half nine in the morning? Aye, and all hours of the day and night too. You’ve been spotted, Tommy boy.’
Time to give the tracksuit top a rummage.
‘Wasn’t like that.’
No drugs, in there, just a wallet, a lucky rabbit’s foot, and a big flat chunk of smartphone with a leather cover. No’ the stolen Nokia with the scratched case and dirty pictures of an underage girl. Roberta gave the wallet a quick look through – about thirty quid in cash and some bank cards. A photo of Josie Stephenson grinning out from a laminated window. No drugs.
She kept the phone.
Tufty waved at her. ‘This one’s clean.’
‘So search his car!’
Honestly, did she have to think of everything?
Roberta held up the smartphone. ‘What’s this, Tommy, more porn?’
‘Eh?’ He pulled his chin in a bit. Frowned. ‘Porn?’
‘Right, let’s check the vehicle, shall we?’
II
Ronaldo huffed and puffed, making a big show of straightening his Man United top as Tufty shut the Honda Civic’s boot.
Roberta had a wee peek in through the back window. ‘Anything?’
‘Not so much as an aspirin.’
‘Told you we wasn’t doing nothing.’ He was probably aiming for righteous indignation, but being a bowl-haircutted wee nyaff all he managed was ‘sulky child’.
Tufty gave him a loom. ‘Bit of advice? People who deal drugs get caught. Doesn’t matter how careful you are, we’ll get you. And you’ll go to prison for a very long time.’ Then a smile and a cheery wave. ‘Drive carefully.’
Ronaldo clambered back into his car, through the passenger side, over the intimate prodding of the gearstick, thumping into the driver’s side. Cranked the Civic’s engine over and sat there with his oversized exhaust growling. Scowling out through the windscreen.
Roberta gave Tufty a poke. ‘You’ll have to shift the car, or he can’t leave.’
‘I know.’ A nasty wee smile on his face. Arms folded. Going nowhere.
Fair enough.
Tommy stood leaning back against the horrible-orange Peugeot. Scowling and pouting all at the same time.
His spare wheel, tyre iron, and jack lay on the tarmac by the open boot, the cartridge from the CD changer balanced on top.
Tufty nodded at Tommy’s car. ‘How about you?’
‘No.’
Roberta pulled out the confiscated smartphone and poked at the buttons till the screen came to life. Password protected. She held it out to Tommy. ‘Unlock it.’
‘God …’ Tommy’s shoulders drooped and he stared up at the bright blue sky for a moment. ‘Dad’s right, we’re living in a fascist police state.’ But he typed four numbers into the screen then handed it back.
Roberta found the pictures icon and went digging through the folders. Selfies. Selfies. Selfies. What the hell was wrong with kids these days? More selfies, but at least these had Josie Stephenson in them. Fully clothed, but it was a start. More selfies. For goodness’ sake … How many photos did one seventeen-year-old need of themselves?
The last folder was a set taken at Aberdeen Beach. Josie starred in most of them, but the most racy shot was her paddling in the sea with her trousers rolled to the knee. Roberta flipped the cover closed. ‘Where’s the other one?’
‘Other what?’
‘Phone. Where’s the other phone? The one you picked up from the station last night.’
A frown. ‘Yeah … No idea what you’re talking about.’
Roberta poked him in the chest. ‘You’re sodding lucky you’re no’ on your way to jail, Tommy.’
He hauled his shoulders back. ‘I told you: Noel and me wasn’t doing nothing!’
‘Josie Stephenson is fifteen years old. The only reason I’m no’ arresting you right now, is you got that phone back before I could do you under Section Twenty-Eight of the Sexual Offences, Scotland, Act!’
He shrank back against the car. ‘What?’
‘She’s fifteen, you randy wee shite! That means you should be on the Sex Offenders’ Register.’
His eyes widened. ‘I didn’t … I … We never—’
‘Don’t bother, I’ve heard it all before. And delete those dirty photos off your phone, show some damn respect.’
‘But I don’t—’
‘HER DAD’S DYING OF CANCER, YOU WEE SHITE!’ Little bobbles of spit glittered and shone in the sunlight.
Tommy shrank down a bit, his weaselly little face just begging for a fist. ‘What photos? I don’t have no photos.’
‘What photos?’ Begging for more than just one fist – begging for a whole army of them. ‘The photos on your phone! The phone that got stolen? The photos of you getting balls-deep in a fifteen-year-old girl, in a fancy bathroom!’
‘Nah, I swear.’ Tommy slithered along the Peugeot’s side, hands up. ‘I swear that’s not me. That is so not me.’
‘I saw them!’
He slid off the back end, retreated a couple of steps, till Tufty stepped right behind him.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, Josie’s lovely and that, but …’ Deep breath. ‘Look, I haven’t had sex with her, OK? I haven’t. I’m …’ He licked his lips, then his voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the traffic on Springfield Road, ‘I’m gay. That OK with you? I’m gay. That’s why I’m hanging about in a library car park miles away from home.’ Getting louder and bolder with every word. ‘I’m meeting my boyfriend!’ He jabbed his arms out, as if he was being crucified.
Roberta stared at him. Then in through the windows to the Honda Civic and Ronaldo with his nasty bowl-haircut. Then back at Tommy again. ‘You’re gay? Oh … Congratulations.’ She patted him on the shoulder. ‘Welcome to the club.’
He lowered his arms and drooped back against the car. ‘Josie pretends we’re all loved up, so no one finds out. You don’t know what my mum’s like, she’s all “born again” and that. Thinks Graham Norton and Julian
Clary are gonna burn in hell …’ Tommy paled, one hand clutching at his stomach. ‘Oh God, you can’t tell her! She’ll kill me if she finds out!’
Poor wee sod.
Seventeen years old and too terrified of his mum to come out.
Roberta stepped forward and gave him a quick hug.
He went rigid. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Being nice. Don’t get used to it.’ She let go, pulled out her e-cigarette and had a couple of hard puffs on it. Hissed pineapple-flavour vapour out of her nose. ‘If you’re Josie’s fake boyfriend, who’s the real one?’
‘She doesn’t have one.’ He pulled his chin in again. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? She doesn’t. Says she wants to concentrate on her exams. Josie’s my best friend – she’d tell me if she was seeing someone.’
Aye, you keep telling yourself that.
‘So basically,’ Tufty scowled across the car at her as Anderson Drive drifted by the windows, ‘we nearly got killed by that lorry for nothing.’
‘I’m on the phone, you divot.’ Roberta put her feet up on the dashboard. ‘No’ you, Gary, I was talking to another divot.’
‘Don’t you get all huffy at me!’
‘I’m no’ “getting all huffy”, Gary, I just want to know who picked up that sodding phone!’
‘Yes, you are.’ A crunch came from the earpiece and Big Gary’s voice went a bit chewy and muffled. The fat sod was eating something. Bet it was biscuits. ‘And how am I supposed to know? Am I psychic now?’
The car paused for a second at the roundabout with Queen’s Road to let a bendy bus grumble by.
‘So ask Jeff Downie. He’s the idiot who gave it away.’
‘Oh, I see. Why didn’t you say?’ The biscuit muffling went away, replaced by a singsong tone – as if he was talking to a wee kid. ‘Sergeant Downie was on nightshift. He’s at home now, going sleepy bye-byes.’
‘Oh for … crudweasels.’ She had a dig at the itchy bit under her left boob. ‘Well, he must’ve written it down somewhere! Find it.’
‘With the greatest of respect, Detective Sergeant Steel, pucker up and French-kiss my fuzzy bumhole.’ Then silence: the cheeky biscuit-munching scumbag had hung up on her.
‘Gah.’ She stuck the phone back in her pocket. ‘I miss being a detective chief inspector. People did what they were sodding well told, back then.’
Tufty overtook a car waiting to turn left into the business park. ‘Think we should stop somewhere and buy Mrs Galloway a bunch of grapes?’
‘Grapes are Satan’s haemorrhoids, Tufty. Chocolate’s where it’s at.’
‘Oh, wow …’ Tufty pointed. The brake light and indicator on the right of the pool car was a jagged hole fringed with broken plastic. So that’s what the crunch was when they almost got flattened by the eighteen-wheeler. ‘Look at it!’ He pointed again, but Steel just wandered off, puffing on her rotten e-cigarette again. He locked the car. Hurried to catch up. ‘I’m putting in the logbook that was your fault.’
‘Don’t be silly, little Tufty, I can’t have been driving. You were the one signed the car out.’
‘Oh no you don’t!’
‘Oh yes I do.’ She hopped over the little wooden rail thing and marched out across the road towards the hospital entrance. Weaved her way through the clump of smokers. In through the main doors.
‘How is that fair? You nearly kill me and I’m the one gets the blame for it!’
She smiled over her shoulder at him and slipped into the wee shop just inside the doors. ‘You heard DCI Rutherford: my crimes will be your crimes. Might as well cut out the middle man.’ She stopped and pointed at the shelves. ‘Now, see if you can find the novelty teddy bears.’
Somehow, Steel didn’t look so scary with a ‘Naughty Nurse’ teddy bear tucked under one arm; a big Toblerone, a couple of magazines, and an oversized get-well-soon card under the other; and a silver helium balloon with a happy face printed on it bobbing about above her head.
The lift doors pinged open and Tufty followed her out into the corridor. Institution-green with strips of duct tape holding patches of the floor together. Framed tapestry things on the wall.
They marched all the way down to the end, where the words ‘AGNES GALLOWAY’ were printed in wobbly red letters on a small whiteboard.
Steel breezed straight through into the private room.
Mrs Galloway lay huddled in the bed, a drip running through a blue boxy machine on a stand and into the back of one hand. If anything, she looked even worse than last time. The bruises had merged and aged, developing a patina of greens, blues, and yellows around the edges, dark plum-purple in the centre. They must have changed her bandages recently, because they were all shiny and white. That cast on her other arm was a dirty grey, though – a bright orange and green flower drawn on the fibreglass surface in childish felt pen.
‘Hello, Agnes.’ Steel arranged their purchases on the bedside cabinet with the couple of cards already there. Tied the balloon to the end of the bed, then sat on the edge of the mattress. ‘You’re looking well.’ She took hold of two of Mrs Galloway’s fingers, steering clear of the cannula. ‘Be out of here in no time.’
Mrs Galloway stared down at her cast. ‘I don’t …’
Silence.
‘And look at all the lovely cards you got.’
A floor polisher whummed past in the corridor.
Someone a few rooms down tried to cough up a lung.
Steel shoogled a little bit closer. ‘I need a favour from you, Agnes. I need you to tell me what happened so Constable Quirrel here can write it down. And then we can go arrest the nasty flap of skin who did this to you.’
Tufty got out his notebook. Pen at the ready.
‘I …’ Mrs Galloway looked at him for a moment, eyes all bloodshot and swollen. Then went back to staring at her cast. ‘I used to work on the railways. Was the RMT union rep. I ran marathons. I did karate …’
Steel shoogled closer. ‘Who was it, Agnes? I need you to tell me their name.’
‘When did I get so old and useless?’ Her voice got a little mushy; a couple of tears pattered down onto the starchy white blanket.
‘They won’t give me a warrant without corroboration, Agnes. You don’t want him to hurt anyone else, do you?’
She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her hospital robe. ‘In my twenties I could’ve kicked his arse from here to Stonehaven! Could’ve done it in my thirties and forties too.’
‘Then help me kick his arse now.’
‘I just … I just sat there …’ A sob jagged through the words. ‘He killed … killed my poor wee Pudding!’
‘Hey, hey.’ Tufty put a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault, it’s the guy who did it. He broke your arm. He …’ Deep breath. ‘We’ll take good care of Pudding, sort everything out for the funeral. I promise. You just take care of getting better.’
‘I just want it all to be over.’ She put her cast across her eyes, hiding her face. ‘The real me died years ago. I died and I went to hell. This is hell.’
Steel forced a smile. ‘Come on, Agnes. We can beat him, I know we can.’
But Mrs Galloway turned away in the bed, face creased up into a bruised pain-filled knot. ‘Please, just leave me alone.’
Steel barged out through the main entrance doors, yanked out her fake fag and puffed on it. Leaving a trail of fruity vape behind her. She got three steps out from beneath the portico and stopped. Stared up at the sky.
OAPs, pregnant people, people with various limbs in casts, one cadaverous man with a drip on a wheelie stand, clumped together on one side. All smoking. Some texting. About as much joie de vivre as an asthmatic hamster.
Tufty stopped beside Steel. Shrugged. ‘Maybe she’ll change her mind?’
A deep breath, then: ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
Everyone stared as she stormed off.
Yeah, she was definitely losing it.
He hurried after her. ‘Look, maybe we should—’
‘How the goat-buggering hell am I supposed to catch Philip Innes if no one will sodding talk to me? ARSEHOLES!’
‘Actually, the word of the day is “crudweasel”, so—’
‘Do not fuck with me today, Tufty!’
OK …
She marched across the road, to the car park. ‘Did you see the state of that poor woman? Am I supposed to just let that go?’
‘Well, maybe we could—’
‘Cos I’m no’ letting it go!’
An Audi estate turned into the row from the boundary road and slammed on its brakes, scrunching to a halt inches away from hitting her. Its horn brayed out, the driver making watch-where-you’re-going! faces through the windscreen.
She stuck two fingers up at them. ‘Awa’ an’ boil yer heid!’ She marched on till they got to the pool car. Stood there, snarling at it. Then turned. Narrowed her eyes at Tufty. ‘You know what? There’s nothing I can do to make people talk. Nothing at all. Nothing legal, anyway.’
‘If we give her time, I know Mrs Galloway will change her mind. Innes killed her dog. She can’t let him get away with that.’
Steel twisted her head, eyeing him the way a lion eyes a particularly tasty-looking zoo keeper. ‘So maybe what we need is something that’s no’ legal? Maybe …’ She drifted off into silence and stared into space.
A slow evil smile spread across her face.
Oh no.
Tufty backed up a couple of paces. ‘Sarge? Please tell me you’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do.’
‘Get in the car.’
III
Birdsong chittered through the garden centre, the frrrrrrp of little wings marking the passing of tiny little birds as they flitted from the rafters to the floor and back again. Tufty turned on the spot, following a chaffinch, or blue tit, or whatever it was popping along the back of a ‘PARK-STYLE BENCH ONLY £159.99!’
The air was sharp with the smell of vegetation, underpinned by the yeasty-stale-bread scent of compost and fresh-turned earth. A coffee shop took up one corner of the massive warehouse space. The delicious welcoming aroma of something pastry-ish baking wafted out like a grandmother’s hug.
Now We Are Dead Page 20
