Now We Are Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Oh for God’s sake!’

  Tufty opened the door to the CID office and stuck his head in. Lund, Harmsworth and Barrett must’ve sloped off for lunch, because Steel was the only one in there, sitting with her feet up on the desk, frowning at the window.

  Another four willies had joined the one on the whiteboard, but they looked sad and disappointed. Lacklustre willies whose hearts weren’t really in it.

  Bit like Steel, then.

  ‘Sarge?’

  She kept on frowning at the window. ‘Ever get the feeling someone’s just wheeched the tablecloth away, but instead of all the plates and glasses and stuff just sitting there, it all goes crashing down?’

  Very profound.

  ‘You’ll never guess who’s downstairs.’

  ‘It was McRae. When his girlfriend died the life insurance paid out big style. That’s how he could afford to hire Hissing Sid to defend me.’

  ‘See? Told you he was a good guy.’

  Her face curdled, wrinkles getting wrinklier around her downturned mouth. ‘Mind you: wouldn’t have needed an expensive slippery lawyer if McRae hadn’t landed me in it in the first sodding place!’

  That’s the spirit.

  ‘Anyway: downstairs. It’s Mrs Galloway’s neighbour, the one with the wee kid.’

  Steel went back to staring at the window. ‘But why land me in it, then pay a fortune for Hissing Sid to come drag me out? Doesn’t make any sense …’

  ‘She wants to make a complaint.’

  ‘Gah …’ Steel’s head fell back. She covered it with her hands and groaned. Sighed. ‘Of course she does, because that’s how this sharny horrible job works. No one helps, everyone complains.’ A grunt and she stood, slouching and droopy. ‘Might as well get it over with.’

  A weird Pot-Noodley smell filled the small reception room. Maybe it lived here? Or maybe it had hitched a ride with Mrs Galloway’s next-door neighbour? She sat with her back to the door, in an AFC away-strip tracksuit that looked a bit too shiny not to be a knock-off. Her toddler stood on the chair next to her, drawing swooping loops of red and green crayon on a sheet of paper.

  Steel slumped into the chair opposite and sighed. ‘You want to make a complaint.’

  Tufty got his notebook out.

  A nod sent her pigtail swaying. ‘I do.’ She took a deep breath and blurted it out: ‘I saw Phil Innes kicking in Mrs Galloway’s door. He’s the one who attacked her. I heard everything.’

  Tufty wiggled his eyebrows at Steel, mugging a huge grin.

  ‘Wh …? Is …?’

  The neighbour folded her arms. Swear to God, little crackles of static electricity glowed along those shiny tracksuit sleeves. ‘Well? You going to arrest him now?’

  Tufty tapped his pen on his pad. ‘Let’s start at the very beginning, shall we?’

  After all, it was a very good place to start.

  ‘… and get on to the Sheriff’s office.’ Steel rubbed her hands together, Mr Burns style. ‘I want a warrant to go through Philip Innes’s place like a kilo of laxative.’

  Tufty gave her a small salute. ‘Yes, Captain, my captain.’

  She turned to go, just as Big Gary lumbered up the corridor towards them.

  ‘Hoy! Where do you two think you’re going?’

  ‘To do some actual police work, Gary. Don’t know if you remember it …?’

  He puffed out his chest, making himself even bigger. ‘Not till you’ve seen to the bus-load of people cluttering up my nice clean reception area, you’re not.’ He pointed a finger at the keycode entry door.

  On the other side of the toughened safety-glass panel, reception was packed. Twenty, maybe thirty people overflowed the rows of seats, wandering around the place staring at the ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’ posters.

  ‘And before you ask: yes, they are here to see you.’

  Tufty stepped up to the glass. ‘Wow. Looks like half of Cairnhill Court have turned up!’

  He poked at the keycode lock and held the door open for Steel and Gary to squeeze past. Stepped through after them and let it swing closed.

  An old man wobbled his way up from his seat and shook his walking stick at them. ‘I want to complain about Philip Bloody Innes. I was short twenty quid and he smashed my telly!’

  A young woman shuffled forward, chunky in too tight jeans and a much too tight T-shirt. ‘Phil Innes’s been harassing my mum about a loan. She’s fifty-three!’

  A frizzy-haired woman with bags under her eyes and two snotty little kids on a leash: ‘He beat the crap out of my husband.’

  Steel held up her hands, mouth hanging open. A couple of blinks, then, ‘Anyone here no’ wanting to complain about Philip Innes?’

  Not a single soul.

  She leaned in and whispered at Tufty. ‘We’re going to need a bigger boat.’

  II

  ‘How much longer?’ Lund peered out through the police van window at the lumpen grey bulk of Division Headquarters.

  Harmsworth adjusted his knee and elbow pads – thick black plastic ones that crumpled his suit’s sleeves and trouser legs. ‘We’re not going to get home on time. Again. I just know it.’

  ‘Come on, come on, come on!’

  ‘We’re all going to end up in Accident and Emergency, you mark my words. Broken bones and stab wounds all round.’

  Barrett checked his clipboard. ‘No mention of Philip Innes ever stabbing anyone. Anyway, I think you should be more worried about ending the day with all your clothes on.’

  ‘That’s not funny: I was traumatised!’

  ‘You were bare-arse naked.’

  ‘Pfff …’ Tufty’s phone buzzed against his ribs. Text message. He pulled it out.

  DC Quirrel, it’s PC Mackintosh

  Council can do us a crem slot tomorrow at

  14:30 – cancellation

  Half two, tomorrow? Hmm …

  He typed out a reply:

  Mrs Galloway’s going to be stuck in hospital

  for at least a week. Phil Innes REALLY

  battered her.

  Send.

  The phone buzzed in his hand.

  If we don’t do it now, we can’t get another

  pet slot for a fortnight and the Pathologist’s

  complaining that Pudding’s starting to smell

  up his fridges.

  Sorry:(

  Ah. Suppose they could freeze him, but if they did, would he have to be defrosted before they could cremate him? Wouldn’t want to screw it up …

  And maybe it’d be better for Mrs Galloway if this was all done and taken care of? She was already standing out on the ledge. A funeral for her poor wee dog might be the final push.

  OK 14:30 tomorrow – it’s a date

  Send.

  Oh no!

  It’s a date? What the hell was he thinking?

  Sorry! Didn’t mean ‘date’ date – meant I’ll

  see you there!!!

  Nobody goes on a date to the crematorium.

  Unless they’re weird. And you’re definitely

  not weird.

  He stared at his phone’s screen. No. Deleted the last three sentences and hit ‘SEND’.

  Lund nudged him. ‘Time is it?’

  ‘Ten past four.’ He frowned, then slipped his phone back in his pocket. ‘Steel said she’d be right down.’

  ‘All together now!’ Lund banged out the beat on the van roof, singing:

  ‘Why are we waiting?

  Owen’s masturbating,

  Davey’s locating his arse – with – both hands,

  Tufty’s a numpty,

  DC Lund is lovely …’

  Finally Steel bustled out of the side door and in behind the wheel. The only one of them not wearing Method of Entry protective kit. Which probably meant she was planning on leading from the rear again.

  She started the van and reversed out of the space – looking back over her shoulder at the four of them. ‘Right, you horrible shower, listen up and listen good: Philip Innes
is a violent wee crudweasel. He’s got no qualms about putting little old ladies in intensive care. So I don’t want any screw-ups, understand? I don’t want to see so much as a broken fingernail on any of you. And Owen?’

  Harmsworth’s bottom lip jutted out. ‘Here we go.’

  ‘Try to keep your pants on this time, eh?’

  The van swung around – narrowly missing taking the wing mirror off Chief Superintendent Campbell’s Bentley – round the back of the mortuary, down Poultry Market Lane and out onto Queen Street.

  The tyres squealed as they swung onto Broad Street.

  Steel banged on the steering wheel. ‘We are not at home to Mr Fuckup. What are we?’

  The response was about as enthusiastic as the half-arsed willies on the CID whiteboard: ‘Not at home to Mr Fuckup.’

  She belted the steering wheel again, making it ring. ‘I – CAN’T – HEAR – YOU!’

  This time they all belted it out: ‘WE’RE NOT AT HOME TO MR FUCKUP!’

  Steel grinned.

  Steel turned onto Cairncry Drive and put her foot down. The police van surged forward, shoving her back in her seat as they raced down the middle of the road – then a screech of brakes as she yanked the steering wheel left. Jerking to a halt just shy of Philip Innes’s shiny black Jaguar. ‘Release the hounds!’

  Tufty hauled open the sliding door and Harmsworth leapt out – Barrett close on his heels. Lund grabbed the Big Red Door Key and ran after them, leaving him to bring up the rear. Leaping the two steps up to the garden path.

  Harmsworth and Barrett stepped aside, leaving the door clear for Lund.

  ‘Hot potato!’ She swung the mini battering ram back as she ran, screeching to a halt just in front of the white UPVC and letting the thing smash forward. The whole door exploded inwards with a BOOM!

  This was it.

  Barrett was first inside. ‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’

  Tufty and Harmsworth swarmed in after him.

  Down at the end of the corridor, Barrett kicked a door open revealing a swanky kitchen.

  Harmsworth charged up the stairs. ‘POLICE!’

  Tufty bashed through the first door on the right. ‘EVERYBODY ON THE GROUND: NOW!’

  The living room was a proper man cave: a full-sized pool table and massive entertainment system, a bar in the corner complete with optics, arty prints of naked ladies on the walls, two black leather recliners and a matching couch.

  Phil Innes was sitting on it. Still and quiet. Head bowed. Shoulders quivering.

  Tufty clacked out his extendable baton. ‘Philip Innes, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Justice … Scotland?’

  Innes wiped a hand across his eyes, sniffed, and stood. Held both of his arms out, wrists together. ‘I’ll …’ Another sniff. ‘I’ll come quietly.’

  Lund poked her head into the lounge. ‘Rest of the house is clear. You got him?’

  Innes stared down at his proffered wrists. ‘I just … I just want to say that I’m very, very, very sorry for what I did. I’m a … I’m a bad man …’ His bottom lip went, followed by full-on sobbing.

  ‘Er …’ Tufty stepped closer and patted him on the shoulder. ‘There, there?’

  ‘Right, that’s the lot.’ Barrett eased past them with his blue plastic evidence crate. ‘We’ve got about forty Post Office account books, hundreds of bank statements, twenty-one notebooks detailing loans and repayments, and sixty debit and credit cards. None of which are in Philip Innes’s name.’

  Tufty sucked on his teeth. ‘Weird that he just gave it all up like that. Why didn’t he … I don’t know, try to hide it instead of piling it all up on the kitchen table for us?’

  ‘Hello?’ Harmsworth peered around the edge of the battered UPVC door he was holding. ‘I know it’s only me, and hernias are oh-so-funny, but can we get this done please!’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Tufty fixed a Phillips-head to the cordless drill and held his hand out to Steel. ‘Screw me.’

  She stared back. ‘Want to rephrase that?’

  ‘I’m not kidding – this door is really heavy!’

  Tufty tried again. ‘Can I have a screw please, Sarge?’

  ‘That’s no’ sounding any better.’ She held out a handful of them, though.

  ‘I’m going to drop this if you don’t get a shift on!’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Tufty helped him manoeuvre the door back into the hole it was battered out of. ‘Come on, Owen, hold the damn thing still.’ The brass-colour screws bit through the UPVC and into the wooden frame.

  Harmsworth sighed. ‘It’s nice not to get stabbed or bitten for a change, but all in all, it was a bit of an anticlimax.’

  ‘Aye, that’s enough about your love life, Owen. Keep your mind on the job.’ She handed Tufty another couple of screws.

  He turned to Tufty. ‘You know what I mean? We get all dressed up and swarm out of the van and bash the door down and really put the work in.’

  ‘Hold it steady …’ Screw, screw, screw, screw.

  ‘The least he could’ve done was resist arrest a little bit. Shown willing.’

  Tufty gave the screwed-up door a wiggle – solid as a solid thing – and stepped back. ‘There we go. All done.’

  ‘Wasn’t too much to ask for, was it? Little effort on his part?’ Harmsworth stared at them for a moment, then shook his head and slouched back towards the van. ‘But what does Owen know?’

  Soon as the van door shut, Tufty had a quick look around to make sure no one was listening. Then leaned in close to Steel. ‘Sarge, there wasn’t a mark on Innes. Not a single one.’

  ‘Course no’.’ She took the drill from his hands. ‘Why would there be?’

  ‘So what did he do? Your mate, James Grieve? He must’ve done something.’

  ‘God might move in mysterious ways, Tufty, but he’s got nothing on Big Jimmy Grieve.’ She dropped into a semi-squatting Charlie’s Angels pose, firing off a few vwwwwwwippps with the drill. ‘Now get your arse in the van. We’ve a couple of wee stops to make on the way home.’

  Tufty climbed back into the van with his collection of paper bags, their white sides already turning see-through from the greasy treats inside.

  He handed a bag to Barrett: ‘One mince, one steak.’ One to Lund: ‘Sausage roll and a bridie.’ One to Steel. ‘Two steak.’ And one to Harmsworth. ‘Chicken-curry pies aren’t ready yet, so I got you a bacon butty and a fondant fancy.’

  ‘Why does life hate me?’

  Phil Innes stared over his shoulder at them from inside his grilled enclosure. ‘That all smells really nice.’

  Steel unwrapped a pie and took a big bite. ‘Tough. You’re getting nothing, cos you’ve been naughty.’ She started the engine. ‘Seatbelts, children.’ Then stuffed the pie in her mouth, leaving her hands free to haul the van through a three-point turn, mumbling around the pastry case. ‘One more stop.’

  Steel hauled on the handbrake. ‘Everyone remember where we parked.’ She hopped out.

  Tufty, Lund, Barrett, and Harmsworth clambered out through the sliding door and joined her around the back of the police van.

  ‘Sarge?’

  ‘Barrett, you and Lund are on prisoner escort duty. If you let him run away I will personally skin your intimate feminine areas with a potato peeler, are we clear?’

  They nodded.

  She clicked her fingers. ‘Constable Quirrel, if you would be so kind as to fetch Mr Innes from the van?’

  Tufty wiped the pastry crumbs from his fingers and unlocked the back doors.

  Innes peered out at them. He was sitting in the middle of the three rear-facing seats, all handcuffed and seatbelted in. His bloodshot eyes drifted to what was behind them. Widened. He shrank back into his seat. ‘This isn’t the police station. This isn’t the police station!’

  ‘No, Philippy Willippy,’ Steel grinned, ‘it’s the hospital. You’re paying a visit and you’re paying it now.’

  ‘Please, don’t! I wasn’t—’

 
‘Barrett, Lund: get that snottery sack of sick out of there.’

  They stepped forward, Lund rolling her shoulders. ‘Come on, you. Out.’

  Tufty tugged at Steel’s sleeve, keeping his voice down so no one would hear. ‘Sarge, are you sure this is legal? Cos I really don’t think it’s legal.’

  ‘Course it’s no’.’ She beamed at him as Phil Innes was hauled out of the van’s cage. ‘But Philippy Willippy isn’t going to tell anyone. Are you, Philippy?’

  Innes just bit his bottom lip and shook his head.

  ‘Good boy.’ She turned and sauntered towards one of the hospital’s side entrances. ‘Off we go.’

  They frogmarched Innes in through the doors and over to a bank of scuff-fronted lifts.

  The doors juddered open and they all stepped inside, Phil Innes squeezed between Lund and Barrett. Sweating. Fidgeting as the lift clunked and rattled upwards.

  Lund poked him. ‘Stand still.’

  The lift creaked to a halt and the doors slid open again.

  Steel was first out. ‘From here on it’s radio silence. No whinging, moaning, or making fun of Constable Harmsworth.’

  He sniffed, nose in the air. ‘About time too.’

  ‘You can save that for the way back down again.’

  ‘Hey!’

  But she was off, marching down the corridor.

  Lund and Barrett did their frogmarching trick again, scooting Innes along after her. All the way down to the private room at the end.

  Steel stuck a finger to her lips then pointed at the lot of them. ‘No’ a sodding word, understand?’

  Everyone kept their gobs shut.

  ‘Good. Keep it that way.’ Then she slipped into Mrs Galloway’s room.

  Tufty stepped up to the window.

  Mrs Galloway made a thin frail figure in the bed, lying beneath the sheets, every visible inch of skin a rainbow of bruises. And Steel wasn’t the only visitor. Big Jimmy Grieve sat in the chair on the far side of her bed, head buried in a book.

  He looked up at Steel and nodded. Said something.

  She said something back. Then turned to the poor battered old lady. Steel’s lips moved, but it was impossible to hear what she was saying. Then she waved at the window.

  They were on.

  Lund gave Innes another poke. ‘I’m watching you, sunshine.’