Logan filled in his details, then Goodwin flattened himself against the coat rack to let him past.
The flashgun flares clacked out of the open lounge door, reflecting back from the shiny wooden balusters and framed photos. He peered into the room.
Four Identification Bureau techs in the full scene of crime getup were measuring, tagging, and photographing things. Whatever had happened in there it’d been brutal: two smashed chairs, coils of blue nylon rope, blood all over the Persian rug. A six-inch hunting knife sticking out of the floorboards.
Yeah, that didn’t look good.
Well, couldn’t put it off any longer.
Logan straightened his shoulders and marched down the hall. Took a deep breath and pushed through into the kitchen.
Susan was on her hands and knees in front of the fridge, wiping up what looked like a massive bird-strike of yoghurt. Tufty sat on a stool at the breakfast bar, a bag of frozen peas clutched to his head, a massive shiner on his face, a ring of red around his throat, and a ring of bandages around one wrist.
DI Vine stood off to one side, doing his best Stern-Faced Police Officer impersonation. ‘I can’t believe you bit it clean off …’
‘Urgh.’ Steel swigged from a bottle of Smirnoff, gargled, swooshed it around her mouth, then spat it into the sink. ‘Don’t remind me.’ Then tipped back another glug. Glanced at Logan. Spat. ‘You took your time.’
‘Control said Jack Wallace attacked everyone. What happened, are you all OK?’
‘Logan!’ Susan stood. Her lips were swollen, cracked in one corner, the beginnings of a bruise darkening her cheek. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and hugged him. Warm and soft and smelling faintly of peaches.
‘Jasmine and Naomi?’
‘Oh, they’re fine. Slept right through the whole thing.’ One last squeeze and she let him go. Stepped back. ‘Now, how about a nice cup of tea?’
Vine nodded at him. Formal. Wary. ‘Inspector McRae.’
‘John.’
‘Well, I think we’re about done here.’ He turned to Steel. ‘Come down the station tomorrow and we’ll finalise your statements. Then I think you and Constable Quirrel deserve a couple of days off.’ Vine held up a hand. ‘No, don’t thank me. It’s only fair.’ Then turned and stalked from the room.
Steel spat out another mouthful of vodka. Wiped her chin with a hand. ‘Blah, blah, blah. Thought he’d never leave.’
‘Ooh, ooh, ooh!’ Tufty bounced up and down on his stool, peas still clasped to his head. ‘You should’ve seen us, it was great! Jack Wallace tried to stick his willy in the Sarge’s face and she’s like, “No way!” And he’s like, “Here comes the aeroplane!”—’
‘That blow to the head didn’t knock any sense into you then?’
Steel sniffed. ‘I said that.’
‘—and she’s like, “BITE!” And then there’s screaming and Richard’s going to slash her with a Stanley knife and—’
‘Tufty,’ Steel put the cap back on the Smirnoff, ‘give it a rest, eh?’
He stuck out his free hand, miming stabbing someone. ‘—but I tripped him up, and Eric’s got this massive pointy knife, and Terry’s trying to strangle me cos I banged his head in the fridge—’
Steel threw a scrubby sponge at him. Missed. ‘Tufty!’
‘—but Susan wriggles free and she’s got this set of antique golf clubs—’
‘CONSTABLE QUIRREL!’
‘And POW! Then—’ The second sponge found its mark, bouncing off his chest – leaving a rectangular damp patch on his shirt. ‘Hey!’
She dried her hands. ‘Give it a rest, OK? Just lived through it: don’t need a blow-by-blow replay.’
‘Oh …’ His shoulders dipped a little, then he took a deep breath and rattled it out as quick as possible: ‘Then she shouts, “Fore!” And WHANG! Right up the fairway. Gave him a hole in one. Popped it open like a squished grape.’ Tufty sat back, smiling. Clearly pleased with himself for making it all the way through to the end. Then frowned. ‘I’m feeling a bit dizzy. Is anyone else a bit dizzy?’
The garden stretched away back into the darkness, the short grass scattered with kids’ toys. Bright plastic landmines waiting for the unwary foot. The lonicera was in bloom, filling the air with the sticky scent of warm honey.
Steel had parked herself at the picnic bench by the Wendy house, puffing away on her e-cigarette, making her own strawberry-scented fog bank.
Logan lowered a hot mug in front of her, then settled onto the bench-seat opposite. ‘Horlicks.’
‘Hmph.’ She leaned forward and sniffed at it. ‘Could at least have put some whisky in there.’
He stared up at the trees. ‘Are you OK?’
‘OK?’ A small laugh, then a slurp of Horlicks. ‘Someone threatened to rape my wife, sell my kids to paedophiles, and stuck their dick in my mouth. What do you think?’
‘On the plus side, he’s never going to do that again. Jack Wallace’s raping days are over. If he ever gets out of prison, the tattered stump you left him with isn’t going to trouble anyone.’ Logan snuck a glance. She had a very nasty smile on her face. ‘You know they probably could’ve sewn it back on again, right?’
‘I’m never going to moan about Susan spending all her time on the golf course again.’
‘If they’d found the bit you bit off.’
‘You should’ve seen her, Laz: she was magnificent. An Amazon with a six iron. Wonder Susan!’
A huge furry cat sauntered out of the darkness, big grey tail like a plume of smoke behind him. He wound his way around Logan’s legs, then did the same with Steel. Purring. Hopped up onto the picnic table on large white paws.
Steel rubbed at his ears. ‘You hungry, Mr Rumpole? Are you?’
‘There’s going to be an internal investigation – don’t really have a choice after all the carnage here tonight – but it’s nothing to worry about. Promise.’
‘Who’s my hungry little boy?’ She stood and picked Mr Rumpole up with a grunt. ‘Pfff … Ooh, you’re a fat wee sod.’ He hung in her arms: a bag of fur, smoky tail twitching as she carried him through the French doors and into the kitchen. Plonked him down on the breakfast bar.
Logan picked both mugs up again and followed Steel inside. Cleared his throat as she dug a sachet of cat food out of a cupboard and ripped it open. ‘Roberta, I—’
‘Don’t. OK?’ She didn’t look at him, just squatted down and squeezed the food into Mr Rumpole’s bowl. ‘I know.’
‘But—’
‘You didn’t clype on me because you’re a traitorous bastard. You clyped on me because I was wrong. I should never have framed Jack Wallace, no matter how much of a rapey scumbag he is. I screwed up. If I’d played by the rules he wouldn’t have come here. I put Susan, Jasmine and Naomi in danger.’ She stamped on the bin’s pedal and dropped the empty sachet in. ‘You were right and I was wrong.’
Roberta Steel admitting she was wrong?
Dear Lord, that was a first.
He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m really, really sorry it worked out the way it did.’
‘Me too.’ She sighed, then turned to face him. Opened her arms wide, voice catching a little on the words ‘Come on then, you big girl.’
He hugged her and she squeezed back so hard it made his ribs creak.
Steel sniffed. Let go of him and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. ‘Gah …’
Logan smiled. ‘A hug and tears? You’re just a big softy, aren’t you?’
‘If you ever tell anyone I just did that, I’ll castrate you too.’ She reached into her pocket and dropped a little shrivelled bloody chunk of flesh on top of the cat food. Picked Mr Rumpole off the breakfast bar and set him down in front of his bowl. ‘Dinner time.’
He wolfed the lot down as they watched in silence.
When it was all gone, Steel clapped her hands. ‘Right. Now, how about we break out that whisky?’
IV
‘COME BACK HERE!’ Roberta shoved through a c
lot of halfwits in hoodies and puffy trainers.
‘Hoy, watch it, Grandma!’
‘“Grandma”, nice one, Baz.’
Morons.
Union Street was almost solid with shoppers – old, young, men, women, rich, poor, and all of them IN THE SODDING WAY!
That red hoodie was getting further away, barging past families and oldies while she was mired neck-deep in a swamp of idiots.
Billy Moon glanced back over his shoulder and hooted at her, stuck his tongue out, then wheeched around the corner onto Market Street.
Cheeky wee sod.
She gritted her teeth and ran after him.
Tufty helped the old guy to his feet. Grey hair and damp eyes – the iris ringed in pale grey. Marks & Spencer ready meals littered the pavement all around them, a bottle of red smashed to curls of green glass. ‘Are you OK?’
‘He got my wallet and my phone!’ The man waved a shaky fist across the road, where Steel and Billy Moon’s red hoodie and black backpack were rapidly disappearing downhill. ‘You wee shite! I’ll tan your arse for you!’
‘Stay here.’
And Tufty was off, sprinting across the road, ducking and dodging the traffic to the other side. Steel and Billy Moon were legging it down Market Street, but Tufty had a clever. Instead of following them he turned the other way, running up Union Street towards the Trinity Centre.
It was time for a cunning plan.
Billy Moon jinked right, clattering down the stairs and into the Aberdeen Market shopping centre – a grey slab of a building with about as much charm as a litter tray.
He burst through the doors, trainers squeaking on the floor.
Roberta grabbed the stainless-steel handrail and swept around and down, after him. Through the doors and into a labyrinth of wee booth-type shops.
She hauled out her phone and thumbed the screen as she ran.
‘Control Room.’
‘Where’s my sodding backup?’
Past places that unlocked mobile phones or flogged novelty balloons or sold underwear in six-packs.
‘I’ve told you already: we don’t do backup for shoplifters!’
Useless Spungbadgers.
She stuck her phone away again, whooshing past a homemade-jewellery shop, one selling ancient electrical equipment, tattoos while you wait, a greengrocer …
Billy was just visible up ahead: laughing, shoving through people, leaving a wake of fallen pensioners and their spilled shopping.
Arrrgh …
Roberta leaped over an auld wifie sprawled amongst a dozen packs of lacy pants as a clutch of ‘HAPPY HEN NIGHT!’ balloons – at least half of which were shaped like willies – bobbed against the ceiling tiles.
And past. Around the corner.
A two-storey atrium dropped away below her, a set of stairs descending to the floor below. Billy Moon was already halfway down them.
Tufty grabbed the edge of the Thorntons shop and swung himself around the corner and onto the Back Wynd Stairs, hammering down them two at a time towards the Green below. Arms out for balance, mouth wide. ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’
Holy mother of Fish that was steep!
The granite steps were worn in the middle, acned with chewing gum, streaked with snotter-green moss and algae, but they were still hard and sharp enough to split a skull like a dropped Pot Noodle.
Across a small landing and down the other side.
‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’
Billy Moon did a weird show-off twirling-jump thing over the edge of the stairwell, dropping onto the edge of a big wooden planter and back-flipping. Trainers squealing on the floor as he slid to a halt, both arms up, hands curled into fists, middle fingers out. Grinning.
Cheeky wee shite.
Roberta lumbered down the stairs.
He was backing away slowly. Actually, no he wasn’t: the arrogant sod was moonwalking away. Letting her catch up a bit.
Well, when she caught up she was going to introduce the pointy bit of Mrs Shoe to the dark and stinky bit of Mr Bumhole!
He made a loudhailer out of his hands. ‘Come on, Granny, you can do it!’
What the hell was it with people shouting ‘Granny’ at her? She was no’ a sodding granny. Nowhere near old enough for a start! As Billy Cheeky Spungbadger Moon was about to find out!
Roberta put on an extra spurt of speed, thundered down the last flight of stairs and out onto the atrium floor.
‘Woooo!’ He turned and barged out through the doors.
She clattered across the atrium and out onto the Green.
A Mondeo estate slammed on its brakes, screeching to a halt on the cobblestones as Billy Moon danced past its bonnet, sticking two fingers up at the driver. Laughing. The Mondeo’s horn blared.
And he was out of there, arms and legs pumping.
Roberta puffed and panted, sweat dribbling down between her breasts and buttocks. A tiny jagged knife jabbing away inside her ribs with every step.
She wasn’t too old for this. She was just … too important.
Chasing cheeky wee scroats was a job for detective constables, no’ detective sergeants.
And where the hell was Tufty when you needed him?
This was his sodding job!
Argh …
Roberta lumbered after Billy Moon, but she was getting slower and he was getting away – looking back over his shoulder as he ran. Laughing. Hooting.
Young, fast, and never, ever going to—
Tufty appeared from behind the eating area in the middle of the Green, one arm out, and THUMP – Billy stopped dead, clotheslined.
His legs shot out in front of him, arse a good four feet off the cobbles, hanging there as if gravity didn’t exist. Then it grabbed hold again and he clattered down, flat on his backpack. Lay there groaning.
She staggered over, bent double, grabbed hold of her knees, and hacked up a lung. ‘Aaaaaargh … Stitch …’
Tufty jumped up and down, like a thin ugly version of Rocky at the top of the Art Museum steps. ‘I has a win!’
‘Idiot … Ahhh … Spungbadgering hell …’ More coughing. ‘Argh …’
He hauled Billy to his feet. ‘William Moon, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the …’ Tufty trailed off as Billy’s bottom lip trembled, then the tears started. Snot making two shiny trails down his top lip.
‘For goodness’ sake.’ Roberta straightened up. ‘Don’t be such a wimp.’
All that brash ‘Aren’t I young, and untouchable?’ bravado had evaporated, leaving a teeny wee boy behind. What was he, ten years old? Maybe eleven at a push?
No’ the big-time criminal he thought he was.
The crying got louder, damper, and snotterier.
Tufty shuffled his feet. ‘Maybe just this once …?’
A ten-year-old boy, bawling his wee heart out on Aberdeen’s cobbles.
Ah, what the hell …
She sighed. ‘Go on then.’
He went through Billy’s pockets, digging out mobile phones and wallets and watches and stuffing them into the backpack. Slipped the backpack’s straps off and hefted it over his own shoulder. ‘I’m confiscating the lot.’
Billy blinked at him and sniffed. Wiped his shiny nose on his sleeve. ‘I’m sorry, Mister.’
‘And stop nicking stuff off people! You want to end up like your mate, Charlie Roberts?’
He shook his head and sobbed some more.
Tufty pointed. ‘Go on then, off you jolly well sod.’
Billy just stared at him. Sniffed again. Glanced over his shoulder, where Tufty was pointing, then legged it – away at full speed, the soles of his trainers flapping, arms swinging. Sprinting into the tunnel beneath the St Nicholas Centre, just like last time.
His voice echoed out from the gloom as he vanished. ‘CATCH YOU LATER, MASTURBATORS!’
And he was gone.
Roberta stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘Why do I get the feeling we’ve just been foolish and deluded?’
A shrug. ‘P
robably. Maybe we should—’ The theme tune to The Sweeney belted out from his pocket and he produced his phone. Shrugged at her. ‘What, you’ve got a monopoly on old TV show ringtones?’ Hit the button. ‘Kate?’ A grin. ‘Yeah …’
Ah to be young, stupid, gangly and in love.
He wandered off a couple of paces. ‘Is she? That’s great. Yeah … No … I know …’
Probably organising a threesome.
Roberta dug out her own phone, scrolling through her text messages. Logan’s one was still sitting there.
Jasmine’s party: I can get hold of a bouncy
castle, if you like?
A guy I know has one shaped like a pirate
ship and he’ll do us a deal.
She smiled and thumbed out a reply.
Perfect – it’ll go great with the zombie
theme.
Just make sure you bring a LOT of booze
with you. Going to be a LONG day.
Send.
When she looked up, Tufty was standing there beaming at her. ‘That was Kate. She says Mrs Galloway’s getting out of hospital today. We’re going round to make sure she’s settled into the sheltered housing place OK. Want to come?’
‘Why no’?’
They wandered back towards the Aberdeen Market.
Roberta kicked an empty plastic bottle, sending it skittering across the cobbles. ‘And is Agnes keeping the car, or selling it?’
‘Selling. Even second hand it’s worth about thirty grand.’ He shifted his grip on the backpack. ‘Sarge, about the car?’
Her stomach made a wee rumbling grumbling noise. ‘Ooh. Think I need a little smackerel of something.’
‘Yeah, but the car, the cash, the watch. Big Jimmy Grieve …’ A grimace. ‘Do we owe him favours now? Only I don’t want to owe gangsters favours.’
‘Silly Tufty, Mr Grieve isn’t a gangster, he’s a retired cop. First DI I ever worked for. God, now there’s a man who can drink. I could tell you stories that’d make your pubes go straight.’
‘Oh thank God for that.’ Tufty sagged a bit. ‘Thought it was going to turn into one of those Godfather deals.’ He flinched as her stomach growled again. ‘Back to the station for tea and biscuits?’
Now We Are Dead Page 31
