Steel beamed. ‘Oh, I enjoyed that.’
Tufty sagged and little flakes of dried mud tumbled from his filthy suit to the grey terrazzo floor. ‘Can we go home now?’
‘Don’t be daft: it’s time to celebrate!’ She grabbed him by the shoulders like she was going in for a kiss, then cringed back a bit. Sniffed at her hands. ‘Pffffff... On second thoughts, you really, really need a wash. Gah...’ She wiggled her fingers, then wiped them on the wall. ‘Just make sure you get Mr Corbet back to his cell, before—’
‘ALAN!’ An officer stormed up the corridor in full uniform kit, complete with stabproof vest, utility belt and high-viz waistcoat. Her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Face like the underside of a hammer as it whistles down towards a nail. ‘Where is he, I’LL KILL HIM!’
Steel hissed at Tufty out the side of her mouth. ‘Run away!’
Ahh... Water lapped across Tufty’s chest, bringing a cloudscape of bubbles with it. Frothy white bubbles. Warm and lemony-scented. He reached out and picked his mug of tea off the toilet lid. Had a sip.
Bliss.
OK, so it wasn’t the biggest bathroom in the whole world — wasn’t the grandest either — but right now there was nowhere better. Four walls of off-white tiles, a medicine cabinet, a sink, a wee plastic doodah for holding your toothbrush, a heated towel rail, a toilet of his very own, and a bath. A lovely, luxurious, bubbly bath. Just the thing to share with an old friend.
Mr Einstein floated out from the cumulonimbus foam, orange beak first, followed by his tubby yellow body. Tail last to emerge from the bubbles.
‘Hello, Mr Einstein.’
Tufty put on a high-pitched pirate voice. ‘Arrrrr Jim lad. Ye better watch yerself, there be a vast scary beastie lurkin’ in the water, right next to the hairy islands! Arrrrrrr...’
‘Oh noes, Mr Einstein! What if it’s — dan, dan daaaaaa! — the Cockness Monster? What if—’
The phone on the toilet lid buzzed, then launched into its generic ringtone.
‘Ah... bums.’ He dried his hands on the towel lying by the bath and answered the thing. ‘Hello?’
Steel’s voice grumped out of the phone at him. ‘For your information, Constable, I didn’t fit Jack Wallace up... OK, so maybe I did, a little, on the paedophile charges, but he’s still a raping scumbag, understand?’
Great. Because Tufty wasn’t allowed to have five minutes’ peace, was he?
‘I’m in the bath.’
‘Four women. That’s how many he brutalised. And we couldn’t lay a finger on him for it. So yes, I fitted him up. Does that make me a bad person?’
‘Well, technically—’
‘I mean, what was I supposed to do, let him get away with it? Let him attack more women? Is that what you want?’
Tufty shared a look with Mr Einstein, rolling his eyes and pulling a face. ‘I didn’t say anything! I’m an innocent bystander here. In the bath!’
‘That’s right, avoid the question. Just like a bloody man. And while we’re at it: have you done that sodding e-fit yet?’
‘What? No. We went out to Blackburn and caught—’
‘For God’s sake, Constable, do I have to do everything? I want that on my desk seven a.m. tomorrow morning!’
Silence.
She’d hung up.
Lovely.
Tufty put his phone down on the toilet lid, clutched Mr Einstein to his chest, and slowly sank below the bubbles. ‘Motherfunker...’
And then there was nothing but foam.
Roberta scowled out through the windscreen. The sky licked at the roofs of the buildings — granite terrace on this side of the road, granite semis on the other. Trees making the whole place look quaint and olde-worlde. Sulphur-yellow streetlights painting it in shades of yellow and black. Like a wasp. Dangerous.
Her MX-5 was a lot tidier than the pool car, but then she wasn’t a complete sodding pig.
She cracked the window, letting in the cool night air. A faint whiff of decomposing leaves oozed out from Victoria Park, down at the end of the street. A hint of roses from the garden she’d parked outside.
The house on the other side of the road was dark.
Expectant.
Waiting.
Her phone dinged at her.
Susan:
Roberta, please. He’s gone. COME HOME!!!
She thumbed out a reply:
Can’t. Busy.
Ding-ding:
You’re not brooding outside Jack Wallace’s
house again, are you? We talked about
this: it’s not healthy. COME HOME!!!
Oh for God’s sake...
‘All right, all right.’ She stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. Sat there for a minute with the engine running.
Wherever Jack Wallace was, he wasn’t here.
Just had to hope he wasn’t off attacking some poor bloody woman somewhere. Because, right now, there was sod-all she could do about it.
One last glare, then Roberta put her MX-5 in gear and drove away into the night.
Chapter Three
in which we find out what happens when
you microwave a Small Yorkshire Terrier
I
Tufty stifled a yawn.
Barrett was up at the whiteboard, droning on about something, everyone watching him. Lund and Harmsworth were at least pretending to pay attention — between slurps of coffee — but Steel just fiddled with her phone. The stack of evidence crates had migrated to the middle of the office carpet, hiding one of the many, many stains that called the CID office home.
Barrett took the cap off a red whiteboard marker. ‘So remember, don’t be afraid to shout.’ Then underlined the words ‘STRANGER DANGER!!!’ ‘And last, but not least...’ He picked up a police cap off the desk and rummaged inside it, pulling out two bits of paper. One red, one blue. ‘Right: our expletive of the day is “fudgemonkey”, and if something’s good it’s, “Get down with your bad self”. OK? OK.’ He scribbled something on his beloved clipboard, then turned to Steel. ‘Sarge?’
‘Hmmmph?’ A blink. ‘Oh. Aye. We’ve still no’ IDed the wee kids we found yesterday. But our very own Tufty came up with this.’ She pointed at him.
Tufty held up the e-fit of the Action-Man wannabe he’d chased from the slum/squat yesterday. The one who’d nearly ran over him in a stolen hatchback. Really good likeness too. Which was even more impressive given that he’d been half asleep while putting the damn thing together.
Steel had a dig at her wrinkly cleavage. ‘Anyone want to take a guess?’
‘Yes.’ Harmsworth put down his coffee cup. ‘And I know no one cares what I think, but that looks like Kenny Milne to me.’
‘Well done, Owen, ten points to Hufflepuff.’
He looked hurt. ‘Hufflepuff?’
She nodded. ‘Kenneth Milne: form for assault, possession with intent, and breaking into pensioners’ houses and nicking everything he can carry. I want him found and I want him found today. I’m no’ having kidnappy scumbags making off with wee kiddies in my town. Understand?’
The resulting wave of apathy was overpowering.
‘I CAN’T HEAR YOU!’
A lacklustre ‘Yes, Sarge’ rippled around the room.
Harmsworth stuck out his bottom lip. ‘Why do I have to be a Hufflepuff?’