She ignored him. ‘Kenny Milne is a rancid wee fudgemonkey and we are putting his arse behind bars, so—’
The door opened and DCI Rutherford stepped into their humble office. ‘Ah, DS Steel, glad I caught you.’ He pointed at their collection of mobile phones. ‘This stolen property, it’s been entered into the system?’
Barrett snapped to attention, clutching his clipboard. ‘Did it last night, sir. I’m taking them down to the evidence store after the briefing.’
‘Hmm...’ The detective chief inspector made a show of thinking about that. ‘Well, given that your young man has pleaded guilty, and the fact that he’s a minor, I’ve spoken to the Procurator Fiscal and I’m delighted to say that we’ve been cleared to return these items to their rightful owners.’
Steel snapped her fingers. ‘You heard the man, Davey, bung that lot down to Lost-and-Found and we can—’
Rutherford held up a hand. ‘I favour a more proactive approach, Roberta. We want people to know that Police Scotland are here for them. That we care.’
‘Aye, but—’
‘I want you and your team to return these items to their rightful owners.’ Big smile.
Her face drooped an inch. ‘But—’
‘This is what community policing is all about, Sergeant. Imagine how delighted people will be to get their property back! We’ll see a massive PR boost from this. Hop to it.’ He turned and swept from the room.
Silence.
Barrett grimaced. ‘Oh my ears and whiskers...’
Steel stuck two fingers up at the closed door. ‘Sod that. We’ve got a Kenny Milne to catch.’
Roberta shifted in the passenger seat. What the hell was taking Tufty so long? Go in, ask a couple of questions, buy some butties, and come out again. How hard was that?
The baker’s window was all steamed up, the words ‘MRS JOHNSTON & DAUGHTERS ~ QUALITY BAKED GOODS EST. 1985’ looming through the fog. Sausage rolls and broken legs a speciality. Ask us about our protection-racket specials.
Susan’s voice took on that sharp, waspy tone it got when there was a fight brewing: ‘Are you even listening to me?’
‘Course I am.’ Roberta shifted the phone so it stayed pinned between her ear and her shoulder, keeping both hands free for the important task of drawing devil horns on Jack Wallace’s smug little rat face.
Look at him, smugging away beneath the headline. ‘MY CAMPAIGN TO CLEAN UP POLICE SCOTLAND STARTS HERE!’ Aye, right. The Aberdeen Examiner should be ashamed of itself, giving a raping wee shite like him front-page coverage. Or any coverage at all, come to that.
‘Well how about an answer then?’
‘I’m no’ saying Jasmine can’t have a party, Susan, I’m saying Logan McRae can pucker up and kiss my sharny arse if he thinks he’s getting an invite. OK?’
‘Oh for all that’s... Do you have any idea how unreasonable you’re being?’
‘Yup.’ She blacked out a couple of Jack Wallace’s teeth, for luck.
‘Honestly, Robbie, you’re going to have to talk to him sometime.’
‘Nope.’
The pool car’s door creaked open and Tufty got in, clutching a couple of greasy paper bags and two Styrofoam cups with lids. He held out one of each. ‘Sausage butty with red, and a flat white.’
Steel dumped her pen on the dashboard and took both. ‘Sorry, Susan, got to go. Official business.’
‘You do know I can hear him, don’t you?’
‘OK, love you.’ She hung up and opened her paper bag. Took a big bite of butty: an instant hit of flour and tomato sauce, silky butter and soft bap, then the dark-brown savoury crunch of deep-fried sausages. Ooh, hot. But tasty. She chewed around the words ‘Any news?’
Tufty unwrapped his own butty. Bacon from the look of it. ‘They haven’t seen Kenny Milne round here for about a month. Sodded off and didn’t pay his tab, so if he turns up again they’ll definitely tell us. After he’s fallen down a few times.’
‘He didn’t pay his tab? God, Milne’s a braver man than me.’ Another bite of rich sausagey goodness. ‘You do not screw with Alice Johnston and her girls.’
The car’s radio crackled. Bleeped. Then, ‘Control to DS Steel, safe to talk?’
‘No. Sod off.’ Creaking the lid off her coffee.
But Tufty had to go ahead and pick it up anyway, didn’t he? Twit. ‘Go ahead.’
‘You’re in Cornhill, aren’t you? We’ve got a call — vulnerable adult not been seen for a few days. Can you check in on her?’
Roberta grabbed the handset off the soft sod. ‘Get uniform to do it. We’re busy.’
‘Can’t. There’s a riot kicking off at the crematorium, a four-car pileup on South Anderson Drive, and we’re still searching for that old dear with Alzheimer’s. Tag: you’re it.’
‘Gah...’ Rotten bunch of sods. But it wasn’t as if she had a choice. ‘Fine. But I’m finishing my butty first!’
The tower block loomed over the surrounding housing estate, monolithic and grey. Sixteen storeys of miserable Lego, dirty streaks leaking down from the corner of every single window. The other three blocks in the development were just as slab-faced, but at least they were clean. This one was like the stinky kid at school no one wanted to be friends with.
Tufty locked the car and held a hand above his eyes, blocking out the sun, counting his way up from the ground. ‘Ten. Eleven. Twelve. That’s us: Cairnhill Court, twelfth floor.’
Steel scowled at him. The effect was a bit undermined by the sausage butty’s aftermath: a tomato sauce smile over flour-whitened cheeks. Like the Joker had really let himself go. ‘How much do you want to bet the lifts don’t work?’
The lifts did work. Well, one of them anyway. Yeah, it was covered in graffiti, but it was working. Not very quickly, though. It creaked and groaned upwards, the little lights above the door marking their snail’s pace up to the twelfth floor.
A lurch, then the thing gave a particularly loud groan.
Steel curled her top lip, nostrils twitching. Trying to hide a smile. ‘That better no’ have been you.’
Tufty pulled on his best offended look. ‘Of course it wasn’t!’ Then leaned to one side and squeezed one out. Grinned. ‘But that was.’
‘Urrrgh! You filthy wee sod!’
Tee hee.
The lift doors pinged and Steel stumbled out. ‘Air! Fresh air!’
Someone had painted the corridor institution-green at some point long, long ago. Now it was cracked and scuffed. Peeling in the corners. A patch of magnolia almost managing to conceal some spray-paint graffiti. ‘ENGLISH SCUMMERS ~ FREEDOME!!!’
Think if you were going to be a bigoted arsehole you could at least get a friend to check your spelling.
Steel turned and thumped him on the arm. ‘What the hell have you been eating?’
‘You’ve got to admit the timing was lovely.’ He led the way down the corridor to the flat at the end. The front door was gouged and darkened around the bottom. Like it’d been given a stiff kicking. ‘And the embouchure! A perfect middle C.’ He knocked on the door, raised his voice to carry through the dented woodwork. ‘Mrs Galloway? Hello? Can you come to the door please?’
‘It’s no’ wholesome.’
‘You started it.’ Another knock. ‘It’s the police, Mrs Galloway. We just want to check you’re all right.’
‘I did not!’
‘Did too. Mrs Galloway? Can you hear me? Mrs Galloway, can we come in and speak to you please?’