A rattle, and a tracksuited wifie poked her head out of the flat opposite, puffing away on a rollup. A large woman with yoghurt-pale skin and her ponytail hauled back in a Torry facelift. But when she opened her gob it was like your favourite aunt: full of care and concern. ‘I’ve not seen her for three days. Normally she’s out walking her wee dog, regular as clockwork. And they haven’t seen her down the shops either, I checked.’
Tufty tried a jaunty, friendly rat-tat-a-tat-tat knock. ‘Mrs Galloway?’
Steel nodded at the door. ‘She got family? Maybe she’s staying with them?’
‘Got a son, but he’s in P.R.I.S.O.N.’ Spelling it out nice and quiet. ‘Drugs. Very sad.’
One last go. ‘Come on, Mrs Galloway, please open the door! Pretty please?’
Steel sidled over to the neighbour. ‘Haven’t got a key, have you?’
‘Give us a second.’ And she disappeared.
Steel sniffed. ‘I still say there’s something wrong with your bumhole if it produces smells like that.’
‘You’re just jealous.’
‘If smells like that came out of me, I’d be straight down the doctor’s demanding—’
‘Here you go.’ The neighbour appeared again, a toddler balanced on her hip. Holding out a key with a little rubber bone as a fob.
‘Thanks. We’ll take it from here.’ Steel gave her a smile, took the key, then slipped it into the lock. Twisted. Pushed. Whistled. ‘Wow...’
Tufty peered over her shoulder.
The hallway was a complete and utter tip. If a tornado had touched down in here it couldn’t have made more of a mess. Pictures torn from the walls. Coats and shoes hurled around. Holes gouged in the plasterboard.
Steel backed up a step. ‘You better go first. In case it’s dangerous.’
Oh that was fair. Because detective constables were a hundred percent more disposable than detective sergeants, weren’t they? Even saggy old wrinkly ones.
He squeezed past and crept down the hall, feet crunching on broken glass from the picture frames. Scuffing through a duffle coat. ‘Mrs Galloway?’
A door led off to one side. Tufty pushed it open: bathroom. The medicine cabinet lay in the middle of the floor, its contents spilled out like pill-bottle confetti.
Another door opposite: bedroom. The mattress was up on its side, blocking the window, its underside exposed and slashed, nylon fibre guts hanging out in long dangling swathes.
One door left, at the end of the hall.
Sobbing filtered through from the other side.
Tufty eased it open. ‘Mrs Galloway?’
It was a living room, or at least it used to be. Now it was more like a day at the dump. Even with the curtains closed, the devastation in here was obvious. Broken furniture lay sprawled across the floor. The smallest member of a nest of tables poked out of the smashed screen of an old-fashioned cathode ray tube TV.
That sobbing was coming from a little old lady, sitting on the floor in the corner, surrounded by her wreckage, rocking back and forwards with one hand clasped against her chest and the other clenched over her eyes.
He squatted down next to her. ‘Mrs Galloway, are you all right?’
OK, so it was a stupid question, but what else was he supposed to say?
Steel picked her way through the debris and pulled the curtains open.
Light flooded in.
Mrs Galloway flinched back into the corner. ‘Aaaaaaagh...’ Almost every visible inch of skin was covered in dark purple bruising, already starting to yellow and green around the edges.
Steel’s face darkened. ‘Who did this?’
Mrs Galloway perched on the edge of an armchair, curling away from the sunlight. The room didn’t look a lot better with the furniture the right way up, but at least they’d made the effort. Even if it had taken that idiot Tufty ages to sort it out.
Roberta hunkered down at the side of the armchair, placed a hand on Mrs Galloway’s knee. It was like squeezing a lump of bone, but hot — a bone that been left too long in the oven. ‘Shh... It’s going to be OK. You tell me who did this and we’ll take care of it. OK?’
Mrs Galloway just shook her head.
‘You’ll feel better with a nice cup of tea in you. Then we can all go take your wee dog out for a walk. You’ll like that, won’t you? Bit of fresh air?’
A gulping noise, then Mrs Galloway blinked at her. Mouth trembling. An acre of pain and longing in those watery bloodshot eyes.
Cup of tea, cup of tea, la, la, la, la, cup of tea.
Tufty turned the cold tap and filled the kettle.
At least the kitchen hadn’t been trashed. Everything clean and tidy. All nice and easy to find. So now three china mugs sat in a row, each with a budget-brand teabag in it. He stuck the kettle on to boil.
Sniffed.
Funny smell in here, though. Sort of meaty and gritty. Maybe a bit burnt?
Now: milk and, indeed, sugar.
The fridge was bare, except for a can of dog food — the top covered with tinfoil. Which had to be the only food in the place. All the other cupboards were empty. Well, except for the crockery and pots and pans and things. Not so much as a digestive biscuit.
He wrinkled his nose again.
Maybe it was the dog food?
He peeled back the tinfoil and sniffed.
Smelled like mystery meat mixed with BO and manky socks, AKA: dog food. So nope.
It had to be coming from somewhere though.
He had a peek in the bin while the kettle boiled.
Nope.
Tufty did a slow three-sixty. Maybe...
A microwave sat in the corner, by the toaster. That’s where the stink was coming from. There were dark stains underneath it too, spreading out along the worktop. Brown and sticky looking. Yeah, definitely the microwave.
He reached out and opened the door.
Oh shit.
He shut it again.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
It took two goes to get his voice to work. ‘Sarge?’
Roberta leaned both hands on the windowsill and stared out at the day. Look at it. All bright and shiny. Green on the trees, blue in the sky, sunlight sparking back off the windscreens of passing cars. And out, past the rooftops and the wiggly streets, the North Sea was a hazy shade of sapphire, a couple of cheery-coloured offshore supply boats waiting their turn to come into harbour.
She clenched her teeth tighter, jaw trembling with the pressure.
How? How could anyone do that?
How could any human being—
‘Sarge?’
She looked back, over her shoulder. Tufty stood in the kitchen doorway with a bin-bag dangling from one hand. There was something in it — no’ big, but heavy enough to pull the black plastic tight.
Mrs Galloway covered her eyes. ‘I... Please...’
Roberta took a deep breath. Turned to face the window again. ‘What was its name? Your wee dog.’
‘Pudding. Had him... since he was a puppy.’
Tufty’s voice was soft and gentle. ‘There isn’t a scrap of food in the house. When did you last eat?’
‘What kind of dog was he?’
‘Yorkie.’ Mrs Galloway dragged in three or four jagged breaths. ‘He’s... he’s a Yorkshire terrier.’
Roberta nodded. Turned. Tried very hard no’ to growl it out: ‘So someone kicked their way in here, beat the crap out of you, and did that to your dog. And you won’t tell me who it was?’
‘I... can’t.’
‘Do you want them to get away with it?’ Getting harder and sharper with every word.
Tufty shifted the bin-bag behind his back, where Mrs Galloway wouldn’t see it. ‘Come on, Sarge, maybe this isn’t the best—’
‘Do you want them to do this to someone else? To someone else’s dog?’