Mrs Galloway shrank into her armchair, hand over her eyes, tears running down her cheeks. ‘Please. I... I just want to be left alone.’
II
Steel stormed out of the flat and into the corridor, slamming the door behind her.
Tufty shuffled his feet. Cleared his throat. ‘Sorry about that, she gets a bit... involved.’
Mrs Galloway just kept on sobbing.
‘Right. Yes.’ He shuffled backwards towards the lounge door, keeping himself between her and the bin-bag. ‘Don’t worry about Pudding. We’ll take good care of him.’ Poor little thing. ‘Anyway, I’d better... you know.’
He let himself out.
Steel was pacing up and down the corridor, face like a ruptured haemorrhoid, mouth moving like she was chewing on something bitter. She marched straight past him to the window at the end of the corridor and turned back again. ‘Screw this. I’m no’ letting this one go. Not a chance in sharny Satan’s shiny hell!’
She marched the three steps to the neighbour’s door and hammered on it. ‘A wee dog.’
The neighbour opened it and frowned across the hall. ‘She OK?’
‘Course she bloody isn’t! Who did it? I want a name.’
‘He wasn’t well, you know: Pudding. Had to have this operation. Really expensive.’
Steel jabbed a finger at Mrs Galloway’s door. ‘Someone killed her dog. Who?’
‘How’s an old lady like Agnes supposed to afford something like that? Vets think we’re all made of money.’
That stopped her. Steel narrowed her eyes. ‘She borrowed the cash, didn’t she? She borrowed it from someone who doesn’t do credit checks, they break your legs.’
‘He was a lovely wee dog.’
Steel leaned in, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper. ‘So tell me who it was.’
And at that, the neighbour’s face set like cement. ‘Mrs Galloway had a wee dog. I’ve got a wee boy. And I’m saying nothing more than that.’
Tufty pulled away from Cairnhill Court, driving nice and steady, but Pudding’s bin-bag still slithered across the back seat when he turned onto the main road.
Steel scowled back through the rear window at the tower block as it faded into the distance. ‘I want this bastard, Tufty. I want him really, really—’
Her phone launched into its Eighties cop-show tune.
She sighed, then answered it, stabbing the speaker button. ‘This better be important!’
DCI Rutherford’s voice crackled out into the car. ‘I don’t think I quite got that, Sergeant.’
Steel slumped in her seat and mouthed a very rude word. ‘DCI Rutherford. Sir. Thought it was someone else.’
‘I see... Well, I need to know how you’re getting along with returning those stolen phones. The Chief Superintendent wants to put out a press release.’
‘Working on it as we speak, Boss.’
Fibber.
‘Good, good. Well, keep me informed. I expect to see some real results ASAP on this one.’
She forced a smile. ‘Will do.’ Then hung up. Sagged even further into the passenger seat. ‘Sodding fudgemonkeys.’
Tufty checked the sign fastened to the corridor walclass="underline" ‘WILDLIFE CRIME OFFICER’. He shifted his grip on the bin-bag and knocked.
‘Come.’
OK.
The room was about the same size as his bathroom back at the flat. Only without the bath, Mr Einstein, sink, or toilet. Or tiles. Instead it had a row of five filing cabinets that took up one entire wall. Opposite them was a desk, crammed in under the window, leaving just enough space for a saggy office chair that you probably had to wheel out into the corridor if you wanted to open the filing cabinets. A stack of box files filled the last available corner, beneath a whiteboard covered in tiny blocks of perfect handwriting.
A young woman sat at the desk, poking away at an antique computer — beige with a state-of-the-ark monitor that took up nearly a third of the available space. The Wildlife Crime Officer turned and looked up at him, a little row of creases between her eyebrows. Dishwater-blonde hair in a loose half-ponytail thing. Glasses. Cute, in a fellow-police-officery, mutual-respect, let’s-not-have-any-sexual-harassment-in-the-workplace kind of way. Quirky smile...
The smile slipped a bit.
Oh, yeah, he was probably staring like a creepy person.
Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Hi.’
Not a bad start. The smile was back at least. ‘Can I help you...?’
Was it getting hotter in here?
‘Erm, Stewart. I mean, Detective Constable Quirrel.’ Definitely getting hotter. ‘Or “Tufty” if you want? You know, to my friends? Ahem.’
Nowhere to sit, so he stayed where he was.
‘And what can I do for you, Constable Quirrel?’
‘Oh, right. Yes. Reason for visit.’ He held up the black plastic bag. The weight inside set it swinging. ‘I’m kinda new here. We found an old lady’s Yorkshire terrier, and I...’ A shrug. ‘Look, I know this is going to sound daft, but is there a council cemetery for people’s pets or something? She’s not got any money and someone killed her dog and...’ He licked his lips. ‘Name was Pudding. The dog’s name, not the old lady’s.’ The tips of his ears were ablaze. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know who else to ask. Because you’re the Wildlife Crime Officer...’
And babbling like an idiot was a great way to make a first impression.
She looked from him to the bag and back again.
Now would probably be a good time for a meteor to hit the earth and wipe out all life on the planet.
Then she sighed. ‘Poor wee thing.’
Not entirely certain if she was talking about him, or the dog.
The Wildlife Crime Officer pointed to the stack of file boxes. ‘There’s a chair under there. Why don’t you dig it out and tell me all about Pudding?’
Definitely the dog then.
Every single desk in the CID office was a spaghetti-nightmare of phone-charger cords and extension leads. Barrett had his clipboard out again, checking that everything still in its original packaging was correctly entered and cross-referenced before loading it into a plastic crate marked, ‘RETURN TO PHONE SHOPS’. Lund scrolled through the contacts on an old Sony, tongue poking out of the side of her mouth.
Harmsworth was hunched over his desk, forehead an inch from the wire-strewn surface, face scrunched up in obvious mental distress, a big Samsung job pressed to his ear. ‘Yes, we’ve recovered your mobile phone... No, it’s right here... No, I know it is, because I’m talking to you on it.’
The woman on the other end of Tufty’s phone sighed. ‘OK, OK, I’ll come in tomorrow and pick it up. Happy?’
‘That’d be great.’ You ungrateful lump of lumpiness. He hung up and slid it back into its little brown cardboard box. Scribbled ‘OWNER COMING IN TOMORROW’ on the form printed onto the outside.
Look at them all, working like a proper team. All pulling together for the same goal.
Made you proud.
Even Steel was on the phone. Mind you, it wasn’t one of the stolen ones, it was her own, but it was the thought that counted. She swung her feet up on the desk and rubbed at her forehead. ‘I’m no’ asking you to clype on the Cosa Nostra, Bobby, I’m just asking who’s loansharking in Cornhill these days?’
Harmsworth groaned. ‘No, I’m sure it’s your phone. That’s how I got your number, you saved it under “Home”.’
‘There must be someone, Bobby!’