Roberta marched past and up the stairs, Tufty trotting along at her side. She thumped him. ‘And for the record, no one “came to my aid”.’
Tufty shrugged. ‘Well... he’s a swanky expensive lawyer, right? Maybe Wallace’s friends all chipped in to cover the legal costs?’
‘First sign of trouble, my so-called sodding “friends” dropped me like a radioactive jobbie.’ Round the landing and up the next flight of stairs.
‘I mean, he’s got to be really expensive, right? Lawyer that swanky.’
‘And then some.’
Tufty stopped on the top step. ‘So how did you afford him?’
‘Didn’t. He did it pro bono, on account of all the times he’d been a pain in my arse in court, getting murderers and rapists off. Guilty conscience.’ A sniff. ‘Even lawyers do the right thing now and then.’
The top floor was shabbier than down below, the scent of furniture polish joined by the chemical-floral hit of too much air freshener — making the air thick enough to cut with a spoon. A child was crying somewhere inside one of the flats, the sound echoing back from the bare walls.
Roberta pointed and Tufty wandered over there and knocked. ‘Miss Gray? Sally? Can you come to the door please?’
No reply. But the crying got louder, so that was something.
The theme to Cagney & Lacey blared out into the stairwell. Roberta answered her phone. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Sarge?’ Barrett.
‘Davey, my little disaster-monkey, what have you got for your lovely Aunty Roberta?’
‘Dug up some dirt on Tommy Shand, Sarge. Been complaints about his vehicle hanging round the car park behind Airyhall Library late at night. Local residents think he’s dealing. There’s a bunch of unsolved break-ins at the community centre too.’
Tufty tried again. ‘Miss Gray? It’s the police. I need you to open up.’
‘You wee dancer, Davey. Who’s investigating?’
‘Let me check... OK. DI McPherson’s running that one.’
‘McPherson? He couldn’t catch a fart in a bubble bath. But I can. Cheers, Davey.’ She slipped her phone back in her pocket. ‘You giving up already?’
Tufty wasn’t knocking any more, he was bent double, hands on his knees, sniffing at the letterbox. Then backed off a couple of paces, face all wrinkled. ‘Can you smell that?’
She inched forward and gave the letterbox a sniff. Recoiled. No wonder the whole landing stank of air freshener, someone was trying to cover up the rancid-meat stench coming from Sally Gray’s flat. ‘Kick it in.’
Tufty slammed his boot into the door. It battered open, bouncing off the wall inside.
That wailing child’s cry got louder, accompanied by the dark heavy buzzing of far too many flies.
‘Oh Jesus...’ Tufty stuck a hand over his mouth, pinching his nostrils shut. ‘You want me to call it in? Sarge?’
She stepped over the threshold into the flat.
There was nothing in the hall. No carpets, no coats, no shoes, no mail, just bare floorboards scuffed with dirt.
‘Sarge?’
The door at the end of the hall was shut. She tucked her hand into the sleeve of her jacket and turned the handle. Pushed it open.
That rotting meat stench collapsed out through the doorway like an avalanche, burying her in its greasy embrace.
Her bacon-egg-and-black-pudding butty lurched... But stayed down.
A bare mattress sat on the bare floor, bathed in the sunlight streaming in through the living-room window. And right in the middle of that warm spotlight was a body: female, half naked, skeletally thin. Skin blackened and furred with mould. Stomach swollen.
Fat bluebottles made lazy circuits of the room — probably startled when Tufty put the door in. One by one they settled back onto the body.
A couple of needles lay on the floor beside the mattress. A blackened teaspoon. A lighter. Some cotton wool. A bottle of distilled vinegar.
Tufty appeared at Roberta’s side, staring down at what was left of Sally Gray. ‘Sarge?’
What a waste.
What a stupid, bloody, sodding...
The crying. It was coming from the corner behind them.
She turned. ‘No, no, no...’
A rickety crib sat in the corner. A little boy was imprisoned inside it — couldn’t have been more than nine or ten months old — standing on the bundled-up jacket that covered the bottom of the crib, holding onto the bars and wailing. Wearing nothing but a filthy T-shirt and a filthier nappy.
Roberta lurched over, legs stiff as boards.
Little red cuts covered the wee boy’s fingers, the tip of his nose and chin — semi-circular scrapes on his cheeks and around both wrists.
A lump of brambles knotted in her throat. Made it hard to swallow.
A bunch of those sports drinks bottles with the flip-top caps lay suckled dry and crumpled in the corners of the crib.
Empty tins of dog food littered the floor around the cot. All licked clean.
No...
A few of the ring-pull lids sat further out, crusted with dried brown lumps, too far away for a wee arm to reach.
She stared. Blinked as the world went a little blurry.
Do not cry in front of Tufty.
Do not.
A deep, shuddery breath.
Poor wee thing...
Roberta reached into the crib, pulled the toddler out of the crib, and hugged him tight.
II
‘Sarge?’ Tufty knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Sarge, you in there?’
The child’s wails boomed out from the other side of the scarred wood.
He knocked again. ‘Sarge?’
Yeah. Probably better go in and hope she wasn’t on the toilet.
He pushed the door open.
The flat’s bathroom was manky filthy. Dirty grey-brown water in the sink, a thick black tidemark around the inside of the bath. The jagged yellow reek of a toilet that never got cleaned. Discarded crap littering the cracked lino floor.
Steel was on her knees, in front of the bath. She’d got a bright-red jumper from somewhere — dipping it into the sink then dabbing it at the screaming little boy’s naked bottom. ‘I know, I know. Shhh... Who’s a brave wee soul?’
Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Ambulance is here.’
The little boy screeched again.
‘There’s no hot water and he’s all covered in sores. Shhh...’
Which explained the colour of the water in the sink. Tufty pulled the plug, letting the scummy water swirl away. Then filled it again. ‘Next door say they haven’t seen her for five days.’
‘Five days.’ Steel screwed up her face. Then dipped the jumper in the fresh water. ‘Five days in a filthy nappy, scraping dog food from tins, while your mum decomposes into a mattress...’ She blinked. Sniffed. Took a deep breath. ‘Right. Ambulance.’
Tufty indicated left, taking them out onto the main road. Something upbeat and cheery bingled out of the car radio — a woman singing about how it was a lovely day for love and everyone should get out there and dance.
He glanced across the car at Steel.
She was slumped in the passenger seat, staring out of the window. Hands loose in her lap. Face dead and expressionless.
He forced a smile. ‘Well... look on the bright side. Imagine what would’ve happened if we hadn’t gone round and kicked the door in!’
No reply.
‘He would’ve died, wouldn’t he? We saved that little boy’s life today.’
Still nothing.
‘He’s only alive because of—’