Roberta sat back in her seat and shared a look with DC Lund. ‘That sound like a lie to you, Veronica? Sounds like a lie to me.’
Innes pulled an affronted face. ‘Well it’s not.’
‘You seriously expect us to believe you had nothing to do with it? Nothing at all?’
‘Yes, I’ve visited Mrs Galloway from time to time, but only to help out with shopping or if she needs a hand. Ooh, I don’t know... changing a plug? That sort of thing. I would never attack her. She’s an old lady, for goodness’ sake!’
‘You’re a loan shark, Phil-pot.’
Baby Face tapped his pen against the desk. ‘Do you have any evidence of that, Detective Sergeant Steel?’
‘Ask anyone.’
He smiled at her, making little dimples form in his chubby wee cheeks. ‘That’s not evidence, that’s hearsay. And it’s not admissible in court.’
Cheeky sod. ‘He put Agnes Galloway in hospital!’
‘Do you have any witnesses, Sergeant? No. Do you have any CCTV? No. Do you have any evidence against my client whatsoever? No.’ He rocked his baldy wee head from side to side. ‘No. No. No. No evidence at all.’
She leaned forward, snarling it out. ‘Then we’ll get some.’
‘Yeah...’ Tufty leaned back against the wall, and swapped his phone to the other ear. ‘Nothing so far.’
Steel’s voice growled out like an angry bull terrier that smoked sixty a day. ‘How could no one see anything?’
Down at the end of the corridor, Barrett and Harmsworth knocked on the last doors on this floor. Stood there waiting for the occupants to answer.
‘We’re doing everything we can, Sarge.’
‘Philip Scumbag Innes is going to walk.’
‘Yeah, but DNA—’
‘Oh he’s already covered that one. He “pops round from time to time” doing “odd jobs” for her.’
‘And my bumhole’s a mariachi band.’
‘Then stop buggering about and find me some sodding witnesses!’ She hung up.
Got to love a well-crafted motivational speech.
He stuck his phone in his pocket and went back to work.
A thin woman with nervous, watery eyes peered out at him through the tiny gap between her door and the frame — she hadn’t even opened it wide enough to pull the chain tight. ‘I didn’t see anything.’
Tufty held up the photo of Phil Innes again. ‘Are you sure, because—’
‘Why would I see anything? Because I didn’t. I didn’t see anything.’
Of course she didn’t.
The old man adjusted his glasses, fiddled with his hearing aid. Squinted at the photo Tufty handed him. Sniffed. Fiddled with his glasses again. From somewhere in the flat behind him came the sound of a TV quiz show turned up far too loud.
He handed the photo back. ‘I don’t know anything. Stop asking me questions.’
Then slammed the door.
The toddler was dressed up in a paleontologically-inaccurate dinosaur onesie, staring up at Tufty like he was the — most — exciting — thing — ever!!! His mum, on the other hand, did pretty much everything she could not to look at him at all. Her mop of Irn-Bru curls was fraying at the edges, dark bags under her eyes. The end of her nose had a faint pink glow to it, her eyes puffy and red. Another shrug and she handed the photo back to Tufty.
‘No, I didn’t hear anything.’ Shrug. ‘Nothing at all.’
He pointed upwards. ‘Mrs Galloway’s flat is right above yours and you didn’t hear anything? It looks like a bomb went off in there! How could you not hear anything?’
She hugged her dinosaur baby closer and looked away again. Shrugged. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’ One last shrug for luck. ‘Please, I have to go. I can’t help you.’
The flat door swung closed, shutting Tufty out in the corridor.
Ten down, fifteen to go.
Steel stormed the length of the CID office then turned around and stormed back again. ‘Bloody, felchbunny, fudgemonkeying, motherfunkers!’
Phones, chargers and extension leads still cluttered everyone’s desks, but Tufty, Lund, Barrett, and Harmsworth all sat with their chairs facing the middle of the room, watching Steel storm up and down and up and down.
She did another circuit. ‘None of them? No’ a single sodding one?’
‘Well,’ Harmsworth flared his nostrils, ‘why would they want to help the police? It’s not as if we do anything, is it? No, we just sit about on our fat backsides eating doughnuts all day.’
Barrett checked his clipboard. ‘Every single household spoken to.’
‘No offence,’ Lund held up a hand, ‘but maybe you were doing it wrong? Maybe a woman’s better at—’
‘Oh please, don’t start that again.’
‘I’m just saying, Davey, it’s—’
‘AAAAAAAAAARGH!’ Steel screamed at the patchwork ceiling tiles. ‘FOR GOD’S SAKE!’ She grabbed the plastic crate marked ‘CAN’T UNLOCK’ and hurled it at the whiteboard. It split open, showering the floor with Nokias, iPhones and Samsungs.
No one made a sound as she stood there, glaring at the fallen phones.
Then Tufty sighed. ‘They’re scared. They’ve seen what Innes can do and they don’t want it happening to them or their families. It’s not their fault.’
‘Then whose sodding fault is it?’
‘Phil Innes.’
DCI Rutherford really didn’t look the same, dressed in lounging jammie bottoms, furry slippers, and an Aberdeen Football Club T-shirt. He stood in the doorway to a two-up-two-down in Cults.
His mouth tightened as he turned over the last photograph: Agnes Galloway, taken by the hospital before they got to work patching her up. Her frail wee body crippled and twisted.
Roberta leaned forward and poked the picture. ‘Philip Innes.’
‘What have we got on him?’ The DCI’s hands shook, his words terse and clipped. ‘Witnesses? Forensics? Anything?’
‘I want a warrant to go through his place with a nit comb. He’s got to have something incriminating in there.’ She counted them off on her fingers: ‘Payment books for the loan-sharking, the shoes he used to kick an old lady half to death, the gloves he punched her with, the bloodstained clothes he wore.’
‘We can’t get a warrant without probable cause,’ DCI Rutherford stared down at the photo, face souring, ‘you know that.’
‘So give me a warrant and I’ll find some!’
A teenager drifted by on a bike, waving as she passed. ‘Evening, Mr Rutherford.’
He pulled on a smile. ‘Kerry.’ It disappeared as soon as she was out of sight. ‘I want this bastard caught, prosecuted, and banged up. But to make it stick in court we need corroboration. I need a complaint from the victim or I need a witness. Get me something I can use!’
Airyhall Library looked a lot better from the front.
The bit round the back was more functionaclass="underline" a big block of council recycling bins sat beside a wee recess where the back door was. Beige walls with brown trim. A Rorschach inkblot stained the tarmac, where some poor librarian’s car had been dripping oil. They were all gone now, of course. Twenty to nine and the car park round the side was empty.
Airyhall Community Centre looked pretty empty too. Or at least the lights were off. The side that faced the library was a featureless grey-beige wall, with a wee sticky-out bit where a red door led into the building proper. The whole thing lurking on the other side of a chest-high wall, topped by a handrail.