Harmsworth sniffed. ‘You know what they say, don’t you? Kids are the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse. War, Famine, Plague, Death, and the Under Twelves.’ He shuddered, making his chins wobble. ‘This’ll all end in tears. Doom, disaster, horror, the dead rising from their graves...’
Mrs Wilson clapped her hands. ‘So come on, children: let’s have a big St Henry’s welcome for Detective Sergeant Steel and her police friends!’ Then she led everyone in a round of applause as Lund dragged Steel up onto the stage.
The two of them stood there, Steel all droopy, Lund grinning out at the evil horde.
Tufty, Barrett, and Harmsworth stayed right where they were, thank you very much.
So Lund launched into get-over-here-you-lazy-sods! hand gestures, bugging her eyes at them, and mouthing, ‘Now!’
‘It’s the End of Days, I swear to God.’ But Harmsworth lumbered onto the stage anyway.
Barrett and Tufty followed him.
The sea of wee faces had a... predatory look to them. Even the ones dressed up as Disney princesses. Actually, they were the worst of the lot. Six-year-olds with glittery dark eyes to match their glittery costumes. Like someone had rolled a load of hyenas in sequins and lurid nylon.
Hungry and ready to feed.
Harmsworth was right.
Lund stepped to the front of the stage and held her arms wide. ‘Hello, boys and girls! Who wants to learn all about “Stranger Danger”?’
Squeals of delight throbbed up from the audience.
Steel mimed gagging on her own vomit.
Soon as the nine o’clock bell went, the teachers all vanished. One second they were there, the next it was like the rapture had come early and decided it’d forgotten to install child seats, so the kids would all have to stay behind. After alclass="underline" the police dealt with riots and football hooligans all the time, didn’t they? What could possibly go wrong?
The Disney princesses crowded in around Tufty, Steel, Barrett, Lund, and Harmsworth, making a multi-coloured sea of gap-toothed smiles, magic wands, tiaras, fairy wings, and sticky fingers.
Harmsworth shrank back, bumping against Tufty. ‘Oh God. It’s like a George Romero film...’
A little girl, dressed as Belle from Beauty and the Beast, held up her wand. ‘I can make nasty boys turn into frogs! I can!’
Lund pulled an impressed face. ‘Ooh, that’s very clever. I’ve got a magic wand too, do you want to see it?’
Lots of happy squealing as the kids jumped up and down. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’
Harmsworth curled his hands against his chest, elbows in, not touching anyone. ‘You know they’re just walking disease vectors, don’t you?’
‘Ready? Here we go!’ Lund pulled out her extendable baton. ‘Abra-ca-dabra!’ She flicked it out to full length with a hard clack.
The unisex princesses ooh-ed and ahh-ed as they shuffled closer, eyes wide.
Yeah, Harmsworth was right. This was way more Night of the Living Dead than Balamory.
Closer. Closer. Sticky hands out like horrid little—
A hand grabbed Tufty’s arm. ‘Aaargh!’ He spun around... but it was only Steel.
She hauled him away from the pack, leaving Harmsworth, Barrett, and Lund to their fate. ‘What we need is a plan.’
Ooh, good idea.
‘Finish up here and go for tenses?’
‘No, you neep. A plan about Jack Raping Funkbiscuit Wallace.’
Tufty backed off, hands up. ‘No — no — no — no — no! We are not having a Jack Wallace plan!’
Harmsworth’s voice carried across the princesses’ squeals. ‘Colds. Flu. Salmonella. Botulism. Bubonic plague...’
A little boy Snow White jumped up and down in front of him. ‘Do you have a magic wand too, Mr Policeman?’
Steel poked Tufty in the chest. ‘He knew he’d need an alibi for that night. How? How did he know? Because he’s involved, that’s how.’
Not this again. ‘You heard DCI Rutherford: if we go within a million miles of Wallace, we’re screwed.’
Harmsworth curled away from Snow White, hands and arms raised like he was trapped in a nettle patch. ‘And don’t get me started on C. difficile and MRSA. Kids are an Ebola outbreak waiting to happen.’
‘Mr Policeman? Do you have a magic wand like the lady?’
‘Rutherford can kiss my sharny hoop. Jack Wallace is up to his armpits in this and I’m going to sodding well prove it.’
‘No!’ Tufty stared at Steel. ‘Do you even listen to yourself? You’re obsessed! He wasn’t there. He didn’t do it. It’s not his DNA.’
‘I’m no’ saying he did it, I’m saying he’s involved. He knew!’
‘Mr Policeman? Magic wand, Mr Policeman! Magic wand!’
‘Urgh,’ Harmsworth curled away again. ‘Get off me. You’re getting sticky fingerprints on my suit.’
‘We can’t just go around arresting everyone you think is dodgy.’ Tufty chucked his hands in the air. ‘Rutherford was right, you’re unhinged! You’re—’
‘Don’t you speak to me like—’
‘—walking nightmare who ruins everything!’
‘—pasty-faced wee turd-sniffer: Wallace is guilty.’ Glaring back at him. Teeth bared. Toe to toe and nose to nose.
The kids launched into a chant. ‘Magic wand! Magic wand! Magic wand!’
‘Get off me, you little horrors!’
Tufty’s ears fizzed, blood whoomping in his forehead — burning in his throat. And OK: it was probably career suicide to shout at a senior officer, but if she was going to get him fired anyway, what difference did it make? Might as well throw in a poke for good measure.
So he did, right on her collar bone. See how she liked it for a change. ‘I’m not chucking away four years in the police just because you can’t take a funkbiscuiting telling!’
She poked him back. Harder. ‘Did you see what happened to Beatrice Edwards? Did you see what he did to Claudia Boroditsky? Wallace has to be stopped!’
The princesses crowded in on Harmsworth, forcing him to retreat. ‘I’ll arrest the lot of you!’
Lund sighed. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Owen, just play along for once in your life.’
‘I will not be bullied by a bunch of snottery wee kids!’
Another poke. ‘It — wasn’t — him!’
‘He knew about it! He...’ Steel wasn’t glowering at Tufty any more, she was staring at the group of kids as Harmsworth stumbled back, tripped and went down with a thump.
Nobody spoke. The princesses froze.
The sound of the older kids whooping it up in the playground filtered in through the windows.
Then a little girl Pocahontas stabbed her fairy wand up into the air sideways, William-Wallace-broadsword style. ‘PILEY-ON!’
They did. All of them. Leaping onto Harmsworth. Burying him beneath an avalanche of Disney princesses.
‘GET OFF ME! HELP! HELP!’
Steel ran a hand across her face, still staring. ‘Why did he need an alibi, then? Why did Jack Wallace need an alibi for a crime he didn’t commit?’
‘Just because your career’s nearly over, doesn’t mean I want mine chucked away too!’
‘AAAAAAARGH! NO BITING!’
‘My career’s no’ “nearly over”, you cheeky wee shite!’
One of Harmsworth’s shoes came flying out of the piley-on, bounced off the gym floor and skittered four or five foot before coming to a halt. His other shoe followed the first. Then a sock.