She leaned in and whispered at Tufty. ‘We’re going to need a bigger boat.’
II
‘How much longer?’ Lund peered out through the police van window at the lumpen grey bulk of Division Headquarters.
Harmsworth adjusted his knee and elbow pads — thick black plastic ones that crumpled his suit’s sleeves and trouser legs. ‘We’re not going to get home on time. Again. I just know it.’
‘Come on, come on, come on!’
‘We’re all going to end up in Accident and Emergency, you mark my words. Broken bones and stab wounds all round.’
Barrett checked his clipboard. ‘No mention of Philip Innes ever stabbing anyone. Anyway, I think you should be more worried about ending the day with all your clothes on.’
‘That’s not funny: I was traumatised!’
‘You were bare-arse naked.’
‘Pfff...’ Tufty’s phone buzzed against his ribs. Text message. He pulled it out.
DC Quirrel, it’s PC Mackintosh
Council can do us a crem slot tomorrow at
14:30 — cancellation
Half two, tomorrow? Hmm...
He typed out a reply:
Mrs Galloway’s going to be stuck in hospital
for at least a week. Phil Innes REALLY
battered her.
Send.
The phone buzzed in his hand.
If we don’t do it now, we can’t get another
pet slot for a fortnight and the Pathologist’s
complaining that Pudding’s starting to smell
up his fridges.
Sorry:(
Ah. Suppose they could freeze him, but if they did, would he have to be defrosted before they could cremate him? Wouldn’t want to screw it up...
And maybe it’d be better for Mrs Galloway if this was all done and taken care of? She was already standing out on the ledge. A funeral for her poor wee dog might be the final push.
OK 14:30 tomorrow — it’s a date
Send.
Oh no!
It’s a date? What the hell was he thinking?
Sorry! Didn’t mean ‘date’ date — meant I’ll
see you there!!!
Nobody goes on a date to the crematorium.
Unless they’re weird. And you’re definitely
not weird.
He stared at his phone’s screen. No. Deleted the last three sentences and hit ‘SEND’.
Lund nudged him. ‘Time is it?’
‘Ten past four.’ He frowned, then slipped his phone back in his pocket. ‘Steel said she’d be right down.’
‘All together now!’ Lund banged out the beat on the van roof, singing:
Finally Steel bustled out of the side door and in behind the wheel. The only one of them not wearing Method of Entry protective kit. Which probably meant she was planning on leading from the rear again.
She started the van and reversed out of the space — looking back over her shoulder at the four of them. ‘Right, you horrible shower, listen up and listen good: Philip Innes is a violent wee crudweasel. He’s got no qualms about putting little old ladies in intensive care. So I don’t want any screw-ups, understand? I don’t want to see so much as a broken fingernail on any of you. And Owen?’
Harmsworth’s bottom lip jutted out. ‘Here we go.’
‘Try to keep your pants on this time, eh?’
The van swung around — narrowly missing taking the wing mirror off Chief Superintendent Campbell’s Bentley — round the back of the mortuary, down Poultry Market Lane and out onto Queen Street.
The tyres squealed as they swung onto Broad Street.
Steel banged on the steering wheel. ‘We are not at home to Mr Fuckup. What are we?’
The response was about as enthusiastic as the half-arsed willies on the CID whiteboard: ‘Not at home to Mr Fuckup.’
She belted the steering wheel again, making it ring. ‘I–CAN’T — HEAR — YOU!’
This time they all belted it out: ‘WE’RE NOT AT HOME TO MR FUCKUP!’
Steel grinned.
Steel turned onto Cairncry Drive and put her foot down. The police van surged forward, shoving her back in her seat as they raced down the middle of the road — then a screech of brakes as she yanked the steering wheel left. Jerking to a halt just shy of Philip Innes’s shiny black Jaguar. ‘Release the hounds!’
Tufty hauled open the sliding door and Harmsworth leapt out — Barrett close on his heels. Lund grabbed the Big Red Door Key and ran after them, leaving him to bring up the rear. Leaping the two steps up to the garden path.
Harmsworth and Barrett stepped aside, leaving the door clear for Lund.
‘Hot potato!’ She swung the mini battering ram back as she ran, screeching to a halt just in front of the white UPVC and letting the thing smash forward. The whole door exploded inwards with a BOOM!
This was it.
Barrett was first inside. ‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’
Tufty and Harmsworth swarmed in after him.
Down at the end of the corridor, Barrett kicked a door open revealing a swanky kitchen.
Harmsworth charged up the stairs. ‘POLICE!’
Tufty bashed through the first door on the right. ‘EVERYBODY ON THE GROUND: NOW!’
The living room was a proper man cave: a full-sized pool table and massive entertainment system, a bar in the corner complete with optics, arty prints of naked ladies on the walls, two black leather recliners and a matching couch.
Phil Innes was sitting on it. Still and quiet. Head bowed. Shoulders quivering.
Tufty clacked out his extendable baton. ‘Philip Innes, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Justice... Scotland?’
Innes wiped a hand across his eyes, sniffed, and stood. Held both of his arms out, wrists together. ‘I’ll...’ Another sniff. ‘I’ll come quietly.’
Lund poked her head into the lounge. ‘Rest of the house is clear. You got him?’
Innes stared down at his proffered wrists. ‘I just... I just want to say that I’m very, very, very sorry for what I did. I’m a... I’m a bad man...’ His bottom lip went, followed by full-on sobbing.
‘Er...’ Tufty stepped closer and patted him on the shoulder. ‘There, there?’
‘Right, that’s the lot.’ Barrett eased past them with his blue plastic evidence crate. ‘We’ve got about forty Post Office account books, hundreds of bank statements, twenty-one notebooks detailing loans and repayments, and sixty debit and credit cards. None of which are in Philip Innes’s name.’
Tufty sucked on his teeth. ‘Weird that he just gave it all up like that. Why didn’t he... I don’t know, try to hide it instead of piling it all up on the kitchen table for us?’
‘Hello?’ Harmsworth peered around the edge of the battered UPVC door he was holding. ‘I know it’s only me, and hernias are oh-so-funny, but can we get this done please!’
‘Oh, right.’ Tufty fixed a Phillips-head to the cordless drill and held his hand out to Steel. ‘Screw me.’
She stared back. ‘Want to rephrase that?’
‘I’m not kidding — this door is really heavy!’
Tufty tried again. ‘Can I have a screw please, Sarge?’
‘That’s no’ sounding any better.’ She held out a handful of them, though.
‘I’m going to drop this if you don’t get a shift on!’
‘All right, all right.’ Tufty helped him manoeuvre the door back into the hole it was battered out of. ‘Come on, Owen, hold the damn thing still.’ The brass-colour screws bit through the UPVC and into the wooden frame.