Then his voice echoed down from the floor above. ‘And no more séances!’
Tufty waited until the sound of a door shutting rang out. ‘So... We still can has pizza?’
Steel sagged. ‘Sodding hell.’
III
The police van rattled and squeaked its way past a big red-brick building with a pagoda sticking out the middle of it.
Tufty indicated right and drifted the van into the turning lane. Waiting for the traffic on the other side of the dual carriageway to open up.
Sitting in the passenger seat, Steel had her feet up on the dashboard, digging away at some itchy spot at the back of one knee.
The Proclaimers sang away on the radio, boasting about how many miles they’d walk for the honour of collapsing, knackered, outside someone’s front door — when surely it would make a lot more sense to just drive over there, leaving you with plenty of energy for a nice cup of tea, a fondant fancy, and a bit of frisky naughty business.
But it was fun to hum along to.
Steel held up a hand. ‘Warrant?’
DC Barrett scooted forward in his seat, bringing with him a waft of aftershave mixed with cheese-and-onion. He held out a sheet of paper. ‘Signed, sealed, and dated.’ In the rear-view mirror he looked bigger than he was. Blond, snubbed nose. Prominent ears. A bit more overbite than was healthy in a grown man.
‘Thanks Davey.’ She stuck the warrant in her pocket without so much as a glance. ‘Now, anyone set on doing a formal recap of the whole plan, or can we just get on with the important bits?’
Right, then up the hill and over the railway bridge.
The van was fitted out with a cage at the back for ferrying the very naughty from arrest to the station. In front of that were two rows of seats, facing each other. And when Barrett sat back down again, Harmsworth and DC Lund were revealed in the mirror. Harmsworth looking like someone had just told him he had twenty-four hours to live, but all the shops were shut. And Lund looking like someone’s mum had gone on a fitness kick and then fell asleep at the hairdresser’s.
Tufty drove into a big housing estate of terraced council flats, built in the standard Aberdeen configuration: blocks of six, sharing a front door, stitched together in a long, featureless row. The front doors had been painted in jaunty primary colours, but the buildings themselves wore a coat of faded dirty white.
Barrett consulted his clipboard. ‘Thirteen Froghall Crescent — address supplied by one Charles Roberts when questioned about the large quantity of stolen mobile phones in his possession at time of arrest. Flat’s owner is one Miss Harriet Ellis, currently residing in a residential care home in Portlethen. Early onset dementia. No relation to young Master Roberts. And I couldn’t find any next of kin for her on the system, so the place is probably being used as a squat.’
Lund leaned forward. ‘Dogs?’
‘Not that we know of. But I’m definitely taking my can of Bite Back with me.’
‘Yeah... Bags being the one to batter down the door. You three can charge in and get bitten first.’
Harmsworth groaned. ‘I should go last. It’s not my fault dogs find me extra tasty.’
‘Tough.’ Lund picked up a riot helmet from the seat next to her and held it out, upside down to Steel. Little bits of blue and red paper were just visible in there.
Another right and Tufty pulled onto a street where the terraces gave way to twin rows of squat granite semis with tiny front gardens. Some paved over to provide off-road parking.
‘Are we ready?’ Steel turned and rummaged in the helmet, one hand covering her eyes. She came out with two bits — unfolded and peered at them. Held them out at arm’s length to get them into focus. ‘Right. Today’s expletive of choice is...’
Tufty gave a little drum roll on the steering wheel. ‘Tant-ta-ta-taaaaa!’
‘“Motherfunker.” And if something’s good it’s, “Snake-alicious.”’
Another groan from Grumpy Harmsworth. ‘Oh not again.’
Barrett nodded. ‘Got to love the classics.’
‘Why can we never have the ones I suggested?’
‘Because the ones you suggested are crap.’
Tufty tightened his grip on the steering wheel. ‘And three. Two. One!’ He jammed his foot down on the accelerator and the Maria surged forward, then a hard left brought the front wheels up onto the pavement outside a semidetached with an overgrown front garden and all the curtains drawn.
He slammed on the brakes before they hit the short brick wall.
Flicked off his seatbelt.
And, ‘Go! Go! Go!’
Steel hit him. ‘Hey, I say that!’
Too late. Harmsworth lunged, snatched the riot helmet from Steel’s hands and stuck it on his head, bits of paper flying free. Barrett hauled open the big sliding door and Lund jumped out. Then Barrett. Then Harmsworth — grabbing a riot shield on his way, strapping it on as he ran. Tufty joined them, charging up the path to the front door.
But Steel just popped out into the afternoon sun and leaned against the van, hands in her pockets.
Lund got to the house first. Squared up to the door with the Big Red Door Key and swung it back while Barrett and Harmsworth flattened themselves against the wall to either side.
She grinned. ‘Hot potato!’
The mini battering ram slammed into the door, just below the handle. A solid crack morphed into a BOOM as the whole thing burst inward, taking most of the frame with it.
She ducked back out of the way and Harmsworth pushed past, shield up.
‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’
Barrett hopped in after him, followed by Lund and tail-end Tufty. Because the better part of valour is not getting your nadgers bitten off.
The hallway stank of rancid cheese — probably coming from the knee-high stack of filthy trainers piled up against the shabby wallpaper. Crayon graffiti laced its way around and overhead, complete with stick figures. Some of whom seemed to have been based on a naked Pamela Anderson. Junk mail made a slippery mat on the lino.
Lund took the first door on the right, bursting through with her truncheon out. ‘EVERYONE DOWN NOW!’
Barrett barged into a room on the left. ‘POLICE!’
And at the far end of the hall, Harmsworth kicked the door open and lunged inside. ‘YOU! ON THE FLOOR! I SAID— AAAARGH! MOTHERFUNKER!’
Oh crap...
Tufty legged it, slithering over the junk-mail slick and into a kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months. Harmsworth lay in the middle of the filthy floor, hands clasped over his eyes. Bright-red stains covered his skin, his shirt rapidly turning a very dark pink.
The back door hung open, and through the gap came a flash of someone legging it. Male, six foot, dressed in cargo pants and a green Action-Man jumper. Crew cut. He snatched a look over his shoulder, showing off a short Vandyke and a worried expression.
Tufty turned and bellowed back into the house, ‘OFFICER DOWN! REPEAT, OFFICER DOWN!’
Then leapt over Harmsworth’s whimpering body and thumped out into the back garden.
Action Man had already crossed the yellowed patchy grass — clambering over the fence into the garden of the house behind this one.
‘POLICE! COME BACK HERE!’ Tufty cleared the garden in eight strides and leapt, swinging himself over the fence and into a much nicer space with fruit trees and patio furniture.
Where was... There: Action Man, he’d nipped down the side of the house, shoving out through a full-height gate towards the front.
Oh no you don’t.
A burst of speed and Tufty was only six, seven feet behind him.
BANG, through the gate and out onto the driveway.