Stuart MacBride - Partners in Crime

December 23rd

Sod DI Steel stood on one leg in the doorway, nose wrinkled up on one side. Thought I smelt something. She ground her left foot into the blue-grey carpet, then dragged it along the floor behind her as she lurched into the briefing room: a hunchless wrinkly Igor in a stain-speckled grey trouser suit. Today, her hair looked like shed borrowed it from an angry hedgehog.

DC Allan Guthrie chucked another spoon of coffee in a mug and drowned it with almost boiled water. Topped it up with milk, and chucked in a couple of sugars. No point asking if she wanted one. Guv?

She stopped, mid-scrape. Standing completely still. Not looking at him.

Half past four and the CID room was quiet, everyone off dealing with Christmas shoplifters and snow-related car crashes, leaving the little maze of chest-high cubicles and beech-Formica desks almost deserted. The whole place smelled of feet and cinnamon.

Allan dumped the teaspoon on the draining board. DI Steel just stood there, like one of those idiots who appeared every summer outside the St. Nicholas Centre, spray-painting themselves silver and pretending to be statues. Guv, is everything OK?

Someones phone rang.

Allan cleared his throat.

She still hadnt moved.

Guv?

Not so much as a twitch.

Guv, you all right?

If I stay really still you cant see me.

Mad as a fish.

OK He held out the mug. Two and a coo.

She sighed, shoulders drooping, arms dangling at her sides. See, this is what I get for no bunking off home after the Christmas shopping accosted by chunky wee police constables.

Im not chunky. Its a medical condition.

Its pies. She took the coffee, sniffed it, then scowled up at him. I just stood in something that smells better than this.

He pulled the envelope from his pocket a thick, ivory, self-sealing job with the DIs name in spidery script on the front. Courier dropped it off about ten.

Dont care. She snatched a roll of sticky-tape from the nearest desk, turned on her heel, jammed her shoe down again, and lurched back towards the door. Two hours of fighting grumpy auld wifies for the last pair of kinky knickers in Markies has left me all tired and emotional. Soon as Ive finished pinching everyones Sellotape, Im offski. Taking the wee one to the panto tonight and theres no way in hell Im going sober.

Allan waggled the envelope at her. Looks kinda important.

She stuck her fingers in her ears, singing as she scraped her shoe across the carpet tiles. Jingle Bells, Finnie Smells, Rennies hair is gay

Detective Constable Rennie stuck his head up above his purple-walled cubicle, blond mop jelled into spikes, eyebrows pinched together in a frown. Hey, I heard that!

Steel disappeared down the corridor, still doing her Quasimodo impersonation. Then came the slam of an office door. Then silence.

Woman was an absolute nightmare.

Allan slipped the envelope back in his pocket. Just have to try again tomorrow when she was in a better mood. That was the thing about detective inspectors, you had to manage them like little children, or they stormed off in a huff and spent the rest of the day thinking up ways to make your life miserable.

A thump echoed out from the other side of the CID door, then an angry voice: Aw, for Who made sharny skidmarks all over the carpet?

December 24th Christmas Eve

DI Steels office looked like Santas grotto Assuming Santa worked in a manky wee room with greying ceiling tiles, a carpet covered in little round burn marks, and a desk festooned with teetering stacks of forms and folders. The three filing cabinets lined up along one wall were topped with stacks of presents, all wrapped in brightly coloured paper by someone who obviously favoured enthusiasm and sticky tape over skill.

The inspector was behind her desk, fighting with a roll of dancing-penguin paper and a big cardboard box.

Allan knocked on the doorframe. Guv?

She peeled an inch-long strip of Sellotape from the corner of her desk, and forced down a flap of wrinkly penguins. Im no in.

Got a memo from the boss. He pulled it out of the folder and held it up.

Another strip of tape. Well? Dont just stand there looking like a baked tattie: read it.

Allan did.

She scowled at him. Out loud, you idiot.

Oh, right. To all members of staff the cleaners have lodged a complaint about the state of the carpets in the CID wing. If I catch whoever it was that wiped dog-

Blah, blah, blah. Anything else? Only Im up to my ears in urgent police work here. She tore off another length of tape.

Yeah, youve got a missing person. Allan dumped the mis-per form on the inspectors desk, next to a bright-yellow Tonka tipper truck. Mrs Griffith says her husband-

Give it to Biohazard or Laz. She gave the box another lashing of sticky tape. Better yet, palm it off on those shiftless layabouts in GED. No like theyve got anything better to do, is it? She stuck out a hand. Pass us the scissors.

Allan did. DS McRae and Marshall arent in today firearms refresher and General Enquiry Divisions already passed: they say its a CID case.

Typical. Steels tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth as she snipped a raggedy line through the wrapping paper, disembowelling half a dozen penguins in the process. How come Im the only one round here who ever does any work?

Allan just stared at her.

She narrowed her eyes. Cheeky sod. The parcel went on the floor, then Steel dug into a green-and-white plastic bag and produced a set of something lacy and skimpy. More paper. More sticky tape.

He pulled out the thick ivory envelope with its spidery script. Theres this too.

Steel held out her hand. Give. She grabbed it off him, ripped it open, and squinted at the contents, moving the letter back and forward, as if that was going to help.

You want to borrow my glasses?

I dont need glasses. How come no one can write properly anymore? Its like a spider got blootered on tequila, then threw up green ink everywhere.

So what do you want to do about this missing person?

You know what kind of person uses green ink? Nutters, thats who. Nutters, freaks and weirdos. She chucked the letter across the desk at him. Read.

Erm The whole thing was packed with almost impenetrable legalese, but it was just about understandable. Its from a law firm on Carden Place. Says youve been left a chunk of cash in someones will.

The inspector sat upright, a smile rearranging the wrinkles on her face. How much?

Doesnt say. They want you to go into the office and discuss it.

Well, whoevers snuffed it, they better be rich. She picked up her phone. Give us the number.

Allan read it out and she dialled, swivelling back and forth in her seat, singing Im in the Money while it rang. Then stopped, licked her lips. Aye, hello, this is Detective Inspector Roberta Steel, you sent me a Uh-huh Uh-huh Yeah, terrible tragedy. How much? Silence. Her eyes widened. Really? The smile turned into a grin. Oh, yes, aye, couldnt agree more Uh-huh Yeah, one thing though: who is it? Who died? And the grin turned into a scowl. I see. Excuse me a moment. Then she slammed the phone down and embarked on a marathon swearing session. Threw her Sellotape across the room. Banged her fist on the desk. Swore and swore and swore.

Allan fiddled with the folder and waited for her to finish. Good news?

Dont you start. She snatched the letter back, crumpled it up into a ball, and hurled it into the bin. Then spat on it.

So missing person?

All right, all right missing person. Honestly, youre worse than Susan. Nag, nag, nag. Go get a car, well pay Mrs Gifford? Guildford?