Partners in Crime

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

‘Doesn’t say. They want you to go into the office and discuss it.’

‘Well, whoever’s 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 ‘I’m 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, couldn’t 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?’

‘Don’t 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, you’re worse than Susan. Nag, nag, nag. Go get a car, we’ll pay Mrs … Gifford? Guildford?’

‘Griffith.’

‘Right. Get a car and we’ll pay Mrs Griffith a visit.’ Steel thumped back in her chair, face all pinched, jaw moving like she was chewing on something bitter. ‘Maybe stop off for a few messages on the way.’

Allan sat in the driver’s seat, hands wrapped around the steering wheel, gritting his teeth every time someone blared their horn at him. They’d made it as far as the Trinity Centre before Steel had slammed her hand on the dashboard and told him to pull in for a minute. That was half an hour ago.

The car’s hazard lights blinked and clicked, digging orange knives into his forehead.

A loud BREEEEEEEEEP! sounded behind him, then again. And again. Then a bus grumbled past, sending up a spray of grey-brown slush to spatter against the pool car’s windows. A couple of the passengers gave him the two- finger-salute on the way past.

Like traffic on Union Street wasn’t bad enough at the best of times. A thick rind of dirty white was piled up at the edge of the kerb, the road covered in a mix of compacted snow, ice and filthy water. Pedestrians slithered by on the pavement, bundled up in thick coats, scarves and woolly hats, fresh snow coating their shoulders like frozen dandruff. Every now and then someone would stop and stare into the car, as if it was his fault he was stuck here, holding up the rotten traffic.

Soon as Steel got back he was going to give her a piece of his mind. Put her in her place. Let her know this wasn’t acceptable. He hadn’t joined the force just so she could go on shopping expeditions.

Clunk. The passenger door swung open and an avalanche of plastic bags clattered into his lap.

Steel clambered in, pulled the door shut, and shuddered. ‘Oooh, bleeding heck: brass monkeys out there.’ She frowned. ‘How come you’ve no’ got the heating on?’

Allan glowered at her. ‘With all due respect, Inspector, you-’

‘Don’t be a prawn, or you’ll no’ get your present.’

‘Present?’ That was more like it. He turned the key in the ignition and cranked up the heater. ‘Is it good?’

‘Course it’s good. Has your aunty Roberta ever let you down?’ She dug into one of the plastic bags and came out with something bright red with white furry bits. ‘Here.’

He turned it over in his hands, the smile dying on his lips. ‘Oh…’ It was one of those cheap Santa hats they flogged in the Christmas market on Belmont Street.

‘Well, put it on then.’

‘It’s … not … with the uniform and everything…’

Steel poked his black stab-proof vest with a red-painted fingernail. ‘Put — it — on.’

Brilliant. Allan hauled the hat on over his head, the bobble on the end dangling against his cheek. Like he was being tea-bagged by a Muppet.

She peered at him for a bit. ‘It’s missing something.’ Then she leaned over and grabbed him by the lapel, hauling him towards her.

Oh God, she wasn’t going to kiss him, was she? But there wasn’t so much as a sprig of mistletoe in the car. It wasn’t fair! You couldn’t just go about kissing people — you had to give them fair warning about stuff like that. It was sexual harassment!

Run. Get out of the car and run. RUN!

She grabbed the bobble on the end of his Santa hat and something inside went ‘click’. Little coloured lights winked on and off inside the fur. Like it wasn’t undignified enough in the first place.

Then again, given the alternative…

Steel nodded. ‘Much better.’

A deafening HONNNNNNNNNNK! belted through the air behind them and a massive eighteen-wheeler loomed in the rear-view mirror, lights flashing.

She peered over her shoulder. ‘Well, don’t just sit there: you’re holding up traffic.’

Mrs Griffith scrubbed a soggy hanky under her plump red nose, getting rid of the twin lines of silver. She sat on the couch in an over-warm living room, her pale-pink twinset and pearls looking all rumpled and out of kilter. As if she’d got dressed in the dark then fallen down the stairs a couple of times. Her chocolate-brown hair was starting to go grey at the roots, watery eyes blinking behind Dame Edna glasses. A big woman who wobbled when she sniffed.

A Christmas tree sat in the corner of the room, decorated with scarlet bows, gold dangly things, and white lights — very tasteful. A mound of presents sat on the floor, beneath a thin layer of fallen pine needles, much more professionally wrapped than the Frankenstein’s monsters in DI Steel’s office. The mantelpiece was covered in cards, and so were the sideboard and the display cabinet by the large bay windows. Popular couple.

Allan underlined the words ‘MISSING SINCE LAST NIGHT’ in his notebook. ‘And your husband’s never gone off like this before?’

She blinked and shook her head. Not looking at him.

Couldn’t really blame her. When you call the police to help find your missing husband, you probably don’t expect a uniformed PC to turn up wearing a flashing Santa bobble hat.

‘And he didn’t mention anything that was bothering him?’

Mrs Griffith sniffed again, blinked, then stared up at the ceiling as the sound of a toilet flushing came from the floor above. Nice house. Fancy. Three bathrooms; four bedrooms, one en-suite; dining room; living room; drawing room; kitchen bigger than Allan’s whole flat; conservatory; dirty big garden hidden under a thick blanket of snow. Had to be at least knee deep out there.

‘Well, it’s early days yet. Might just have got stuck in the snow, or something. Did you try his work?’

Mrs Griffith stared down at the crumpled hankie in her thick fingers. ‘I… I phoned the hospital all night, just in case he’d … you know, with the icy roads… An accident.’ A single drip swelled on the tip of her nose, clear and glistening in the lights from the tree. ‘Then I tried his work first thing this morning…’

It was the most she’d said in one go since they’d got there.

‘I see.’ Allan made a note in his book. ‘And where does your husband work?’

She tortured her hanky for a bit. ‘He doesn’t.’ The drip dropped, splashing down on the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘The man I spoke to, Brian, he was Charles’s boss. He said… He said Charles was made redundant three months ago. Said they couldn’t keep everyone on with the economic downturn.’ She gave a little moan in the back of her throat. ‘Why didn’t Charles tell me?’

Clump, clump, clump, on the stairs, then the living room door opened and DI Steel shambled into the room, hauling up her trousers with one hand. ‘Sorry, went to the panto last night. Too many sweeties always go right through me. You know what they say: you don’t buy chocolate buttons, you just rent them.’ She collapsed down on the other end of the sofa, then patted Mrs Griffith on a chunky knee. ‘Went for a rummage through your bedroom while I was upstairs, knew you’d no’ mind.’

Mrs Griffith opened her mouth, as if she was about to disagree, then closed it again. ‘What am I going to tell the children?’