Partners in Crime

Steel wrinkled her lips and raised one shoulder in a lopsided-shrug. ‘You sure there’s nothing missing? Clothes, toothbrush, razor, stuff like that.’

‘He wouldn’t just run out on Jeremy and Cameron and me. He dotes on those boys, nothing’s too good for them.’ Her eyes flicked towards the pile of presents under the tree. ‘Something must have happened. Something terrible…’

‘Found this stuffed under the mattress.’ The inspector produced a big clear plastic envelope thing, with ‘Ho- Ho-Ho! HAPPY SANTA SUIT!’ printed in red and white on a bit of card. The hanger was stuffed inside, but there was no sign of the costume. ‘Your Charlie like to dress up for a bit of kinky fun?’

Mrs Griffith sank back in her seat, eyes wide, one chubby hand pressing that soggy hanky to her trembling lips. ‘No! Charles would never do anything like that.’

‘Shame. Partial to a bit of the old “naughty nun” myself.’ Steel patted her on the knee again. ‘Any chance of a cuppa? Digging through other people’s drawers always gives us a terrible drooth.’

A bit of flustering, then Mrs Griffith hauled herself up from the couch and lumbered off to the kitchen, sniffing and wobbling.

Allan waited till the kitchen door clunked shut, before leaning forward. ‘You’ll never guess — the husband was made redundant-’

‘Three months ago, aye, I know.’

‘How did-’

‘Found a P45 in his bedside cabinet, along with two Playboys, one Big-’N-Juicy, and a stack of receipts.’

‘Oh.’ Allan stuck his notepad back in his pocket.

‘Something a wee bittie more interesting too…’ She produced a slip of yellow paper and waggled it at him. ‘It’s-’

The door thumped open again and Mrs Griffith backed in, carrying a tray loaded down with china cups, saucers, and an ornately painted teapot.

Steel smiled. ‘That was quick. Don’t suppose there’s any chance of…’ She peered into the tray as Mrs Griffith lowered it onto the coffee table. ‘Chocolate biscuits. Perfect.’

‘I didn’t know if you’d want. What with…’ Pink rushed up Griffith’s cheeks, clashing with her twinset. ‘Your digestive problems.’

The inspector helped herself, talking with her mouth full. ‘I’ll risk it.’ Chomp, chomp, chomp. ‘Your husband ever mention someone called Matthew McFee?’ Crumbs going everywhere.

‘Em…’ She fussed with the teapot, eyes down, the pink in her cheeks getting darker. ‘I don’t think so…’

Steel nodded. ‘Well, probably not important anyway.’

Allan eased the car out onto the main road, the front wheels vwirrrring and slithering through the thick white snow, blowers going full pelt. ‘So who’s this Matthew McFee?’

‘You’ve no’ heard of Matt McFee? Wee Free McFee?’ Steel slouched in the passenger seat, fiddling with her bra strap. ‘Pin back your lugs and learn something for a change. Matthew McFee’s what you might call an unregulated personal finance facilitator.’

Ah. ‘Loanshark?’

‘I remember there was this one woman, single mother, got into a bit of trouble with her council tax. Borrowed three hundred quid from Wee Free McFee; couldn’t pay it back. The interest was crippling, literally. He broke both her legs, then did the same to her wee boy. Gave her two weeks to come up with the cash, or he’s coming back to do their arms.’ Steel breathed on the passenger window, making it all misty, then drew an unhappy face with her fingertip. ‘Poor cow was too scared to press charges, so soon as she gets out of the hospital: that’s it.’

Allan slowed down to let a bus out. ‘Did a runner?’

‘Locked herself and the kid in a car. Hosepipe from the exhaust.’ Steel gave her left breast one last hoik, then pointed at the windshield. ‘Crown Street. I fancy spreading some Christmas cheer.’

Matthew ‘Wee Free’ McFee stood in the doorway, arms folded. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was wide, like he’d been squashed. Cold little eyes, a squint nose, and a ridiculous Magnum-PI-moustache. He was wearing an ugly jumper with a couple of deformed reindeer knitted into the pattern. ‘No, you can’t come in.’

Steel stomped her feet, hands jammed deep into her armpits, voice streaming out on a cloud of white as thick flakes of snow spiralled down from the pale grey sky. ‘Charles Griffith.’

‘Never heard of him. Now, if you don’t mind…’ McFee tried to close the door, but the inspector jammed her foot into the gap. He looked down. ‘You’re dripping in my hall.’

Inside, the house must have been huge — a big chunk of grey granite, halfway down Crown Street; iron railings out front, fencing off a little sunken courtyard with patio furniture just visible under a thick crust of snow. Allan stood on his tiptoes and peered over McFee’s head into the hallway: antique furniture, hunting prints on the wall. Looked nice and warm in there too…

Steel pulled out the slip of yellow paper again. ‘That’s funny, cos right here it says Charles Griffith owes you four grand.’

A shrug. ‘Overcommitted himself for Christmas, didn’t he? I offered to help him out, seeing how it’s the season of good will and that. Didn’t want to see his kiddies going without.’

‘Four grand down. What’s he owe now, after you’ve stuck your usual extortionate interest rate on it?’

McFee folded his arms. ‘Extortionate interest rate? Nah, that’d be illegal. Was just Christian charity, wasn’t it? He can pay me back when he’s on his feet again.’ McFee smiled. It was all little pointy teeth, small yellow pegs set in pale-pink gums. ‘No problems.’

Steel leaned forward. ‘Listen up, sunshine, Charles Griffith’s gone missing. And I don’t mean he’s done a bunk, I mean he’s disappeared. See if he turns up dead in a ditch, I’m coming right back here, hauling your hairy backside down the station, and pinning everything I can on you. We clear?’

‘You’re letting all the heat out.’

She stepped back onto the pavement and McFee slammed the door.

Allan cupped his hands and blew into them, making a little personal fog bank. Didn’t make his fingers any warmer though. ‘Back to the ranch? Or we could go and see those solicitors, if you like? About your inheritance?’

She just scowled at him.

‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Allan dropped a gear, the engine growling and complaining as it struggled to haul the pool car around the Denburn Roundabout, wheels shimmying through the slush. ‘You see that pile of stuff under their Christmas tree? Griffith probably spent a fortune kidding on he’s not been fired. Borrows four grand to keep up appearances, can’t pay it back.’

‘Mmm…’ Steel just scowled out of the passenger window.

‘Then last night, McFee turns up on Griffith’s doorstep, roughs him up a bit, Griffith drops everything and limps off into the sunset before McFee comes back with a pair of pliers. He’ll be halfway to Barbados by now.’

‘Mmm…’

‘Well, not if he’s flying out of Heathrow, but you know what I mean.’

Silence.

They were only doing fifteen miles an hour, but the car still fishtailed its way onto the Gallowgate.

Steel thunked her head against the glass. Sighed.

Allan feathered the clutch, finally getting the thing under control. ‘How come you’re so bent out of shape about someone leaving you loads of cash?’

‘None of your business.’

‘I mean, if someone wanted to give me a dirty big handout, you wouldn’t catch me complaining. Bet Charles Griffith wouldn’t say no either.’

Steel hauled out a packet of Benson amp; Hedges and a lighter, the wheel making scratching noises against the flint as she quested for fire. Lit up. Puffed out a lungful of smoke. Then the grumble of traffic oozed into the car, riding a breath of frigid air as she buzzed the window down. ‘Get a photo and description out to all the hospitals in Scotland. If Charlie-boy has done a bunk after a visit from McFee, he’s going to need a doctor. If he’s no’ already in the mortuary.’

‘I mean, who couldn’t do with some more cash?’