Chapter 10 #2
The crows rattled into the air, cawing in foul-beaked outrage, and the PC lumbered to a stop, shaking her fist until their ink-black tatters disappeared into the woods beyond.
‘Hmph!’ And she went back to her cones.
No idea where Plukey’s partner was, though. Maybe . . .
Ah, there we go.
A Jack Skellington figure, partially digested by the mist, stood over by the miserable hatchback. Lanky, with a big head, and a high-vis jacket that had ‘POLICE’ and two reflective strips across the back. He was talking to a dumpy pregnant type in an ugly dress.
Suppose everyone needed a hobby.
That manky smell got stronger as Roberta made her way along the convoy, heading for the cordon.
The Scenes Transit was even grubbier up close.
As is tradition, someone had scrawled finger graffiti in the grime: ‘CAPITALISM KILLS!!!’, ‘WASH ME!’, ‘FILTH!’, a skull-and-crossbones, and a Dirty Elmo. That was probably best not to dwell on.
Tufty scurried up behind Roberta, phone out, poking and scrolling as he nipped around to block her way. ‘Now you is not so catastrophically hungovered, do you want to go through our new list of cases what we did inherit from the Sarge?’
‘No.’
‘Cool. We has inherited Operations Owlbear and Firedrake.’
Roberta added a two-foot willy to the graffiti collection. ‘Feel free to shut up and sod off.’ Then shoved Tufty to one side and moved on.
He followed, doing a sort of hoppity-skippity thing so his feet were in time with hers.
‘Owlbear am all the camper vans getting nicked, and Firedrake is being The Great Burger-Van Turf War. We can review all the casework when we hand this,’ pointing at the cordon, ‘over to whoever’s—’ His Airwave gave its incoming-message bleeps.
‘Oops. Hold that think.’ Pressing the button.
‘Safe to talk.’ Then the wee squit stuck a finger in his other ear and peeled away to annoy whoever had called him instead. Leaving Roberta on her own.
Thank God for that.
The smell was getting smellier. Growing as she reached the front of the Transit, where a pair of scene examiners were struggling into matching white Tyvek suits. Hopping about as they wrestled their legs in.
Shirley had dressed as a middle-aged golf bore, in a green polo-shirt and knee-length shorts. Clarks sandals and pink socks. Tartan Alice band. Looking every bit as knackered and hungover as Roberta.
Her colleague, Charlie, boasted squint teeth, large arms, stubble, smoky eye shadow, and hot-coral lipstick that was far too warming for his complexion.
Roberta jerked a thumb at the cordon. ‘What we looking at?’
Shirley wriggled into her suit’s sleeves. ‘Give us a chance.’ Zipping herself up. ‘Technically, shouldn’t be going anywhere near anything till the Fiscal or Dr Death get here. God forbid we little folk should think for ourselves!’
Typical.
‘How come none of you fudgers are any sodding help today?’
Over on the grassy buffer-zone, PC Zitzilla charged at the crows again. ‘HOY! BUGGER OFF! RRRRRRAAAAAH!’
Shirley pulled on blue plastic booties. ‘Give us a minute and we’ll see what we can see.’ Turning to her colleague. ‘Right, Charlie?’
He gave them a crooked smile, voice deep enough to quarry rocks. ‘Do our best, like.’
‘’Bout time someone did.’ Roberta got moving again. ‘And set that marquee up sharpish, before those crows nick everything!’
Next up: the police van, which had all its interior lights on, showing off the cage at the back for locking people in, the racks of equipment, rows of seats, and PC Owen Harmsworth’s hairy bumcrack – poking above the waistband of his uniform trousers as he rummaged about, looking for something he’d probably dropped. Clumsy git.
She banged on the window. ‘Cover it up! No one needs to see your furry toast-rack!’
Harmsworth snapped upright. Which exposed a sight not much better than his woolly buttocks: a middle-aged basset hound of a man, who needed to lay off the pies.
They’d put a strip of plaster across the bridge of his now squint nose, which kind of drew attention to the nice pair of black eyes he was cultivating.
The hair on his head hadn’t so much ‘gone into retreat’ as abandoned its post and fled for the hills.
He stuck that plastered nose in the air and let free an indignant, ‘Don’t be so rude!’
Roberta gave him a one-fingered gesture, and carried on her way.
By the time she was passing the patrol car, that manky smell had grown into a pong, then a reek, then a stench. She pulled her chin in, blinking. Eyes watering.
Wafting a hand in front of her face made sod-all difference. ‘Fruffing skunch . . . Last time I smelled something that bad, the neighbour’s dog was rolling in it!’
What she needed was something to mask the honking niff. So she dug her vape from a trouser pocket and had a good long puff of black cherry. Which made it possible to stand at the cordon without retching. Just.
That plukey PC was still fiddling with those stupid traffic cones.
Roberta cupped a hand to the side of her mouth, making a loudhailer. ‘HOY! YOU THERE: BUNNET!’
The PC barely looked. ‘I’m busy.’
Time to turn on the sweetness and light – which should’ve been a massive sodding warning sign, but some people weren’t that bright. ‘Oh, I am sorry. I’ll give you a wee mintie to finish up, shall I?’
‘Guv?’ Tufty appeared, Airwave in one hand, the other covering its microphone. Sounding all bunged-up. ‘Pathologist’s going to be late – some Trumpwit’s jack-knifed a lorry in the fog, just past Thainstone roundabout. Pickled beetroot everywhere.’
Yet more bollocks to deal with.
‘What about the PF?’
‘Unfortunately, they is miles away. Had a strangling last night in Arbroath, and all the other procurators fiscal am in bed with the ague, so we’ve only got one covering everything from Fort William to—’
‘Worry not, dear Constable; not a problem at all.’ She raised a hand, before he could say anything else. ‘After all, we’ve got all the time in the world.’
His eyes widened, chin pulling in as the gentle, zen-like tone of her voice fully sunk in. ‘Oh dear . . .’ Looking as if she’d just pointed a gun at his balls. ‘Has I did something that’s—’
Roberta plonked a finger against his lips, silencing him. Giving him a big beneficent smile. Then stuck her vape back in her pocket, replacing it with two – different – fingers to fire a shrill whistle at PC Pimples McTraffic-Cone. ‘HOY! LOTS’A-SPOTS!’
The PC stiffened. ‘I SAID, “I’M BUSY!” Christ’s sake, got enough to do without running about after some half-arsed, jumped-up—’
‘“Detective Inspector” is the word you’re looking for.’
‘Oh . . .’
Tufty lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Don’t be mean.’
‘So, perhaps you’d like to waddle your plukey wee teuchter arse over here and answer a couple of questions? If it’s no’ too much trouble?’
‘Guv. Yes, Guv.’ The PC hurried over. ‘Sorry, Guv.’ A proper beamer making her cheeks glow and her spots throb.
‘Only it’s a green shift and we’ve been on since seven yesterday morning, cos everyone’s off with the pestilence; and that’s after getting called in to man the barricades at that riot in Aberdeen, Saturday; and there’s only so much Red Bull and petrol-station espresso one person can drink; and—’
‘All right, Jeffrey Archer; don’t need your life story.’ Roberta hooked a thumb at the cordon. ‘Give us the headlines.’
‘Ma’am.’ Snapping to attention. ‘Mr Baird and Ms Moncrief discovered the remains and called 999 at quarter to seven this morning. PC Stratford and I responded to the call, cos we were closest. We secured the locus and called for backup.’
‘That it?’
‘Ma’am?’
‘What about this Baird and Moncrief: they see-or-say anything useful?’
‘Nah. Moving up to Huntly for a new job, left Dundee at three this morning, she’s desperate for a wee, they pull over – bish-bash-bosh – and here we are.’
‘You check they’re telling the truth?’
‘Ah . . .’ Those spots went radioactive. ‘I’ll get on that, right now. Ma’am. Sorry.’ Whipping out her Airwave and hurrying off.
Roberta shook her head. ‘Unbelievable.’ Then ducked under the cordon and snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves.
‘Er . . . Guv?’ The wee loon clutched at the yellow-and-black tape. ‘No. No adventuring!’
See, that was the trouble with today’s officers: no initiative.
She stalked across the potholed tarmac, to about six foot from the upright bin. Which was A: keeping a safe-ish distance, for forensic purposes, and B: about as close as she could get without the not-so-dry heaves. Cos the smell was minging.
Out came the vape again, puffing away as she clicked her fingers. ‘Nerdboy: heel!’
Because why should she be the only one suffering?
‘Yeah . . .’ Tufty stayed where he was. ‘Maybe best if we leave it for the pathologist, Guv? We’re not even wearing SOC suits. Don’t want to—’
‘Tufty, I swear on Mr Rumpole’s fuzzy tummy, if you don’t march your bony wee backside over here this instant . . .’
‘Eeek . . . But—’
‘The remains are in an advanced state of decomposition. Which means they’ve been here for a while. Last week it was baking hot. The week before that, it was pissing down. There’s bugger-all left to contaminate!’ She snapped her fingers again. ‘Now: heel.’
A wee, mumbled, ‘Oh noes . . .’ But he did as he was told – treading very carefully in her footsteps, following an imaginary approach path. ‘And you does now owe two pounds to the swear jar.’
Oh in the name of . . . spudge.
That . . . flipping swear jar.
What snidge-for-brains thought a swear jar was a good idea?
Anyway.
One extra-large puff of cherry, then Roberta inched closer for a better view. But the stench won, and she had to retreat again. Spluttering. Wafting a hand at the horror-filled reek. ‘Frunching heck!’