Chapter 9
Just after eight, and the not-so-rush hour was in full crawl as a near-solid line of cars crept by in the fog, heading south for Inverurie and Aberdeen beyond. Headlights glowing white, taillights red.
Every so often, a motorcyclist risked this being their last morning on earth by overtaking the funereal procession, but everyone else was sensible enough to tortoise past the lay-by. Especially with a patrol car parked at either end, their blue-and-whites spinning.
Shirley and Charlie had finally managed to wrestle an SOC marquee over the remains – pretty much filling the cordon of yellow-and-black tape – but instead of the traditional parking-their-bums-in-the-Scenes-Transit-to-enjoy-a-sneaky-thermos-of-tea-and-some-crime-scene-custard-creams, they’d been forced to lumber back and forth, humping blue plastic evidence crates.
Muttering and grumbling.
Casting dark glances at the big black Range Rover that had joined the party, parked on the long grass between the main road and the lay-by.
But at least they didn’t have to deal with Chief Superintendent Bloody Pine. Because the woman was one of nature’s haemorrhoids on the Great Hoop Of Life.
Roberta worked her way along the cordon’s edge, putting one heel in front of the other toe, pacing it out in a wobbly fashion.
Vape in one hand, phone in the other. ‘Well, what am I supposed to do about it? No’ my fault these scumbags loaded all that rubbish up to YouTube and the like.
Don’t remember them asking my permission. ’
‘Really?’ Pine had one of those cut-glass I-went-to-a-posh-school accents that almost managed to cover up the razor-gang Weegie-Glaswegian beneath. ‘You could at least’ve blocked their view! Honestly.’
‘What do you think I was doing, auditioning for Strictly?’ A sniff. ‘Doesn’t matter anyway – it’s out there now. No point getting your perky wee bum in a twist.’
Roberta kicked a tangled clump of unmown grass to emphasise the point, only there must’ve been a wee stone hiding in there, because it flew off the toe of her Doc Marten, soared through the air . . . and clunked against that black Range Rover’s immaculate flank.
Oops . . .
‘I’m still clearing up after the weekend’s brouhaha, do you really think I need another dead body to deal with?’
Quick left and right: scanning the fog to make sure no one saw that. ‘Oh, I am sorry. If you like, I can ask the Ice Queen to stuff all those bones back in the bin and stick it out for collection? We’ll forget aaaaall about it.’
‘You know exactly what I meant.’
Roberta wandered towards the probably completely uninjured vehicle. ‘And “brouhaha”? Who says “brouhaha”?’
‘Half the force was already off sick, and now another chunk are too injured to work! How am I supposed to run A Division with no officers?’
Oh poor Chief Superintendent Pine.
‘Let’s no’ forget all the brave souls, like me, who came in on their rest day to help out.’ In horrible itchy trousers.
With blistering hangovers.
Though it was probably best not to mention that bit.
Or the fact that all the cool kids called it ‘NE Division’ these days, cos ‘A Division’ was for oldies and wankers.
Soon as she got to the Range Rover, Roberta had another quick check to make sure no one was watching, before examining the paintwork for damage.
‘Yes, well . . . The important thing is to keep the public safe.’ Pine cleared her throat. ‘Are we sure this is a murder?’
‘Unless you think someone got naked, smashed their own teeth out with a claw-hammer, chopped their fingers off, then clambered into a lay-by bin to die? Yeah, probably.’
Oooh. There it was: a knuckle-sized dent, with a curved scratch leading off from it.
She licked her thumb and rubbed at the tortured paint.
Yeah . . . that wasn’t going anywhere.
‘I wouldn’t normally assign a case like this to anyone under the rank of DCI.’
Time to vacate the scene of the crime.
‘But . . .?’ Sneaking away.
‘Needs must, when the Devil dances. However, if you don’t feel up to the task, I’m sure DI Beattie—’
‘Oh no you bloody don’t! That glaikit beardy jobbie couldn’t investigate his bum for arse-berries; you’re no’ giving him my murder.’
That pwong-twang noise grew again, followed by the diesel growl of the 08:02 from Insch station, heading Aberdeenward. The train emerged from the fog – every single carriage window was packed with silhouettes, and they all had their phones out, filming.
Kind of hard not to give the buggers a middle finger, but she resisted. Cos let’s face it: things were bad enough.
A suspicious tone slithered into Pine’s voice. ‘What was that noise?’
‘Noise, Boss? I didn’t hear anything . . .’ The train dissolved into the gloom again. ‘Besides, I’ve been a DCI. Fatty McFart-Face couldn’t—’
‘Then it’s settled. The media’s already frottaged itself into a frenzy over the protest; a decomposed, naked body, stuffed in a wheelie bin will have them in orgasmic wanks of outrage.’
Oh aye?
‘I love it when you talk dirty.’ Roberta headed for the police van. ‘If I say yes to this, I get a proper-sized team, right?’
No answer.
‘Right?’
‘Sorry, got to go: Chief Constable’s on the other line. I want updates on my desk every hour on the hour, understand? Good. Bye.’ Then silence.
Roberta pursed her lips, squinting at her phone as it glowed the words ‘CALL ENDED’.
‘Aye, thought as much.’ She stuffed it back in her pocket and struck one of those superhero poses – legs akimbo, shoulders back, fists on hips. ‘Well, Roberta: looks like solving this one’s down to you, the boy, and your trusty Queen Street Irregulars!’
Sniff.
What could possibly go wrong?
Her stomach replied with a gurgling snarl.
It’d been a long time since it last saw solid food: two hotdogs; two cheeseburgers; some ribs; chicken wings; and a glollop of tattie salad, because it was important to have your five-a-day.
Washed down with a wee sherry or two, in the blistering sunshine of Logan McRae’s back garden.
Joined by all the other reprobates who’d survived Saturday’s ‘protest-cum-riot’.
Speaking of reprobates and idiots: Tufty emerged from the milky mist, hands tucked into the armpits of his stabproof, frowning at the Airwave handset clipped to his chest. ‘Guv.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
The wee loon shrugged. ‘Still nothing from Harmsworth and Gifford.’ He turned, looking out over the rosebay willowherb at the woods behind the railway line. ‘Sure they’re OK?’
‘This is officially my case now.’
‘Maybe we should go after them?’
‘They’ll be fine.’ She lowered her voice to a near whisper, leaning in, all conspiratorial like. ‘Besides, I’ve got a special, top-secret, super-important mission for you . . .’
Steel slouched in one of the police van’s bench seats – sitting sideways, with her feet up, scowling at the bollocks passing for journalism in that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner.
Headline: ‘RIOT CHAOS GRIPS CITY CENTRE’, above a photo of the running battle down Union Street, featuring a small group of police officers in full riot gear – hunkered behind their shields as projectiles and fireworks rained down and smoke bombs turned the air blue and red.
She gave the front page a snort, shook the paper, then opened it halfway through, at an article titled, ‘MURDOCH IRVINE’S FUNERAL KICKS OFF BY-ELECTION’ with a picture of a spud-faced tosser who thought big sideburns compensated for an oversized baldy head that made him look like an infected thumb.
‘POLITICAL PARTIES SCRAMBLE AS CAMPAIGN TO REPLACE MP FOR GORDON AND BUCHAN HOTS UP’.
As if anyone cared.
Roberta pulled out a biro and drew a big willy growing out of the dear departed Mr Irvine’s forehead. Then blacked out a couple of his teeth. And added a bolt through his neck, for good luck.
Pfff . . .
She sat up, peering over the seats and out through the van’s windows.
The fog was finally beginning to thin as the sun baked its way through the outer layers. Making the lay-by glow a brighter shade of horrible grey.
Like being inside a big stinky cloud.
Still no sign of Harmsworth, though. Or anyone else. The lay-by was deserted.
Next article: ‘CITY COUNCILLOR “CAUGHT STD OFF RENTBOY” CLAIMS’ and another infected-thumb-head. What was it with politicians and their—
The van door clunked open and in clambered Tufty. A little red in the face and shiny of cheek. As if he’d actually been working hard for a change. ‘Flipping, blipping thingummy.’
He undid his high-vis waistcoat and flapped the edges – as if that was going to do any good through a stabproof vest. Twit.
Steel gave the dirty councillor a few biro scars and a twirly moustache. Then held her hand out. ‘Give.’
‘“Top-secret mission”, my bunghole.’ Tufty sagged into the seat opposite. ‘And the Pitstop doesn’t open on a Monday, thank you very much. It am officially an Food-Free Zone.’
‘Oh for God’s . . .’ She scrunched her face up and covered it with the paper. ‘Could today get any worse?’
‘There I was, standing outside the Party Bus, all bereft and so forlorn—’
‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!’ Roberta slumped back. ‘The universe hates me.’
‘When a mannie does arrived to check something inside, and he tells me,’ putting on a deep manlier voice for: ‘“We don’t open Monday–Tuesday.”’
‘I should’ve copped a sickie and stayed in bed.’
Weren’t a hangover and a murder enough to deal with?
‘“Oh noes!” cried I, with dejected hopelessness.’ Tufty did the voice again: ‘“You’ll have to come back Wednesday,” he replied.’
‘Wasn’t even supposed to be in today. Should be at home right now, snoring it up.’
‘“Lackaday, woe is me,” thinks I, “whatever shall I do? For the Guv will shout at me in a totally unreasonable fashion for this unfortunate happenstance what am completely not my fault.”’
She crumpled the paper into her lap. ‘If those bumlumping shunts had turned up when they were supposed to, we would’ve had a working sauna by now, instead of a sodding building site! Could’ve steamed the hangover right out of me . . .’
All naked and sweaty.