Chapter 8
The sausage-thieving twunt-wad was waiting for her by the fence that ran along the back of the lay-by. He’d got himself some backup, in the person of that spotty PC from before, who sported the same underbrush accessories as Harmsworth. Only with more bird poop.
She was munching on the last bacon butty, presumably by way of compensation for being shat on.
Roberta marched over there, hauling her trousers up with one hand, disembowelled butty clutched in the other. And yes, it still had two eggs in it, but that wasn’t the point. She let go of her trousers and shook a fist at the culprit. ‘Sausages, now, you skunk-faced . . . pridge!’
PC Spots curled her top lip. ‘Eh?’
Tufty hid behind her. ‘We’re not allowed to swear, because of reasons, so everyone has to make up their own naughty words.’
Harmsworth lumbered over, picking bits of bracken out of his stabproof. ‘Maybe everyone should just calm—’
‘HE STOLE MY SAUSAGES!’
‘For the greater good, Guv.’ Tufty eyed the unsausaged roll in her hand. ‘You know, we should donate that one to PC Stratford. Only fair, as he hasn’t . . .’
Roberta took a big spiteful bite. Getting yolk all down her chin – a double-booby-trap butty being hard to control.
He pursed his lips. ‘Fair enough.’ Then checked his watch. ‘Any minute now . . .’
She shook that fist again. ‘You’re asking for a boot, right up the Farage!’
Silence.
Tufty looked at her, as if she’d just crapped on a kitten. ‘Someone’s dead, Guv.’
She opened her mouth to rip the scrawny wee tit a new bumhole . . . then frowned and shut it again.
Sodding hell.
He might be a scrawny wee tit, but he was right.
Roberta drooped, hiding the bitten butty behind her back.
‘I know.’ Turned to frown at the marquee.
‘But . . . when it’s a fresh body it’s still a person, you know?
When you’ve got nothing left but sludge and bones .
. . When it happened a long, long time ago .
. .’ A big sigh. ‘Somehow, doesn’t feel as real. ’
Urgh . . .
Way to go, Roberta. Way to be an absolute prize prick. An insensitive arsehole. A rancid wank-numptie.
That pre-chewed butty hung heavy in her hand, like it was made of concrete and buttered with shame.
‘Sorry.’ She held it out to Harmsworth. ‘Here. Give it to Constable Whatshisface.’
Harmsworth accepted the proffered butty. Paused. Licked his lips – clearly contemplating just wolfing it himself. Then puffed out his cheeks and wandered off. Hopefully looking for PC Stratford, rather than a safe spot to gorge.
Tufty beamed. ‘Thanks, Guv.’ He checked his watch again. ‘Here we go . . .’
Those familiar twing-spwong-twanggggg noises rang out, getting louder, before a three-carriage train rattle-clacked past – going the other way this time, heading south to Inverurie.
It was standing-room only onboard, and the windows were full of commuters – staring at the lay-by as they passed. Phones out. Looking disappointed that there was nothing gory on show.
Then the fog swallowed the train again, and the noise faded. Till nothing but the whispering grey blanket remained.
Tufty pointed over the fence, towards the woods. ‘Operation Find-Crows’-Nest-And-Not-Get-Pooped-On is go!’ He hopped over the chain-link, followed by PC McAcne. Then held a hand out for Roberta.
Yeah, because there was nothing she wanted more than to go wading through the sodding forest underbrush looking for crows that must have diarrhoea – going by the amount of crap on Harmsworth and the spotty PC’s shoulders.
But it was a murder investigation.
More importantly, it was her murder investigation.
Groan . . .
‘Fine.’
The pair of them helped her clamber over the waist-high fence, and off they set across the train tracks . . .
Fog turned the woods into a horror-film mass of spooky silence and ominous gloom.
The trees weren’t in regimented Forestry Commission rows, but a mixed jumble, stretching uphill and fading away like ghosts.
Filled with a sort of . . . expectant hush, only broken by the snap and crackle of twigs beneath their feet as Roberta and Tufty followed Police Constable Acne through damp bracken and grumpy blaeberry bushes.
Which was kind of mean.
Sure the PC had an actual name.
Had she said what it was?
Must’ve.
Bet Tufty knew.
The unnamed PC had her phone out – swinging it around as she looked up at the trees, consulting the map on her screen every few paces.
Probably suffered from acne her whole life.
Wasn’t fair to make fun of it.
Well, it was, but that didn’t make it right.
PC Lots’A-Spots did a three-sixty, eyes raking the ghostly canopy. ‘Not far now.’
Roberta struggled through a waist-high curl of bracken. ‘You said you were closest: when the call came in?’
‘Yeah. Me and Shaky – I mean, PC Stratford – we were over Oldmeldrum way. Attempted rape.’
‘“Attempted”?’
A nod. ‘Local tosser snuck in through the garage when the victim’s husband headed off to work. Nips upstairs while she’s in the shower. Hides. Then jumps her as she’s getting ready.’ A huge grin ripped across the PC’s face. ‘Did you know you can circumcise someone with hair straighteners?’
Tufty winced. ‘Oooh . . .’
‘Yup, that ironed out his short-and-curlies. Was still screaming when the ambulance took him off.’ Shrug. ‘So we were only twenty minutes away.’ Swinging her phone about again. ‘Would’ve been ten, if it weren’t for the fog. . . . Aha! Here we go.’
They stopped at the base of a big pine tree, that disappeared up into the grey murk. A couple of branches were distinctly lopsided and bent on one side of the trunk, with a broken limb at the bottom – directly above a big flattened oval of bracken.
Looked as if Harmsworth might’ve got down the fast way.
Everyone peered overhead, into the pine’s spiky canopy. Not doing anything.
So Roberta poked Tufty. ‘Up you go.’
‘Pfff . . .’ A nod. Then he took off his hat and handed it to her. ‘That’s a big tree for a little person.’ Pulling on a pair of leather gloves. ‘Come on, brave Sir Tufty, you can does it!’
Deep breath and he jumped for the lowest branch – which was a good bit higher than the one Harmsworth presumably broke off on his plummet downward – and failed.
Jumping and reaching and jumping and fumbling and jumping and jumping and jumping.
Wee arms scrabbling in the air above his head, like a small cat trying to catch a dangled toy.
It wasn’t dignified.
‘Oh in the name of . . .’ Roberta hooked a finger at the PC, and together they gave the daft wee sod a boost, up to the lowest unbroken branch.
‘Hurrah for the intrepid Sir Tufty!’ And he was away: clambering up the tree, monkey-style.
Roberta’s phone ding-buzzed: incoming text.
Three number plates from an unknown caller.
That would be Wee Davey McLeod, then.
Well, he could sodding well wait.
Roberta put her phone away. ‘Your victim: she OK?’
‘Pissed off we wouldn’t let her take the straighteners to Mr Rapey’s balls too. I was all for it, but Shaky took pity, cos of the third-degree burns all over the guy’s “bishop’s hat”.’
A big smile. ‘If you get that bit off, you can feed it to your cat.’
The PC raised an eyebrow.
‘You kinda had to be there.’ Sniff. ‘Listen . . .?’ Leaving a wee pregnant pause with a question mark at the end.
‘Gifford, ma’am.’
High above, the rustle-crack of a short-arse police officer clambering up a tree died down, then stopped.
PC Gifford stared up into the canopy. ‘Generally “Michelle”, if I’m not in trouble.’
‘OK, Michelle. What happened with the check on our two spuds who found the body?’
‘Alice Moncrief and Scott Baird. Yeah. ANPR cameras got them on the bypass at ten past four this morning, so—’
‘SARGE?’ Tufty’s voice rattled down from above. ‘I MEAN: ACTING GUV? GET UP HERE QUICK!’
Sodding hell . . .