Chapter 7
Roberta leapt for the lowest branch . . . and had no more success grabbing it than Tufty had. She jerked a thumb at the thing. ‘Would you . . .?’
But instead of clambering up the tree, Gifford hunched down and stirruped her hands.
Oh for God’s—
‘GUV! GUV, COME QUICKLY!’
Sod it.
Roberta stuck her foot into the offered hands and was boosted up to within grabbing reach – hauling herself onto the branch.
Which was a lot higher than it looked from the ground.
Then inched her way along to the trunk and reached for the next limb.
Moving with all due care and attention, not wanting to join Harmsworth in the Plummeting-Out-Of-A-Tree-Club.
‘GUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-UV! QUICK!’
‘Snudging heck . . .’
Faster – scrambling through the jaggy branches, boots fighting for purchase, almost losing her footing and crashing to the forest floor below. ‘Hold on! I’m coming!’
She struggled and clambered from branch to branch, until Tufty’s legs finally appeared through the needles above her.
‘GUV!’
One last heave and her head poked above the raggedy collection of brown-and-green prickles, bringing her eye to eye with the wee loon.
Sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades, gathering like a monsoon beneath her bra. Breath rasping like gravel in a tumble drier. ‘What? . . . What’s wrong? . . . Are you . . . you OK?’
But the idiot wasn’t dying. Instead, he beamed like a proud parent and pointed at the scruffy bowl of sticks and dry grass and twigs and scraps of plastic bag, three crisp packets, and a couple of straws that now sat between them. A nest. Complete with four coal-black puffballs.
Tufty made ta-daaaaa hand gestures. ‘Look! Like teeny tiny Goth ducklings, with sharp pointy beaks!’
Her mouth pinched. Eyes bugging. ‘YOU DRAGGED ME ALL THE WAY UP HERE FOR . . . THAT?’ Reaching across the nest to wallop him. ‘I THOUGHT YOU WERE DYING!’
‘Ow!’ Retreating on his branch. ‘No, look, Guv. How often do you get to see baby crows? Plus, I kinda need someone to lift them out the way, so I can search the nest.’ He pulled off his leather gloves and snapped on a pair of blue nitriles instead. ‘Ready?’
‘I climbed a bloody tree!’
‘That’s another pound in—’
‘Don’t you sodding dare!’ Getting her walloping hand ready for another bash.
‘OK! OK. Right. Anyway . . .?’ Gesturing at the chicks.
Really hard not to add another tenner to the swear jar right now. But she swallowed it down, reached out, and plucked a chick from the nest.
The wee thing chirrrped and scraiked and wriggled, opening its beak to show off a bright-red gob.
Yeah . . .
Suppose they were kind of cute. And extremely fuzzy.
Using her elbows, Roberta braced herself against the branch and scooped up the other three chicks. Holding them in her cupped hands as they complained and swore and demanded food.
Tufty peered into the empty nest. ‘Bingorama . . .’ He took a couple of snaps with his phone, then popped it back in his stabproof, before unfurling a clear plastic evidence bag.
High overhead, something gave an angry cawwwwwww!
Steel looked up – a pair of tattered bin-bag shapes whirled above them. Looking very unhappy. ‘Tufty . . .?’
He reached into the nest and plucked something small from the feathery bottom. Dropped it in his bag. Then something else.
The circling crows stopped circling and dive-bombed Roberta, shrieking and cawing, wings clattering against her face on the way past. And ducking didn’t help.
‘Tufty!’
Pluck, pluck, pluck. ‘Almost there . . .’
The second crow joined in, swooping at her head, claws out, beak flashing.
Roberta’s peaked cap went flying, tumbling down, bouncing off branches on the way, leaving her floppy, unstyled hair on show.
And yes, technically it was a fancy new do: trimmed tight at the sides and back, getting longer and darker as it rose – from grey at the nape of her neck, to a crashing wave of thick hazelnut curls, sweeping forwards.
But when you were dragged from your bed at half-six in the morning, with a screaming mariachi hangover, who the hell had the energy to faff about with tongs and mousse and hairspray and all that bollocks?
She pulled her ears in to her hunched shoulders as Crow Number One returned for another go. ‘GHAAAAAAAGH!’
Pluck, pluck, pluck. ‘Almost there . . .’
Number Two Crow clattered into the back of her head, pecking and screeching.
‘GETOFF-GETOFF-GETOFF-GETOFF-GETOFF!’
PC Gifford’s voice belted up from down below. ‘ARE YOU TWO OK?’
‘DO WE BLOODY SOUND OK?’
Number One landed on her shoulder, claws raking, beak grabbing at lumps of hair. ‘BUGGER OFF YOU WEEE SHITES!’
Tufty had one final rummage. ‘And we’re done!’
Thank God for that.
Roberta plonked the babies back in their nest and covered her head with both arms as the dive-bombing continued. ‘I PUT THEM BACK! I PUT THEM BACK!’
‘OK.’ Tufty pocketed the evidence bag and produced a grease-spotted paper one instead – pulling out the two sausages he’d nicked. Waving them in the air, like an airport marshal guiding a 747 to its gate.
The crows battered Roberta with their wings, pecking away as Tufty poked both sausages into the nest, so they stuck up like excited willies.
Which the babies immediately attacked.
And that seemed to be enough of a distraction to stop the adults pecking a hole in Roberta’s skull. At least temporarily . . .
Tufty grimaced at her. ‘Cheese it!’ And he was off, scrambling away down the tree.
Roberta blinked. ‘What?’
Crow Number One craaawwwwwwwwed at her – ready for another assault.
‘Arrgh . . .’
Sod this.
She hurried after him.
Roberta picked a chunk of pine needles from her itchy black trousers and clambered over the railway fence. Limping along the potholed tarmac towards the SOC tent.
Stupid bloody crows . . .
The fog had thinned a bit while they were away playing Plank The Sausage, and now not only was the other side of the A96 visible, but the view stretched halfway across the field beyond. A grey-green swathe of barley, waiting for the sun to finally break through.
Someone had been busy with the blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape too, cordoning off the entire lay-by and putting cones on the other side of the road to discourage parking.
Which hadn’t stopped a handful of journalists from loitering about on the grass verge opposite – smoking cigarettes and sharing a thermos of tea. Cameras at the ready in case anything juicy occurred.
None of whom seemed to have clocked her crow-pecked, forest-wearing, ankle-twisted scruffitude. Yet.
At least Roberta’s recovered hat hid her haystack hairdo and all the bleeding welts left behind by those pointy-beaked bastard birds.
Tufty followed her over the fence, with his bag-o’-things in one hand, and twigs poking out of his stabproof.
The only one of them that didn’t look like she’d been dragged through a garden centre backwards was PC Gifford. Blinking and yawning and shuddering as she shuffled along, bringing up the rear.
At the SOC tent, Roberta slumped, then knocked on the door-flap. ‘SHOP!’
Gifford showed off all her fillings again, then gave a little post-yawn burp. ‘Urgh . . .’
‘You look like poop.’
‘Thanks, Guv.’ She ran an eye over Roberta, but wisely kept any smart remarks to herself.
Over on the far side of the road, those journos’ cameras were watching them. Snapping away.
‘Go on.’ Roberta hooked a thumb at the nearest police vehicle. ‘Sod off out of it. Go home. Get some sleep. No use to anyone if you fall asleep at the wheel of a patrol car doing ninety.’
‘But—’
‘Detective Inspector’s orders. And take your mate, PC Lanky McBig-Head with you.’
Another yawn. Then a nod. ‘Thanks, Guv.’
Tufty watched Gifford slouch off, then nudged Roberta in the ribs. ‘Look at you: doing a nice thing for someone.’ A grin. ‘Must be going soft in your golden years. Well, golden months. Weeks?’ He pulled on an innocent face. ‘How long until you do has a retirement again?’
‘Shut up.’
She gave the tent another chap, and the marquee’s flap flipped open, as if the person inside had been lurking, waiting for the second knock. Ready to pounce.
Sheila Dalrymple: a bony thing, made of broomsticks and twigs, with a wide flat face. Wearing glasses under her safety goggles. She was in the full SOC kit, the fingers of her purple-nitrile gloves constantly in motion. Like twin spiders. Searching for something.
She gave Tufty a creepy smile and Roberta a wee bow. ‘Hail and well met, fellow travellers on the journey to knowledge and justice! Of what service may I be today?’
Roberta groaned. ‘It’s no’ gonna be another one of these days, is it, Sheila?’
‘If it’s an update on progress thou seek, then I can confidently predict that my mistress and I shall be about our foul task for many an hour yet.
The remains of this poor individual are numerous and scattered, and ensuring neither bone nor scrap of flesh evade our attentions is a challenging task indeed! ’
Why could nobody normal work for Police Scotland?
‘Aye, OK. Is your mummy in?’
She put her head on one side. ‘Professor McAllister is currently consumed by the task in hand and regrets that she is unable to attend to thy needs. Hence: my humble presence before thee now.’ Another bow.
‘Got something for you.’ Roberta gave Tufty a gentle thump and he held out the evidence bag.
‘We has been a-rummaging!’
‘Crows’ nest, up in the woods. Might be some of your missing bits.’
Sheila took it, turning the thing over and over in her spidery hands.
‘Ah, most interesting indeed. Are these metacarpals I see before me? And I do believe that’s a hamate, a lunate, scaphoid, and .
. . a rib. Third rib, left-hand side, I’ll wager.
’ It curled across most of the bag, pushing the plastic tight.
‘No idea what that bit is, though. Or that.’
‘You’re welcome.’
More peering. ‘I shall convey these to my mistress, forthwith.’
Roberta made her sign the chain of evidence form printed on the bag first. Then pocketed the pen. ‘PM?’