Chapter 6 #3
‘It’s unbelievable. How could anyone have so much .
. . hate in them? She’s only twenty-one!
’ Squaring up to Roberta, Miss Milky used her carton to gesture at the protesters.
‘These bastards’ve been turning up, every couple of weeks.
We keep complaining about it, but no one does anything.
What’s the point of having a police force if they don’t do anything?
’ Righteous and indignant. Then a sigh, a sag, and a shrug. ‘I apologise. That was unfair.’
She stuck a milky hand out for shaking. ‘Emma Dornoch: I’m running to take Gordon and Buchan from the Tories, in the by-election .
. . That’s the plan, anyway.’ She squatted down beside Billie, tears glittering in her eyes as she brushed a strand of hair away from that pale motionless face.
‘Billie’s been volunteering here off-and-on since Christmas.
Doing an MA in Philosophy, Politics and Economics at Aberdeen University; lives with her mum and dad in Ferryhill.
I’ve got her home address somewhere, in case you need to .
. .’ Shuddering. ‘Suppose I should be the one who tells them what’s happened. ’
Roberta looked up at the campaign office, with its piggy snout and ‘VOTE FOR ME!’ signs. Scanning the frontage for a telltale camera. ‘You got CCTV?’
There it was – mounted just above and to the left of the front door . . . Only the wires dangled loose, snipped clean through.
A bitter laugh snorted free. ‘Coincidentally enough, it gets vandalised every night before these knuckle-dragging, middle-aged gristle-wanks turn up with their placards.’ Dornoch stuck her nose in the air. ‘We complain about that too, but nothing happens.’
Of course it sodding didn’t.
Why did people think there were an infinite number of police officers, ready to rush round at a moment’s notice to pounce on every little annoyance and minor infraction committed against them?
Bring the full weight of the law to bear, with fingerprints and DNA and stakeouts and surveillance and round-the-clock foot patrols . . .?
But if you policed everything they did, no matter how small, they’d be screaming about a fascist state and overreach and ‘My tax pays your wages!’
Should be grateful Roberta turned up at all.
This wee street would be knee-deep in bodies if she hadn’t taken charge and sprayed the buggers.
Couldn’t say any of that though, could you.
Not unless you wanted a lecture from Professional Standards and a two-week training course on Securing Positive Outcomes When Dealing With Awkward Bastard Members Of The Public.
So, instead, Roberta went for a more tactful approach. ‘Aye, well: get your arse elected and double our sodding budget. You think policing’s—’
A screech of brakes sounded behind her, and Roberta whipped around. About time that bloody ambulance . . .
But it wasn’t an ambulance, it was a fancy dark-grey BMW. One of the electric ones, where you could run old ladies over without the engine noise tipping them off. It slithered to a halt, just outside Tufty’s cordon, and the passenger door popped open.
Out stepped a stylish middle-aged woman, dressed for a business casual lunch/affair with her stockbroker and/or tennis coach.
Understated jewellery. Thick brown wavy hair that brushed her shoulders.
Boot heels clacking against the tarmac as she ducked beneath the blue-and-white tape and marched down the middle of the road, towards them.
Emma Dornoch stood. ‘Claire!’
A posh accent: ‘Came, soon as I heard.’ Completely ignoring Roberta, Posh Claire locked in on Mr Rainbow-Tie. ‘Frank, oh my God, is she OK?’
Rainbow Frank blinked back tears and shook his head. Not saying anything.
Why did everyone keep asking the same old stupid questions?
‘Hoy!’ Roberta clambered upright, glowering at Mrs Posh-Bits, then flinging a finger at the tape. ‘Cordon. Other side.’
There was a moment of blinking and chin in, as if processing this bizarre request. Then the woman’s hand came out for shaking. ‘Claire Fordyce, MSP.’
‘Do I look like I sodding care? Get your arse out my crime scene, now.’
The hand was withdrawn.
Emma Dornoch – Better For Scotland – tried a more diplomatic tone. ‘Officer . . .?’
But Roberta maintained a steely silence.
‘OK.’ She tried again. ‘Claire, is my . . . well, mentor. She’s been so kind, helping us put together a campaign in only a couple of—’
‘Still don’t care.’ Roberta stepped closer. ‘Either you get your stylish bum on the other side of that sodding cordon, or I arrest it. In five.’
Claire Fordyce pulled on a photogenic smile. ‘We appear to have gotten off on the wrong foot,’ peering at Roberta’s epaulettes, ‘Inspector, isn’t it?’
‘Four.’
The smile slipped a little. ‘Surely there’s no need for hostility, Inspector, I’m only here to support—’
‘Three.’ Putting a bit of darkness in it.
‘Look, I recommended Billie for Emma’s team, it’s—’
‘Two.’
Took a while, but eventually it must’ve sunk through that four-inch-thick posh-person skull of hers, because she backed away.
‘All right, all right, I’m going, I’m going.
’ Then, Claire Fordyce, MSP, turned on her heel and clacked off again.
Making a big show of ducking under the cordon, followed by a pantomime ‘You happy now?’ gesture.
Emma Dornoch sighed. ‘Was that really necessary?’
‘Every bugger watches TV cop shows, but no one understands how forensics work.’ Roberta hauled up her trousers. ‘Coming in here, prancing about like Lady Muck. It’s a crime scene!’
‘Maybe that’s because she actually is? A lady, I mean.
’ Dornoch pointed at the BMW, where an older gentleman – with fashionably long, swept-back grey hair and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard – was emerging from the driver’s side.
Playing up the silver-fox image in a suit that probably cost more than Roberta’s car.
And a watch worth more than she made in a year.
With a fancy-foreign-holiday tan and teeth an unnatural shade of pearly white.
‘That’s her husband: Sir Norman Fordyce. ’
Sir Norman strode to his wife’s side and gave her a wee comforting hug. Before pointing at the Polo-Shirts and the T-Shirts. Then whipped out his phone – casting angry glances in Roberta’s direction as he talked and paced.
Yeah . . . that probably wasn’t good.
He was exactly the kind of prick who had friends in high places.
And, as if to prove the power of the Mighty Sir Norman Fartface, a siren whoop-whoop-whooped in the distance. Getting louder, fast. For verily, his mere presence hath summon-ed an ambulance.
About sodding time.