Chapter 5 #2
‘Yes, Guv.’ Hurrying off to do what he was told.
Leaving her alone in the graveyard – except for the dead – looking at an empty street, with its puddle of dark scarlet glittering on the tarmac.
What a bloody day . . .
Inverurie police station was a chunky barrel-roofed lump of beige and grey-brown that looked more like a cleaning-services company on the outskirts of a cut-price industrial estate than Scotland Yard.
If it weren’t for the blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ sign mounted on the wall, you might never guess it was a vital cog in the criminal-justice machine . . .
Roberta’s MX-5 was the only car parked out front, even though there were loads of spaces – maybe because everyone was off with the lurgy, or maybe because Inverurie was more of a sprawling commuter town than a bustling crime-filled metropolis.
A modest Morrisons sat on the other side of the road, with its supermarket petrol station, and advertising banners promising two-for-one deals on doughnuts, cakes, and biscuits. Which mattered as it was officially time for elevenses and ages since Roberta’s sausage-bacon-and-egg butty.
Surprised she wasn’t wasting away, right now.
A tractor grumbled by on the road, hauling a bogie full of sheep. Off on some sort of sheepy adventure.
She toasted them with her vape, then sagged back against the MX-5 and blew a plume of black-cherry steam at the sky.
Contrails crossed the cloudless blue, following some high-flying intercontinental plane.
Jammy, holidaying bum-rummlers.
Sighing, she slumped even further. Puffed out her cheeks. Scowled at the posted petrol and diesel prices on the big supermarket sign opposite – because nothing ever got cheaper these days – then dug out her phone and thumbed a text to Susan:
Having a sodding lovely day at work.
On the plus side: held baby crows.
Minus: got attacked by their parents, pooped on, found a stinky skeleton, then some poor girl got stabbed.
SEND.
Hmm . . . Maybe that came off a bit whingey.
To soften the blow, she added a second one:
Can we have something nice for tea? In need of a boost. And booze. And chips.
Or how about Chinese? Or
Her phone ding-buzzed in her hands before she could finish.
Incoming message.
Which earned a smile. Good old Susan – no doubt replying to that first text with words of love, understanding, and support. And maybe a saucy pic of her boobs?
Only it wasn’t Susan.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
Any luck with those number plates?
Bloody Ex-DS Wee Davey McLeod.
Cheeky bugger. Like she hadn’t got more important things to do?
She hissed a few more gouts of fruity steam at the contrails.
Watched some cars go by.
Then an auld wifie with a Dalmatian.
Maybe she should send someone over to Morrisons for some tasty baked treats? A custard slice would go down a—
‘Guv?’
Ah well, suppose it was too good to last.
Roberta had one last puff of black cherry. Then turned.
Only it wasn’t Tufty this time. Instead, a partially collapsed shed of a man squinted back at her – broad of shoulder and square of head, with an expression that implied he was in a permanent state of constipated puzzlement.
A PC’s uniform, and a beak big enough to qualify him as an honorary crow.
He almost came to attention. ‘Guv? That’s everyone booked in and processed. ’
‘You get them all in the cells?’
‘Nah. The polo-shirt tossers are banged up, but half the kids are in the canteen getting glowered at by Shaky.’
The name sounded familiar, but no idea why. That was police nicknames for you, every bugger had one.
‘Meh . . .’ She stretched her neck from side to side, making it crickle-crack. ‘Wanted to do the kids first anyway. Pick one and stick it in an interview room.’
‘Yeah. Can’t really do that till they’ve seen a solicitor, Guv. You know: procedure and all that.’ Throwing in a wee shrug and a pained smile.
‘Oh for . . .’ She put her vape away. ‘Fine, we’ll do it your way.’ Then stomped off towards the main doors.
The station canteen looked like every police canteen in the country, with only a couple of framed pictures of Bennachie and some hairy-coo paintings to let you know that this little slice of soulless misery lay in Aberdeenshire.
Grey terrazzo floor, Formica tables, blue plastic chairs.
A machine for crisps and other ‘healthy’ snacks, and another for cold fizzy drinks – most of which seemed to contain enough caffeine to make a colony of sloths vibrate for a month.
Throw in some uninspiring tea-and-coffee-making facilities, and a full-sized fridge covered in posters – ‘DON’T STEAL FOOD FROM OTHER OFFICERS!’ and ‘THIEVES BELONG IN THE CELLS ~ NOT THE CANTEEN!!!’ and the picture was complete.
Four of Emma Dornoch’s campaign youngsters sat at individual tables, each in a different corner of the room. Presumably to stop them coordinating their stories.
A couple of T-Shirts held ice packs to sore jaws and bruised knuckles, the other pair had piles of canteen napkins on their tables, dabbing away at bloody noses.
They were watched over by a lanky PC with an unfeasibly large head.
That would be PC Stratford, from the lay-by earlier.
Standing there, arms folded, glaring at everyone.
Only ever seen him in the distance, through the fog, but up close he boasted a flattened nub of a nose, and a mean slit of a mouth.
Bet he was fun at parties . . .
He nodded at the PC who’d fetched Roberta in from the car park. ‘Disco.’
Disco nodded back. ‘Shaky.’
Roberta marched into the middle of the room and clapped her hands twice.
Demanding attention. ‘Listen up: you want out of here? You talk to me.’ Making eye contact with every last one of the buggers.
‘You want to spend the rest of today stuck here, in a manky police canteen, waiting for a spare cell? Don’t cooperate. ’
The T-Shirts glanced at each other. Fidgeted in their seats. Looking shifty. No doubt waiting to see who cracked first.
Then one in the far corner put her hand up – a somewhat dowdy, mid-twenties, teacher’s-assistant type. The kind of young woman who was probably ‘at home in a cardigan’, wink, wink. With a saltire badge on her T-shirt, and a haircut that had to be a cry for help.
She didn’t say anything, though. Just sat there.
‘You volunteering?’
Her chin came up. ‘We have the right to talk to a lawyer first.’
Roberta tilted her head on one side. Giving her a good lonnnnnnnnng look. ‘You got a lawyer?’
‘But . . .’ The hand sank. ‘I mean, don’t you have to provide one?’
Roberta clicked her fingers and Shaky stepped forward:
‘Cos of all the illness, and the riots, there’s only one duty solicitor for the whole northeast. Probably won’t be here for hours and hours.’ A grim smile. ‘Maybe not till tomorrow morning.’
‘Or you can talk to me.’ Roberta turned and marched from the room. ‘Take your pick.’