Chapter 3
Roberta poked the fake file, in an I-know-something-that-you-don’t kind of way. ‘And you didn’t see anything at all?’
Vivian Staybridge glowered back. Even with a monster scowl on, she was a perky wee treat to sit opposite.
About as short as Tufty, but a damn sight prettier.
Long dark hair and a small button nose, cheeks still holding on to a glow of puppy fat, and perfect plucked eyebrows.
Throw in the slender waist and pneumatic under-shirt bits, and she was the kind of young woman who headed off into the woods with her boyfriend at the start of a horror movie, only to be turned into kebabs mid-bonk by some mask-wearing psycho with a thing for boilersuits.
A scrape marred her forehead, already beginning to scab over, and both sets of knuckles were cracked and swollen. Unlike the three milky pricks they’d interviewed so far, she’d come from the cells not the canteen, and didn’t smell of rancid Fruit Corner.
And Tufty eyed her like she was an unexploded velociraptor.
‘You want to know what I saw?’ Vivian narrowed her lovely dark eyes. ‘I saw fascists trying to destroy the democratic process. I mean, are you surprised those misogynistic shites knifed a young woman?’ Her nostrils flared as she pointed at the wee loon. ‘Men!’
Roberta nodded. ‘Aye, they’re a constant source of delight. How come—’
‘And he touched my breasts!’
Eh?
‘The guy who stabbed Billie?’
‘No: him.’ Pointing at Tufty again. ‘Copping a feel when we were on the ground. Pervert!’
His cheeks went pink as a spanked bum. ‘No, no, no, no, no! I didn’t touch anybody’s . . .’ Doing his kicked-puppy look. ‘I was fighting for my life.’ Poking a retaliatory finger in Vivian’s direction. ‘She bites!’
And, to prove the point, her teeth flashed – snapping at Tufty’s finger, making him jerk it out of range with an unmanly ‘Eeeeek!’
Yeah . . . There was no way in hell the wee loon was groping anyone’s breasts, backside, or anything else. He’d die of embarrassment before he’d even got the first squeeze in.
Mind you, as boobs go, Vivian’s weren’t half—
‘And don’t think I haven’t noticed you staring at them too.’
Roberta prodded the file again. ‘If we can return to the riot? You assaulted a man while he was being handcuffed; do you no’ think—’
‘Here: I’ll save you the bother.’ Vivian grabbed the hem of her ‘EMMA DORNOCH ~ BETTER FOR SCOTLAND!’ T-shirt and whipped it up – revealing a lacy black bra.
Then whipped that up too, revealing its perky contents for them all to see.
Glaring over the top of her bunched clothing at Tufty, then Roberta. ‘Have a good look, you perverts!’
The wee loon covered his eyes. ‘Eeeek . . .’
Idiot.
Roberta, on the other hand, sat there in silence.
Taking it in for a good, lonnnnnnnnnnnng moment.
Because . . . well, you know . . . Then sighed.
‘Aye, very good. Now, put them away before the boy here blushes himself to death.’ A smile.
‘He’s no’ used to topless women who don’t have staples in their bellybuttons. ’
Vivian lowered her T-shirt, a frown pulling at her scabbed forehead. Tufty had the same puzzled expression.
Children.
There was a time when the newsagent’s top shelf – and funky-smelling bushes in the woods – were the only place to get X-rated material. What was the point of ogling a centrefold when you could download hardcore porn in 4K on your smartphone?
‘Never mind.’ Time to get back to the case again. ‘A wee birdie tells us you and Billie had a falling out.’
A snort from that cute button nose. ‘You have to have a falling in to have a falling out. She’s just jealous, because I’ve got—’
A knock on the door. Quickly followed by another couple. Urgent. Hurried.
Why could no bugger leave Roberta alone to do her job?
‘WHAT?’
Disco poked his head into the room, out of puff, with his face all flushed and sweaty. ‘Sorry, . . . Guv, . . . but there’s a . . . thing you might . . . might want to . . .’ Jerking his head at the corridor outside. ‘For a minute? . . . Please?’ Hopping from foot to foot.
So whatever it was, it was probably horrible.
Don’t swear.
Deep breath, growling it out. ‘Fine.’ Roberta checked her watch.
‘Interview suspended at twelve fifty-three.’ She stood and poked Tufty in the chest. ‘No funny business.’ Then turned to Vivian.
‘And you: keep them in your shirt.’ She marched after Disco.
Paused on the threshold. Looked back at Perky Miss Bites-A-Lot.
‘Oh, and if you can wheech your bra up over your boobs: it’s no’ fitted properly.
You need to get that seen to, or they’ll end up dangling round your knees. ’
Vivian froze, both hands up under her T-shirt, returning her breasts to their receptacle. Then a look of horror crawled across her pretty face as she contemplated the sagging to come.
Good.
Because life was nothing without a well-fitting and comfortable bra. Like Roberta’s trusty longtime companion: Old Faithful.
Roberta pinged the shoulder strap through her stretchy black Police-issue top, gave an imperious sniff, and stepped out into the corridor. Shut the door with a heavy thunk.
Trapping Tufty inside with Vivian.
Then turned . . .
Only Disco had already scurried halfway down the corridor, looking furtive as he opened one of the office doors and made ‘follow me!’ gestures.
Which was more than a bit suspicious, given he was breathing like a pervert in a sausage factory.
Well, if he thought he was in for some MeToo action he had another think approaching his knackers at warp factor boot.
She followed the wee prick into an incident room at the front of the building, overlooking the Morrisons opposite. Its car park and petrol station, baking in the noon sun.
Vacant desks lined two sides, separated by elbow-height blue cubicle walls, all of which looked ready for the skip.
A rash of Blu Tack acne infested the ceiling tiles in one corner, but other than that it looked virtually abandoned.
The fact that every single office chair in here was on the verge of collapse didn’t help.
Some were missing arms, or their back, others sat lopsided on absent castors – as if this was the place sickly seating came to die.
Doubt the carpet tiles would survive another winter.
Whiteboards dominated the wall by the door, but someone had been at them with a permanent marker and hadn’t managed to clean it off properly, leaving the ghosts of previous investigations behind.
And all of it coated in a furry layer of dust.
Disco limped into the middle of the room and crumpled, clutching his knee with one hand – arm locked to keep himself upright – while he wiped his sweaty face with the other. Puffing and panting.
Roberta readied her kicking boot. ‘This better be good.’
‘Oh, it’s not . . . not good . . . at all.’ He staggered over to the window, scanning the ground outside. Then must’ve found what he was looking for, because he pointed, backing away from the glass – as if trying not to be seen from below.
OK . . .
She sidled up next to him, standing on her tiptoes to peer out past the surfeit of dead wasps lined up along the windowsill, and into the station’s front car park.
Three new vehicles had joined her MX-5: a crusty rustbucket that used to be a VW Polo in a former life; a shiny red Porsche Boxter, with the top down; and a fancy, electric, dark-grey BMW.
A hunched, balding bloke wandered about in the far corner of the car park, on his phone, smoking.
Wearing a cheap-looking pair of suit trousers, a grey shirt – dark with sweat down the back – and a half-mast tie.
Top button undone. He’d dyed his hair shoe-polish black and scraped it from one ear to the other, straight across the top, which didn’t stop his bald pate gleaming through the strands.
He wasn’t alone out there, though: a sharp-dressed middle-aged man loitered by the Porsche. His linen suit contrasted with the open-necked blue shirt, big gold watch, and tousled brown hair. Definitely the kind of man who thought he could charm his way out of any trouble, or into anyone’s pants.
Roberta dropped down from her tippytoes. ‘And? It’s a scruffbag and a slick git.’ She belted Disco for being a dick. ‘I was interrogating a suspect!’
‘Ow!’ Limping out of whacking range. ‘The “slick git” . . . arrived just . . . just before the Beamer. . . . Gave me this.’ Disco held out a business card.
Difficult to read without her glasses, but Roberta took the thing and had a good squint:
Elgin Woodburn, LLP
Private Crime Department Lead
Partner & Solicitor-Advocate
Moir-Farquharson Associates
Mortimer House
Golden Square
AB10 1RH
The other side contained a list of phone numbers and email addresses.
‘Shite.’ She peeked up on her tiptoes again. ‘What’s he doing here?’
Disco pointed at the BMW. ‘Sir Norman and Lady Fordyce . . . called him in. . . . He’s representing the interns. . . . All of them.’
‘Double shite.’
‘I ran up here to tell you.’ Disco grabbed his knees again. ‘We’re to stop interviewing anyone . . . till he’s spoken to them.’ Wheeze. ‘Flipping heck . . .’ Rattle. ‘There’s worse . . .’
Of course there sodding was.
Puff, cough, heech. ‘Sir Norman says . . . he’s called his old mate, the Chief Constable, and—’
Roberta’s phone launched into ‘Take Your Mama’.
Disco cleared his throat. ‘Are you going to . . .?’
‘No’ sure that’s a good idea.’ But she pulled the thing out anyway and checked the screen: ‘SEXYBUM PINE’ glowed in the middle of it. ‘Triple shite, with knobs on.’
Her thumb hovered over the red ‘DECLINE’ button.
Cos things were bad enough without having to explain everything to the head of North East Division.
Why did senior bloody officers think they could ‘supervise’ things?
Still, might as well get it over with.
Roberta hit the green button, pulling on a shiny, upbeat confident voice. ‘Chief Superintendent, how lovely to hear from you. Any word on that team I was promised?’