Chapter 3 #2
‘Don’t you play smart with me, Roberta Steel! I’ve just had my arse chewed by the Chief Constable, and she wanted to know why we’ve arrested every single volunteer for a perfectly legitimate political campaign!’
‘“Chewed your arse”?’ A tut. ‘You should’ve said, Boss – ask nicely and I’ll nibble your perky round buttocks for free.’
‘Their lawyer’s threatening to sue us for wrongful arrest, and assault, because you attacked everyone with PAVA spray!’
Roberta made ‘go away’ gestures at Disco, but the hollow-headed halfwit just stood there, looking confused.
‘We are not some sort of fascistic force of oppression, here to undermine the democratic process! You can’t just go around interviewing people without legal representation!’
The ‘go away’ gestures turned into ‘bugger off’ ones. And still Disco stood there. Gormless twunt.
‘They volunteered, Boss: all above board.’ She pressed the phone to her chest and jabbed a finger at the door. ‘Go on, sod off out of it.’
Finally, PC Idiot did what he was told.
Back to the phone. ‘I’ve got a young woman with a knife in her guts.
You want me to do a proper investigation, or some sort of half-arsed job?
Chewed or otherwise.’ Wandering over to the window and its wasp collection.
‘Besides, they were rioting. Can’t have people thinking they can just get away with that, can we. No’ after Saturday.’
Silence.
Roberta pinged a couple of yellow-and-black carcasses off the sill.
Down below, the BMW’s doors were hanging open and Sir Norman and Lady Fordyce had joined the swanky lawyer tit: Elgin Woodburn – which was a stupid frudging name – deep in conversation.
Meanwhile, Scruffy McCombover was sidling closer. Flicking the unsmoked nub of his roll-up out into the street, and straightening his tie. Clearly wigging in on their conversation.
A lonnnng sigh came from Pine’s end. ‘I’m just asking you to proceed with some tact, Acting Detective Inspector.’ As if Roberta weren’t the soul of sodding diplomacy and consideration. ‘What about the protesters: the Anglo-Saxon Defence Group?’
‘None of the frunkers are talking. They’ve all got the same bit memorised: “I exercise my right not to answer any questions until I have spoken to my solicitor.”’
‘And when will that be?’
‘Exactly.’ Another couple of wasps got pinged. ‘You hear about our Body-In-The-Bin? Pregnant. Only ten, twelve weeks, but still . . .’
A groan. ‘Because what this whole thing needed was more complications.’
‘Oh, we’re blessed the day, all right.’ Roberta looked around at the broken chairs and haunted whiteboards.
‘I’m commandeering an incident room at Inverurie station, cos it’s closest. Going to need some decent IT and a HOLMES instance, staff to man the phones, and a squad of officers knocking on doors. ’
And yes, no idea whose doors they’d be knocking on yet, but every investigation always needed a bunch of poor buggers to schlep from door-to-door, asking stupid people stupid questions.
‘Don’t want much, do you.’
The well-to-do crowd must’ve noticed Scruffy McCombover hovering, because they all turned to stare at him.
He pulled on a fake smile and hurried over to shake everyone’s hand.
‘Better let us have a few hours with the Media Liaison Officer too. We’ll need some press releases; appeals for witnesses; regular updates; blah, blah, blah . . . That kinda thing.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Just . . . get a result on this one, OK?’
‘Do my best, Boss.’ Roberta smiled. ‘And that offer of a chewy bum still stands, if you . . .’
But the line was dead.
Pine had hung up.
‘Worth a try.’
Out in the car park, McCombover handed each of his new friends a business card. Chatting away like they were old mates.
Roberta narrowed her eyes and leaned forwards, resting her forehead against the warm glass.
Like watching tropical fish in a tank.
No prizes for guessing who’d got the Chief Constable all riled up. Or who’d threatened to sue Police Scotland for spraying a bunch of rioting morons.
Which just left Scruffy McCombover . . .
‘What are you snudges up to?’
Good question.
The station’s reception area was a bland little space, with the desk on one side – hidden behind a toughened glass screen – and loads of posters about terrorism and drugs and all manner of fun stuff on the walls.
A wilting pot plant. And a row of uncomfortable-looking seats to discourage members of the public.
With no one to man, woman, or person the desk, the room had a sad, dusty air to it. Because clearly it wasn’t just the officers and support staff who were off on the sick. Everyone had the plague.
Roberta stood by the front door, hands in her pockets, vaping away – ignoring at least three signs telling her not to. Frowning at the wee gathering outside, as Scruffy McCombover shook hands with Lady Fordyce again, then shuffled back towards his rusty rattletrap.
Soon as his back was turned, Her Ladyship wiped her hand on her trouser leg. Brushing off all those common-people germs. Because God forbid these posh—
‘Guv?’
‘Aaaaargh!’ Roberta flinched, spinning around – fist raised – and there was Tufty, blinking at her. ‘Don’t do that!’ Thumping him one.
‘Ow!’
‘Sneaking up on people.’
‘I did not do no sneaking!’ He backed off, rubbing at his thumped arm.
‘Only wanted to know: does you want me to put Mizz Staybridge back in her cell, till she has made talk with her swanky new solicitor? Or is we having another crack?’ A wee shudder, then he dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘She does gives me the heebs.’
Roberta went back to frowning out at the car park. ‘The word has come down from on high, Tufters: we can’t talk to the poor dears without a sleaze-bag present. No’ even Little Miss Perky-Bitey-Bits.’ Pointing through the door. ‘Because of Sir Tosspot there.’
Outside, the MSP and her knight-of-the-realm husband took their leave of Elgin Woodburn, LLP, heading back to the air-conditioned and leather-upholstered comfort of their swanky electric BMW.
Woodburn waved as it hummmmmmmmed out of the car park, before popping the Porsche’s boot and lifting out a briefcase. Ready for the slippery underhand business of ‘practising’ law.
Tufty pulled his shoulders up to his pointy ears. ‘If we’re officially twiddling our thumbs, we could go over Operations Owlbear and Firedrake?’
She held up her whacking hand. ‘Do you like getting bashed?’
‘Eeeek!’ Retreating even further.
‘Why does every skrunk think they can keep adding extra crudge to my caseload? Camper vans and burger turf wars . . . I’m frying bigger fish here: murders, stabbings!’ Having a bit of a seethe to underline the point.
‘OK . . . Well, we could take another swing at the protesters if you like? Unless they’re off limits too?’
Pine didn’t say anything about not interrogating them. Not specifically, anyway.
And like the Chief Superintendent’s buttocks: it was worth a try.
Roberta turned on her heel and made for the door through to the police-only parts of the station.
‘Get Slick Larry set up with somewhere to work through his new clients, then I want that incident room ready to go: murderboard; printer; phones; support staff; blah, blah, blah, etc. Oh, and I want one of those digital deep dives on our stabbing victim.’
The wee loon’s bottom lip poked out. ‘And what are you doing while I’m getting on with all the work?’
Fair question.
Roberta struck a noble pose. ‘I, my dear Watson . . . am off for a poop.’