Chapter 2 #2
Roberta snatched the phone out of his daft wee hands. ‘All right, Steven Spielberg, that’s enough for one day.’
A pout. ‘But it’s—’
‘We know: fog, remains, police, the train. No’ like it’s helping, is it.’ She tossed the mobile back to him. ‘And where’s my murderboard?’
‘Well, we didn’t have no pens, and then Disco went and got pens and now we has pens, but does not has much to put on a murderboard with our new pens, cos we has just started the investigation and does not know much about the case or the victim or anything.’
‘No excuses.’ She picked up the Firedrake folder. Pointed it at Disco. ‘You: get those number plates searched. And I expect a proper murderboard done by the time I get back!’ Then grabbed Tufty by the ear. ‘You: with me.’ Marching for the door, dragging him along.
‘Ow, ow, ow! Let go! Let go!’
And yes, it wasn’t dignified, but sometimes you had to make your own entertainment.
Grace, the Police Custody and Security Officer, led the way across Inverurie station’s custody suite.
Which consisted of a wide magnolia hallway with rooms leading off.
The offices and cupboards were hidden behind faux-beech panelled doors, but others were heavy blue metal things with wee porthole windows, while two were proper bars-and-big-steel-locks affairs – leading through to the twin cellblocks.
One for the ladies, one for the gentlemen.
Steel slapped the Operation Firedrake folder against Tufty’s chest, leaving him to carry it while she wandered over to one of the portholed blue doors. Standing on her tiptoes to peer inside, because whoever designed this place did so with freaky tall-arsed weirdos in mind.
Inside, the wee room featured painted breeze blocks, with a barred and frosted window. It did contain a plain table and matching uncomfortable chairs, but they were all bolted to the floor.
In the custody suite, every chair was a Naughty Seat.
That slick dick, Elgin Woodburn, LLP, was in there, sitting opposite the perky wee ball of simmering rage known as Vivian Staybridge. No doubt being schooled in the art of ‘No comment.’
Wonder if she’d shown him her boobs yet . . .
Out here though, a rattle and clank preceded a clang.
Roberta abandoned her peeping and there was Grace, holding one of the barred doors open. She was one of those middle-aged ex-cop types. The kind who couldn’t really hack retirement, so went to work as a PCSO, cos it was like being a police officer only with a lot less running about.
Which was tempting.
What with retirement looming and all that.
But you still had to spend your days dealing with drunken scroats, perverts, and scumbags. So maybe not.
Grace had a marked limp to the left, with a severe haircut and rectangular glasses. Chunky, in a I-can-lift-heavy-things-and-throw-people-through-plate-glass-windows kind of way. She wafted a hand at Tufty. ‘After you.’
He gave her a wee bow. ‘No, please: after you.’
‘I have to lock it behind us, you numptie.’
Took a moment for that to sink in. ‘Oh! Right. Right.’ And through he scurried.
Roberta sauntered over. ‘Lost none of your charm, I see, Grace.’
‘You can talk.’
Soon as they were all inside, Grace locked the gate with a clanggggg that echoed away into silence.
Which was weird.
Normally, any cellblock would contain at least one blootered idiot, singing or swearing or screaming about snakes, but here? Nothing. Even though nearly every cell was occupied.
Ten heavy blue doors lined a double-wide corridor, each one with a little whiteboard built into the sliding hatch – for notes and warnings. Five of them had ‘POLO-SHIRT’ scrawled on them, three had ‘T-SHIRT’, and one down the end was marked ‘RED TROUSERS’.
That’s the cell Grace stopped outside, jingling her keys. ‘And you’re categorically not questioning the suspect?’
‘Heaven forfend.’ Roberta fluttered her eyelashes. ‘We’re just here to check he’s no’ desperate to talk to us. On account of being all lonely.’
Tufty grinned. ‘Etcetera.’
‘No.’ Grace poked him with an iron finger. ‘There will be no “etcetera”, no “and so on”, or “and so forth”, or I will clatter down on you from a great sodding height.’ Another poke. ‘Are we clear, Constable?’ Because once a sergeant, always a sergeant.
‘Eeek . . .’ Nodding.
‘Good.’ She pressed the grey button on the hatch – click – then lowered it, moving the transparent section downwards until it lined up with the gap in the door, showing off the cell’s interior.
Exposing a printed notice saying ‘↑ HATCH UNSAFE, CLOSE FULLY ↑’ and ‘WARNING’.
As if the chinless tit inside was Hannibal Lecter.
Instead, the loudhailer’s owner sat on the thin, blue, plastic-covered mattress, like a sulky teenager. Grace had confiscated his Barbour jacket, tie, belt, and shoes. She’d also wheeched his flat cap, revealing that big shiny bald patch. It gleamed in the overhead light.
He glared at the open hatch, then levered himself to his feet. Adopting a parade-rest stance, even though – according to Tufty’s file – he’d never served a day in his life.
Roberta gave the nod, and Grace unlocked the cell door. Pushed it open.
‘Ta.’ Roberta stepped forwards, leaning on the doorframe. ‘Well, well, well; if it’s no’ Lewis Kelman.’
He snapped to attention, heels clicking together – as much as they could in just socks – shoulders back, chin up.
‘Aye, Louie, if you’re about to crack off one of them “Roman salutes” gotta warn you:’ jerking her head at Tufty, ‘my sidekick here is militant Antifa, and I might no’ be able to restrain him from rushing in there and booting your knackers into orbit.’
Took a while, because clearly Tufty hadn’t plugged his brain in this morning, but the wee loon finally twigged.
‘Oh. Yeah: down with fascism!’ Striking a gangsta pose which, let’s be honest, wasn’t exactly all that threatening, but Kelman clasped both hands in front of his groin and shuffled backwards anyway – out of knacker-booting range.
‘You can’t assault me in custody – I have witnesses!’
Roberta tutted. ‘You’ve got the sharny end of the stick there, Louie. No one’s assaulting you, because I stepped in with a friendly warning on your behalf. Mind?’
He let go of his bits and stood up straight again. ‘I am a political prisoner.’
‘And I’m Keira Knightley’s arse double.’ Pointing at the frog-faced prick.
‘You assaulted a police officer in the lawful execution of her duties, Louie. No’ to mention all the incitement to commit violence against your political rival.
’ Roberta shook her head. ‘A wee girl got stabbed. See if she dies: you’re up on “joint enterprise” charges, cos you don’t have to be holding the knife to still go down for eight to life.
’ Wink. ‘Wee bit of poetry there to lighten your day.’
That saggy not-quite chin raised a little more. ‘I exercise my right not to answer any questions until I have spoken to my solicitor.’
‘This is no’ an interrogation, Louie, it’s a friendly chat. Mind how I saved your bollocks, just now?’ All innocent and disarming. ‘Wanted to give you a chance to put your side of the story.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘File.’
‘Eh?’ Tufty blinked at her, then the manilla folder in his hands. ‘Oh, yes. File. Erm . . .’ Rummaging through the paperwork. ‘Here we go: “Lewis Jeffery Kelman, fifty-three, two-years-suspended for racially aggravated assault, ninety hours community service for embezzling funds.”’
Kelman sniffed. ‘Youthful indiscretions.’
‘It was four years ago.’ Tufty went back to the file. ‘Three points on your licence for speeding, another three for running a red light, and three for careless and inconsiderate driving.’
‘Oh dear, Louie.’ Roberta gave him a sad look. ‘One more motoring offence and you win a prize.’
‘Currently living in Flat Seven, Mochie House, George Street, Aberdeen. First Warden of the Anglo-Saxon Defence Group, Aberdeenshire branch. Favourite book: Wind in the Willows.’
‘Eh?’ Kelman frowned. ‘Isn’t that for kids?’
Tufty took a moment to look him up and down, no doubt taking in the Toad-Of-Toad-Hall outfit. ‘My mistake.’
‘We were merely exercising our legally protected right to protest a political campaign that plans to ruin our country by flooding it with illegal immigrants.’
‘Aye, and a wee girl got stabbed.’
Kelman scowled at her. ‘You want Scotland to become an Island of Strangers? Cos that’s where we’re headed. Bit by bit they’re replacing us, taking our jobs, taking our benefits, molesting our kids, raping, stealing, abusing the system! That what you want?’
‘A. Wee. Girl. Got. Stabbed.’
He waved it away. ‘There are casualties in every war. I’m fighting for the survival of our sodding species here.’
‘Actually,’ Tufty raised a hand, ‘Anglo-Saxons aren’t a species, they’re just an inhomogeneous and arbitrary grouping based on a shared geographical—’
‘Our race, then.’
‘Yes, but “race” is a social construct that has no scientific meaning, because—’
‘Thank you, Constable.’ Roberta gave him a light thump. ‘Can we get back to the stabbing? Mr Kelman here knows which one of his little friends did it, don’t you, Louie. Could make things so much easier on yourself if you told us who.’
The scowl deepened.
And so did the stony silence.
She had another go: ‘We’ll find out soon as we run fingerprints and DNA anyway. Might as well do yourself a favour . . .?’
For a moment, it looked as if he was actually considering it, then he pulled his shoulders back and clicked his stockinged heels again. ‘I exercise my right not to answer any questions until I have spoken to my solicitor.’
Grace shifted in her comfortable shoes.
Tufty stood there, pointy features arranged into a vacant expression that went with his hollow wee head.
Kelman glared.
OK.
Roberta faked a worried face. ‘And when might one of these mysterious solicitors turn up, Louie? Would’ve thought your sugar daddy, Graeme Anderson, would be back from his US jolly by now.
All greasy from pressing the tangerine flesh.
’ A grin, as she hunched down, arms out, knees bent.
‘Or do you far-right grifters prefer to strip off and wrassle?’
‘I exercise my right not to answer any questions until I have spoken to my sol-i-ci-tor.’
She dropped the wrestling pose and stood. Hands in her pockets. Giving Toad-Of-Turd-Hall one last look. Curled her lip. Then turned on her heel and slouched off. ‘Lock him up.’