Chapter 0
Tufty navigated the big roundabout at the bottom of Westhill Drive, slipping into the Kingshill Commercial Park like a high-vis suppository.
A trio of uninspiring office buildings lumped-up on the left side of the road, but it was the big Tesco opposite which seemed to pull a gurgling growl from the wee loon’s guts.
He gave Roberta the side-eye as those angry noises faded. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Straight through the next roundabout. I’ll tell you when to stop.’
Clearly not wanting another stingy one, he did what he was told.
More bland offices went by, and some even blander warehouses too. Lots of flat-fronted rectangles. Lots of car parks. Lots and lots of bleh. All arranged around a winding labyrinth of dull, dull streets.
Until, finally, a sign appeared up ahead: ‘SILVERMOSS BUSINESS CENTRE →’.
If anything, this bit of the industrial estate was the blandest of them all, surrounded by warehouse-style commercial units with big roller doors, lots of chain-link fencing and a twenty speed limit.
Only one business had abandoned the grey-on-grey colour scheme – a bright-pink food van with ‘HUNGRY HELEN’S NOODLE DOODLE!’ down the side.
Which set Tufty’s stomach howling louder than any patrol car’s siren. He slowed to a crawl, pining out through the driver’s window at it. ‘Can’t we just—’
‘No.’ She gave the wee loon a gentle thump. ‘Right here.’
He let loose a starving-dog whine, then took the turning into Silvermoss Business Centre. Whimpering away to himself. ‘Poor Tufty. Poor, poor Tufty . . .’
It was a new-build cul-de-sac of eight smaller units, one half facing off against the other across a wide area of tarmac – divided up into parking spaces and areas for dumping dirty-big bits of equipment.
Like the huge wiggly-pipe things, sitting on pallets outside ‘DEMETER VALVE MANAGEMENT SERVICES LTD’.
It also seemed to double as a space for right-wing-nut-bag press conferences, because a podium had been set up outside the unit next door, beneath a sign saying ‘UK. EPF ~ UK ECONOMIC POLICY FOUNDATION’ in big red, white, and blue letters.
It looked more like an office than a workshop, devoid of the roller doors and loading bays of the other units.
They’d even put a couple of banners on either side of the podium, featuring smiling families – all of whom were Tipp-Ex white – and Dover’s famous cliffs, and union flags, Spitfires, all that malarkey.
A quartet of big bald men, in the classic bouncer’s outfit of black bomber jacket, black jeans, and black boots, lurked in the background, scowling at the rows of seating set out for the audience.
Had to be thirty or forty folding chairs, which was kind of overkill for the half-dozen journalists who’d actually turned up. Smoking tabs and kicking their heels. Waiting for something interesting to happen.
The parking area was half-empty too – couple of hatchbacks, a DEMETER-liveried van, two Jags, and a pair of minibuses with blacked-out windows from a local hire company.
What it didn’t feature was a single Outside Broadcast Unit.
Probably because this was a wee press conference, on an industrial estate, in northeast Scotland, at ten past two on a Monday afternoon.
Tufty reversed into a space across-and-along-a-bit from the UK.EPF offices – between an engineering firm titled ‘ALL THE WELD’S A STAGE’ and a mechanic’s called ‘BANNANER-SPANNER’.
Parking the patrol car under the company logo.
Which they’d clearly made themselves out of metal sheeting, bolts, and girders: a gorilla’s hand, holding a banana that had the stalky bit at one end and a spanner’s head at the other.
At least it brought a bit of colour to the place.
The wee loon killed the engine, gave a big theatrical sigh, then hauled his droopy arse out of the car.
Roberta stayed where she was, scowling through the windshield at whatever bollocks was about to begin.
Tufty poked his head back in. ‘What? Thought this was what you wanted!’
She waved a hand at the podium and seating and teeny clump of journos. ‘It’s all a bit . . . Four Seasons Total Landscaping, isn’t it?’
He sagged even further. ‘I don’t even know why we’re here! And I’m hungry. And I’m tired. And I’m hot. And I’m hungry.’
‘One: have you got worms or something? And two: we are here, because while you were snidging about, back at the station, I was multitasking on the toilet. Doing a bit of research.’ Cracking out her vape for a black-cherry-nicotine hit.
‘Our Anglo-Saxon Defence Group friends from this morning: they have a boss. Graeme Anderson, Grand Master of the ASDG Aberdeen branch. And he got back from the grand olde US-of-A today. And he’s giving a press conference right here. ’
‘Yeah, but why are we—’
‘Because I want to know why he sent his thicko thugs after Billie Nesbit. Does he know her? Is there a connection? Or was she just a victim of opportunity, and Emma Dornoch’s campaign was the target? Apparently, they’ve been protesting outside her office for weeks. That no’ seem suspicious to you?’
‘Can’t tell: I’m too hungry to think straight. Wasting away. Fading fast. Tell my wife and children I love them . . .’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Fine.’ Digging out her wallet. ‘Go: get us something nice from the van.’ Holding up a twenty-pound note. ‘After all, it’s no’ like Anderson’ll talk to us till this nonsense is over.’
‘Woot!’ Tufty wheeched the note from her hand and scampered off in the direction of Hungry Helen’s.
‘And I want a cold drink too! Lots of ice!’ Cos it was sodding boiling.
Roberta took her hat off and plonked it on the dashboard, letting her disaster hairdo slump free. Grimacing at it in the sun-visor’s mirror.
Yes, it looked terrible, but it was too hot to wear a stupid hat.
She flipped the sun-visor up again.
Puffed out her cheeks.
Settled back to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Pfff . . .
Roberta blew another whoomph of fruity steam at the windscreen. Watching it roil and billow down the glass, fading away like the dying embers of her career.
Just over eight weeks.
Going to be weird after all this time . . .
One of the bouncers muscled up to the podium microphone and tapped on it – the sound whump-whump-whumping out of a set of PA speakers. ‘Testing, testing.’
The mini press corps sat up as the UK.EPF office door opened and out stepped the man of the hour: Graeme Anderson.
Sort of a cut-price Sir Norman Fordyce. Slightly rougher around the edges, but in a manufactured way.
As if he’d hired a stylist to make him look more like a man of the people.
His suit was a little less flashy, his watch a bit smaller, but he had the same well-heeled tan and easy smile.
Even if his teeth don’t look as if they’d come out of a packet.
But his hair was a Hugh-Grant flop of dark russet brown, with a hint of grey at the temples – just enough to imply wisdom without appearing too old and decrepit.
A red-white-and-blue rosette bloomed in his suit jacket’s buttonhole.
Anderson paused for a moment, leaning in for a private word with a woman who looked as if she’d either already done time for murder, or was about to. A stocky stumpy lump of a quine, with broad shoulders to go with her gravestone face.
Ding-buzz.
Better not be bloody Davey McLeod again.
It wasn’t.
SUPT. YOUNG:
Why haven’t I heard back from you about Operation Basilisk?
Portsoy Harbour: 1600
Six bodies
Full MOE gear
Liaise with dog unit
Cheeky snudger.
Her thumbs jabbed out a suitable reply:
Don’t know if you heard, but I’m a bit BUSY today. So take your “request” and shove it up your hoop!
Her finger hovered over ‘SEND’.
Frowning at the screen while she chewed at the inside of her cheek.
Maybe not the best of ideas, even if Young was acting like a massive toss-wank. Sometimes you just had to pick your battles.
DELETE.
On the far side of the car park, the minibuses’ doors slid back and out poured about two dozen men and women, all dressed smart-casual.
They formed an orderly queue, and the drivers distributed a bunch of placards – one for each of them – then the instacrowd took up position between the podium and the press.
So any photos would have to be taken through the mini-throng, making it look as if there were loads of people here.
They’d even made the placards double-sided, because God forbid the coverage didn’t feature what they were protesting for or against. Which looked like a toned-down version of what Lewis Kelman’s thugs had been wanging on about outside Emma Dornoch’s campaign office.
Something a bit more ‘palatable’ for the national news . . .
Conversation over, Mrs Lumpy patted Graeme Anderson on the back, and he marched over to the podium.
Tapped the microphone. Then put on his I-might’ve-gone-to-a-hooringly-expensive-public-school-but-that-doesn’t-mean-I’m-posh voice – amplified through the PA system, echoing off the industrial units.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your time today.’
Rent-A-Crowd cheered, and the press filmed them cheering.
Anderson waited for the adoration to die down before loosening his tie, throwing in a wee dramatic pause, before: ‘We’re here, because our very nation is in jeopardy . . .’
Roberta scowled. ‘Aye, from narrow-minded, bigoted wee pricks like you.’
According to the dashboard clock, it was ten minutes since Anderson had got up on his hind legs to wang on about how awful Scotland was, how it was all the lefties’ fault, and how unfettered immigration was ruining this green and pleasant land – blah, blah, bollocks, and wank – and the bugger was still going.
The crowd were lapping it up though, whooping and clapping and waving their crappy placards in all the rehearsed places.
Roberta wound up the patrol car’s windows, which cut down the volume a bit, but not enough to shut him out entirely.