Chapter 2.02 #2
‘Sorry.’ He gathered up the evidence bag and stowed it away again. ‘Shall I leave the . . .?’ Nodding at the untouched apple turnover, custard slice, and barely-nibbled butty. ‘Or . . .?’
‘Roberta is having lovely, nutritionally balanced, cauliflower cheese and strawberry jelly for her lunch. Not some deep-fried atrocity in a bun.’
‘OK . . .’ He repacked dessert, then grabbed her sausage-double-egg and took a huge bite, getting yolk all down his high-vis. Chewing through an eggy smile. ‘You want me to pop back when we know the by-election scores, Guv?’
Which set her heart monitor bleeping again.
That regal finger jabbed. ‘Out!’
And away scurried Tufty, still chewing.
Greedy wee shite that he was.
Friday could go wank itself to death. With a sandpaper glove on. In a bath full of sodding lemon juice.
Roberta slammed that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner down on her cantilevered table and scowled at the hospital ceiling for a bit.
Bastards.
The rain had buggered off, which was a shame, because it would’ve been a lot more sodding appropriate than the sun streaming in through her window.
She grabbed the paper again.
HOW COULD THEY VOTE FOR THAT RACIST TIT?
There he was: Graeme Pissing Anderson beaming out of the front-page, arms up, Vs out, while behind him, a line of miserable-faced tossers drooped in their losing-this-election suits and defeated rosettes.
Saying ta-ta to their political ambitions, on a makeshift stage in a decrepit community centre.
Emma Dornoch stood off to one side, looking thunderous as Anderson did his Richard Nixon impersonation. Turned out she wasn’t BETTER FOR SCOTLAND! after all.
The headline declared ‘WIN FOR UK NEW HORIZONS’, subheading: ‘FIRST MP FOR brITAIN’S NEWEST PARTY IN NARROW VICTORY’.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, there was a second story on the front page, reduced to a sidebar. ‘BODY IN BIN: COPS CLUELESS’ with a still from one of the YouTube videos, zoomed in on the victim’s skull.
She slammed the paper down again.
Then did it three, four, five more times, till the edges got all ragged and torn.
Crumpled the bloody thing up and hurled it into the corner of her room.
Snarling as the heart-rate monitor launched into its stupid bleeping song again.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
Saturday brought visitors. Not that no one had visited her before – though nowhere near often enough, the heartless, uncaring sods – but these were new people. Suspicious people.
In both senses of the word.
The hook-nosed man, whose forehead took up about half of his head, had glasses, grey hair that was on the long side, a dark suit and green tartan tie. He’d introduced himself as Detective Superintendent Rifkind in a posh Scottish voice. Something Lothian-and-Borders-ish.
His sidekick, DI Kensington, was half-bulldog half-silverback, with a bald head stippled by moles and freckles.
Wide nostrils. Matching suit, but a paisley-patterned tie, and an unapologetic aye-tae-a-pie Dundee accent.
Taking notes as if stood at the foot of a scaffold and it was Roberta’s turn to swing.
Rifkind lounged in the visitor’s chair, one leg hanging over the arm rest, shiny black shoe swaying. Like a slightly louche headmaster. ‘And you’re positive you didn’t see anything suspicious? Really?’
‘I was eating noodles.’ Because to hell with cooperating with these sketchy bumwanks. ‘What did you expect me to see? Some bugger streaking across the car park with a big black ball in his hands marked “Bomb!”? Willy flapping in the breeze?’
A smile. ‘Quite.’
Kensington’s heavy brows knitted together into a cardigan of disapproval. ‘No need to be crude.’
Roberta frowned back at him. ‘And why are two spuds from Police Scotland’s Mob Squad sniffing around? Last I heard it was a leaky acetylene tank. . . . Or was it?’
Rifkind made lazy loops with one hand. ‘The Organised Crime and Counter Terrorism team like to lend a hand from time to time, when things go “boom”.’ The smile took on a distinctly carrion edge.
‘Keeps us in a job.’ Tilting his head to one side, like the Birdheads did.
‘Just out of interest, what would you think if the explosion was . . .’ another twirly gesture, ‘. . . intentional rather than accidental?’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Ah, I see you have a Boris Johnson.’ Rifkind plucked the squeezy-head thing from her bedside cabinet.
So that’s what it was meant to be.
The likeness was crap, but now someone had pointed it out . . .
Rifkind turned Johnson over in his long, tapered, surgeon’s fingers. ‘Didn’t take you for a closet Tory, Roberta.’ Crushing the head in his hand, making the eyes pop. Pkongk. ‘That is rather satisfying, though.’ Glonk. ‘Your friend, Mr Anderson, seems to think it was a terrorist attack.’
‘I’m no’ a Tory! And Anderson’s no sodding friend of mine.’
‘Really?’ Pkongk-glonk. ‘But he saved your life, Roberta. Carried you from the scene of the blast. Never fails to mention you in all those interviews.’ Looking around the room. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t dropped by to pay his regards. Politicians, eh? And after you gave such a boost to his campaign.’
She just glowered.
‘Anyway, hypothetically speaking: what if he’s right and someone has decided this new political venture is likely to succeed and spread, upsetting the balance of power . . .?’
‘Hmmmph . . .’ The real question then, was who saw Anderson as a threat?
‘It’s no’ like he’s going to pose a serious challenge to Labour or the SNP up here – no’ with only the one MP.
Conservatives are too busy stabbing each other in the back to care.
. . . But the more hard-right parties might get their beaks out of joint if someone’s muscling in on their wannabe-fascist patch. ’
A shrug. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’
‘Bit . . . showy though, isn’t it? You want to bump Anderson off – loads of ways to do it that don’t involve dynamite and a press conference.
Why no’ make it look like an accident?’ Which would be a fun game.
‘He could drown in the bath, have a car crash, fall off a cliff, or better yet: strangle-wank.’ Grinning.
‘That kills the bugger off and makes him look like a proper twat for all eternity.’
Kensington stiffened, no doubt shocked by such a crude onanistic practice.
Rifkind’s leg stopped swinging. ‘Interesting, isn’t it. Hypothetically speaking.’ Pkongk-glonk.
‘But you’ll have forensics that say one way or the other . . .?’
That twirly gesture was back again. ‘Our inquiries are ongoing.’
Bet they bloody were.
He abandoned the slouch. ‘I’ve promised to show Matthew here a slice of Aberdonian nightlife. Maybe visit a local hostelry for a wee nippy sweetie or two.’ Sitting forward. ‘What’s your favourite tipple, Inspector?’
Yeah, that wasn’t what he was really asking, was it. He was fishing for something. Could see it in the bugger’s eyes. Hungry and searching. Magpie-like.
Roberta pulled her chin in. ‘Whisky. Malt. Neat. Water on the side.’
‘Good girl!’ Beaming. ‘So many people seem to favour vodka these days, but I don’t see the appeal myself. Bit too . . . Kremliny, don’t you think? One has to be so careful not to support Russian businesses, these days. What with the war and everything.’
Patronising bastard.
She sat up. ‘Who the hell are you calling “good girl”?’
A wink, because clearly all this patriarchal bollocks wasn’t insulting enough.
‘I do so like a woman with spirit.’ He stood, towering over the bed as he buttoned his jacket.
‘Shall we, Matthew? I’m sure the detective inspector needs her rest.’ Then Rifkind stalked to the door.
Stopped. Turned. Graced her with a corvid smile.
‘Get well soon, Roberta.’ He gave Boris Johnson’s head one final crush – pkongk-glonk – and tossed it to her. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
Yeah . . .
Why did that sound like a threat?