Chapter 2.05 #2
‘Erm . . . OK.’ Tufty looked around, as if he hadn’t been here a million times before. ‘Why don’t I make us a nice cuppa, and you can get your breath back?’
A pile of post sat on the breakfast bar, along with copies of that morning’s Press and Journal and Aberdeen Examiner.
The P&J had gone with ‘THIRD BODY DISCOVERED IN DUNDEE PARK’ but the A&E screamed ‘GRISLY HORROR AS “TAYSIDE RIPPER” STRIKES AGAIN’.
They both had near-identical photos, though: a blue SOC marquee, erected outside what looked like an old-fashioned observatory in a leafy park somewhere.
So everyone had just moved on from the poor pregnant cow, butchered and dumped in a wheelie bin. Distracted by something new and shiny and bloody.
The kettle rumbled to a boil.
Roberta tossed the papers in the recycling. ‘There never was a surprise party, was there?’
Tufty made his thinky face. ‘If there was, they didn’t invite me. Poopheads.’
Urgh . . .
She slumped even further. ‘The world is a crapshow, and all the jobbies in it fight to make life worse for each other.’
‘I can nip out and gets you a cake, if it does make you feel better? Or . . . you could bakes one!’ Making head twitchy gestures at a brand-new book, lying on the countertop, with a red ribbon tied around it and a note tucked into the bow:
To Robbie, my very own Domestic Goddess!!!
With squidgles of Love,
Susan
Urgh . . .
Nigella Lawson had a lot to answer for.
Tufty bustled about, hunting down teabags and spoons and mugs, while Roberta pushed her present away and poked through the mail instead.
Bills, bills, junk, bills, junk, junk, junk . . . Because nothing exciting or nice ever came by post anymore.
She’d tossed all the unsolicited and ‘TO THE OWNER/OCCUPIER’ crap by the time the wee loon returned to the breakfast bar, carrying a pair of mugs.
‘Here you goes.’ Handing her the one marked ‘WORLD’S #1 LESBIAN!’
Roberta frowned. ‘I don’t need a cake, but do you know what I do want?’
‘Yup: ta-daaaaa!’ Tufty reached into his stabproof and came out with a packet of Wagon Wheels. ‘Found them when I was a-rummaging.’ Grinning. ‘That’s what makes me a grade-A sidekick – an uncanny ability to ferret out hidden biscuity—’
‘No: post-mortem report on our victim.’
He waggled the packet. ‘Wouldn’t you rather have biscuits? Biscuits are good too. Much tastier. Mmmmm . . . Nom-nom-nom?’
‘And get me everything on that stabbing outside the campaign office too.’
The Wagon Wheels went on the worktop and Tufty watched them for a bit. As if he expected the packet would do something exciting. Which it didn’t, as the silence grew.
And grew.
And—
Tufty’s head snapped up, eyes wide, that daft smile back on his daft face. ‘Ooh, ooh! I does has a special thing for you! Nearly forgotified . . .’
‘If it’s that bloody bit of pipe again—’
‘No: look, look.’ He delved into one of his combat trousers’ many pockets then held out a small cardboard box, cupped in both hands. Like a proud father presenting a newborn. ‘I has fixed it!’
Should’ve had him fixed.
He opened the box and there was Roberta’s phone.
The screen was cracked in an almost perfect X, but when he poked the power button the thing lit up.
‘I did thought it was completely borked, but then I does has second thinks and after much research into dark-telecommunications magics on the interwebs, applied all my technomancy skills to raise the patient from the dead! Including soldering.’ Looking desperately pleased with himself as he struck his half-arsed gangsta pose again, addressing her phone directly: ‘Oh, yeah, I did totally void your warranty, Baby.’
She picked the thing up.
Case was scratched, and the dangly bit Naomi had made for her was torn and half missing, and she should’ve been really grateful that he’d got her phone working at all . . . but somehow it was impossible to summon up the enthusiasm. For anything.
Still, better show willing: ‘Thanks.’ She plonked it down beside her tea.
‘They wasn’t going to let me have it, till I promised you wouldn’t use Mr Phone to be a monster pain-in-the-hoop to anyone on the team.’ A wee scowl scrunched his face. ‘Not that you deserve it, after maiming my poor bottoms!’
‘Speaking of which:’ she gave him a steely glower, ‘don’t think I didn’t notice you changing the subject.’ Poking his stabproof vest. ‘I want that post-mortem report and those stabbing updates, or it’s spanking time again.’
‘Ah . . . There’s a teeny bit of a problem there.
’ Busying himself unwrapping a Wagon Wheel, not looking her in the eye.
‘See: the Sarge, and Susan, and the Boss all thought you might ask for stuff like that and they has made it quite clear that poor Tufty’s bottom will get more than a spanking if he aids and abets you not-resting-up-and-getting-better-at-home.
’ Pushing the unwrapped chocolate biscuit across the breakfast bar to her.
‘Sorry.’ Then unwrapping one of his own.
‘But you can gets all that stuff yourself, soon as you is back at work, right?’
Not if Susan had anything to do with it.
A calendar hung on the kitchen wall, beside the fridge/freezer/monolith: ‘HAIRY PUSSY OF THE MONTH!’ July featured a Maine Coon Cat disporting its tummy for all to see, and beneath it, almost the whole month was crossed out – one day at a time – except for today.
Scoring through the kids’ extracurricular activities and Susan’s meetings.
Roberta flipped the month up to see August underneath, where a fuzzy black kitten was pouncing on a pink toy mouse.
Susan had marked up a handful of things, but the month was dominated by the fifteenth. Ringed and highlighted, with loads of arrows pointing towards the two words written there. ‘ROBBIE RETIRES!!!’ A couple of hearts thrown in for good measure.
Two weeks, tomorrow.
Crap.
. . .