Chapter 2.08
A harsh, insistent rinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng cut through the darkness, bringing with it the throb-throb-throb of whatever the hell was trying to make Roberta’s skull explode.
Ngahh . . .
Sunlight slashed across the room, barging in through the open curtains to attack her pale-yoghurty body. Lying buck-naked on top of the duvet, spreadeagled, taking up the whole bed. Throat dry as a mummified pharaoh’s arsehole.
And then the taste hit.
Sour as bile, scorched as burnt toast, rancid, foetid, stinking . . .
Like a turd had died in her mouth.
The doorbell rang again.
Roberta rolled over, and the bed disappeared, sending her thumping down onto the carpet. ‘Sod!’
Then she was up. Fumbling for her walking stick. Lurching like a faulty clockwork toy to the door; pulling her dressing gown on as she pushed through into the hallway.
Rinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng!
‘All right, all right!’ She hobbled down the stairs – the top of her head threatening to fly off with every step. ‘Jesus . . .’
The hall tiles were cool beneath her bare feet.
Kinda nice.
Be even nicer if she could just lie down and rest her forehead against them. Might stop what was left of her brain from pounding its way out through her skull.
Which was entirely due to her traumatic head injury, and nothing to do with the half bottle of Balvenie she’d put away yesterday afternoon, before Susan and the kids got back.
Though everything after that third large dram was a bit hazy.
Did she even put herself to bed?
Roberta hurpled to the welcome mat, stepped over a small-ish rectangle of paper, undid the deadbolt, and threw the front door wide.
No one there.
A white van pulled away from the kerb outside her house, sodding off down the street with ceilidh music skirling out through its open windows.
As if her headache wasn’t bad enough.
She scowled after it – because sod giving chase with a walking stick and a gammy leg – mouth smacking on that God-awful taste. The turd must’ve had friends over . . .
Shutting the door again, she bent to retrieve the bit of paper – sending the world fizzing round and around like a catherine wheel – closed her eyes and stood up again. Which only made everything spin faster. Holding on to the doorknob till her house stopped whirling.
It took a while . . .
Roberta peeled one eye open. ‘WE TRIED TO DELIVER, BUT YOU WERE OUT’. The card came with a complicated set of instructions for how to rearrange delivery or pick-up from the depot.
‘Gah . . .’
She tossed the thing over her shoulder, turned, and wobbled her way to the kitchen.
Today was going to require a lot of coffee.
The train growled into the station, but every stick of clothing from her suitcase was scattered under her seat. And although there were about a hundred pairs of shoes down there, none of them were hers. Scrabbling, naked, to get everything repacked – when a voice came over the carriage intercom:
‘Oh, Robbie, not again!’
‘Mmmmmph . . .?’ She jerked awake.
Garden.
Lying in the back garden.
On her recliner.
A copy of today’s Aberdeen Examiner was draped across her chest. ‘brAVE BILLIE BATTLES FOR brEATH’ above a photo of Billie Nesbit, still and pale in her hospital bed.
They’d included a wee picture of her from before the stabbing – all smiling and pretty, with her long red hair, cute little nose, and freckles.
‘STABBING VICTIM PUT ON VENTILATOR AS DOCTORS FIGHT TO CURE HOSPITAL SUPERBUG’.
Roberta scrubbed a hand across her own, much saggier face, working a bit of life back into the skin. Stifling a yawn. ‘Time is it?’
Susan towered over her, fists on hips. ‘Hmph. Well, at least you’re sober tonight.’ Pulling her chin in, doubling it up. ‘You are sober, aren’t you?’
Bit harsh.
Roberta sat up. ‘That’s no—’
‘You can’t just lounge about drinking whisky all day!’
‘I know, I know.’ Waving at the cold mug of half-drunk tea. ‘See? No whisky. I’m just . . .’ What? What was she? A frown. ‘I don’t know. A wee boat, rudderless on a stormy sea of shark-infested shite?’
Susan raised an eyebrow. ‘You? A “wee boat”?’
‘I got blown-up! Stuck in that hospital bed for ages—’
‘Six weeks, one day, sixteen hours, and twenty-seven minutes. Not counting the time you were in surgery.’ The hands slipped from her hips, an indulgent smile on her lips. ‘And how are sharks supposed to live in a sea of shite? They’re fish: they’d suffocate.’ Clearly trying to lighten the mood.
But . . . Roberta sat there, frowning out at the garden.
Silence.
The bees buzzed.
Down at the far end, Mr Rumpole descended from the back wall and slunk his way towards them, through the long grass.
Roberta’s shoulders curled forwards, knees together.
Shrinking. ‘Being a police officer’s a pain in the arse, but I’ve been doing it for thirty years: it’s all I know.
And now . . .? Who even am I?’ Because there was only so much not-thinking-about-it one person could do.
And the whole thing was so much worse than it should’ve been.
Maybe it was the hangover, or maybe it was the three-inch titanium plate in her head, but it was something.
A knot tightened in Roberta’s throat, making her voice squeak as the garden slipped out of focus.
‘I’m lost, Susan. I’m lost.’ Wiping away a burning tear. ‘And I’m terrified.’
‘Oh, Robbie.’ Susan wrapped her up in a soft warm hug. ‘Shhh . . .’
Mr Rumpole wound his ratty-old-self around their ankles. Purring.
Roberta hugged her back, squeezing tight. Sniffing. ‘What am I going to do?’
‘Want to know who you are?’ Susan let go. Taking Roberta’s face in her hands instead. ‘You, are Roberta Alexander Steel: wife, mother, and all-round pain in my arse. And you promised to love, honour, and obey me, so—’
‘I did not!’ Forcing a brave wee smile. ‘“Love, honour, and cherish,” I said.’
‘So, as your responsible adult-slash-carer, I’m telling you we’ll work it out. Together. You just . . . need something to keep this busy.’ Tapping Roberta’s forehead. ‘Till this,’ the fingers moved down to tap Roberta’s chest instead, ‘figures out what it wants to do.’
‘My left boob?’
‘Your heart, you idiot.’
Roberta squeegeed a palm across her damp cheeks. ‘Can it involve Keira Knightley and a jar of Nutella?’
‘Not according to the restraining order, no.’ Susan pulled her close again. Lips warm and soft against Roberta’s ear. ‘Now, how about we find you a nice hobby instead?’
Thursday: 8 days to go . . .
Stupid bloody golf.
‘Did you no’ hear what I said? She’s got me playing golf!
Spudging golf!’ Roberta hobbled about in the knee-high grass at the side of the thirteenth fairway, phone in one hand, swinging her walking stick like a scythe every couple of limping steps.
Still looking for her sodding ball. Which should’ve been pretty easy to spot, given it was the same shade of embarrassed-pink as the shirt Susan had laid out specially for her to wear this morning.
It really set off the ugly, green, diamond-pattern tank-top, pink knee-high socks, and tan plus fours. All of it at least one size too big for her, because they were Susan’s clothes. Which meant Roberta couldn’t even complain about how much of a tit it made her look.
Even though it did.
A complete and utter buggering tit.
At least there weren’t many people out here to see her, whacking away like a . . . tit.
The fairway was a long stretch of manicured stripy grass, gone slightly green-and-yellow after the unseasonal heat wave. Her golf bag sat on its wheely stand, parked about a third of the way down – also borrowed from Susan.
Pines bordered both sides of the thirteenth hole, with the fourteenth clearly visible through a thin strip of trees. Because there were still another five flipping holes to go after this one.
Assuming Roberta ever found her wanking ball.
Logan’s voice was flat, distracted. ‘Uh-huh.’
She whacked the crap out of a clump of bracken. ‘And don’t get me started on the clothes! I look like a comedy sex offender from the nineteen seventies.’
‘Hmmmm . . .’
Whack, whack, whack.
‘Stupid way to spend a morning.’
‘Uh-huh.’
She stopped swinging. ‘Are you even listening to me?’
‘Whinge, moan, complain: golf, clothes, and whatever?’ A grunt. ‘You remember I’m trying to catch a serial killer, right?’
She glowered out at the idiots on the fourteenth hole. ‘I should be catching serial killers. Not spaffing about on a scrunking golf course dressed like a clown’s testicle!’
‘And yet, here we are.’ His voice went all muffled, as if he’d put the phone against his chest. ‘OK. Bill: let’s try cutting the numbers a bit. Can you bring up everyone with previous for kerb crawling? Male and female; don’t care if they were trying to pick up same or opposite sex. . . . Thanks.’
Yeah, here they were. With him lording it up on a juicy case, while she was stuck on the buggering golf course.
If the man had one ounce of decency – or common sense – he’d be falling over himself to ask her for help. What with all of her experience and expertise and knowing how to catch dodgy bastards.
Time to try laying on a bit of the old guilt . . .
‘One week tomorrow, Laz. That’s all I’ve got till it’s “Goodbye, Roberta, nice knowing ya!” And then what’ve I got to look forward to – twenty years of whacking a stupid golf ball around?’ Sniff. ‘You think that’s a proper use of my talents?’
Hint, hint, hint.
Logan was back to full volume. ‘Well why don’t you try Tufty’s Wednesday game, then?’
‘No’ you as well!’ Whack! Whack-whack-whack!
‘Look at it from his point of view: you’re old enough to be his nan, and he’s still asking you to come play make-believe with him and his little friends. Wee loon’s doing you a favour.’
Cheeky sod.
‘I’m nowhere near old enough to be his grandmother!’
‘You keep telling yourself that.’ Logan went all muffled again: ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. . . . Do the records say who our kerb-crawlers tried to pick up? . . . Uh-huh. . . . OK.’
Whack. Whack. Whack!
‘And do I look like the kind of person who goes about pretending to be a wizard, or a . . . flipping troll, elf, whatever?’ Throwing her free arm wide, walking stick poking straight up like an oddly shaped sword. Standing there, looking down at herself.
Yeah. That was exactly the kind of person she looked like. Only worse.
‘No, I’m guessing he’s maybe tried to pick up a male prostitute in the past. Or tried to pick up a female one and got an unwelcome surprise. . . . Or maybe that’s what he tells himself?’
She sagged back against a tree. ‘And this afternoon, after golf and “lunch with the girls” do you know what we’re doing? Bloody pottery class!’
‘Got to be some reason he’s targeting gay sex workers.’
Someone must’ve replied to that, their voice reduced to a muted rumble in the background.
Then it was Logan again. ‘Course I’m not sure. But it’s worth a punt, isn’t it? . . . Exactly.’
‘Yesterday it was basket weaving, followed by a spa trip.’ She thwacked a pinecone out onto the fairway.
Which was the best shot she’d made since embarking on these eighteen holes of horror.
Which sounded like a very dodgy porn film that she’d definitely watch.
‘Susan’s taken three days off to “entertain” me, like I’m a sodding six-year-old on half term.
I’m in my prime here, sharpest officer NE Division has ever seen, a sodding detecting machine! ’ Kicking at the long grass . . .
A hot-pink golf ball winked up at her from the depths.
‘Oh. There it is.’
‘OK, get a car and we’ll work our way through them.’
Clearly, Logan McRae was too thick to pick up on her subtle cues. ‘Are you going to beg me to help you catch this Ripper, or no’?’
And just like that, he was back at full volume. ‘Look, I’ve got to go; might have a lead on our killer.’
Bloody men.
‘You haven’t heard a word I’ve said!’
‘Nope. But that’s what friends are for. Tell Susan I said “Hi.”’
Then the line went dead. He’d hung up.
Typical.
She slumped, staring up through the needled branches at the pale-grey sky. Still, at least she’d found her stupid ball.
Roberta carried the thing back to the fairway. Holding it up as she waved her walking stick at the green. ‘GOT IT!’
Susan waved back. Because unlike Roberta, she’d got all the way down there with two shots on a par four. As opposed to Roberta’s nine to just get this far.
And the humiliation wasn’t over yet.
She dropped her recovered ball, then pulled a random golf club from the bag. Sighed. ‘Come on, Roberta: only twenty years or so till you can drop dead and never play this idiotic game ever again . . .’
OK.
Deep breath.
She set up her shot, just like Susan taught her: feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, lean forward, weight on the balls of the feet, tap the club on the ground, just behind the ball, line everything up, twist into the backswing, then strike – smooth and fast – like a cobra.
Follow through, hips facing the green, weight on the front foot . . .
And her ball was still right where she’d dropped it.
Missed.
Oh for God’s sake.
Roberta tried again.
Missed again.
Once, twice, three times.
Stupid bloody golf.