Chapter 2.09
Chaos ruled the kitchen once more, as Susan attempted to sheepdog the monsters out the door. ‘All right, that’s time: all aboard who’s coming aboard!’ Taking one last swig of coffee, before clunking the mug down and giving Roberta a sweet, decaffeinated kiss.
Susan was in her linen power suit this morning. Jasmine: back in bookseller black. Naomi: wearing denim dungarees and a red-and-white stripy top. Sort of Deliverance meets Where’s Wally? While Roberta sagged there, keeping out of pandemonium’s way, in her woodland-creature jammies.
Grey light drooped through the windows and patio doors – the miserly glow of a dark day, threatening rain.
Susan stroked Roberta’s back. ‘You going to be all right today? I’m sorry I can’t—’
‘Never better.’ Holding a hand up to forestall any fuss. ‘And don’t worry: the wee loon’s taking me for my check-up. They’ll just have a prod about, declare me a “magnificent sexy beast of a woman”, and send me on my way.’
‘I am sorry.’ Frowning at the Aberdeen Examiner, laid out on the breakfast bar. ‘And you shouldn’t be reading that stuff. It’ll only upset you.’
The front page was dominated by ‘“GAS LEAK” WAS “COVER-UP” SAYS TOP COP’ with yet another photo of Roberta being carried out of the dust. Subheading: ‘WESTHILL BLAST WAS “A TERRORIST PLOT” CLAIMS EX-SUPERINTENDENT’.
A hug, a quick smooch on the forehead, and Susan gathered up the pre-packed lunches. ‘Move it, you two! Genghis!’
In he skittered on clicker-clack nails that still needed trimming. Almost wagging his back end off as Susan clipped on his lead.
Roberta buttered a second slice of toast. ‘You know, you could leave the wee man with—’
‘It’s no trouble, honestly, and I got used to having him around the office when you were away.
Stops Adriana from stealing all the fancy client biscuits.
Three months pregnant and she’s the size of a caravan.
Swear that woman can unhinge her jaw and swallow a whole packet of Tunnock’s Caramel Wafers in one go. ’
‘But—’
‘KIDS! I’m leaving, right now. If your bum’s not in—’
‘All right, all right.’ Jasmine pulled on her lanyard. ‘Jeesh, what a total Vogon.’ Pausing only to give Roberta’s cheek a peck as she stole her buttered toast. ‘Thanks. Catch ya’ later, investigator.’ Chomping as she strode off.
Naomi slurped the last gunky-brown-milky residue from her cereal bowl, gave Roberta a chocolaty kiss, then scarpered after her sister. ‘Shotgun, shotgun, shotgun!’
‘They’ll be the death of me, I swear it.’ Susan straightened her jacket. ‘If you can put a load of socks and pants on, and empty the dishwasher, that would be great.’ Clapping her hands. ‘HAS EVERYONE GOT EVERYTHING?’ Marching out of the kitchen. ‘Move it, people: clock is ticking!’
Naomi: ‘I called shotgun, I called shotgun!’
Jasmine: ‘God, you’re such a—’
The front door clunked shut.
Silence.
This must’ve been what it was like at the Battle of the Somme, when the artillery finally stopped. Only with fewer dirty dishes and abandoned buttery knives.
Roberta puffed out her cheeks and surveyed the devastation.
Life was so much easier when she was up and out of the house while they were all still asleep.
The utility-room door hung open – letting in the hummmmm and whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of an expertly loaded dishwasher – while Roberta sorted socks and pants into two piles. Colours on one side, whites on the other. Because she wasn’t making that mistake again.
The first load got stuffed into the machine with a cap of squirty liquid. Beep, beep, click. And it was off.
Right.
She stuck the lid on the laundry basket and pushed it into the under-counter alcove it came from. Only the stupid thing wouldn’t go.
Haul it back out. And shove it in again.
As the actress said to the bishop.
Still no.
Had to be something blocking the hole . . .
Ooh, Matron.
So Roberta pulled it all the way out – fnarrrr . . . – and checked the alcove.
A black bin-bag lay crumpled in the space, half-filled and tied at the top. Which was weird, because the rubbish went straight from the kitchen bin to the black wheelie outside. Even if it was raining. Because otherwise, what was the point of having kids?
Suspicious.
Police radar pinging, she fished the thing out with her stick, plonked it on top of the worksurface and untied it – releasing a funky, sweaty-sweet, cloying fug. Somewhere between fusty meat and manky mildew.
It was her clothes. The ones she’d been wearing when the explosion went off at Silvermoss Business Centre. Bagged up on admission to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary and returned when she was discharged.
Urgh . . .
Given that everything in there was covered in dried blood and dust and hairy mould, it probably wasn’t wise to touch anything with her bare hands.
So she dug through the cupboard under the sink for a pair of yellow rubber gloves.
Snapping them on, as if about to perform an extremely intrusive full-body-cavity search.
Time to make the bag bend over and grab its ankles.
There was no sign of her stabproof, high-vis, or utility belt.
But they’d been in the back of the patrol car, crushed beneath a big metal logo.
Instead, she pulled out what remained of her clingy black T-shirt and itchy black trousers – both slit open when the trauma team cut them off her.
Her pants were severed on both sides too, though thankfully skidmark free.
Which was a worry when you’d just been blown-up.
That kind of thing could startle even the most stoic of bumholes.
Her socks were hard as boomerangs, but the Doc Martens looked salvageable. Just need to clean off the mould and air them out a bit; they’d be good as . . .
Oh God.
Roberta let go, and a fusty boot tumbled down to bounce against the tiled floor.
Please no, please no, please no . . .
Trembling yellow-gloved fingers reached into the bin-bag, easing out Old Faithful, her long-serving, long-suffering, Playtex ‘Magic Feeling’ bra.
Normally, it was a sort of ancient-grey colour, all the white washed-out by years and years of use and abuse, but now Old Faithful was stained dried-blood brown and speckled with mildew.
She cradled the poor thing in her hands, like an injured kitten, biting her bottom lip as she took in the sheer horror.
Barbed wire coiled in her throat.
They’d cut both bra straps and one of the wings.
Old Faithful . . . was dead.
Mr Rumpole lurked beneath the rhododendron bush – staying out of the drizzle, because he wasn’t an idiot – watching Roberta dig a wee grave in the flower bed.
One shovel wide and two shovels deep, not far from a small granite headstone engraved: ‘JOSEPH VISSARIONOVICH STALIN ~ A brAW, STINKY, LITTLE OLD DOG, MUCH LOVED wallet, featuring credit, debit, and library cards; twenty-six quid, thirty-tuppence in notes and smush; a lottery ticket, now completely unreadable; her vape, all dented, cracked, and spidered with musty growth; and last of all – three folded sheets of A4 paper.
They were stained around the edges, but the inside bits were still perfectly readable: printouts from the Police National Computer.
This would be the number plates Wee Davey McLeod begged her to run for him.
Rory Hatton’s red Jaguar F-Pace, Charlotte MacNeal’s lime-green Toyota Yaris, and Jeremy Yarrow’s ancient, brown Daihatsu Fourtrak.
Whoever the hell they were.
Hmmm . . .
Never did find out what the old bugger wanted with these.
Maybe Tufty had been right and Davey was up to something sketchy?
Drugs?
Could be.
Extortion scam?
Or some sort of people-smuggling thing?