Chapter 2.12
Roberta finished digging through Davey’s desk drawers – nothing interesting – and had a good nosy at his corkboards instead. Sipping her tea and crunching her biscuit. Because ginger snaps were actually quite nice, once you got used to the idea that they weren’t slathered in chocolate.
Already seen the Great Mintlaw Bungalow Inquiry.
Next in line was the Huntly Crown Green Bowling Club Investigation – thrilling stuff – and the Strange Case of the Lusty Lumphanan Librarian and her Loch Street Lothario .
. . All of which were at the duller end of surveillance photography: cars in car parks; people sitting together in restaurants; snaps of one couple hand-in-hand on the beach . . .
The last pics in the ‘SOON TO BE DIVORCED’ section were of what looked like an agricultural shed, with a ‘CD&RS LTD’ sign on its corrugated-metal walls.
One snap each of the red Jaguar SUV, snot-green Yaris, and a rusty Fourtrak so decrepit that the rear bumper was held on with hairy string.
What had Davey said the business was? Coillewood Developy Something Somethings?
Close enough.
Then it was on to the missing-persons posters, starting with a ginger tabby: Mr Wibbles, a tortoiseshell: Captain Floofypants, a longhair: Rincannaroth, and a Burmese called Bob.
Which left the people.
Davey had far more of them than cats. Most were late-teens, early-twenties, but a few middle-agers and OAPs had gone walkabout too.
Like Evan MacGath, a balding pensioner, photographed in his droopy wattles, shirt and tie.
Missing for six months. Last seen heading out from his home in Portsoy, carrying a bag-for-life, bundled up in a parka jacket and woolly hat against the February sleet.
Tina Hannay hung next to him: a squashed-looking woman, in her forties, a cardigan, and flustered-mumsy haircut.
Long nose, dark eyes, pinched mouth, overbite.
As if a rat had been granted its wish to become human, then instantly regretted it.
Last seen on CCTV walking away from the Elgin bus station, ten months ago.
Don’t think the bus station even existed anymore.
Ding-buzz.
LUND:
DS David McLeod > retired Feb 2013
No big cockups or Prof.Stand investigations
B.Nesbit stabbing > Beattie at standstill
Of course he sodding was – the man was an idiot, wrapped in a moron, and stuffed up an imbecile. How did it take someone eight-and-a-bit weeks to solve a stabbing with two dozen witnesses?
Scowling, Roberta went back to the wall of mispers.
Next up was a Ruby Burrows: thirty-seven, longish straight brown hair, prominent ears, wide mouth.
Really wide. Like, pedal-bin wide. OK, in a girl-next-doorsy kind of way, wearing a grey shirt under a navy jumper and a dark-grey sports coat that did nothing for her.
According to the text beneath Ruby’s photo, she went missing on the first of June – nearly eleven weeks ago.
Last seen driving out of the staff car park at Kirkenwell Academy, where she worked as a music teacher.
Fortunately, someone much more to Roberta’s taste was pinned-up by the filing cabinet: Megan Lockheart.
Twenty-one with long black hair in a centre parting, dark eyebrows and darker eyes.
Pouty lips, small nose, little dimple in her chin.
She was pictured in a blue-and-yellow T-shirt with a Ukrainian tryzub on it.
Looking serious and determined as she gazed into the camera. Which somehow made her even prettier.
There was something weirdly . . . familiar about her.
As if they’d met before, but long enough ago that the memory was blurred out of focus. Though that might’ve been something to do with the ballistic chunk of pipe that tried to tear its way through Roberta’s skull.
The accompanying write-up pegged Megan at five-foot-two – so a proper pocket rocket – last seen on Saturday, third of May, at the big B&Q in Garthdee. Though her wee Fiat 500 was found six miles away in Portlethen, near Nicol Park, a week later.
Wonder if they looked at the boyfriend for it? Because a fiver said Megan had terrible taste in men. The seriously pretty ones often did. Too used to everyone being nice to them to develop a fully functioning dangerous-dickhead Radar.
Whoever Megan was shagging, bet he’d be the kind of guy who—
‘Sorry about that.’ Davey bustled in from the rain, thumping the door shut behind him. ‘Sometimes Jenny has difficulty settling after a . . . visit.’
Roberta tapped the missing person poster. ‘This one: Megan Lockheart. Where do I know her from?’
He shuffled out of his mini-wellies and joined her at the corkboard.
‘You’ve seen her? What, recently?’ Bouncing slightly in his tartan baffies.
‘Are you sure it was her? Cos her mum and dad are frantic. And probably going to fire me if I don’t make some progress soon.
’ Grabbing a battered notebook and another half-eaten pen. ‘Where was this?’
‘Anyone grill the boyfriend?’
‘Didn’t . . . doesn’t have one. According to her friends, the only thing she’s in love with is helping people. Volunteering, that kind of stuff.’
Hmmmm . . .
Roberta had a good long squint at the photo, but it wasn’t coming. ‘Nah. No idea.’ She pointed at the three Post-its she’d stuck to Davey’s desk. ‘Copied out your PNC checks. You didn’t get them from me, or anyone like me, or anyone who’s even heard of me.’
His shoulders dipped as the chance of not-getting-sacked slipped away. Then scuffed over there to check what she’d written. ‘You given any thought to what you’re going to do? Cos you’re retiring soon, right?’
‘End of the week.’ As if she needed reminding.
‘Could ride along with me if you fancied it? Now I’ve got these,’ holding up the Post-its, ‘might actually make some progress before Mrs Sherman fires me too.’
Roberta folded her arms, leaning back against the filing cabinet. ‘I solve sodding murders, remember?’ Sniff. ‘Besides, why do I get the feeling everyone’s on the verge of canning you?’
‘It’s not my fault! I can only do Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, cos someone has to be here for Jenny.
You got any idea how hard it is to get a care package these days?
Health visitors, someone to help turn her, or take her .
. . for a visit? She hates strangers doing that.
’ Getting smaller and wetter with every word, till there was nothing left of him but a teeny puddle of self-pity.
Roberta groaned, rolled her eyes, then turned to scowl at the corkboards – with their crappy divorce cases and missing people.
‘Well . . .’ He huffed out a breath. Tried again: ‘How about we give it a trial run? You and me see if we can nail Noel Sherman’s cheating arse?’ Neediness oozing out. ‘We could go noise-up this . . . Hatton, MacNeal, and Yarrow tomorrow? Rattle their cages: see if anything bites?’
Leaving a pause that ached with desperation.
Pfff . . .
Not as if she had anything better to do, was it.
And at least this would be better than stupid golf.
Roberta set her jaw and turned. ‘If I do help you – and I’m no’ saying I will – remember I was a Detective Chief Inspector, you were a DS, so there’ll be no sexist bollocks: no throwing your weight around, thinking you’re in charge. You’re no’ in charge, I am.’
‘Deal! Cubs’ honour.’
‘OK then.’ She stuck out her hand. ‘File.’
He almost skipped to the nearest filing cabinet, ferreting about in its bottom drawer, and returning with a folder. Then paused. Biting his lip as he clutched it. ‘But . . . doctor-patient confidentiality.’
‘Consulting detective immunity.’ Ah, what the hell – why not? ‘But fair enough.’
Davey handed the file over and she tucked it under her arm.
Roberta gave him a wee nod. ‘Pleasure doing business with you. Maybe.’ Then headed for the door. ‘And get some decent biscuits in next time!’
She hurried down the driveway, coat pulled up over her head, like Quasimodo in stylish boots.
The Rennie Family Tip was parked where she’d left it, rain bouncing off the roof, bonnet, and windscreen like a snare drum at an execution.
The boy himself was still behind the wheel, rocking in his seat, flailing his hands about, as if attending a one-idiot rave.
Roberta yanked open the passenger door and hurled herself inside. Thumping the door closed on the downpour. ‘Buggering shiteflaps!’
Up close, it was clear that Rennie had earbuds in, still ‘dancing’, and making high-pitched sort-of-joining-in-with-whatever-the-song-was noises. ‘Yeah, yeah. . . . Ooh, ooh . . .’
She gave herself a good shake, sending water pattering into the footwell.
‘Doobie, doobie, doobie-doobie. . . . Waaah, waah . . .’
‘What the hell are you listening to?’
His voice was far too loud: ‘GIVE US A MINUTE, THIS IS THE BEST BIT.’ Throwing in a shoulder wiggle. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeahhhhhh!’
Idiots.
Just . . . surrounded by idiots.
While he seat-shimmied, she opened Davie’s manilla folder and slid the contents into her damp lap.
Top of the pile were a couple of photos of the not-so-happy couple, with their names written on them, in case you couldn’t tell which was which.
Judith Sherman had a vaguely Slavic look, with dark blonde hair long enough to put in a plait. Bow-shaped mouth, very red lipstick, long face, long nose, heavy eyebrows. Early-forties, doing her best to look mid-twenties.
‘Uh-huh, uh-huh, doo, doo . . .’
Her cheating husband, Noel, was one of those short-back-and-sides-with-an-order-of-stubble kind of guys.
As if he were desperate to star in a Guy Ritchie film.
Larger ears than his head was designed to accommodate.
Strong jaw, turning a bit saggy, with a hint of the double chin about it.
Still a big lad, though. Someone who went to the gym every now and then, and didn’t mind throwing his weight about.
Mr and Mrs looked happy enough in the first pic, taken at some sort of party when they were both much younger, but in the second one, it wasn’t just Noel’s jawline that was heading south.
Stony-faced, they sat at opposite ends of the couch with their three kids in the middle, like sticky little human shields.
Two boys, one girl – soon to be from a broken home.
‘Bam, bam, bim-bam, ooooooh-ooooooh!’
Other shots showed the big metal shed/workshop. And the last three were the now familiar pictures of Davey’s suspicious vehicles.
And then it was on to handwritten notes from four stakeouts: times, number plates, comments. Blah, blah, blah.
Nothing even vaguely interesting.
Rennie grinned across the car at her. ‘BIG FINISH . . .’ Then into an air-guitar solo, because apparently, he had no shame at all. ‘Yeah, yeah . . . Gonna,’ his voice jumped an octave into a falsetto shriek, ‘Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!’
The only things left were a couple of zip-lock freezer bags, containing credit-card receipts and phone bills – smeared and splotted with grease-and-food stains, crumpled, creased, then straightened out again. Because clearly Davey was big into his bin diving.
Which, to be honest, showed more initiative than he had when he was a detective sergeant.
Good for him.
Rennie performed his big finish on the invisible drums, then slumped back, breathing hard and beaming. Before popping out the earbuds. ‘Get everything you needed?’
‘Not yet.’ She returned the photos, notes, and bills to their folder. ‘Back to town. Think we’ll pop in past the big Asda in Garthdee. I’ve always wanted to run amok in one of those mobility scooter things . . .’