Chapter 2.13
This morning’s tea-and-toast chaos came with a hefty buttering of Jasmine moaning about the weather – cramming down breakfast with her hair like an electrocuted bird’s-nest.
No idea why, but Naomi was dressed as a pirate today, wolfing cereal while Susan did her best to get everyone out the house:
‘Come on, people: move it or lose it! Car. Car. Car. Car!’ Shepherding both kids towards the door. ‘GENGHIS! Mummy’s leaving!’
The wee lad scurried in on his tap-dancing nails, tail wagging so fast he could barely keep his little hind legs on the floor.
Susan clipped on his lead then bent to give Roberta a lingering smooch. ‘You look very smart . . . and pleased with yourself.’
Roberta beamed at her. ‘Marigold gloves: who knew?’
‘Robbie!’ Pink bloomed across Susan’s cheeks. ‘Why are you all dressed-up, though?’
As if there was anything suspicious about ditching the jammies for once, and going with a nice new pair of jeans and a nice new purple silk shirt – not to mention the extra perky boobs, thanks to a nice new swanky bra. Courtesy of her shopping spree yesterday. ‘Can’t slob about all week in my PJs.’
Which was technically true, and therefore not a lie. So didn’t count. And what Susan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Or cause a blazing row about how Roberta was just a wounded wickle birdie who had to stay in the nest and not go galivanting about town playing freelance detective.
A wail echoed through from the hall. Jasmine: ‘Muuuuuu-um, I’m going to be late!’
Susan rolled her eyes. ‘I love them to death, but some days . . .’ Deep breath. ‘THEN GET YOUR BUMS IN THE CAR!’
‘Thought I might have a wee hobble around the neighbourhood if the rain lets up. You know: what the physio said – keeping active.’
‘That’s the spirit!’
‘Muuuuuuuuuummmmmmmm!’
She slumped. ‘Now I know why gerbils eat their young.’ Marching for the door. ‘ANYONE NOT IN THE CAR GETS LEFT BEHIND!’
Naomi: ‘Arrrrr, me hearties, I calls “shotgun”, so I does!’
Jasmine: ‘You had shotgun yesterday!’
‘Move it, move it, move it, move it! Honestly, you’re such a pair of—’
The front door clunked shut.
Peace at last.
Roberta closed the paper: ‘TAYSIDE RIPPER: NEW VICTIM EXCLUSIVE’, above a photo of a narrow, cobbled alley cordoned-off with blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape.
Bars on the windows, graffiti on the walls.
A patrol car blocked most of the shot, but Logan was visible in the middle distance, between its swirling lights – on his phone and scowling at something out of sight.
A blue SOC tent filled the alley behind him.
‘FAMILY’S HORROR AS “BELOVED” SON’S BODY PARTS DISCOVERED IN CITY CENTRE’.
Told Logan he should’ve hired her as a consulting detective. Would’ve solved it by now.
She gulped down the last mouthful of coffee.
Then an evil wee smile bloomed.
Instead of filling the dishwasher and tidying up, Roberta snuck down the hall and peered through the glazed panels either side of the front door.
Outside, Susan helped Genghis hop into the back of her grey-blue Volvo XC40, then jumped in behind the wheel. A vwwwwmmmmmmmmmmmm of electric engine as the Big Car pulled away. And they were gone.
Roberta was all alone.
Which was cue for a sinister chuckle, rubbing her hands together. Because if you couldn’t ham it up at the start of a devious plan, when could you?
And now: keys.
She went for a rummage in the sideboard drawer.
Keys, keys, keys, keys, keys . . .
First up would be a trip through the car wash. Maybe two, given how sticky her MX-5 was. And then . . .
Where they hell were they?
Roberta pulled the whole drawer out and peered into the hole left behind. No keys.
‘Oh for God’s . . .’
Right.
Carrying the drawer through to the war-zone-cum-kitchen, she tipped the contents out on top of that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner.
It made a massive mound of assorted keys and fobs, many of which didn’t fit anything anymore, because in the sixteen years they’d been married they’d never thrown a single key out.
There were even keys in here that she’d inherited from her parents – big and rusty, like her dad.
Keys for every car she’d ever owned. Keys for about a dozen wee stations that no longer existed, because Police Scotland sold them.
Keys upon keys upon keys. Keys for everything except her MX-5.
‘Bugger-wank.’
Back in the hall, she shoved the drawer into its slot again, then searched through every single coat hanging by the door. Even the kids’ ones.
No keys.
Up in the mistress bedroom, she rifled through both big wardrobes, patting down anything with pockets.
Still no keys.
Down in the living room – stuffing her arm in down between the sofa’s leather back and its leather cushions.
Then doing the same with the other one. And the armchairs.
Producing nothing more useful than a couple of Mr Rumpole’s toy mice, a half-chewed rawhide thing, three Lego men and a small handful of spare change.
Which she pocketed.
Roberta stood in the middle of the room, turning round and around. Hauling in a deep, deeeeeep breath then bellowing it out again. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
Pacing the living-room rug, like a lopsided tripod.
Come on, they had to be somewhere.
Where did she have them last?
. . .
Inverurie.
They were in her pocket when she and Tufty sneaked out in that patrol car. Which meant she’d had them on her when everything went BANG!
OK.
This was progress.
Through in the utility room, her mouldy Doc Martens and epaulettes still sat on the draining board, awaiting a good clean. Along with her wallet and the other bits and bobs.
But no keys.
‘Oh for Christ’s . . .’
The bin-bag?
Maybe she’d missed a whole set of car keys when going through her cut-off clothes?
Worth a try . . .
Roberta rummaged through the bin, wearing last night’s yellow Marigolds for a far less noble purpose.
Why was there so much sticky slimy yuck in here?
Why did—
Got you: one fusty hospital bin-bag, hidden beneath a layer of malignant cat-food pouches.
She dumped the foul-smelling thing in the sink, untied the knot, and pulled everything out, going through all the pockets again.
Still no buggering keys.
Just to be sure, she searched them a third time. Slow and steady. Jaw clenching tighter and tighter with every sodding pass.
WHERE THE WANKING FUCK WERE HER KEYS?
Ramming her cut-off fusties back into the bag, Roberta slammed it into the bin, then shoved that back into its cubbyhole.
Glared at it.
She snapped off her rubber gloves and hurled them into the sink.