Chapter 2.14
Roberta grabbed Boris Johnson’s head and collapsed into the sofa. Crushing his squishy skull in one hand as she opened her phone and selected her number-one contact. Pkongk-glonk. Pkongk-glonk. Pkongk-glonk. Forcing her face into a smile as the number rang. Pkonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngk . . .
Oh for the piffering snidge.
A splot of something stained the front of her new silk shirt. Clean on this morning, never been worn. She curled her lip and gave it a sniff.
Rancid, cat-food-gravy, bastarding—
‘Robbie?’ Susan’s voice. ‘You OK?’
Glonk.
‘I’ve got yuck on my top!’
Silence.
‘Right . . . And you thought I could do something about that?’
‘What? No. Sorry.’ She tossed Boris Johnson’s severed head onto the other sofa, and unbuttoned her shirt. ‘Listen, I think I left that book I was reading in the Wee Car’s boot. You know, before I got blown to smithereens?’
‘Did you?’
‘And, funny thing: I can’t find the keys . . .?’
‘That’s right.’
Roberta wiggled one arm out of its sleeve then froze. ‘When you say—’
‘Dr Turner thinks you’re not safe to drive right now, so you won’t find your keys anywhere. Not even the spare set. And there’s no point whingeing at me, because I am every bit as stubborn and bloody-minded as you are.’
‘But . . . my book!’
‘I’m not falling for it, Roberta Alexander Steel.’ And there was that flinty lawyer edge. ‘Now, is there anything else, or can I get back to work? Some of us don’t get to retire for over a decade yet.’
Urgh . . .
She peeled off the other sleeve and sagged back on the couch. Not bothering to hide the sulky droop to her voice. ‘No.’
‘Good. Love you.’ And Susan was gone.
Roberta gave in to a full-body slump, head lolled back to glare at the ceiling. ‘The woman’s a monster.’ Quite a few cobwebs up there. Wonder if Wee Davey McLeod fancied popping around with his feather duster and pinny?
Speaking of whom.
She thumbed out a text to ‘SKETCHY DAVEY’:
Change of plan.
Can’t drive: car trouble.
You need to pick me up.
SEND.
OK, so Davey’s crapbucket VW Polo was a rusty heap, but inside it was spotless. Like his house.
Sounded as if the engine needed tuning, though. Or taking out and shooting as they puttered down the A92, a couple of minutes south of Stonehaven.
Outside, the sky was dark as a smoker’s lungs, a misty drizzle mixing with the filthy road-spray, smeared by the windscreen wipers into grubby beige arcs.
Trees bordered the fields to the right, but on the left they gave way to the looming slate-grey slab of the North Sea.
Full of foreboding. And fish. While the radio was full of bland sub-par rock, one step above elevator music.
Roberta slouched in the passenger seat, wearing a blue shirt rescued from the laundry basket, while Davey had opted for a pair of wicker-furniture-style driving gloves that made him look like an OAP pervert.
A junction appeared up ahead ‘? DUNNOTTAR CASTLE ⒈／⒋’.
He indicated left, slowing for the turn. ‘All I’m saying is we should’ve started with Jeremy Yarrow, then did Charlotte MacNeal, and finished with Rory Hatton.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Poking away at her mobile, texting Logan:
See you got yourself a new Ripper victim.
Spill the beans, Limpalong.
SEND.
Davey took the turning. ‘It just makes more sense to start with the nearest and work our way out.’ Leaving the old main road behind.
‘And how is that different from starting furthest out and working our way back? Got to get home anyway.’ She stuck her phone away. ‘Or were you planning on abandoning the car and starting a new life, down here? Cos I’m flattered, but you’re no’ my type.’
He opened his mouth, then clicked it shut again.
Which is why she was in charge.
Roberta grabbed the case file and pulled out the map she’d printed off last night – with each of the three suspected-husband-shaggers’ addresses ringed in yellow highlighter. ‘Next right.’
A track headed off towards the brooding sea, guarded by a pair of squint wheelie bins and an even squinter wooden sign: ‘TREMUDA KNAP STEADING’.
The car lumped-and-bumped along the rutted stretch of mud and gravel, like a ship on stormy waves.
She held onto the grab handle above her door. ‘How much are we getting paid for this job anyway?’
‘“We” aren’t getting paid anything; I’m getting paid. And not enough.’ Baring his teeth as something scraped along the bottom of the car. ‘You got any idea how hard it is to keep the wolf fed these days? In your big fancy house, with your big fancy lawyer wife?’
‘No’ my fault I married well. Anyway, you got your pension, didn’t you?’
His face soured even more. ‘Sore point.’
A steading appeared at the end of the track. A long low rectangle of misshapen granite blocks, topped with grey slate. Behind it, a bunch of fishing nets were hung on poles for mending. Like a kinky big top.
Roberta stared at him. ‘Oh, Davey, you didn’t . . .?’
That insipid song blanded to a halt, and a tit DJ faded himself up. ‘I bet you were rocking out on your air guitars to that one, weren’t you?’ Adopting a teasing tone as if he wasn’t tittish enough. ‘Aye, you were. We seen you. Ha, ha.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘You bloody did, didn’t you.’
‘Well, there were all those adverts about cashing your pension in, and how much better off you could be with the money as a lump sum.’
No sign of that flashy red Jaguar from the surveillance photos. Instead, a knackered-looking old Landy sat outside the steading.
‘You took out all of it?’
‘You’re listening to Fit Like the Day wi me, Murray MacDuff, on a sharny Wednesday morning.’
He squirmed in his seat.
‘Oh for God’s . . . Davey!’
‘So let’s kick it up a bit and wheel out oor very own The Electric Ceilidh Company and their hot new release: “Skirl And Jiggle”.’
‘Don’t, OK?’ Parking next to the Land Rover. ‘I know. Believe me: I know.’
Bagpipes howled out of the speakers, followed by a coked-up accordion. But before they could get anywhere, Davey killed the engine and clambered out. Probably thought that would save him from a proper bollocking.
Wrong.
She wriggled free of the car – not easy with a walking stick and an umbrella. A fancy blue-green-and-yellow one, from one of Susan’s corporate clients. ‘How could you cash-in your pension just cos some slick prick in an ad said so?’
He stuck his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders up to protect his ears. ‘Bet this is bleak in the winter. Wind howling straight off the North Sea . . .’
It had probably started life as a cow byre, way back in the century before last, but someone had clearly lavished a bit of love and money on its conversion to a family home.
Even had planters out front, with flowers in them – hard up against the walls to shelter from Davey’s change-the-subject gales – but they were sad and wilting in the drizzle.
She gave him a disappointed tut. ‘Never trust people off the telly, Davey, they’re all wanks.’
Away to the left, Dunnottar Castle was just visible through the drizzle, like a broken row of rotten teeth.
He pocketed his driving gloves and sparked up a cigarette that smelled like burning dog shite. ‘What’s the plan for talking to this Rory Hatton?’
‘Same as any suspect: we start off sarcastic; move onto downright horrible; and if that doesn’t work, chuck him down a couple flights of stairs.’ Grin. ‘You can be “Good Cop”, if you like?’
He rang the bell. ‘Not allowed to be any kind of cop. Police Act 1996, Section Ninety, brackets, One, close brackets.’ Deep breath.
‘“Any person who, with intent to deceive, impersonates a member of a police force or special constable, or makes any statement or does any act calculated falsely to suggest that—”’
The door opened and a wee girl peered out at them through thick round glasses. Not wee, wee. Maybe thirteen? With a trendy haircut and a ‘NUCLEAR KILL SYNDROME’ T-shirt from their recent world tour. So, she had better taste in music than Davey. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Aye, is Rory Hatton kicking about?’ Roberta hooked a thumb at the Landy. ‘Don’t see his Jag.’
The kid backed away an inch, frowning. ‘Why?’
‘Need to talk to him about a bloke he knows. Sort of get his advice on stuff.’
Nothing.
Then the frown faded, and she gave Roberta a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Dad’s out. Gone fishing. On his boat?’
Davey mimed casting with a rod, putting on a sing-song voice. ‘Is your daddy going to catch a lovely fish for your tea?’ Fag poking out the corner of his mouth.
She blinked at him. ‘We’re having sausages.’ Then shook her head and went back to Roberta. ‘Dad sells lobster and crab. He’s got creels.’
Davey had another go, scootching down, eye-to-eye. ‘What about your mummy?’
‘Bitch fucked off when we were little.’
Sounded as if Daddy Dearest had done a great job of poisoning the well, if that’s how his daughter talked about her mum.
‘But . . .’ Davey’s eyes widened. ‘But if your daddy’s away, who’s looking after you, Sweetie?’
Roberta hit him. ‘She’s a young woman, no’ a bloody puppy!’
The wee girl stuck her chin up.
Davey shuffled his feet.
Roberta hit him again. ‘You have to excuse my colleague, he’s an idiot. Any idea when your dad’ll be back?’
‘Not till ages.’ Pointing in the vague direction of Stonehaven. ‘Only just missed him, though. Might get him at the harbour, before he sails: The Nippy Partan. Red with a white stripe.’
‘Cool. Ta.’ Hobbling back towards the car. ‘Do us a favour: make sure you lock the door, eh? Lots of weird freaks out there.’ Hoicking a thumb at Davey. ‘Like this numpty.’
‘Yes. . . . Well . . .’ The numpty cleared his throat. ‘Stay safe.’ Then hurried around to the driver’s side and climbed in. Starting the engine to perform a laborious six-point turn, the wheel bearings squeaking and squealing with every laborious twist, until they were facing the right way again.
And throughout this display of motoring ineptitude, the wee girl stood there, in the doorway, watching with her arms crossed, face scrunched. As if trying to figure out how anyone could make such a mess of driving.