Chapter 2.15 #2
‘Let’s start with Noel Sherman.’
‘Ah . . .’ She downed the rest of her glass in one, then topped it up, emptying the bottle. Threw back a hefty mouthful. Not bothering to fish the flies out this time. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Really? Cos we’ve had his place under surveillance for months, and guess who we see: coming and going on a regular basis.’
That flush sounded again. Must’ve been one stubborn jobbie.
Charlotte swirled her glass, sending the dead flies on a merry-go-round. ‘I don’t have to say anything without my solicitor present.’
‘True. But you’d be cutting your boobs off to spite your bra, wouldn’t you.’
She licked her lips. Cleared her throat. Sooked on her fag so hard the thing hissssssed. Swilled down the last of her fly-infused Chardonnay.
Upstairs the world’s floatiest jobbie got yet another flush.
Followed by a little wailing voice: ‘CHARLOTTE? CHARLOTTE, I’VE GOT A PROBLEM!’
Roberta curled her lip. ‘Your wee loon needs to eat more fibre. It’s . . .’
Something went pitter-pat at the kitchen-end of the room. Like tiny feet on the filthy tiles. Only it wasn’t tap-dancing mice, it was a trickle of water – coming from one of the ceiling spotlights. The trickle built into a stream, then a mini-waterfall. Spreading out across the floor.
A panicky ‘CHARLOTTE!’ rang out. And then another sodding flush, because clearly Campbell wasn’t the brightest of toyboys. Spwooshing down from the light fittings.
‘In the name of fuck . . .’ Charlotte folded forwards, burying her head in her hands as Roberta scrambled out of her seat and through to the living room. Into the hall. Round the bottom of the stairs – hobbling up them, walking stick thunking into the grubby carpet.
Breathing hard before she was even halfway there.
Using her spare hand to pull herself up the banister.
The landing at the top was tiny, with six doors off, but only one of them lay open – exposing a messy bedroom with rumpled sheets, the duvet lying on the floor, and the window wide open.
The landing carpet had probably started life as ‘oatmeal’ but had ended up ‘burnt toast’, getting even darker as a wet patch spread out from beneath the door at the top of the stairs.
Squelching under Roberta’s boots.
But that didn’t stop Campbell from flushing again.
She banged on the door. ‘You better no’ have your pants round your ankles!’ Then shoved the thing open.
The bathroom inside wasn’t massive – just enough room for a bath, a sink, a toilet, and another dead pot plant.
It also contained a tattooed young man in his Y-fronts, standing there with one foot on the floor, crying as he tried to jam something down the overflowing toilet bowl by stamping on it. Like a toddler in a puddle, splashing bog-water everywhere.
‘Flipping heck . . .’ Roberta froze, because it was already like a paddling pool in there. ‘That must be one hell of a jobbie!’
Campbell froze, then looked up at her, with his eyes all pink, face wet with tears and eau de toilette.
Could see those three brain cells rattling around his hollow little head: fight or flight, fight or flight, fight or flight?
She raised a hand. ‘Don’t even think about—’
He leapt from the bog, barging past, knocking Roberta off her feet.
She crashed down on the soggy carpet, walking stick flying off to bang-crash-rattle down the stairs after Campbell as he legged it.
Her head hit the floor, and a bright-brown whooooooooooooomphing noise detonated through her skull, making the walls shake and the ceiling ripple.
Downstairs, Davey got as far as, ‘Hoy: you! Stop right—’ A clattering sound echoed up the stairs, followed by: ‘Aya, bastard!’
Which was probably Campbell being an unstoppable force to Davey’s very moveable object.
God’s sake . . .
Roberta rolled onto her side, grabbed at the balusters, and dragged herself upright. Stood there with her other arm out for balance. Doing a really good job of not being sick as Sixteen Creel Terrace waltzed around her.
Deep breath.
She staggered along the landing to the only door that faced the front of the house. Dragged it open.
A weeny bedroom, containing a part-collapsed crib full of catering supplies: pots, pans, trays, scrapers, spatulas . . . All of it heavy and industrial. So probably for the fast-food trailer outside.
There were boxes and boxes of napkins too, condiments, wee paper packets of salt and pepper, cases of fizzy juice, and boxes of burger buns – filling the room, chest high.
Roberta hurpled forward, one hand on the wall, shoving her way through, clambering onto boxes that really weren’t robust enough to take her weight.
Her boot went straight through one of them and into something soft and squashable.
Because what could be nicer on a burger than an artisanal foot-flattened bun.
She battled to the window and peered out at the road below.
Identikit houses lined the street opposite – in all their bland, tidemarked glory – but Campbell Brown was determined to add a bit of excitement: sprinting away from number sixteen, heading for the town centre, wearing nothing but his soggy, almost-transparent Y-fronts.
Still no sign of Davey, though. Lazy bugger should’ve been giving chase by—
‘STOP! NO! YOU ARE UNDER—’ Another thumping collision. ‘AAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaargh . . .’
And then Charlotte MacNeal appeared out front, wobbling off at a fair clip. Bare feet slapping on the pavement, brown dressing gown flapping out behind her. Babydoll nightie on full show.
And still no Davey.
Useless tit.
Roberta struggled back through the boxes and onto the landing again. Leaning hard on the banister as she squelched across the soggy carpet and into the drowned bathroom.
Splish, splosh, splish.
Then risked a quick peek at the toilet bowl.
And there, surrounded by the blast-residue of a thousand skidmarks, was a brick of something white – about the size of a paperback book – wrapped in clear plastic and secured with heaps of duct tape. Looked properly wedged in there. You’d have to be an absolute moron to think it would ever flush.
That would be ‘Mummy’s special medicine’.
Well, it could stay there till backup arrived, because there was no way Roberta was putting her hand anywhere near that filthy crapper.
Instead, she lumbered down the squishy stairs, phone to her ear as it rang.
A nasal voice picked up: ‘Aye, aye. I heard you weren’t allowed to—’
‘Need all units to Cove. Suspects are an IC-One male, wearing sod-all but his skiddies, and an IC-One female in a turd-brown dressing gown and scarlet underwear. Both to be considered unarmed and extremely stupid.’
‘Thought you were retired?’
‘No’ till Friday. Now am I getting them cars or no’?’
Mr Nostrils treated her to a long humm-and-haw . . . Then: ‘I can’t just send out vehicles willy-nilly. I mean, it’s not as if—’
‘They’re both suspected of possession with intent. A lot of intent. At least a kilo.’
‘Oooh . . . In that case, I’ll see what I can do.’
She hurpled off the bottom step, squeezed past the jacket barricade, and there was Davey – standing in the front doorway, propping himself up against the frame with one hand, while the other cupped his undercarriage. Knees bent, face screwed shut, forehead pressed against the painted wood.
Roberta hunkered down to retrieve her walking stick, taking it slow and careful, because sod having another go on the whirling-whooooooooooooomph-and-waltz machine.
By the time she’d straightened up that old familiar headache was clawing at the base of her skull anyway.
And Davey hadn’t moved an inch, still clutching his knackers.
She hoicked up her damp trousers. ‘Good job you’re too old to be a dad, eh?’ Peering off down the street. ‘But next time, maybe try stopping the bad guys?’
Davey just groaned . . .