Chapter 2.16
The drizzle had given up – for now – but the sky was heavy and bruised, ready to have another go. Looming over the soggy world.
Down here, patrol-car lights flickered off the rain-slicked tarmac. One sat empty, but Charlotte MacNeal glowered out from the back seat of the other. Hunched there like a babydoll scarecrow, shagged-out, with her hair scruffed into a sideways haystack, a muddy scrape covering one side of her face.
And the glower got darker and more murderous every time Roberta gave her a cheery wave.
So Roberta threw in a thumbs-up for good measure, before finishing up a text to Tufty:
Hoy: Snidger!
Have you done that digital deep dive yet?
Which sounded like a very dodgy euphemism . . .
Davey limped up the driveway to number sixteen – apparently still feeling the after-effects of Charlotte’s knee. Which must’ve been remarkably bony for a well-padded lass.
He arrived bearing a large tartan thermos.
Gave it a wee jiggle. ‘First rule of any stakeout: stay hydrated.’ Popping the lid off, then filling it with steaming pre-milked tea.
‘Second is: make sure you’ve got a bottle to pee in too.
Third is: never get the two mixed up . .
.’ He winced, adjusted his tormented testicles, then poured himself a plastic-mugful.
‘Anything from our barely dressed friend?’ Lighting one of those foul cigarettes of his and making a big show of blowing the smoke away from Roberta.
‘Aye: a torrent of inventive swearwords even I’d never heard before, and sod-all else. Tell you, she’s . . . Hold on.’ Pointing away down Creel Terrace.
A uniformed PC marched into view, driving Campbell Brown before him. They were both sweaty and flushed – appropriately enough – but Campbell was still four-fifths naked, with both hands cuffed behind his back. Going by the mud and scrapes, he’d put up a bit of a fight . . .
‘See, Davey? It is possible to apprehend a suspect.’ Roberta gave Campbell the big-grin-and-cheery-wave treatment too. ‘Nice to have you back with us!’
The thick sod clearly didn’t know whether to smile or scowl. So he just looked . . . uncomfortable as the PC folded him into the back of the other patrol car.
She toasted him with her plastic-lid-mug. Then had a sip. ‘No’ bad. But full-fat milk next time, eh? Can’t expect to do proper police work on this semi-skimmed bollocks.’
And as if her plastic-lid-mug didn’t runneth over enough, a sleek black Mercedes turned onto the street. Heading their way. Which could only mean one thing:
‘Better stand up straight, Davey, here comes the Big Boss. Time for pats on the head and, “Oh, Roberta – you clever, sexy, sapphic goddess you!”’ Throwing in a wee smug head wobble. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a King’s Medal coming my way.’
The Merc parked opposite the patrol cars, and the driver’s door popped open, releasing Sergeant Brookminster.
He’d skipped the stabproof vest, high-vis, and utility belt, opting for an official black Police Scotland fleece instead, with his epaulettes on it.
Rocking a WWII wing-commander’s haircut and moustache, with an upward tilt to the corners of his eyes. Like an RAF elf.
He pulled his peaked cap on, gave Roberta a curt nod as he hurried around the car, then opened the rear passenger door.
Davey really did stand a little straighter. Then had a wee panic and pinged his horrible cigarette away into the next-door neighbour’s garden. Waving a hand about to clear away the charred-pube stink, like a teenager caught with a joint . . .
Charlotte scowled.
Campbell looked glaikit.
Roberta had a puff on her vape, releasing a steamy cloud of blackcurrant-mint. Because she wasn’t a crawly wee sook.
And then, finally, Chief Superintendent Pine emerged from the Merc. Because it was always fun to make an entrance.
Cut quite the elegant figure in her clingy black T-shirt and crown-and-pip epaulettes, pert bum shown off to nibbling perfection in a pair of non-itchy black trousers. Got to love a woman confident enough to go grey disgracefully.
Like Roberta, Perky Pine smashed the patriarchy by donning a peaked cap instead of a bowler. Only hers came with oak-leaves and piping. Just in case any sexist moron wanted to complain.
She took a quick look up and down Creel Terrace, then tugged her T-shirt down – making it go all tight across her excellent boobs – and marched across the road. Not stopping until she was right in front of Roberta.
Being a crawly wee sook, Davey snapped to attention, hiding the thermos behind his back. ‘Ma’am!’
Roberta had another sip of tea. ‘Aye, aye: if it’s no’ Roslyn Pine and her delicious perky bum. Come to tell me how great I am?’
Pine’s eyes narrowed. ‘Would you care to explain what the buggering fuck you thought you were playing at?’
Oh, it was going to be one of those days, was it?
Well, two could play that game. Laying on the sarcasm: ‘I was playing Catch-A-Drug-Dealer. Pretty big one, too, going by the size of that toilet blockage. It’s—’
‘Your suspect told PC Shand the pair of you came in, impersonating police officers and conducted an illegal search!’
Roberta pulled her chin in. ‘Now wait a sodding—’
‘And before you peddle your pathetic half-truths about—’
‘Impersonated? I never impersonated nothing!’
Davey shuffled his feet. Not making eye contact. ‘Well . . . actually . . . you sort of did.’ Standing even more rigid as he weaselled at Pine. ‘I did try to warn her, ma’am, about contravening Section Ninety, brackets, One, of the Police Act 1996, but—’
‘Who are you throwing under the bus, you traitorous wee shite?’
Pine curled her lip. ‘Even giving people the impression that you’re a police officer is an offence! You don’t have to flash a fake warrant card for it to be illegal.’
‘I told her, ma’am, I said: “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 he, or she, is such a member or constable, shall be”—’
Roberta thumped him. ‘Oh, shove it, Judas!’
Pine stepped closer. ‘“Shall be guilty of an offence and liable on summary conviction to imprisonment for a term not exceeding six months or to a fine not exceeding level 5 on the standard scale, or both!”’ Nose in the air, like Cruella de Vil. ‘Now: what have you got to say for yourself?’
Oh no . . .
‘Wow.’ Roberta sagged. ‘Even . . . Even if I don’t flash a fake warrant card?’
‘I just said that!’ Getting louder.
‘Even for just calling them “sir” and “madam”? It’s illegal to be polite now?’
‘IT IS IF YOU DO IT SO THEY THINK YOU’RE A COP!’
‘Ah . . .’ She hung her head. Nodded. Let loose a long wobbly sigh.
All droopy and contrite . . . Then gave Pine her best vulpine smile.
The one that struck fear into scroats and Detective Inspectors alike.
‘Then it’s a good job I am a cop, isn’t it?
’ Producing her very real warrant card and showing it off.
‘I’m not impersonating anything. I’m still a police officer till end of shift, Friday, and last time I checked today’s Wednesday. ’
Pine goldfished for a moment or two, the wind leaking out of her imperial sails. ‘But you’re not even on duty: you’ve been signed off on the sick!’
‘Normally, when off-duty police officers solve massive crimes, they get commendations and medals. Not bollockings!’
‘It . . .’ Pine tried again. ‘I’d hardly call a little Class A possession a “massive crime”. You still can’t—’
‘Boss!’
They all turned, and there was Detective Superintendent Young, emerging from the front door.
Broad-shouldered, with a scalped haircut of grey-and-white.
The knuckles on his grizzly paws criss-crossed with scar tissue.
His wee dark eyes sparkling as he beamed at them.
‘You’re just in time.’ Holding up a slightly squashed teddy bear with an inside-out nose/muzzle.
Pine frowned at it. ‘Why are . . .?’
Young flipped the bear over, showing off its bum. The washing instructions sewn into the crack of its arse waved in the breeze like a wee flag. ‘Made in Lithuania.’ He hooked a massive thumb at Charlotte’s house. ‘There’s a whole box of them upstairs, in the nursery, with the lid caved in.’
Ah, so that’s what Roberta stepped on. Not burger buns at all.
Young clapped a hand down on Roberta’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
‘This is the biggest break we’ve had on Operation Basilisk in months.
Drugs, plus teddy bears, equals . . .’ He turned the bear around again, jamming both thumbs into the seam running down its back.
Cracking it open in those massive paws of his, splitting the stitching.
About two dozen teeny zip-lock baggies were nestled in among the kapok, each about the size of a second-class stamp.
Pine stared.
Young plucked one of the bags from the bear’s back.
Holding it aloft, as if it were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
‘Now, we take Madame MILF back to the station and we sweat her till she gives us the entire operation.’ Giving Roberta’s shoulder another squeeze. ‘Good work. Damn good work.’
Then he was off, the eviscerated bear clutched in one paw as he waved the other at a loose PC. ‘SHANDY: GET SCENES UP HERE! AND I WANT A DOG UNIT TOO! QUICK AS YOU LIKE!’
Davey cleared his throat, did some more foot rearranging, cheeks ablaze. ‘Yes, well, I suppose I’d better . . .’ Licking his top lip. ‘Yes.’ And away he slunk, like the two-faced chicken-spined prick that he was.
Then crept back again with a wheedle in his voice: ‘Don’t suppose there would be any sort of financial reward for . . .’
He made the mistake of catching Roberta’s eye, and his cheeks glowed even brighter. ‘Right. I . . .’ Taking a sudden interest in his shoes. ‘We can talk about it later.’ Slinking away once more.
And then there were two.
Roberta chucked the dregs of Davey’s traitorous tea. ‘You were saying, Boss?’