Chapter 2.17
Roberta crunched through the last corner of breakfast. Just a slice of toast this morning, slathered in butter and lemon curd, saving plenty of room for a monstrous bacon butty or three later.
The sun had been up for nearly an hour, but it still hadn’t risen over the surrounding houses yet, leaving the back garden blanketed in deep blue.
Ahhhhh . . .
Coffee and toast and a nice quiet kitchen. No anarchy, no pandemonium, no bedlam, just Roberta and Mr Rumpole quietly enjoying the stillness of a Friday morning.
She checked her hair in the patio doors – part mirrored by the kitchen lights.
All Nice’N Easyed back to a lustrous shade of Fruit’N Nut.
Most of the swanky ‘do’ had grown out over the last nine weeks, but a good going over with the curling tongs had done a decent job of wrestling it back into shape.
Shame the same couldn’t be said of her uniform, which had shrunk about two sizes since the explosion. T-shirt was so tight you could see the stitching on New Faithful. Trousers had got even itchier too. But it was all pressed and polished and ready to . . .
Hold on.
Roberta straightened her left epaulette.
That was better.
Quick glance at the kitchen clock: just gone half six.
Time to get moving.
Big day today.
‘Mmmmmmmnnnmph.’ Susan shambled into the room, wearing her happy-kittens nightshirt. Yawning and bleary, hair all rumpled, rubbing the heel of one hand into her eye. ‘Urgh . . .’
‘Hey, sleepy.’ Roberta drained the last swig of coffee and dumped her mug in the sink. ‘What you doing up?’
Susan held her arms out, then Frankenstein-shuffled closer to wrap Roberta in a big hug. Burying her head in Roberta’s neck. ‘Wanted to see my big brave girl off on her last day.’
Yeah . . .
The HAIRY PUSSY OF THE MONTH calendar glared down from the wall: Friday the fifteenth – all ringed around and marked with arrows and a new flurry of gold stars.
Roberta pulled her chin up. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I’m so proud of you.’ Brushing a stray hair from Roberta’s forehead. ‘How you feeling?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ Another glance at the clock. ‘Got to go.’
Susan kissed her. ‘Don’t get too drunk! And call me when you need picked up.’ She turned and shambled away down the hall, making for the front door.
Right.
Tucking her peaked cap under her arm – death to the patriarchy – Roberta plucked her walking stick from the kitchen counter and hobbled after her wife.
Admired herself in the hall mirror on the way past.
Susan opened the door and held it for her.
Early-morning sunlight gilded the roofs and the tops of the trees as Roberta stepped outside to a twittering of weenie birds.
She nodded at the patrol car idling by the kerb.
Rennie, in uniform black, nodded back.
One last smooch for Susan, then Roberta hurpled over there and thumped down into the passenger seat.
At least it was cleaner than the Rennie Family Council-Tipmobile. But that wasn’t hard.
He had the radio on – one of those news-and-comment shows where the presenters were fundamentally posh and up themselves.
A nasal public-school accent: ‘. . . tensions in the Middle East, we really have to ask what the current US administration is thinking.’
A flat American Midwest drawl: ‘I’m sad to say that it isn’t. This regime – and I refuse to dignify it with the term “administration” – reacts to world events like a drunken toddler in a soiled nappy, armed with a box of firecrackers, and stuck in front of a wasps’ nest.’
Susan cupped her hands either side of her mouth, making an improvised loudhailer. ‘And no getting blown-up today! Remember: c’est verboten!’
‘Thank you, professor. And you can hear that whole interview on our podcast.’
Rennie flashed a Cheshire-Cat grin across the car, then donned those ridiculous oversized sunglasses of his. And normally she’d rip the piss out of him . . . but today something weirdly nostalgic and indulgent was squatting inside her ribs, so she didn’t even call him a twat.
A well-spoken north-of-England voice: ‘Now, you might expect any fledgling political party to have some teething problems, but UK New Horizons have had to suspend a second by-election candidate after it emerged she’d been involved in a seven-million-pound fraud . . .’
Rennie stuck the car in gear. ‘You ready?’
‘We did ask party chairman, Graeme Anderson, for comment – apparently no one was available – but his office did send us this statement . . .’
She took a deep breath. ‘Nope. But here we go anyway.’
The muster room had that strange digestive-biscuity smell that crowds of police officers always exuded.
Every single member of dayshift had squeezed in, all facing the front, where Detective Superintendent Young led Morning Prayers: handing out the assignments, briefing the assembled congregation on what happened overnight, and what was likely to happen today.
Roberta stood near the back of the room, surrounded by her Queen Street Irregulars – Tufty, Harmsworth, Lund, and Barrett – in their stabproofs and utility belts, all fresh-faced and innocent. They had their whole careers ahead of them: plenty of time to become twisted and cynical.
Jammy sods.
Young was still droning away. No idea what he was banging on about, though, because today was for soaking up the atmosphere. Letting the whole being-here thing wash over her for the very last time. Wallowing in the—
Lund’s elbow poked into Roberta’s ribs, eyebrows jiggling, head jerking towards the front.
Roberta blinked Morning Prayers back into focus, and there was Young, pointing at her.
‘. . . and only: Acting Detective Inspector Roberta Steel!’
A round of applause rippled around the muster room, though you’d think most of the buggers here would be glad to see the back of her.
Young let the clapping fizzle out. ‘We’ll be kicking off at Wobbly John’s, then on to the Prince of Wales, Ma Cameron’s, the Old School House, and Slains. Kebab stop for anyone who doesn’t think “eatin’s cheatin’” and thence to Secret Service.’
The whole dayshift gave a pantomime, ‘Oooooooooooh!’
‘Who say “Folding money only!” You can buy Stripper-Quids at the bar, but no putting pound coins in the young ladies’ pants!
It’s not hygienic. And makes them go all .
. . bulgy.’ Young cleared his throat. ‘Or so I’m told.
’ He gathered his notes. ‘All right, let’s get out there and make a difference! ’
And with that, Morning Prayers were over.
Everyone headed off to their assigned duties. Some even patted Roberta on the back on their way past – maybe for luck? – until only she and Detective Superintendent Young were left.
Young stuck his scarred paws in his pockets. ‘Big day.’
‘Aye.’ Sniff. ‘How’d we get on with our druggy-bonk-buddies: Babydoll and Y-Fronts?’
He ambled towards the door, taking it slow as she limped along beside him. ‘Campbell Brown was a complete waste of time. Boy’s thick as my granny’s mince. Even if he knew anything, he’s besotted with Charlotte MacNeal, so there’s no way he’d dob her in.’
Young shoved through the double doors, into the stairwell.
‘MacNeal’s altogether more slippery. Confirmed her name and address, then it was “no comment” all the way.
Even offered her a deal if she gave us the supply chain, but nothing.
Like interviewing an over-sexed postbox.
’ Wandering up the stairs. Taking his time, which meant she didn’t have to struggle to keep up.
Because he wasn’t such a bad bastard, really. ‘Remanded without bail. Both of them.’
Roberta followed him around the landing. ‘I’ll take Tufty and head out. Got a couple leads I want to chase down, and—’
‘Oh, no, no, no. I have strict instructions that you are confined to barracks till the final whistle today.’
Sod that.
‘But I’ve—’
‘It’s a three-line-whip: “Do not let that bloody woman cause any more trouble till she’s out the door and someone else’s problem.” Unquote.’
And there was only one person in the whole of NE Division who could give Young a direct order like that: bloody Chief Superintendent Pine.
What the hell crawled up her bum and laid eggs?
How was this fair?
Young must’ve noticed that Roberta had fallen behind, because he stopped and turned to frown down at her. ‘No point giving me the Little-Orphan-Annie eyes. If it was my choice, you’d be free to roam, but it’s not, so you’re not.’
Scowl. ‘This is because I always tease Perky Pine about her bum, isn’t it.’
‘Hmmm. . . .’ Young headed up the stairs again, leaving Roberta behind. ‘Couldn’t possibly comment.’
Sod.
Roberta dipped into her desk drawer again and came out with a two-hole punch. Dumped it into the archive box sitting on the scuffed carpet tiles. Where it joined two multi-packs of Post-its, umpteen pens, a pair of rulers, and three staplers.
Blue-walled cubicles turned the large room into a maze, where each desk was decorated with a cheap-looking monitor, cheap-looking keyboard, cheap-looking mouse, and cheap-looking desktop computer.
But unlike Roberta’s corner desk, none of them played home to dozens of floaty mylar balloons, streamers, and bunting.
Or the banner pinned to the wall above her monitor: ‘HAPPY RETIREMENT ROBERT!!!’ Not sure if that was supposed to be a joke, or if they’d just got a particularly dense PC to buy it.
God knew there were enough of them to choose from.
Top drawer emptied, she moved on to the next one down.
About a dozen knackered vapes of assorted sizes went into the box, followed by an unopened set-of-three novelty ‘sexy’ USB drives – last Christmas’s secret-Santa present: a boob; an erect willy; and a pair of buttocks, complete with bumhole – then a bunch of notebooks, and two evidence bags containing a rainbow-selection of monstrous dildos.
Another stapler. And all the other stationery she’d nicked over the years and forgotten to take home.
She thumped the drawer shut and slumped in her office chair.
Surveyed the collection of empty plastic cups that littered her desk, because it was a long morning when you weren’t allowed to do anything.
Should’ve been out there catching crooks, not stuck in here, drinking endless cups of crap coffee, weeing, and reading the paper.
So far, the only productive thing she’d managed to achieve was clarting every single photo in that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner with graffiti.
The paper lay open at ‘TAYSIDE RIPPER LEAVES TWISTED NOTE FOR COPS’ with a regurgitated picture of Mills Observatory in Balgay Park, featuring a big blue Scenes marquee that was almost invisible beneath the weight of biro genitalia. The thing was more willies than tent, now.
A miserable voice slumped over her cubicle wall. ‘Hey, Guv.’
She looked up from her Tayside Todgerfest and there was Tufty, with a quartet of folders tucked under his arm. Bottom lip poking out, like the sulky wee shite that he was.
Wonder if it was worth raiding the supply cupboard for more notepads and desk jotters?
His pout got even poutier. ‘We’d been expecting you and everything. Colin – he’s the party’s bard – wrote a special song of welcome. It had hi-diddle-dee-dees in it and we did all learned the chorus!’
‘Aye, it’s a tough world, right enough.’
Better empty the last drawer before pilfering more stationery.
She pulled out a spindle of blank CDs and stuffed it in the box. Next up: a bunch of pods for the fancy coffee machine in Chief Superintendent Pine’s office. Which served the spiteful, vindictive, ungrateful cow right.
Tufty pulled his shoulders in. ‘And even though you’re a rotten snudgehead, the offer still stands.’ He extracted one of the folders from beneath his oxter, and plopped it down on her desk.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s this? And it better no’ be work!’
‘Post-mortem report on Operation Demogorgon.’
Nope. No idea.
‘Our Body-In-The-Bin case? You wanted to see it, remember? And because you is back at work, I can officially gives it to you without getting into the troubles.’
‘Now that’s more like it!’ She dumped an armful of empty plastic cups into the bin, clearing a bit of space, and dug into the folder.
Lots of photos – first the deposition scene, with its wheelie bins and lay-by and railway tracks; then the post mortem, where they’d laid all the bones out on a cutting table to build a full skeleton.
Or as much of it as they could, given the missing bits.
The report that went with all this was much smaller than normal, probably due to the lack of soft tissue.
Tufty pointed. ‘Toxicology’s at the back.’
She flipped through. ‘Anything?’
‘Don’t want to spoil the surprise.’ He plonked down the next folder from his Armpit of Investigative Delights. ‘Everything we have on Operation Troglodyte, AKA: the stabbing of Billie Nesbit.’
That one was much thicker. No doubt full of interview notes and transcript summaries and witness statements and the like.
‘And this . . .’ he balanced a much thinner folder on top of it, ‘am the online trawl you asked for: Noel Sherman, Rory Hatton, Charlotte MacNeal, and Jeremy Yarrow. Who reposts lots of cute animal videos, so can’t be all bad.’
Roberta sat back and surveyed her new files.
Had to admit, the wee loon really had put the effort in.
And she’d treated him like something you had to scoop up in a plastic bag when taking Genghis Khat for a walk . . .
Which was kind of shameful, when you thought about it.
Downright unreasonable, really.
Bloody hell: she was going soft, wasn’t she. Last day at work and here she was, turning into some great-big squishy lump.
‘Thanks. That’s . . .’ She gave him a nod. ‘You did good, Tufty.’
Which made his face transform from pout to beaming smile.
‘And lastest but by much the bestest:’ He placed the final folder onto the pile, as if it were made of gold-leaf and nipples.
It was the thinnest of them all and had ‘THE GREAT EBERTO ALTERS, LOBSTER EATER ~ WIZARD OF RESETTLEBORA!’ on it in sparkly pink gel pen, because apparently he was a six-year-old girl.
She shrank back a little. ‘Yeah . . . That’s . . . very.’
‘Coolio.’ Tufty did a little hoppity-kick dance step. ‘The last two you can keeps, but the first two must to go back in the filing cabinet by end of shift. Or is illegal, and terrible will be the spankings!’
Pfff . . .
A lot to get through by four o’clock.
She put the folders in order – wheelie-bin, then stabbing. Better get reading.