Chapter 2.19
Roberta hauled open the heavy wooden door and limped into Wobbly John’s.
It was a subterranean affair, with a central bar and various levels leading off. Apparently, being underground wasn’t gloomy enough, so they’d painted the rough walls in shades of blackcurrant jam and stained all the wood dark mahogany – lit by flickering fake candles.
But it was always quiet at this time of day, only a brief stagger from Divisional Headquarters, and the booze was cheap. So it could be as dark and burrowy as it liked.
No sign of anyone in the main bit.
She limp-clomped up the short flight of stairs to the upper bar, then through into the snug.
No one there, either.
And the lower bar was completely clear of off-duty police officers as well. Or anyone else for that matter. Other than a hipster barman, slouched over a novel with his tattooed forearms on show, Roberta was all alone.
She checked her phone: half four.
Shift ended thirty minutes ago.
And if she’d had time to get a lift home, dump her haul of purloined stationery and misappropriated files, change into her going-out-fit – jeans, boots, splot-free purple silk shirt, vintage leather jacket – and get back here, surely someone would’ve made the two-minute walk from DHQ to Wobbly John’s by now.
Calling up her texts didn’t help – no message about having already moved on to Pub Number Two. Besides, Detective Superintendent Young wouldn’t just abandon her. He’d leave a PC behind to wheech her off to the Prince of Wales.
Maybe something was up?
Or maybe the buggers were just slow.
Whatever the reason, as first officer on the scene, it was her duty to secure the locus and nab the biggest corner table in the main bar – there to hold court till it was time to head on to the next boozer: ‘Things I Have Learned In My Thirty Years On The Force’, by Roberta Steel.
Like the whole stupid renaming thing. First it’s Grampian Police; then Police Scotland lands like a sack of jobbies, and Grampian gets split into A Division and B Division; and that’s a cocking mess, so it’s all smooshed back together into one big A Division, only it’s also pronounced ‘North East Division’, but you’ve got to be careful not to confuse it with N Division or E Division, and A/NE Division’s the same bloody shape and size as Grampian Police was in the first sodding place.
So what was the snidging point of changing it?
Anyway . . .
Suppose she could just take over the upper snug, but no way that would be big enough for everyone.
Yup – this was going to be quite a night . . .
Pfff . . .
Still no one.
Roberta sat at her commandeered table, preloading a double-gin-and-tonic and a packet of dry roasted. Because it was always wise to put a wee lining on your stomach before embarking on a mammoth sesh.
She woke her phone up. Twenty to five, and Wobbly John’s was just as dead as before.
That would change at five, when the council offices emptied out and the lure of a Friday-evening-post-work pint became irresistible. But now?
She sipped her gin.
Ate her nuts.
Chewed on her cheek.
Maybe something had happened?
Come on, it wasn’t as if they were going to forget about her retirement bash, was it. Not after thirty sodding years.
Nah.
Bet some idiot got confused and told everyone kick-off was at five, instead of four.
Just need to be patient, that’s all . . .
She checked her phone. Again.
Three minutes past five, and there were already half a dozen suits peppered around the bar.
Each one sitting on their own, lanyards tucked away, ties loosened or handbags on the seat beside them.
Pints and nips for some, big glasses of wine for others.
One prick, with spots and glasses, even had a negroni – trying to kid herself she was out for a sophisticated after-work cocktail, even though she must’ve sprinted here in her knee-high boots soon as the office clock hit five.
Roberta polished off the second double-gin-and-tonic. Then thunked her glass down on the table, setting the ice cubes rattling.
Still no buggers from work.
You’d think someone would at least have texted her. Oh, sorry we’re late! Running behind! Be there soon! LOL!
She squinted at the phone’s screen. Which was all blurry, because electronic geeks were tossers who couldn’t design a decent user interface to save themselves. And she wasn’t wearing her glasses.
She held the thing out at arm’s length, till it wobbled into focus.
Buggering hell.
No wonder – no reception.
Of course. Wobbly John’s wasn’t just a couple of steps down from the street, it was halfway to sodding Australia.
That’s why she hadn’t got any calls or messages.
Bet if she went outside, right now, her phone would light up like Bonfire Night.
Roberta tied her empty nut packet into a silvery knot, dumped it in her glass, and limped across to the exit. Lumbering up the stairs.
Took a while, but she finally shoved out through the double doors at the top and onto Broad Street, opposite the old council building. Breathing hard, because that was far too many steps.
The sky had dulled from this morning’s shiny blue to something more like freshly poured concrete. A thin smirr of drizzle misted down, turning the pavement into shimmering slabs of slippery slate.
Ding-buzz.
Finally!
Sheltering beneath the pub’s portico, she dug her phone out.
LOGAN:
Good luck for tonight!
Drink responsibly and don’t forget to pace yourself!
Stay hydrated!
Have a get-home buddy!
And eatin’ is NOT cheatin!
;)
No messages from Tufty or anyone else . . .
A whole bunch of missed calls, though: ‘YOUNG’, ‘TUFTY’, ‘TUFTY’, ‘TUFTY’, ‘TUFTY’, ‘LUND’, and ‘YOUNG’ again.
And it looked as if they’d all left voicemails. She poked the button and an electronic voice buzzed out of her phone:
‘YOU HAVE . . . SIX . . . NEW MESSAGES, AND . . . TWO . . . SAVED MESSAGES. NEW MESSAGE . . . ONE.’
Young: ‘Steel? It’s me. Look we’re going to be a little late. Something’s come up, but I’m hoping it—’
DELETE.
Because, let’s face it, this was clearly some sort of self-serving distractionary waffle.
‘MESSAGE DELETED. NEW MESSAGE . . . TWO.’
Tufty: ‘Flipping plurch! Guv, we was nearly out the door, but we’re all getting called back in for a green shift, and—’
‘MESSAGE DELETED. NEW MESSAGE . . . THREE.’
It was Tufty again, but he was barely audible over the howl of a patrol car’s siren. Going somewhere at speed. ‘We does has an situation development! That car bomb? You’ll never guess whose house it went off outside!’
Car bomb? No one said anything about a car bomb.
That’s what she got for deleting things without listening all the way through.
She hung up on her voicemail and called Young back instead. Might as well go straight to the organ grinder.
It rang. And rang.
A woman hurried up Broad Street, not really dressed for the weather in stiletto heels, a pencil skirt and matching jacket – both in a lurid shade of terracotta, but getting darker in the drizzle. She was clutching a paper bag from Lush, held over her head as a makeshift umbrella.
Superintendent Young’s voice growled in Roberta’s ear. ‘Wondered how long it’d take you.’
The woman’s left heel slipped on the slick pavement and that was it: gravity mugged her. Arms windmilling, then legs in the air and THUMP! Flat on her back, lying there like a squashed starfish.
Roberta tightened her grip on the phone. ‘Where the hell is everyone? Meant to be getting blootered, here.’
‘Just north of Bridge of Don. Looks like a car bomb went off outside your best friend’s house.’
Eh?
‘Best . . .? Do I know someone in—’
‘Graeme Anderson, MP. The man who rescued you when that business park in Westhill blew up? Looks as if he might’ve been right all along – it really wasn’t an accident.’
The paper bag from Lush must’ve ruptured in the crash, because now various, brightly coloured fizzy things frothed away to themselves on the pavement, like rabid tennis balls, as the woman lay there groaning.
Car bomb.
Roberta hobbled out into the rain. ‘I’ll get a patrol car and meet you there soon as I can. We—’
‘Nope.’
‘Blah, blah, doctor’s orders.’ Making for DHQ. ‘Don’t worry: I’m no’ going to drive the thing. I’ll get a PC to—’
‘There is no “we” anymore, Roberta: you retired, remember? You are an ex-cop. You have slipped away to join the ranks of the ancients. Gone to your eternal rest. You’ve permanently shuffled off the duty roster. On a full pension.’
She stopped, halfway down the path. ‘But—’
‘And now you’ll have to leave this stuff to those of us who still work for a living.
’ Young’s voice went all muffled. ‘Better block the road from the junction to at least three hundred yards that way. . . . OK. . . . Thanks.’ Back to full volume.
‘I’m sorry about the retirement bash. We’ll do it properly next week, OK?
It’s . . . Hold on . . .’ A scrunching noise – probably sticking one of those huge paws over his phone’s microphone – was followed by an exchange too faint to make out. Then, ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’
The line went dead.
He was gone.
Leaving Roberta standing there as the drizzle turned into proper rain. Getting heavier and heavier.
The sprawled and soggy terracotta businesswoman struggled to her feet with a muttering growl of foul language that got ever louder as she gathered up her various fizzing mounds – using the paper bag as if it were a pooper scooper and there was something seriously wrong with her dog.
Shoulders slumped, Roberta poked at her contacts again and waited for Susan to pick up.
A bus rumbled past.
Then a taxi.
The woman rammed her fizzing bag in the nearest bin and limped away, swearing.
And the phone kept on ringing, because the world—
‘Hey, you. How’s the boozeathon? Are you behaving yourself, or is it all wine-and-nipples at the erotic—’
‘I’m ready to come home now.’ Sounding like a small child who’d just been forced to eat a fistful of worms. ‘Can I get a lift?’
‘Oh, Robbie. Has something . . .?’ Deep breath. ‘I’ll be right there.’
‘Thanks.’ Roberta hung up, put her phone away, and drooped a little more in the bucketing rain.
Thirty years.
Thirty sodding years, and never mind a gold watch, she hadn’t even got a free pint out of it.
Talk about a policeman’s lot . . .