Chapter 3.04
Ah . . . Roberta rustled up a nice, disarming smile as Susan stepped into the brand-new incident room. ‘It’s not what it looks like.’
Though it definitely was.
Susan did a slow three-sixty, staring.
Probably taking in all the changes Roberta had made to their no-longer-sauna over the last couple of days, when no one was looking.
Like clarting the bare walls in cheap corkboards, then clarting those in reports, statements, maps, and photos – all churned out on the old inkjet printer, that now lurked in the corner of the room – and then clarting those with hand-scrawled notes on pilfered Post-its.
She’d set up separate areas for each of the five cases, with signs at the top: ‘OPERATION DEMOGORGON’, ‘OPERATION TROGLODYTE’, ‘OPERATION BASILISK’, and ‘OPERATION FIREDRAKE’.
And unlike Davey’s amateur-hour garage, she’d threaded scarlet ribbons through it all, connecting the important parts to each other.
Like a weird routemap, or a drunken blood spider . . .
The office furniture left something to be desired, though: just a folding lawn chair and a makeshift coffee table – featuring a bunch of scribbled notes and a scummy mug of cold tea.
Susan sank into the seat. ‘Oh, Robbie . . .’
‘No’ like I’m hurting anyone. And I’m still doing the evening classes, aren’t I? Teacher says I can take my first stained-glass panel home next week! I just . . .’ Gesturing at the walls. ‘Sorry?’
A great-big sigh. ‘Suppose I should be amazed you lasted five weeks.’
‘You always say I need a hobby.’
‘Yes, but I meant needlepoint, or Scottish country dancing!’ She levered herself out of the chair and stepped in close, cupping Roberta’s face in her hands. ‘Robbie, Robbie, Robbie . . .’ A squeeze. ‘Your problem is: you’ve finally escaped the rat race, but you’re still a rat.’
Roberta curled her hands into paws, exposing her two front teeth. ‘Eeek, eeek?’
‘You’re impossible, you know that, don’t you.’ Looking around the room again. ‘I suppose you’ll need a sidekick. Well, you can’t drive yourself about: doctor’s orders.’
Ahoy-hoy. Things were looking up.
‘You volunteering?’
‘No, I am not. You listen to me, Roberta Alexander Steel: I’m indulging you here, not encouraging you.
Besides, some of us still have full-time jobs.
’ Waving a hand at the maps and ribbons and printouts.
‘There must be other sad, lonely, retired police officers you can play with. Maybe one of them can drive you?’
What, like Detective Sergeant Davey Greasy Two-Faced, Quisling-Wee-Bastard McLeod?
No sodding thank you.
Roberta shrugged. ‘Can’t think of anyone, no.’
‘Then you’re going to have a very short career as a consulting detective.’
Roberta slouched in her lawn chair – Boris Johnson’s head clutched in one hand, phone in the other. Frowning up at the wall-o’crimes as she squeezed.
Pkongk-glonk. Pkongk-glonk.
Shame the stuff she downloaded on Operation Basilisk was incomplete.
Not because she’d screwed up, but because whatever lazy bastard Young had put in charge of transcribing the interviews with Charlotte ‘Babydoll’ MacNeal and Campbell ‘Y-Fronts’ Brown hadn’t bothered their arses to get it done before Roberta’s leaving do.
So now there was a hole in her case file, where details on drug-filled Lithuanian teddy bears should’ve been.
Suppose it didn’t really matter, what with Charlotte no-commenting and Campbell being thick as mince, but still . . .
PC Whoever-It-Was hadn’t even uploaded the interview footage. Because the world was full of idiots.
And speaking of idiots:
‘Yeah . . .’ Tufty hummed and hawed, ‘but I—’
‘Look on this as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to ingratiate yourself with the high heedyins. Solving crimes on your day off? That’s like catnip to those snidgers.’
A full-on whine came down the phone. ‘But I don’t want to! I has stuff to do. With Kate. Kate-and-Tufty stuff.’
Bet it was naked stuff too. The dirty wee sod.
Roberta tutted. ‘Are you telling me that playing Hide The Truncheon all day is more important than keeping the people of our fair city safe?’ Channelling Susan for a full-on theatrical sigh that oozed disappointment. ‘Oh, Tufty . . .’
‘Can’t Rennie do it?’
‘He’s got an early shift tomorrow. But you’ve got a rest day.’
Pkongk-glonk. Pkongk-glonk.
‘But . . . But what about Barrett, or Lund, or Harmsworth?’
Roberta laid it on, nice and thick: ‘I’ve always seen you as the lynchpin of my Queen Street Irregulars, Tufty. My Number-One, Main-Man, Go-To-Guy when I need someone smart and resourceful to rely on.’
Pkonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngk . . .
‘Urgh!’ Could hear him sagging on the other end. ‘Gah!’ Probably holding his head. ‘And thrice times “arrgh”!’ Because he knew she’d won.
Glonk.
‘Good boy.’ There was no need to rub it in, so she kept the evil smile from her voice. ‘Tomorrow morning: nine o’clock sharp. And if you’re well behaved, I shall buy you a nice bacon butty.’
‘Make it a Neptune’s delight. With two fried eggs.’ Probably thought he was driving a hard bargain.
But Roberta nodded anyway. ‘Done.’
And he certainly had been.