Chapter 3.05
Roberta limped outside, clunked the front door shut and locked it.
Where the hell was he?
She checked her watch: eight fifty-seven.
The kitchen rush-hour had been and gone, Mr Rumpole was off doing whatever it was Mr Rumpole did of a morning, Susan and Genghis would be at work by now, Jasmine and Naomi at school.
The dishwasher: humming. The washing machine: whirling.
And now there was nothing to do but hang around on a miserable overcast Friday morning, waiting for the daft wee loon to show his daft wee face.
And as if by magic, a rusty old Fiat Panda growled up the street, trailing smoke signals from its leprous exhaust.
It pulled up outside the house, pinging and rattling and ticking away. Christ knew how many rolls of silver duct tape had been deployed to keep various bits and bobs from falling off the thing, but the whole car looked as if it were about to collapse at any moment.
Basically: if Davey’s rattletrap lowered the tone, Tufty’s buried it.
She hobbled over there, walking stick clunking on the leaf-strewn path. Hauled open the door.
He had the radio on, something poppy, buzzing away through the ancient speakers:
‘When did you get so pretty,
When did you get so fine,
Why are you so smart and witty,
Cos I wanna make you mine!’
She thumped into the passenger seat. ‘How did this thing pass its MOT? Did you cast Animate Dead?’
He stroked the dashboard. ‘Don’t you listen to the nasty lady, Betsy, she’s just a snidgehead.’ He’d gone all casual in a Xena Warrior Princess T-shirt, with a brown Puffa jacket over the top. That made him look a bit like the poop emoji.
Unlike her stylish stripy-top-and-hiking-jacket combo.
‘It’s a wonder; you’re so wonderful,
It’s a wonder; you’re so wonderful,
Wonder, wonder, wonder, wonder,
Wo-on, wo-on, wonnnnnderfu-ul!’
She grimaced at the radio. ‘What is this pish?’
Mercifully, ‘this pish’ faded out. Unfortunately, a machine-gun-voiced tosser took its place: ‘Wooooooeee! There’s a popalicious stonker to end on, A B Forty-Two Asterisk – are we supposed to pronounce the asterisk?
– and “Wonderful You”. I’ve been Kenny Mair, this was Mair Banging Tunes, and you’ve been wonderfulllllllll!
Murray MacDuff’s up next, but right now it’s nine o’clock and here’s Damon with the news. ’
Tufty sniffed. ‘Good morning, lovely Tufty. Thank you so kindly for coming to pick me up, on your day off, like the twinkly star of delight you are.’
‘Thanks, Kenny. . . . A further six people are known to have died, following yesterday’s terrorist attack on—’
Roberta clicked the radio off. ‘Hardly hear myself think.’ Seatbelt on. ‘Right: you’ve got two options. That way . . .’ she pointed a finger over her left shoulder, ‘or,’ the finger swung around to point across the bonnet and down the road, ‘that way.’
‘Hmmm . . .’ Tufty peered in both directions. ‘Does it make a difference? Which is more fun?’
Time to pull on a reassuring innocent smile. ‘One’s a nice relaxing walk in the woods, the other’s a lovely chat with a young man and the chance to see some boaties!’
He shrank away from her. ‘Why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?’
Because if she’d told him that today’s plan was to screw over Beardy Beattie and ex-DS Davey McLeod, the wee twit probably wouldn’t have come.
She dipped into her pocket for a wee pyramid-shaped plastic dice. ‘Let’s make it interesting. Why don’t we roll a D4? Odd: east, even: west.’ Bowling it gently across the dashboard. Three. ‘East it is.’
Tufty smiled like a proud dad. ‘See? I told you you’d like D&D if you just gave it a go!’
Yeah . . .
She really needed to get out more.
‘Guv?’
A hand shoogled her shoulder.
‘Guv, we’re here. I mean, Roberta? We has an arrived.’
She gave a wee snork, surfacing from a weird dream about zombies running a brain-burger restaurant in the city centre. ‘WrmI?’
Blinking as she took in the road, and fields, and trees.
Tufty pointed up ahead, then turned his rancid old Fiat Panda into the lay-by, because it wasn’t coned-off anymore. Nor was it a toenail clipping of potholes and scarred tarmac. Instead, Aberdeenshire Council had transformed it into a curve of perfect black.
He pulled up, just past the bins, and killed the engine. Or tried to. The thing kept running for a count of six – even though he’d removed the keys – then the cough-and-splutter gave way to ticks and pings and a long slow wheeeeeeeeeze.
Roberta puffed out her cheeks. ‘Aye, no offence, but this thing needs—’
‘Shhhh . . .! You’ll upset her.’ Patting the dashboard. ‘Who’s a good girl? You are. You’re such a good girl!’
Daft as a bag of ferrets.
Grabbing her walking stick, Roberta climbed out.
That overcast sky had darkened to an ominous lid of battleship grey. Going to rain at some point. But hopefully not yet.
The lay-by wasn’t the only thing that had changed since last time.
The field opposite had gone from mist-shrouded green to pale-beige stubble, littered with big round bales of straw.
And the riot of rosebay willowherb had lost its bright-magenta flowers, swapping them for seed-pod fluff.
Battling the nettles for dominance along the fence that separated the lay-by from the railway tracks.
Tufty locked ‘Betsy’ – as if anyone was going to steal that hunk of junk – and joined Roberta over by the bins. ‘You’ve got to be nice to my lovely automobile-of-delight. The garage wanted to “send her off to live on a farm”, last MOT.’
‘Aye, and—’
‘Still don’t see why we couldn’t take your car. Poor thing probably needs a good run after sitting there for months.’
Actually: that was a good point.
Could’ve got him to give it a wash too.
He nodded, agreeing with himself. ‘Plus it’d be your petrol. I’m putting in for expenses, comprende?’
‘Blah, blah, blah.’ She checked her watch: nine fifty-one. Bags of time. ‘Come on, then.’
‘Wait, what now?’
Roberta limped off, towards the weed-choked fence. Whacking a path through the nettles with her walking stick. ‘Last train through here was three-quarters of an hour ago. Next one’s not for forty-seven minutes.’
‘Oh, no, no, no, no, no.’ He backed away, hands up. ‘Nice boys do not play on the railway lines! What if there’s a goods train or a maintenance thingy wheeching by, ready to turn unsuspecting young Tuftys into squished-people paté?’
‘You were quite happy trotting across when we were here before!’
‘I was on duty! Police officers take risks all the time for the greater good. Is part of the price we pays for the sexy black uniform.’ He pointed at his Xena T-shirt. ‘Off duty.’
‘Don’t be so damp.’ Whack, whack, whack.
That was probably enough. She shuffled through the broken weeds to the fence and had a bash at slinging one leg over the top – which wasn’t easy when you were a bit wobbly on your pins. ‘Little help for a poor, disabled, maiden in distress?’
He glowered, muttering away to himself as if she couldn’t hear him. ‘“Maiden” my perky bumhole.’ Then Tufty slumped. ‘Urgh . . .’ Gave a big sigh. And finally took her arm, holding on tight as she struggled her way to the other side of the fence.
Roberta gave him a saucy wink. ‘Never thought you’d help me get my leg over.’
‘Urgharama!’
‘You should be so lucky.’ She clambered up the wee slope to the railway lines, then paused – taking a good look left and right. Because while Tufty was an idiot ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time, he was right about this.
No sign of any train. And the tracks weren’t making that twiiiing-twonnng-pwanggg noise, so it was probably safe. But, just in case, she lumbered across as fast as her gammy legs would carry her, then up into the woods. Pausing beneath the thick canopy of pines and beech. ‘You coming or no’?’
Tufty groaned, slumping back to make miserable faces at the threatening clouds. ‘In the name of the Elder Gods . . .’
A deep breath, and he scrambled over the fence.
The woods looked sort of . . . different to last time. As if someone had rearranged the trees. Thick whorls of bracken curled beneath the heavy canopy, which should’ve kept it dry, but the bloody stuff was still wet enough to soak through Roberta’s jeans.
And either Tufty had wet himself, or he was having the same problem. He shoogled one leg, like a disgruntled cat. ‘I know that, but why are we doing it? Why not tell Beattie and get him to search the woods again?’
She kept going. ‘Would you trust Beattie to look after your cardboard Picard?’
A snort. ‘No chance.’
‘Then why the hell would I trust him with my murder?’
‘Because you’ve retired!’ Tufty pulled out his phone and scowled at the screen. ‘And it’s ten o’clock. Time for tenses. I was lured here with promise of an delicious butty. Better not’ve been false pretences!’
Ah, there it was.
Knew it had to be lurking in here somewhere.
The tree with the broken bough – where Harmsworth had crashed through on his way down – its cracked limb poking up through the bracken below, leaving a jagged stump behind.
Roberta patted the trunk. ‘Up you go.’
‘Urgh . . . But we already searched this one. And in case you didn’t notice: we does not has no sausages!’
‘Aha!’ She reached into her inside pocket and produced a zip-lock sandwich bag with a quartet of Cumberland’s finest trapped inside. Leftover from breakfast. ‘Now: up.’
Pout. ‘I should roll a saving throw against your evil magic.’ But he took his poop-jacket off, hung it on the broken stump, and scrambled up onto the lowest branch. Unreachable three months ago, but now weighed down with new growth and cones.
He perched there, a wee forest gremlin in soggy jeans. ‘You’re joining me, right?’
‘I can barely walk. You think climbing trees is a good idea?’
Shrug. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’
A scream-filled vertiginous plummet with a sudden crunching stop at the end.
Flipping heck . . .
This was bad enough the first time around, and she hadn’t been blown-up, then.
Roberta struggled from branch to branch, breathing like a . . . sex-pest running a marathon.
Pfff . . .
Of course, the wee loon had scampered up, no problem, because the little sod was three-quarters monkey and both of his legs still worked properly.
He’d come to rest three or four feet below the nest, lurking there. Presumably trying not to tip-or-piss-off the crows inside.
Roberta crackled, snapped, grunted, and hauled herself level with him.
Then hung there, forehead pressed against the bark, puffing and panting while sweat trickled down her spine and soaked into New Faithful.
‘Sodding . . . sodding . . . fudge.’ Pech, heech, wheeze, huff, groan.
She pointed at the nest’s underside. ‘Are . . . are they . . .?’
‘About to find out.’ He orangutaned up the last few feet, poking his head above nest-height.
She stayed where she was.
Because if anyone was getting attacked by angry crows, it wasn’t going to be her.
But there was no screaming or swearing or cawing or flapping-of-angry-wings. Instead, Tufty ducked down and grinned at her. ‘Is safe! We has an corvid-free zone.’
She grappled her way through the branches, to see for herself.
The nest was empty. Maybe abandoned. Difficult to tell.
Had to admit, the view wasn’t bad. Hard to appreciate it last time – what with all the dive-bombing, sharp beaks, and threat of being shat on – but looking out across the treetops revealed a pastoral panorama: down the hill and across the stubbled fields to the River Urie, with Logie Country House on the other side.
Tufty snapped on a pair of blue nitriles. ‘Is examination time.’
The wee loon went much slower than last time, more methodically too. A proper search, rather than a quick rummage. Amazing what not being attacked by angry crows could do.
While he picked his way through the nest, Roberta dug a stolen evidence bag from her sausage pocket. Holding it open for anything findable. ‘It was your Goblin chef gave me the idea: tooth pie.’
He made the icky face. ‘We’re not baking a pie, are we?’
‘Just cos it sounds horrible, doesn’t mean it’s not someone’s idea of a tasty crunchy treat.
And just cos something wasn’t here when we searched first time, doesn’t mean the crows didn’t nick it from the avalanche of sludge and bone.
And who knows what little morsels might’ve rolled away into the weeds, or been secreted away for later.
’ Looking back towards the lay-by. ‘Give you odds-on the black feathery wee sods’ beaks are better at finding tasty treats than any police search team. ’
‘Here we go.’ Tufty popped something into her evidence bag.
‘Bottle cap.’ Then another, dropping them in one-by-one: ‘Bottle cap. Ringpull. Plastic bag. Condom wrapper. Bottle cap. Weird tubey thing – think that’s part of a vape?
Oooh. And what do we have here?’ He held it up, turning the thing in his blue nitrile fingers.
It was a small bone, about an inch – inch and a half?
– and flared at both ends. ‘What does you think: rabbit, or finger?’
‘Ice Queen will know for sure.’
It went in the bag.
Followed by: ‘Bottle cap. Clump of wool. Plastic comb. Bottle cap. They really does like bottle caps, doesn’t they?
Pound coin . . .’ He was getting to the bottom of the nest now, pushing through downy feathers and bits of grass.
Then froze, eyebrows up. ‘Maybe we can makes a pie after all?’ Offering her his cupped palm.
A white molar sat in the middle. ‘Could be a deer, though.’
‘Oh aye. I’ll bet there’s hundreds of deer running around Aberdeenshire with NHS fillings in their back teeth.’
‘Ooooh . . .’ He placed it into the evidence bag as if it were the most delicate thing in the world. Then had one last dig through the nest. ‘That’s it.’
She sealed the bag. Gave him a smug smile. ‘Told you.’
Oh yeah.
Phase One of Operation Screw-Beardy-Beattie-Over was complete.
Roberta Steel, Consulting Detective to the Stars, strikes again.