Chapter 3.06 #2
She flashed Tufty an evil grin. ‘Shall we?’ Then battled her way out of his half-dead car.
The blocks of flats weren’t just symmetrical side-to-side, they were front-to-back too. Looked like twelve flats per building, where each set of six had its own front door.
Seemed weird, but that was developers for you.
Roberta hobbled for the nearest block, leaving Tufty to lock his fusty rattletrap and scurry after her.
‘Just so we is clear,’ catching up, ‘I’m not the one you’re vindictiving against?’
‘No’ this time.’ The door wasn’t locked, so she dragged it open and stepped inside.
According to her bloodstained PNC printout, Jeremy Yarrow lived in Flat K. Which meant the top floor. And lots of stairs.
Because God hated her.
‘So who are we vindictimising?’
She lumbered up the first flight of steps, leaning on the handrail and her stick. ‘You ask a lot of questions for someone who wants an extra fried egg.’ Already starting to breathe hard.
‘And a large tea.’ He followed her up, hands in his pockets as if climbing stairs was something people did every day. ‘But first I has to make a informed decision about vindictificating someone.’
Urgh.
Around the landing on the first floor, still climbing.
‘It’s a divorce case, OK? Joiner’s wife thinks hubby dearest is playing Hide The Hammer with one or more persons. I find out who: I claim victory, and the guy who’s meant to be investigating it gets fired.’
‘Ah . . . So we’re interviewing these suspected extramarital bonkists for commercial gain. That represents a change to our terms of reference and requires a renegotiation of my comestible remuneration.’
‘I’ll renegotiate . . . your bumhole . . . with my boot . . . in a minute.’ Leaning more heavily on her stick with every step, as the ache spread out from her knees.
‘Ho no, no. Our butty-based agreement was for tenses. Union regulations say I is now due lunch as well.’ Rubbing at his gurgling tummy. ‘Possibly in the form of a nice fish supper?’
At . . . top of stairs. . . . Lungs ablaze. . . . Breath rattle. . . . Heart thump. . . . Urgh . . .
Roberta collapsed against the handrail, too knackered to do anything but scowl at the greedy wee tit.
The landing was tiny, just a patch of lino in front of the two, side-by-side doors. The one on the right had a nice little sign, with a laminated kid’s drawing of a happy dinosaur on it, a brass ‘L’, and a plaque with the name ‘SAUNDERS’.
The one on the left had nothing but the ‘K’ and a bunch of stickers, peeled off supermarket fruit, arranged into a Christian cross. Because who could forget Jesus’s sermon on eating your five-a-day?
She pointed at the bell. And wheezed.
Tufty poked the button, making it trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring. ‘While we’re renegotiating, I think a couple of pickled onions would be a nice gesture on your part. What with us using all my petrol.’
She flipped him the Vs.
‘And I assume you’d like me to keep our little crows’-nest-rummaging trip a secret from Acting DCI Beattie?
What with it being his case and everything?
’ Frown. ‘Mind you, the man’s a thirdwit, so you can probably have that one complimentary like.
’ Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring. ‘They’ve got a poster about you in the muster room, you know: “Do Not Engage With This Woman!” in big block capitals, with your photo and a bit about how you’re a hazard to any ongoing investigation and an all-round general menace. ’
There was a clunk, a click, and the door cracked open just far enough to let a watery pink eye peer out. Then a sniff. And a muffled, ‘What?’ Wiping the tears away.
Tufty smiled like a haunted ventriloquist’s dummy. ‘Mr Yarrow? Mr Jeremy Yarrow?’
Whoever answered the door whimpered, then thunked their head against the wood. ‘Well, that’s just . . . great.’
Jeremy led them into a living room, painted entirely black.
It looked . . . infectious. One wall was coombed – part of the building’s Dutch-barn roof, with three Velux windows set into it.
All of which needed washing. The couch was stitched together with more duct tape than Tufty’s car, while a collection of battered paperbacks filled a DIY shelf made of bricks and old chipboard.
Lots of half-melted candles, but no TV. Instead, a three-foot crucifix dominated the wall, above a broken electric fire.
Then there was the smell. Funky. Stuffy. As if the room hadn’t been aired in years. And exclusively inhabited by sweaty socks and feral underpants.
A pair of half doors lay open, exposing a kitchen that Typhoid Mary would’ve loved.
Jeremy kissed his fingertips and pressed them to the tortured Jesus on his way past, before collapsing onto the Frankencouch. Sagging there in his joggy-bottoms and long-sleeved top. The soles of his feet as black as the walls.
Tufty pulled his chin in, blinking. ‘Wow . . .’ No doubt enjoying the exciting odours.
Roberta stuck one hand in her pocket, leaning on her cane in a jaunty manner.
Like a sexy Poirot. ‘Just so you know, and to keep everything nice and legal – I’m no’ a cop anymore.
But I was one for thirty years.’ Giving Jeremy a long hard stare.
‘That means I can spot a lie the size of a sparrow’s fart from orbit. ’
He shrugged. ‘Whatever it is, I didn’t do it, OK?’ Gazing up at his not-yet-risen lord. ‘Found Jesus, didn’t I.’
‘Good for you.’ A cold smile. ‘I thought we could have a nice wee chat about a mate of yours: Mr Noel Sherman. Coillewood Development and Resolution Specialists Limited?’
The pause that followed was long enough for a fat bluebottle to do two circuits of the living room.
Jeremy licked his lips. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Really? How weird. Cos we’ve got photos.’
Jeremy’s mouth made a perfect horrified ‘O’, staring up at her with those soggy pink eyes. ‘It . . .’ He buried his face in his hands. ‘I wasn’t . . . It isn’t . . .’
A clunk came from the hall, outside, then a razor-thin man appeared in the doorway.
Tattoos snaked around his throat, covering the back of his hands where they poked out of a crisp white shirt.
Slicked-back hair, parted on one side. So buttoned up he positively thrummed with the effort of holding it all in.
Black trousers, tie, and a scuffed pair of trainers.
As if he was on his way to a funeral at a brisk jog. ‘Thought I heard voices.’
Jeremy waved a hand at Tufty and Roberta. ‘This is—’
‘Bloody hell!’ Roberta stared. ‘Gonorrhoea Bob, as I live and breathe! Thought you were dead.’
Pink rushed up the newcomer’s cheeks. ‘I don’t—’
‘Ha!’ She turned to Tufty. ‘Mr Cockburn here used to be a rabid ultra-nationalist racist dickbag, didn’t you, Bobby?’
‘That . . . Please, I . . .’ Deep breath. ‘That version of me did die. I buried him the day I accepted our Lord and Saviour into my heart.’
She beamed. ‘Glad to hear it, cos you were a right prick.’ Stepping in front of him. ‘So how come you know Jezzer here?’
The blush deepened. ‘I . . .’
Jeremy sat up. ‘He was sent by God in my time of need and helped me find the light.’ Running a hand up one sleeve-hidden arm. ‘He ministered to me, when I was lost in the darkness.’
‘Bet he did. Saucy minx.’ Roberta winked. ‘Now, perhaps my friend here,’ giving Tufty a gentle thump, ‘can help Bob minister up a lovely cup of tea for us all, while you and I have that chat. Hmmmm?’
Jeremy buried his head in his hands again. ‘Oh God . . .’