Chapter 3.07
A murmur of strained conversation filtered through the closed kitchen doors, underpinned by the clink-and-rattle of tea being made.
With any luck, Tufty had insisted on boiling the mugs in bleach first, because that was the only way Roberta would even consider drinking anything that came out of Gonorrhoea Bob’s Cholera Kitchen.
In here, Jeremy was huddled up on the couch, filthy bare feet on the seat, knees up to his chest, arms wrapped around them to turn himself into a little fortress. Avoiding eye contact.
Roberta remained standing though, for basic hygiene reasons. ‘You still turning tricks, Jezzer?’
‘Why can’t you just leave me alone?’
‘Cos Jesus might forgive all your sins, but Police Scotland makes you pay for them.’ Leaving a sinister pause. ‘Now: Noel Sherman. And don’t lie. “Thou shall not bear false witness”, remember? You think HMP Grampian’s bad? It’s got nothing on Hell.’
He pressed his forehead into his knees. ‘You’ve got the photos.’
‘Aye, but I want you to tell me about them. Think of this like a confessional.’
The bluebottle made another couple of circuits.
Jeremy took a deep breath. ‘It was . . .’ Cleared his throat.
‘In the beginning, I’d got behind on my payments.
Borrowed money. Might’ve robbed somebody’s stuff .
. . But Mr Sherman “kindly” came up with a way I could repay my debt to him.
’ One shoulder raised, then fell again. ‘And, you know, I was doing it for cash anyway – in pub toilets and dark alleyways – so why not? After you’ve sucked enough of them, one cock’s very like another. ’
Even the fly fell silent for that.
‘Only . . .’ Jeremy wiped his eyes. ‘Only the interest keeps growing, doesn’t it. And before you know it, you’ve been paying off your debt for twelve months and you still owe much more than you did to start with.’
‘So go to the cops.’
A bitter little laugh. ‘And say what? They banged me up for four months last time.’
She leaned closer. ‘You want to hurt him? Sherman? Cos I know a way.’
‘He’s the kind of man who doesn’t get hurt. He’s the kind who does the hurting.’
‘Except his wife wants a divorce: messier the better. And if she had you on her—’
‘No!’ Jeremy’s head snapped up. ‘No way in the Satan-buggering fuck am I testifying against Noel Sherman!’ Eyes drifting to the closed kitchen doors. ‘He wouldn’t just hurt me.’
Yeah . . .
Bastards like that seldom did.
‘OK.’ Time to ask the obvious question: ‘This debt of yours, what’s it for?’
Jeremy bit his bottom lip, then looked away – hugging his knees even closer. ‘What do you think.’
Roberta leaned on the concrete railings that separated the pavement from the pebbly expanse of Stonehaven beach.
A slate-coloured North Sea stretched away beneath the granite sky – heavy and threatening. Grey, grey, grey . . .
The headland curled around to the right, cupping the bay, but petered out in the other direction – letting a brisk northerly wind whistle along the promenade. Wheeching the seagulls sideways past the little collection of cafes and restaurants that fronted onto the crashing waves.
In a more Mediterranean part of the world, this bit would’ve been paved and dotted with palm trees, fancy lampposts, and alfresco dining tables, where chic couples would share chic conversations over chic dishes and chic cocktails.
But this was northeast Scotland in September, so instead the road was split in two by a scabby line of shin-high red-and-white interlocking barriers – cordoning off a potholed stretch of mangey tarmac, so a pair of masochists in waterproofs could huddle together on a picnic bench and shiver their way through matching ice creams.
Morons.
Roberta checked her phone again.
Still nothing back from Young.
LOGAN:
Oh HA, HA! Very funny. :(
We had a visitation from the bloody Crime Campus this morning. Pointing fingers and poking noses.
SUSAN:
Going to be late tonight.
Have asked Gabby to drop Naomi off from school.
Jasmine can take bus.
Can you feed them fish fingers?
Possibly. Kind of depended on when Young got in touch.
Tufty appeared beside her at the railings, bearing two bundles wrapped in paper. ‘Here we does goes: num-num-num-num-num!’ He handed her one, warm and tempting. ‘Got us both an seafood-platter supper, tartare sauce, and a thing of onion rings to share. Plus a portion of peas à la mush.’
‘Where’s my change, you thieving snidge?’
‘Came to thirty-five pounds and twenty pence. You owe me a fiver. And twenty pence.’
‘What?’ She unwrapped her lunch, and the scent of crispy batter and sizzled potatoes wafted out like the nectar of the very gods themselves.
Because what true Scotswoman didn’t have deep-fried tatties and battered fish flowing through her veins?
Plus, the seafood platter wasn’t just a bit of haddock, you got a fishcake and a wee pile of scampi too.
She popped one in her gob. Hot. Salty. Vinegary.
Mmmm . . . ‘Whatever happened with that car bomb?’
Tufty looked at her for a bit, then his lone brain cell must’ve fired, because you could see the lights come on in that hollow little head of his.
‘Oh the car bomb. Yeah. Big scandal.’ Chomping into a pickled onion.
‘Graeme Anderson – brackets, MP, close brackets – points the finger at “gangs bringing in illegal migrants” because “they know the UK New Horizons Party will—” Ow!’
She flexed her thumping hand. ‘I know that bit, you twizzle stick. I retired from the force; didn’t give up reading the sodding papers.
Or watching the news.’ Onion rings were good too.
‘What happened with the investigation.’ Threatening him with an angry chip.
‘And I mean the real details, no’ that “inquiries are continuing”, “exploring multiple leads”, “leave no stone unturned” bollocks Media Liaison churn out. ’
That brain cell of his got a workout as he munched on his fish.
‘We got everything started, then the Mob Squad swooped in and said it all needed some very specialised forensic techniques to investigate properly and our local Smurfs weren’t trained or experienced enough – only he word-saladed it up in fancy language – so he brought in a team from down south.
And then we got to do all the exciting jobs: like Staying Out Of The Way, Guarding The Perimeter, and Not Touching Anything. ’
Interesting . . .
More chips. ‘These Mob Squad tossers: a pointy-nosed posh git, needs a haircut? And pug-faced baldy gorilla?’
A fishy grin. ‘The very men!’
‘Hmmmph . . .’ Scowling out at the churning grey water and scudding seagulls.
‘Detective Superintendent Rifkind and DI Matthew Prissy Stick-Up-The-Bum Kensington. Organised Crime and Counter Terrorism. Visited me in hospital.’ She crunched through batter to the meaty flaky haddock within. ‘They find anything?’
Tufty leaned in, voice low and sneaky. ‘I heard the bombers used locally sourced ammonium nitrate and Calor gas canisters and whatnot, but the fuse was . . .’ his shifty eyes swept the promenade, searching for spies, ‘of foreign origin. What they call a “Kremlin Kaboom” in spook circles.’
Ding-buzz.
She sooked the fingers on one hand clean, wiped them on the chippy paper, then dug out her phone.
Finally.
SUPT. YOUNG:
We have a warrant.
Going in hot: this afternoon: 16:00 soon as I’ve got the team together and done the briefing.
If you promise to behave you can watch FROM A SAFE DISTANCE (distance non-negotiable).
A smile spread across her greasy lips. ‘We’re on.’
Pfff . . .
No wonder Logan was pissed off.
Roberta sat in the passenger seat, frowning at that morning’s Scottish Daily Post, liberated from DHQ by Tufty.
Front-page splash: ‘“ARROGANT” COPS “IGNORING KEY EVIDENCE”’ above a photo of some redbrick railway arches – the south side of the Tay Bridge, according to the article.
A patrol car blocked the road that went beneath the nearest arch, with a PC standing behind a cordon of blue-and-white tape.
The paper had printed a grid of portraits beneath it – some formal, some casual snaps, one for each of the Tayside Ripper’s victims. So far . . .
The subheading pretty much summed up the Sharny Dick Plop’s approach to quality journalism: ‘PSYCHIC SUE SNUBBED BY STRUGGLING INVESTIGATION: “I KNOW WHERE NEXT VICTIM WILL DIE!”’
Sodding Psychic Sodding Sue.
Bloody woman couldn’t keep her nose out.
As if catching a serial killer wasn’t hard enough without some middle-aged, tie-dyed, incense-and-patchouli-scented moron making shite up.
Something cawwwwwed, and Roberta looked up from her stolen paper.
A crow swooped up on top of the fencepost beside the car and peered in through the passenger window at her. Judging.
No doubt wondering what a magnificent sexy beast like Roberta was doing sharing a manky Fiat Panda with a penguin-nosed wee snudge like Tufty – parked behind a line of police vehicles, on a back road, not-quite-the-middle-of-nowhere, about four miles north of Stonehaven.
Normally, the muster point would be much closer to the dunt, but once you factored in the slip road and the A92, and the fact it was basically a one-way system, this was the nearest viable point not visible from the dual carriageway.
Because sometimes it was fun to maintain the element of surprise when bashing in a drug kingpin’s door.
The crow cocked its head and did some more peering. Then gave another cawwwwww!
Probably hungry . . .
Ooh, there was a solution for that.
Roberta dug into her jacket pocket and produced the zip-lock-bag-o’sausages that’d been in there all morning. Armpit warmed.
She rolled down the window, liberated a snorker, and tossed it in the crow’s direction.
Her sausage bounced off the top line of barbed wire and tumbled down into the grass below. Lying there, as if the Castration Fairy had just flown by.
The crow stared at it, then at Roberta, with a what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you? tilt to its beak.
Ungrateful feathery bastard.
Roberta gave it a ‘Hmmph!’ and went back to her paper.
The Sharny Dick Plop was really sticking the boot in: making the murders as salacious as possible, and portraying Logan’s investigation as a cavalcade of unprofessional morons and halfwits. Which was rich, given the whole article was based around the opinion of Psychic Sodding Sue. ‘Buncha shites.’
Tufty didn’t look up from his novel. ‘Pound in the swear jar.’
‘I’m retired. There is no swear jar.’
‘Is in this car.’ He put the book down. ‘Look, standards matter. You can’t let yourself go just because you’re “economically inactive” now.’
She snorted at him. ‘I am not “economically . . .”’ Wait a minute.
‘Oh Christ: I’m a pensioner! Bath slippers and furry chairs.
Next thing you know I’ll be getting fitted for a beige cardigan and hearing aid!
’ She scrunched the newspaper up, and stuffed her head into it. Which did sod-all to muffle her scream.
Then sagged back.
A pensioner.
An OAP.
A coffin-dodger.
No wonder that crow was judging her.
Up at the front of the parked-up convoy, a PC climbed out of his patrol car – a lopsided, baggy-eyed, half-chewed-pencil of a man, who seemed to have forgotten his chin somewhere.
He made his way down the line, past the Operational Support Unit’s Transit van, and the Dog Unit’s tiny van, before stopping beside Tufty’s rustbucket.
He knocked on the car roof, then stood there, hands behind his back as Tufty wound the window down.
‘Are you bothering this young lady, sir? I do believe I heard a scream.’ He peered into the car, like the crow’s unhealthy, older brother. ‘I do hope it wasn’t one of sexual ecstasy: this is a public road.’
A wave from the wee loon. ‘Hey, Sporky.’
‘Boss wanted you to have this, as a wee token of his esteem.’ Passing over an Airwave handset. ‘Give it back, though. No keepsies.’
Roberta leaned across the car. ‘Are we going yet or no’? Supposed to be roaded at four.’
Sporky stepped back, eyes wide, one hand against his chest. ‘Goodness me! As I live and breathe, who is this vision of loveliness? For it is as if Scarlett Johansson and Audrey Hepburn had a lesbian lovechild that surpassed even their ethereal beauty.’
Hard not to smile at that. ‘You’re a lying bastard, but I’ll take it.’
He winked. ‘Next five to ten, is what I hear; soon as the Boss gets here.’ A wee salute. ‘In the meantime: try to keep the sounds of passionate lovemaking to a bare minimum, eh? This is a respectable neighbourhood.’ Then Sporky turned on his heel and shambled off.
Tufty checked the Airwave handset was on.
Placed it on the dashboard.
Then they settled back to wait . . .