Chapter 3.08
The dashboard clock ticked over to quarter-past four. Which made it the only thing on this rustbucket that still worked properly.
Tufty puffed out his cheeks. Drummed his fingertips against Betsy’s taped-up steering wheel. Wriggled in his seat.
‘Will you sit still?’
‘Can’t believe they is letting us snooch along on the dunt.’ A frown. ‘Well, not me, cos I still has a being an police officer, but you? Not so much.’
‘We’re here because Detective Superintendent Young isn’t as big a prick as he pretends. And he knows there wouldn’t even be a dunt if I hadn’t made the—’
Their borrowed Airwave squawked into life: ‘Well, don’t just sit there: bums in gear, people! We’ve got a joiner’s workshop to raid.’
Exhaust plumed out of the vehicles ahead, then they pulled forward, leaving Steel and Tufty behind as Betsy went yidididididididididdd . . .
Roberta thumped the wee loon. ‘Today would be good!’
Tufty cranked the key again: yidididididididididdd . . . Grimacing. Yidididididididididdddddd-did-did-did . . . Then the exhaust backfired like a faulty shotgun and Betsy’s engine phlegmed into life. ‘Good girl!’ Patting the dashboard. ‘You is the bestest girl!’
‘Everyone will obey the rules and follow the plan. No exceptions. By the book. This Op goes nice and clean, people!’
The mouldy Fiat Panda lurched and sputtered after the departing convoy.
In the wing mirror, that crow finally hopped down from its fencepost and ripped into the fallen sausage.
A grin from Tufty. ‘Is so exciting!’ Bouncing in his seat as they caught up with the Dog Unit.
‘You’ve been on dunts before.’
‘Yes. But this one’s different.’ Pointing at her, then himself. ‘We did this!’
He paused for the ‘GIVE WAY’ sign at the end of the lane, before following the others onto a curve of road that separated the wee clump of houses from the A92, like an oversized lay-by.
‘Aye, I’ve been thinking about that . . . See when they’re busy shining our bumholes for being investigative geniuses? I think you should take the credit.’
A bus stop sat near the junction with the dual carriageway, where a pair of Goths paused mid-snog – black-and-white make-up smeared to a mooshy grey – disentangling their tongues for long enough to watch the procession of police vehicles pass.
Tufty stopped at the junction, letting an artic lorry thunder past while he stared at her. ‘Really? You want me to take the credit?’ Narrowing his eyes. ‘Why?’
‘No skin off mine: retired, remember? Wouldn’t do your career any harm to have a nice big win under your belt.’ And the more people who owed her favours the better.
‘Oh.’ Nodding. ‘Cool.’ He nipped across the dual carriageway, heading south, towards Stonehaven.
Off to the left, the North Sea was little more than a thin smear on the horizon as a darkening veil of drizzle drifted along the coast. Blurring the convoy’s flickering blue lights.
‘Oooh, oooh, oooh!’ Sitting up straighter. ‘I could even has an promotion! Would be all like Sergeant Tufty!’
God help us.
Now they were on the A92, the police vehicles put their feet down, pulling away from Betsy.
‘Did you forget to wind the elastic band this morning?’
He rocked back and forward, as if that was going to make this rusty heap go any faster. ‘Come on, Daddy’s brave little girl, you can does it!’
Just maybe not before they all died of old age.
By the time they’d reached the Stonehaven slip road, the North Sea had grown from a thin smear to a massive chunk, with only a narrow wedge of headland to keep its heavy grey mass at bay.
The main railway line south sat in a deep cutting on the other side of an agricultural shed – about the size of a large drive-through, with ‘COILLEWOOD DEVELOPMENT & RESOLUTION SPECIALISTS LTD’ mounted on the corrugated cladding.
Its triangular yard secured behind an eight-foot high chain-link fence, topped with barbed wire, keeping the stacked pallets of wood safe from a vicious-looking flock of sheep.
First through the workshop gates was the OSU Transit, followed by the Dog Unit and the patrol car. Then an unmarked pool car. Leaving Betsy to putter in at the tail end.
The vanful of Thugs screeched to a halt, and out piled five huge officers in full Method of Entry kit, complete with crash helmets, pads, and riot shields.
A lumbering giant made it a round half-dozen, clutching a scarlet mini-battering-ram in her huge hands, ready to smash her way into Noel Sherman’s office.
She must’ve been disappointed when the lead Thug turned the handle and the door just swung open: no need for the Big Red Door Key after all.
In they thundered.
Soon as Betsy was tucked inside the yard, Tufty leapt out, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves as he sprinted back to the gates.
Roberta extricated herself from the passenger seat and stood there, leaning on her door, enjoying everybody doing some work for a change.
Down in the cutting, a train clattered past, engines howling, leaving a haze of blue-diesel behind as it headed south to Stonehaven, on its way to Edinburgh Waverly.
Detective Superintendent Young appeared from the pool car, Airwave in one hand, pointing at people and things with the other. ‘I WANT THAT PERIMETER SECURED!’
Off a PC scampered.
But Tufty was already doing it, swinging both sides of the gate shut with a rattling clang.
PC MacLauchlan clambered out of the Dog Unit’s manky wee van.
A shambolic collection of body parts – in black cargo pants and a Police Scotland baseball cap – he had a sort of goblin-cannibal hybrid look.
Not helped by his loping gait as he hurried around to the rear doors and liberated Police Dog Branston: a Godzilla-sized Alsatian in black-and-brown, straining at her leash, barking and scrabbling, towing her handler towards the workshop.
No doubt keen to sink her teeth into a criminal or three, while MacLauchlan held on like a waterskier being hauled behind a hairy speedboat. That loved to bite people.
A trio of voices boomed out inside the workshop:
‘DROP THE TOOLS! DROP THEM!’
‘EVERYONE ON THE FLOOR! NOW! MOVE IT!’
‘OH NO YOU BLOODY DON’T!’
Followed by scuffing, thumps, a collection of clanging noises and a scream, all interspersed with PD Branston’s howitzer barks.
Tufty shot the bolt on the gates, rattling a chain into place, holding both sides together.
The train’s engine howled into the distance.
Traffic thundered past on the A92 barely two hundred feet away.
Another scream.
BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!
‘I SAID, “ON THE BLOODY FLOOR”!’
Roberta let loose a happy sigh. ‘I do miss these relaxing days out.’
Four of Noel Sherman’s crew were marched out through the workshop’s big up-and-over door, limping and scuffed, in overalls and handcuffs. All men. Two in their mid-twenties, two middle-aged. Glowering in the rain.
The only woman was sixty-something, wearing a Sex Pistol’s T-shirt and tartan miniskirt – which did nothing for her Chesterfield thighs – greying hair dyed pink on one side and neatly shaved on the other. Purple DMs.
Somehow, she’d escaped being handcuffed, but then it was the Big-Red-Door-Key-wielding behemoth who frogmarched her across the yard towards Young’s pool car. So that probably wasn’t an issue.
Tufty shuffled his feet, shoulders hunched as drizzle turned into something far rainier. Inching closer to Roberta, as if she was going to let him in under her umbrella.
Silly sod should’ve looked at the forecast this morning and packed one of his own.
Which is why she was a consulting detective, and he was an idiot.
Soon as Granny Punk had been delivered to the pool car, the door opened and Detective Superintendent Young climbed out.
Officer Door-Key shoved her forward. ‘Mrs Irene Ashton.’
Young loomed. ‘I’m only going to ask this once: where’s Noel Sherman?’
Mrs Ashton stuck her chin in the air. ‘Eat me, you Neanderthal prick!’ Her left boot slammed into his groin, making Young’s eyes bug as he folded like a deckchair, clutching his bits.
She spun around on those purple Doc Martens, far faster than someone her age should, fist flying. Catching PC Door-Key right in the throat.
More bugged eyes and crumpled knees. Gasping and going red.
Oh for God’s sake.
‘Tufty!’ Roberta set out at a hurple, with the wee loon hurrying after her.
Mrs Ashton, meanwhile, hauled in a deep breath: ‘NOEL! NOW!’
A door banged open, somewhere on the North-Sea-side of the workshop, followed by a clatter of falling wood, and Noel Sherman appeared. Like his crew, he was dressed in overalls and safety boots, but he had something they didn’t – a large, heavy backpack. Hauling it on as he lumbered away.
‘HEY, FASCISTS!’ Mrs Ashton grabbed a big chunk of two-by-four from the nearest pallet, swinging it broadsword-style as the OSU team and PCs closed in. ‘ANY ONE OF YOU PIG-FUCKERS MOVE, I’LL TAKE YOUR FUCKING HEADS OFF!’
Which was everyone’s cue to rush her. Only to be beaten back by a wheeching great-big dod of wood.
Giving Noel Sherman a clean stagger at the nearest segment of fence.
Roberta pointed. ‘Fetch!’
And off Tufty sprinted, leaving her to shamble after him as fast as she could with two dodgy legs and a walking stick.
Instead of clambering over the fence, like a normal human being, Sherman lowered his shoulder and charged at the chain-link. So he wasn’t the brightest of fish in the swimming pool. He’d just bounce off and Tufty would arrest him and—
Son of a bitch.
There must’ve been a hidden gate there, because Sherman went straight through. Stopped on the other side. And turned to fiddle with the fence. Bet he was locking it behind him.
Tufty leapt a pile of offcuts. ‘STOP, OFF-DUTY POLICE!’
The officers tried to charge Mrs Ashton again, but the two-by-four did another sweep, sending them jerking back to avoid getting walloped.
Now that he’d escaped the yard, Sherman couldn’t make for the slip road, or the dual carriageway – they’d pick him up in minutes.
Which meant there was only one way to go.
And when he’d cleared the railway line, all he had to do was scramble down the cliffs to the boat he’d no-doubt planked there for this very eventuality, and sail off into the gloom.
The bastard was going to get away.
Mrs Ashton swung her club again, but this time, soon as the wood whistled past, the team charged. Forming one big scrum with an old age punk at the bottom. An OAP who knew some impressive swearwords.
Tufty scuffle-hopped to a halt in front of the hidden gate, just in time for Sherman to give him a grin and the finger.
Roberta clambered over the offcuts, arriving at the gate as Tufty grabbed the thing and rattled it.
A thick brass padlock held the gate firmly shut.
Sherman dangled a key in front of them, then hurled it away into the field of dangerous sheep.
Flashed both middle fingers at Roberta. Then staggered off, taking his heavy backpack with him.
Picking up a bit of momentum, till he could break into a jog.
Crossing the narrow strip of field, scrambling over the drystane dyke at the bottom, and disappearing down the embankment.
‘Flipping . . .’ Tufty yanked on the gate again. But that padlock was going nowhere.
Then, a loud ‘HONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN NNNK! HONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN NNK!’ bellowed out. Followed by a horrible meaty thunk as the 15:58 Scotrail service from Montrose – calling at Laurencekirk, Stonehaven, Portlethen, and Aberdeen – battered through Noel Sherman like a sack of mince.
Followed by the metallic screech of railway brakes and a tortured howl of diesel engines.
The blue-grey belch of exhaust fumes was joined by a faint-pink mist and cloud of powdery white, drifting out towards the sea.
That would be the contents of Sherman’s backpack.
So, there were going to be some very coked-up fish out there tonight.
Tufty stared at Roberta, then monkey-clattered his way up the inside of the fence, until he was high enough to peer out through the barbed wire.
Probably getting himself a good view down into the railway cutting.
‘Oh noes . . .’ He rattled back to earth, mouth hanging open, eyes darting from her to the embankment and back again.
‘I does not want the credit. I does not want the credit!’