Chapter 3.09
Roberta slithered into Betsy’s passenger seat, out of the rain.
Whistling an innocent tune. Face the perfect model of virtuous piety as a teuchter voice battered out of the car radio: ‘And it’s time fir anither travel update.
The main line sooth is still blockit, so yer no’ goin’ oanywhere by train the day, unless it’s north. ’ A sigh. ‘Dear me, fit a sotter!’
Tufty grimaced across the car at her.
His rusty Fiat Panda now slumped in the furthest corner of the yard, making room for a Scenes Transit in the usual shade of wash-me ‘white’, another patrol car, and the police van Young’s search team had arrived in.
Nearly a dozen bodies, now dressed in white SOC suits, picking their way back and forth across the field and down along the cutting.
Gathering up all the lumps and chunks of Noel Sherman, before the crows and seagulls got their pointy little beaks into him.
‘Mind you, a’ the main routes in and oot o’ the city are nae bad, but there’s a wee loon brokit doon in the ootside lane, northbound on Denburn Road, so the middle o’ Aiberdeen’s a’ snarled up.’
Chief Superintendent Pine’s Mercedes was parked out of the way too, in a stay-away-from-my-expensive-motor-car, you-lowlife-ruffians!
kind of way. Passenger side close to the fence, leaving as much space on the other three sides as possible.
Because God forbid someone should accidentally brush against that shiny black paintwork.
Tufty pulled his chin in. ‘No, but . . . what’ve you been up to?’
‘Tell you whit, why don’t we play the loon a wee tune tae keep his spirits up till the brack-doon mannie gets there?’
‘Me?’ She wiped her fingers clean on a leftover napkin from lunchtime. Because sausage grease was hard to shift. Especially if it’d been festering away in your armpit all day. ‘Nothing. Sat here with you the whole time.’
‘And if yer drivin’ doon Denburn Road, be sure tae gie him a wee wave! Here’s Crimson Summer and an auld favourite: “The Midnight Rose”.’
‘Nooo . . .’ Tufty folded over, hands covering his face as the music swelled. ‘Are things not bad enough?’
The yard’s gates were open again, but a line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape cordoned off the entrance, guarded by a uniformed PC in a high-vis jacket – drooping and dripping in the pattering rain.
A bunch of journos had congregated in the field opposite Coillewood Development and Resolution Specialists Ltd, squeezed between the A92 and the slip road. Looking soggy, and miserable, and bored.
‘Seriously,’ Tufty peered through his fingers at her, ‘what did you do?’
The workshop door opened and Pine stepped out, followed by her loyal guard dog, Sergeant Brookminster, with Superintendent Young bringing up the rear. Pine looked around the yard, face hardening as she spotted Betsy. Then marched towards them.
OK.
Roberta wiped a sausage-free hand across her face, clearing away any rain. Straightening her hair. Cranking up the innocent look. ‘I haven’t done anything, Constable Quirrel. I’ve been here all the time, remember?’
The vocals kicked in on the radio, a nasal transatlantic voice, but he’d barely sung two words before Tufty switched the thing off. Whimpered. Went ‘Oh noes . . .’ And clambered out into the rain. Standing to attention.
Pine glowered at him. ‘I told you to stay in that car!’
‘Eeek . . .’ He scrambled back into the driver’s seat.
The Chief Superintendent planted herself at the passenger window, arms folded, staring in and down at Roberta.
Probably not best pleased that Roberta just sat there, pretending to read the Scottish Daily Post Tufty stole from DHQ. Completely ignoring her.
Tufty kept his voice to a strangled whisper. ‘Guv? I mean, Roberta: there’s a chief superintendent standing right outside the car!’
‘Is there?’ She lowered the paper and checked. ‘So there is!’ Winding her window down. ‘Afternoon. We’ll have a Bacon Double Cheeseburger, Chicken Royale, two fries, medium Sprite and a chocolate shake.’ Because the oldies were the goodies.
‘WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?’
Roberta frowned. ‘Aye, you’re right: chocolate shake doesn’t go with fries. Have you got any Irn-Bru?’
‘GET OUT OF THAT BLOODY CAR!’ Face getting redder and redder.
Young held up a hand. ‘Now, Boss, maybe we should all—’
‘OUT! NOW!’
‘Meh, why not.’ Roberta chucked the paper to Tufty, then opened her door and struggled out.
Making a big show of how difficult it was with a walking stick and traumatic head injury.
Then gave Pine a nice bland smile. ‘Roslyn. That foundation’s doing nothing for you – makes you look like a squeezed pluke. ’
Pine’s eyes bulged. ‘WOULD YOU CARE TO EXPLAIN WHY I HAVE A DEAD LOCAL BUSINESS OWNER SPREAD OVER HALF A MILE OF SODDING TRAIN TRACKS?’
A tut. A sigh. Then Roberta adopted Susan’s disappointed tone. ‘And are we going to be shouting all the way through this interaction, or shall we try acting like grown-ups instead?’
‘“GROWN-UPS”?’ Trembling, spittle flying. ‘GROWN-UPS!’
‘Cos you might no’ve noticed, but I retired six weeks ago – so I don’t have to listen to your . . .’ swirling a finger in Pine’s direction, ‘whatever this is meant to be.’
‘How dare you—’
‘Fuck me!’ A wee laugh. ‘I’ve been bollocked by bigger and better tossers than you in my time. And I had to stand there and “Yes, sir!”, “No, sir!”, “Three bags sodding full!” But no’ anymore.’
Young stepped in. ‘All right, this has all got far too heated. I need everyone involved to take a step back and a deep breath.’
Pine opened her mouth, but Young got there first: ‘Everyone!’
The Chief Superintendent clamped her jaw shut and trembled a bit more. Then hauled in a deep breath and stepped back. Ever the rebel.
Steel slouched against Betsy. ‘You want to know why Noel Sherman died? Because he’s .
. . was an idiot. We gave him plenty opportunities to surrender himself, instead of which he grabbed as much gear as he could carry and legged it.
Into the path of an oncoming train.’ She pointed a finger at Young.
‘Have Scenes done a presumptive test on the white powder in that backpack yet?’
He nodded. ‘Cocaine. Estimates about one-point-seven million pounds, street value. About half of which has drifted off into the wild blue yonder. The crabs and seagulls will be off their tits on sniff for a week.’
‘So, our poor “local business owner” was probably the biggest distributor of class A drugs north of Dundee. Plus, you’ll never guess who was a regular visitor to his place of work.
’ Roberta produced her phone and scrolled through the photo gallery to those surveillance shots Davey took – quickly deleting any featuring Jeremy Yarrow, because the poor bugger had seen enough grief for one lifetime – then held the screen out for Young and Pine.
‘Why, bugger me if it isn’t Charlotte MacNeal and her lime-green Toyota Yaris. ’
Young raised an eyebrow. ‘Operation Basilisk . . .’ He turned to Pine.
‘We’d assumed the drugs were coming in from Lithuania, already concealed in the teddy bears.
But what if Sherman was just buying the bears in bulk, cheap from a Lithuanian supplier, and filling them with “product” here?
’ Staring out through the fence, at the Scenes Smurfs in their ghostly white SOC suits.
‘Shame he’s dead. Could’ve found out how he got the drugs into the country – shut down the whole supply chain. ’
‘Hmmm . . .’ Roberta pulled a big thinky face, tapping a finger to her forehead.
‘Yeah, I wonder how he could’ve done that?
’ She swiped through more shots on her phone, bringing up the sequence from Stonehaven Harbour: The Nippy Partan, buggering off around the breakwater.
‘Rory Hatton. Also a frequenter of Coillewood Development And Resolution Specialists Limited. Who has, coincidentally enough, bought himself a dirty-big, brand-new Jaguar four-by-four. How ever did he afford that by selling the odd lobster and crab?’
At which point Young turned away, already on his Airwave as he marched off: ‘Porter? It’s me. I need you to get another warrant . . .’
Which left Roberta, Pine, and Brookminster – who looked about ready to crawl away and hide, the tips of his ears glowing pink.
Pine cleared her throat. ‘Yes . . . Well . . .’
Roberta tipped her a wink. ‘Oh, I’m stappit fu of surprises, me.’
‘Perhaps . . . under the circumstances . . . I may have been . . . a touch . . . hasty . . . in my condemnation of your actions.’ Every word sounding as if she was squeezing a hedgehog out of her arse. The wrong way around. ‘I apologise for any offence I may have inadvertently caused.’
Hmmm . . .
‘Ah, what the hell.’ Roberta stuck her hand out, but when Pine went to shake it, she pulled it back, swirled her fingers around, and gave the Chief Superintendent of NE Division the same one-fingered salute that Noel Sherman gave Tufty.
‘I see.’ Pine sniffed, stuck her nose in the air, and marched back towards the workshop. Abandoning Brookminster.
He shuffled his feet. ‘Oh, dear . . .’
A grin. ‘AND YOUR ARSE IS MEDIOCRE, SQUARE, AND FLAT!’
Pine froze for a second. Then kept going. Spine ramrod straight.
Brookminster sagged. ‘I wish you hadn’t done that.’
‘Aye: into every life some shite must splatter.’
‘Yes, but I’m the one who has to clear it up . . .’ A big sigh, then he turned on his heel and stalked after his flat-arsed boss.
Ha!
Roberta clambered into Betsy’s passenger seat and thunked the door shut. Pulled on her seatbelt. ‘Better get this rusty old heap on the road, Tufters. There’s a storm brewing and I want to be far away from here when it hits.’
‘Oh . . . poop.’ He turned the key – making the engine yidddddddiddidid-yidddddiddididid-yididididididididididididid till it spluttered into life – then performed a gear-crunching five-point turn, heading for the workshop gates.
The PC on guard raised the blue-and-white tape, and they puttered beneath it.
Roberta scootched down in her seat, keeping the yard in her wing mirror, getting a lovely view of the seagulls. A whole riot of the buggers, staging a turf war on top of the Chief Superintendent’s --Mercedes.
Because what web-footed feathery bastard could resist armpity sausages?
The assembled members of the soggy press snapped off a few half-hearted photos as Tufty headed past them and down the slip road. Heading for Stonehaven, with his face like a spanked arse. ‘Are we running away cos of what you did?’
She grinned at him. ‘Didn’t do anything, remember? I was with you the whole time.’
‘Oh, God.’ He put his foot down.
Because he wasn’t as daft as he looked.