Chapter 3.11
Had to admit, it looked good on her incident-room wall.
Roberta straightened the brand-new framed front page from Saturday’s Aberdeen Examiner: ‘TRAIN TRAGEDY AS EX-COP CRACKS CASE’.
The photo was an overhead shot of Noel Sherman’s workshop, probably taken via drone, with multiple police vehicles in the fenced-off yard and the railway line just visible at the top of the shot – where a big blue marquee covered most of Noel Sherman’s body parts.
There was an inset pic of the man himself, and one of Roberta.
Though it must’ve been taken a while ago, because she wasn’t sporting her swanky new hairdo.
Subheading: ‘DRUG KINGPIN DIES IN RAID ON STONEHAVEN BUSINESS AS PLUCKY ROBERTA STOPS CRIME SPREE’. Which sort of made it sound as if she was the one who’d been on the spree.
Had to admit, the Examiner had gone downhill a bit since that shortarsed Weegie knob-hat, Colin Miller, took over as editor. But the article said all the right things about how brilliant she was and how crap Chief Superintendent Pine was, so what the hell.
Roberta stepped back from the frame and smiled.
Her very first case as a consulting detective was officially a massive, resounding, unqualified success.
She had a slurp of tea, and thumbed out a text:
You’re a silly sod, Tufty.
Should’ve taken the credit like I told you.
SEND.
And then, for poops and giggles, she opened Logan’s message for the umpteenth time since receiving it on Saturday.
LOGAN:
I’m assuming this was your handiwork?
He’d attached a short video file, no more than a couple of seconds long, lifted from Reporting Scotland.
She hit play and a damp PC raised the tape cordon, letting Chief Superintendent Pine’s Mercedes pull out of Noel Sherman’s yard.
That glossy black paintwork was scuffed and bespattered with seagull crap.
But the best bit was just before it turned to head down the slip road towards Stonehaven, when the passenger side was on full display.
And yes, Sergeant Brookminster had parked it right up against the chain-link fence to keep it safe from harm, but that hadn’t stopped some naughty individual from sneaking up and scratching the word ‘WANK!’ deep into the paint, across both doors.
Roberta burst out laughing again, because that shite would never not be funny.
Logan’s follow-up text took the shine off it a little, though:
You had to go too far didn’t you.
Now she’s going to take it out on Tufty!
And everyone else at DHQ.
Yeah, well Pishy Pine better not, because Roberta had a lot more where that came from.
Didn’t make Logan’s text any less of a buzzkill, though.
She deleted it, then poked out a revenge reply:
Have you still not caught your killer pervert yet? Lazy sod!
You need to hire a decent Consulting Detective.
I solved Operation Basilisk in ONE DAY!
Well, technically forty-four days, if you included the five weeks between arresting Charlotte MacNeal and Friday’s raid on Noel Sherman’s gaff.
But those weeks didn’t count, because Roberta wasn’t actually working the case, then – she’d been doing life drawings, learning how to craft stained-glass windows, perfecting homemade custard, and being a wizard hunting dragons, and stuff.
So there.
SEND.
As a reward for all this industriousness, Roberta played the video of Pine’s scratched-and-crap-spattered Mercedes again. And again. And again . . . Laughing like a drunken magpie every time.
Ahhh . . . Happy days.
Right.
Might as well tidy away Operation Basilisk, now that she’d solved it.
Roberta unwrapped the red ribbons first, then unpinned the notes, transcripts, maps, paperwork, and photos and stuck them in a binder – because what was the point of nicking a two-hole punch from work if you didn’t use it?
Popped it on her new bookshelf. Then settled into the folding chair to sip tea, munch on a chocolate digestive, and ponder which case to tackle next: Operation Demogorgon, or Troglodyte.
Cos with a wheelie-bin murder and a stabbing to choose from, who could get excited about Operation Firedrake and its food van turf war? Talk about small baked potatoes.
Ding-buzz.
Sadly, it wasn’t Logan with a job offer.
TUFTY:
Flipping plip-plop! Stop
Chief Supt. Pine going ballistic after what you did. Stop
All shouty and ranty. Stop
Says your a bad influence. Stop
Says anyone caught helping you is for the chop. Stop
STOP!!!
Honestly, wee loons today.
She texted him back:
*you’re
SEND.
Idiot.
Then had another go:
And I didn’t do anything = I was with you the whole time, REMEMBER?!?!
SEND.
Ding-buzz.
TUFTY:
Thought I’d be safe on nightshift till Wed, but she was waiting for me when I got off work this morning!
That wim is MONSTER SCARY BISCUITS!!!
Sodding hell.
You know, it really didn’t help that Logan had been right about Pine picking on the wee loon.
I TOLD you to take credit for the raid!
The rotten cow wouldn’t be picking on you if you had.
Roberta scowled at the room’s bare lightbulb for a moment.
And stop calling women ‘wims’!
It’s disrespectful, you parsnip-faced wee shite.
Because picking on Tufty was her job.
SEND.
Bet Pine was planning on driving a wedge between Roberta and her Queen Street Irregulars. Divide and conquer. Which would be a pain in the arse, long-term – hard to be a consulting detective without sidekicks who could run PNC checks, call for backup, and arrest people.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to give the troops a wee carrot instead of the stick for a change?
Or even a small baked potato . . .
Roberta scrolled through her contacts, giving Boris Johnson’s head a good squeeze as Lund’s phone rang. He was looking decidedly unwell now, as if his thyroid was acting up, a sad wheezy edge to the pkongk and glonk.
Took a while, but eventually Lund’s voice battered out of the handset, brittle with forced cheer. ‘Kevin! Much though I’d love to talk, I’m kind of in the middle of something. I’ll call you back, OK?’
Eh?
‘Someone spike your morning coffee, Veronica? It’s me.’
‘I know that, Kevin, but I’m in a meeting.’ It went all muffled, as if she’d put her hand over the phone. ‘Sorry, Guv, it’s the plumber. He’s fixing the washing machine.’
‘Sounds like the start of a Seventies porn film. Take it I’m persona non grata at DHQ?’
‘That’s right. Now, I have to go.’
‘Only I might have a wee something that’s to your advantage. If you’re interested . . .?’
Silence.
Roberta levered herself out of the chair and limped over to Operation Firedrake – with its surveillance photos of burger vans and chip vans and noodle vans and tattie-and-taco vans . . . Then the pictures of battered faces and burnt-out vehicles.
Pkongk-glonk. Pkongk-glonk. Pkongk-glonk. Pkongk-glonk.
‘I’m listening.’
‘See, I think I know why your turf war’s raging. And you were right: a greasy burger’s no’ worth crippling someone for.’ Milking the moment, drawing it out. ‘But do you know what is . . .?’
Lund’s end went all scrunched and muffled again. ‘Sorry, Guv, I need to . . . just step outside for a, really brief second.’ Shuffle, clunk, then the echoing click of footsteps in a corridor. ‘Have you any idea how much trouble you’ve caused? Pine’s flipping livid!’
Oh dear, how sad.
Beaming like a Cheshire Cat. ‘You want the fruits of my wisdom or no’?’
A sigh. ‘Fine. Give me your wisdom fruits.’
‘Charlotte MacNeal – the scummy mummy I arrested – she’s got a burger van, right?
Know what else she has? Teddy bears stuffed with cocaine, heroin, and fentanyl.
Aye, no’ all together, mind.’ Pkongk-glonk.
‘So what if Operation Firedrake is actually an offshoot of Operation Basilisk? And they’re no’ fighting over where they can sell their deep-fried shiteburgers – they’re carving up the Northeast’s drug market. ’
‘I see. . . . Yes. . . . And that helps us how?’
A fair question.
‘We just took out one of the biggest players in the northeast supply chain. Which means your turf war . . .?’
One: two, three, four.
Two: two, three, four.
Three: two, three, four.
‘Oh for the name of sod.’ A deep breath was hissed in and rattled out again. ‘If one side’s lost its command structure, it’s going to be a bloodbath. Urgh . . .’
Bingo.
‘So maybe it might be an idea to get yourselves a bunch of search warrants and go through everyone who’s been targeted?
Lockups, houses, garages. See what illicit treats they’ve got stashed away with the tomato ketchup.
’ Roberta dropped a sneaky conspiratorial edge into her voice.
‘And if I were you, I’d do it fast, before Superintendent Young twigs, swoops in, and steals all the glory. ’
And just like that, Lund was all sweetness and light. ‘Thanks, Sarge! I mean, Guv. I mean . . . feels a bit weird calling you “Roberta”.’
‘We live in weird times.’ Pkonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnk . . . ‘And now that I’ve done you a huge favour, maybe you could do me a tiny one in return?’
You’d think the view from the sixth floor of a twelve-storey tower block would’ve had a bit more glamour to it, but the lobby outside Tufty’s flat could only muster up two small windows, both of which looked out on the branches of unhappy trees.
Not so much as a squirrel.
The floor was that knobbly-grey-plastic stuff they had in the heavy-wear sections of Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, and the walls were tiled like a Victorian toilet, but for some strange reason they’d put pine cladding on the ceiling. Like the world’s worst sauna.
Which was still kind of a sore point.
Someone had decorated the lift doors up here with big stickers that had ‘BEWARE OF’ on one side and ‘THE LEOPARD’ on the other. Because people were weird.
Roberta pressed Tufty’s ‘bell’ again.
The other three flats on this floor had normal-looking doors, with the occasional pot plant to enliven the squirrel-free space.
Not Tufty, though.
No, he’d painted his to look like the TARDIS, and stuck a stupid Star Trek TNG fake computer panel beside it – like an oversized iPad – all interconnected boxes and lines in cheery shades of orange, yellow, and blue, with stupid Star Trek things written on them, beneath a big sign: ‘USS VALLEY FORGE’.
A brass plaque sat in the middle of the door, with the White Tree of Gondor on it, wrapped around with Elvish script.
And to top it all off, the ‘doorbell’ was built into the display panel, and you had to press the blue block marked ‘brIDGE’ to make it ring. Only it didn’t ring, it played the ‘Imperial March’ from Star Wars.
Because nothing screamed ‘Massive Sodding Nerd!’ like mixing your fandoms.
Soon as the tune finished playing, she set it going again. And again, until the door finally opened and a bleary Tufty peered out at her.
‘Wht? M’sleep. G’way . . .’ He was wearing a pair of jammies, printed to look like Chewbacca – all brown and hairy, with a bandolier – but he was so short it made him look more Ewok than Wookie.
Which was a reference that made her bum itch, because she was far too cool to know crap like that.
Or at least she had been.
Forcing a smile, Roberta patted the wee twit on the shoulder. ‘Tufty, my most excellent friend: good news! I have an opportunity for you that you’re going to love.’
A pink-eyed scowl. ‘No I’m not. Because I’m going back to bed.’
‘How can you sleep on a beautiful day like—’
‘Because I’m on nights! And it’s raining. And Chief Superintendent Pine says you’re a bad influence and if I play with you, she’s going to decapitate my “happy truncheon” with a pair of scissors.’ He shivered. ‘Only not in so many words.’
‘Oh . . .’ Roberta’s forced bonhomie sagged right out of her. ‘That bad, eh?’
‘Worse.’ Then he grimaced at the grey day lurking beyond the sad trees. ‘Please leave me alone, I have to be on-shift at eight!’
‘That’s no’ for ages yet.’ Reaching down, she plucked the hessian bag-for-life from the floor. Held it up. ‘And look: I’ve brought you a bribe! That girly fruity cider you like and a big bag of crispy pickled-onion rings.’
‘Away with you. Go.’ Making shooing gestures. ‘You shall not pass!’
‘But—’
He thumped the door shut, leaving her in the lobby.
‘Tufty?’
She put her bag down, then pressed ‘brIDGE’ again. Only instead of ‘The Imperial March’ the thing just made a wee chirrupy error noise.
‘Tufty!’ Knock, knock, knock. ‘Don’t make me instigate Plan B!’
Silence.
‘Tufty?’
She tried the policeman’s thump: three loud, hard raps on the TARDIS doors. ‘Tufty!’
Nothing.
Not even a squeak.
The wee shite wasn’t coming back.
‘Crap.’ Roberta slumped, groaned, and grimaced up at the wooden ceiling. ‘I hate Plan B.’