Chapter 3.12 #2
The leftover dough got smooged into a lopsided nugget, and joined its mates.
‘And that didn’t work either, because these .
. . far-right fascist types always think they’re above the law, don’t they?
’ Forking up an eggy wash. ‘Then Billie screamed and I rushed to her side, but she was already falling – that knife . . .’ He shuddered, the colour fading from his cheeks.
‘Sorry. It’s just . . .’ Big gulp of wine. ‘God, I thought she was going to die.’
Roberta helped herself to another shortbread petticoat tail. ‘Did you see who did it, Frank?’
A blank look. Then he shook himself. ‘Right. Who did it. I . . . he had a polo-shirt on. And a shaved head? Or maybe it wasn’t shaved, maybe he was just going bald?
Or was bald?’ Another frown. ‘It . . .’ Abercrombie wiped a floury hand across his eyes.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve lain awake, night after night, running through it in my mind, but . . . it just gets fuzzier.’
The oven pinged and clicked.
‘I’m sure I saw his face. Properly, saw the thug who stabbed Billie. But I close my eyes and it could be anyone. Just . . . another angry white man, taking his impotent rage out on an innocent woman.’
Abercrombie huffed out a ragged breath, then sprinkled parmesan and cheddar over his sticky scones.
Downed the last of his wine. Grabbed a fresh bottle from the fridge.
Cricked off the top. Poured himself a hefty measure.
Pausing with the glass halfway to his lips. ‘Sorry. Certain you don’t want one?’
The microwave clock glowed 11:52.
‘Aye, what the hell.’ Roberta pushed her mug away. ‘Nearly lunchtime. And it’s no’ like I’m on duty anymore.’
‘Good, good. Excellent.’ He fetched another glass from the cupboard and filled it – which took nearly a quarter of the bottle – then handed the thing carefully to Roberta.
‘Cheers.’ She raised her almost overflowing glass and took a sip. Not bad. Nice and fruity, without being sweet. Unlike Tufty’s cloying cider.
‘Then everything happened so fast, and Billie was on the ground and I was trying to get the knife out of her stomach and you shouted at me, because – I know, I know – it was a stupid thing to do, and there was blood everywhere . . .’ Abercrombie clunked the oven door open, slid his scones inside, clunked the oven door shut again.
Set a timer. Each movement constrained and controlled, as if trying desperately hard not to lose it.
Scones in to bake, he turned his back on the table, ripped a sheet of kitchen paper from the dispenser and dabbed at his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I’m useless.’
Big swig of wine. Then another.
Yeah . . .
Might as well let him wallow for a bit, while Roberta sipped her rosé and polished off another shortbread.
Probably time to lead Frank away on a wee diversion, then circle back to the stabbing from a different angle. Sometimes that jogged people’s memories.
‘What you up to these days, Frank? Can’t be easy now Emma Dornoch’s Westminster bid is up the crapper.’
He leaned on the worktop, shoulders rounding.
‘We’ve got a few years till the next general election.
Time to work on campaign messaging and getting her face out there.
’ A laugh. ‘Never easy launching a new candidate, but now we’ve got a bit of brand recognition and something to run against, right?
Graeme Anderson and his brownshirt bastards.
’ The tips of Abercrombie’s ears flushed bright pink.
‘If you’ll pardon my language. Sorry. They just make me so . . . they make me so angry.’
Oh aye, bet he was a proper hamster-in-a-china-shop when roused.
‘Plus, I’m still working on Claire’s campaign.
’ He turned to face them again. ‘You know: Lady Fordyce?’ Toasting his employer, then drinking to that.
‘And the Scottish elections will be here before you know it. Assuming we can keep the wheels on – touch wood.’ Tapping two fingertips against the tabletop. Swigging down more wine.
‘And are the wheels likely to come off?’
This time the laugh was far more bitter. ‘Oh, you have no idea how much can—’
A binglety-bong noise rang out in the kitchen, accompanied by an angry-vibrator buzzzzzzzz.
Abercrombie grimaced, then plucked a mobile phone from the windowsill.
‘Sorry.’ His face curdled even further as he read and drank.
‘Oh, for Christ’s hairy . . .’ A big dramatic sigh.
‘It would be nice, if just once, people would make my life easier instead of more sodding difficult! I mean, what do I have to do here? Staple his bloody flies shut?’
The wine glass went on the counter as he jabbed out a text with his thumbs, mouth a thin pinched line. Then he stared at what he’d written. Closed his eyes. Sighed. Deleted it. And composed his message again. Slowly this time. Before sending it off with a pop-ding.
He shook his head. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love Claire to bits, I really do, but if I have to shuffle one more young intern hottie off to someone else’s campaign . . .’
Interesting.
Roberta sat back, contemplating him over the rim of her wine glass. ‘Now you come to mention it, I had noticed some of your staff were . . . no’ exactly munters? Vivian Staybridge, Billie Nesbit?’
‘Don’t forget Sophia Mitchell.’ A swig of rosé.
‘Amelia Wilson, Megan Lockheart, Violet Erving . . . People have no idea how challenging it is to keep that kind of thing out the public eye.’ Topping up his glass again.
‘Press finds out a sitting MSP’s husband is a randy octopus? How am I supposed to spin that?’
Abercrombie stared deep into his wine. Took a deep breath.
Cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, that’s really unprofessional of me.
Just . . .’ Rubbing at his bloodshot eyes.
‘Please. Ignore me. I’m . . . It’s been a long six months.
’ He bit his bottom lip. Looked away. ‘Ewan always said I was a drama queen. Sorry.’ One last swig, and he clinked his glass down on the draining board.
Took off his apron. ‘Think I’m going to lie down. ’
And off he lurched, legs rigid at the knee, torso lagging a bit behind his lower half. But then two or three bottles of rosé before noon will do that to some people.
Harmsworth opened his mouth, then shut it again, both eyebrows raised. ‘Are we . . .?’
‘Aye.’ Roberta stood, downed the last of her wine, because why waste good booze? And there was nothing wrong with a wee pre-lunch buzz. Then limped over to the oven and switched the thing off. No point burning the poor sod’s scones. Or his house down.
Pocketing a couple of shortbread petticoat tails, she leaned through the kitchen door, voice raised nice and loud: ‘We’ll see ourselves out!’
No reply.
So Roberta shrugged, and did just that.