Chapter 3.13
Westhill was every bit as exciting on the trip back, followed by a thrilling stretch of dual carriageway and then a roundabout that was half lump-of-grass-with-some-half-arsed-trees-on-it and half support-pillar-for-the-bypass. Would the delight never end?
Harmsworth’s Volvo puttered around it, heading for the Aberdeen Western Peripheral Route.
Unlike Tufty, he wasn’t keen on the radio. Presumably because it got in the way of his dreary monologues about complete and utter boring bollocking shite.
‘. . . so Barrett said, “No, I don’t think so.” But, of course he was wrong, because—’
‘Let’s see your notebook.’
Harmsworth kept his eyes on the road, mirror-signal-manoeuvring before accelerating up the hill. Already indicating to join the flow of traffic at the top. ‘Jacket pocket,’ jerking his chin at the rear-view mirror, ‘in the back.’
Pfff . . .
She squirmed around in her seat, reaching for it, hand flapping about until her fingers finally latched onto that retro leather.
By the time she’d dragged it through to the front, he’d merged with the inside lane, doing a sedate sixty while lorries and caravans thundered past – the illegal speeding bastards.
She rifled through the pockets, found the notebook, then tossed the jacket over her shoulder and into the rear footwell.
It wasn’t an official police notebook, because for all his multitude of faults, Harmsworth wasn’t a complete idiot. And leaving evidence of sneaky unauthorised investigations got you hauled up by the Rubber Heelers.
Instead, it was a cheap ring-bound job, that seemed to mostly consist of shopping-and-to-do lists. She flipped through them to the last entry: their interview with Frank Abercrombie.
Harmsworth risked a peek. ‘What you after?’
‘Names of the pretty ladies old Frankie-boy had to find new homes for, after Sir Slick-Dick had his sticky way with them.’
‘Now, he never said there was any hint of impropriety.’
‘Course he bloody did. You don’t shuffle sexy bits of stuff off your campaign team unless your boss’s husband’s shagging them.’
‘Or maybe his wife’s the jealous type? Doesn’t like competition hanging round her old man.’ Glancing across the car. ‘You know what older women are . . .’ His mouth clicked shut and he faced front again. ‘Never mind.’
Sexist satchel-faced prick.
Roberta treated him to a testicle-withering glower for a good count of ten, then went back to the notebook.
The names were on the final page.
She dug out her phone, texting one-handed:
Tufty – need you to run another deep dive.
Sophia Mitchell, Amelia Wilson, Megan Lockheart, & Violet Erving.
All worked on Claire Fordyce / Emma Dornoch’s campaign.
Quick as you like.
SEND.
Harmsworth wriggled. ‘Yes, but why do you want to know their names?’ Frowning at her in the mirror. ‘Is something going on?’
‘Something’s always going on, Owen, the key is figuring out what.’ Tapping her forehead. ‘An enquiring mind is a police officer’s deadliest weapon. Well, except for an extendible baton. Taser. PAVA spray. And a good old-fashioned kick in the balls.’
Which seemed to shut Harmsworth up for a bit.
Thank God.
Outside, a bunch of hills and trees slouched by, drooping beneath the rain’s onslaught.
An eighteen-wheeler overtook – howling past in the outside lane, kicking up a thick fog of filthy road-spray.
A lone horse sagged in a field.
And on they drove . . .
Ding-buzz.
That was quick – Tufty must’ve got up for a piddle or something and saw her text. Because he wasn’t a bad wee spud, really.
Only it wasn’t Tufty, with a nice wodge of background info on Sir Norman’s peccadillos, it was Lund:
Update on YKW:
DNA is AOK.
No match in DB.
What?
Roberta poked out a reply:
What the hell does any of that mean?
SEND.
Ding-buzz.
LUND:
I was trying to be subtle!
They got a good DNA sample from the tooth pulp cavity but it doesn’t match anything in the database.
Oh for God’s sake:
THEN WHY NOT JUST SAY THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE?
Whole team had gone to buggery without her supervising the bejesus out of—
Ding-buzz.
LUND:
Well excuse me for doing you a favour!
Roberta jammed the phone back in her pocket, folded her arms, and seethed all the way to Portlethen.
The rain had declared a ceasefire by the time they’d reached Thistle Crescent, but going by the dark blue-grey clouds, it wouldn’t be long before it violated that.
The little road wasn’t far from McIntosh Donald, and even though the abattoir was hidden behind a high leylandii hedge a couple of streets over, it was hard not to imagine that the damp air had a sort of delicious beefy tint to it.
The houses here were all grey, semidetached, two-storey, flat-fronted lumps, with lichened pantiles. Each pair was made up of one small house bolted onto another twice its size. Which must’ve galled the weeny-house people, being lorded over by their larger next-door neighbours.
The trees were quite nice, though.
Number six was much smaller than its conjoined twin, but the garden was tidy, with an enthusiastic pampas grass growing in the middle of the lawn – and everyone knew what that meant – while a couple of Beefeater gnomes stood guard.
A sign dominated one upstairs window: ‘UK NEW HORIZONS ~ FOR A BETTER brITAIN!’ Adding a touch of gammon to the general meatiness.
Harmsworth held up the printout, reading aloud. ‘Clive MacGregor, forty-eight. Lost his licence for speeding in 2013, got it back, lost it again in 2019. Other than that, his nose is clean.’
‘Let’s give him a rattle, then.’ Roberta limped through the garden gate, past the Swinger’s Bat-Signal, and on to the front door.
Harmsworth rang the bell. ‘Think this MacGregor will talk to us? Because his interview is one long “no comment”.’
‘Aye, but that was Beattie, making an arse of things after I got blown-up.’ She poked her own chest with a thumb. ‘See how a real detective handles this knuckle-dragging bacony tosser. He’ll be Play-Doh in my hands.’
A ginger tabby wandered across the neatly manicured lawn.
A big dog barked somewhere behind the house.
A strange eggy smell tainted the beefy air – but that was probably Harmsworth.
Then, just as Sir Fartsalot was reaching for the bell again, the door opened and there was Clive MacGregor, in all his unsmoked-gammony glory.
He’d swapped his protester’s chinos-and-polo-shirt for a Union Flag hoodie, a pair of knee-length shorts, and flip-flops. Still bald and ugly, though. He looked them up and down, a sneer curling his lip. ‘You Jehovah’s Witnesses? Cos we’re Methodist and don’t hold with that shite.’
Roberta smiled. ‘Surprised you don’t recognise me, Clive. I arrested you when that wee girl got stabbed.’
He pulled his double chin in, tripling it. ‘I’m not speaking to any cops without my lawyer present!’
‘Then it’s your lucky day! Cos I retired. And I need to talk to you about who did the stabbing.’
The chin went quadruple. ‘Wait, you’re not a cop?’
She spread her hands. ‘Sadly no’.’
‘Then I don’t have to talk to you anyway. Feel free to fuck off. And take Disco Stu with you.’ Then Clive MacGregor slammed the door in their faces.
Harmsworth shrugged. ‘Maybe we’ll have more luck next time?’
Yeah.
Bound to.
47 Caiesdykes Court, Kincorth (12:56)
It was a short row of terraced housing. Bland, two-up-two-down blocky slabs of beige harling with paved-over lawns where dilapidated cars were parked.
Stan Hendrickson glowered down at them from his top step – a stodgy middle-aged man, balding from all sides, in a ‘SEND THEM BACK!’ T-shirt. ‘Fuck off.’ He stepped inside and slammed the door.
That would be a no, then.
32 Mansefield Avenue, Torry (13:18)
The whole street looked like the same kid’s drawing of a house, photocopied over and over and over again. Identical buildings lined the next street over. And the one after that. And the one after that. Like some creepy Twilight Zone episode.
Liam Ramsey had cunningly decided to hide his male-pattern baldness by shaving his head, but a seven o’clock shadow just drew attention to the problem. A big lad, with a barrel chest and piggy eyes. Tattoos.
He sniffed. ‘Aye: no comment.’
Roberta tried a disarming smile. ‘You don’t have to say, “no comment”, this is just you and me having a—’
And he slammed the door.
14 Kettlehills Place, Northfield (13:48)
Wind snarled up the street, bringing a hissing crackle of rain with it that sparked off Harmsworth’s ridiculous jacket.
Every gust yanking at Roberta’s umbrella – threatening to Mary Poppins her at any moment.
The houses here formed a narrow, sloped terrace of four homes, where each building was a slightly more depressing shade of sputum than the one next to it.
Toby ‘Jug’ Forbes must’ve been planning on doing a fascism later, because he was wearing his polo-shirt-and-chinos outfit. Bet if you looked-up ‘Angry Gammon Bastard’ on Wikipedia, it’d be his photo they used to illustrate it.
He bared his teeth, stuck two fingers up at Steel, then slammed the door. Leaving them standing there, like pricks, in the rain.
Roberta puffed out her cheeks. ‘You know, I’m starting to take this personally.’
Harmsworth checked his list. ‘One more to go.’ His stomach gurgled like an angry frog. ‘Then, I believe Tufty said something about you taking him for a fish supper . . .?’
Greedy sod.
18 Perwinnes Lane, Bridge of Don (14:15)
Mansefield Avenue might’ve been Twilight Zone creepy, but it had nothing on Perwinnes Lane. It was as if the whole street had been made of Monopoly houses, so new that the lawns hadn’t bedded in yet. Brown lines between the strips of turf.
Jack MacCowan was only twenty-seven, so Christ knew how he could afford a brand-new home on the edge of town. Even a sinister, plastic one like this. He scowled out at them, in his blue jeans and brown shirt. With a jutting jaw and a lazy eye.
Roberta tried again: ‘Come on, Jack, we just want to—’
And he slammed the door, making it five for five.
Harmsworth raised both eyebrows. ‘So . . . chips?’