Chapter 3.14
A veritable feast of Indo-Scottish fusion stretched along the Volvo’s dashboard in a collection of takeaway containers: macaroni-cheese pakora, stovies samosas, mince-and-tattie jalfrezi, and a haggis vindaloo, served with plain rice and two peshwari rowies.
Filling the car with delicious aromas and the tempting nip of spicy delight.
Harmsworth chewed, waving the other half of his samosa at the misting-up windscreen. ‘What now?’
Good question.
Roberta munched on a pakora – crispy and cheesy with more than a hint of fiery green chilli. ‘That’s all the protesters done. Well, except for the ringleader: Arch Twat Lewis Kelman.’ Crunch, munch, crunch. ‘Suppose he’s next.’
‘I meant with the “follow that truck”.’
The Fourtrak hadn’t moved from its spot behind the tiger-striped Transit. But so far: no sign of Jeremy Yarrow getting out to order any food. Or Gonorrhoea Bob. Or anyone else, come to that. Assuming it was even Jeremy’s car. Which it might not be.
Pfff . . .
‘Don’t know.’ She helped herself to a samosa. ‘Like I said: just being nosy.’
And at least they’d got a tasty lunch out of it.
She chewed, looking out of the window, across the wide promenade and down the steep slope of grass to the walkway below. Then a big angled swathe of concrete blocks, and finally the beach – being pummelled by angry waves.
So, Jeremy probably wasn’t here for a swim.
Not unless he was planning on doing a Reginald Perrin . . .
And with Noel Sherman reduced to a train-smeared paste, Jeremy’s debt would be null-and-void, so why bother faking your own death?
Maybe he was just getting a nice romantic lunch for himself and Gonorrhoea Bob?
Harmsworth popped a whole pakora in his gob, masticating the words. ‘Think he’ll tell us to go stick it up our crudgeholes?’
Eh?
‘What, Jeremy Yarrow?’
‘No: Lewis Kelman.’ Throwing in a deep sigh, as if she was the idiot.
Roberta gave him a dose of the evil eye, till he pulled his knees together and his cheeks pinked.
‘Sorry.’
‘Should think so too.’ Munch, crunch, munch. ‘And yeah: probably. Kelman’s going to be about as much help as barbed-wire loo roll.’ She had a wee sag in her seat. ‘Ever wonder why we bother, Owen?’
‘Normally, because it’s our job.’ Another pakora disappeared, as if he was trying to scoff the lot before she noticed.
‘And yes, some of us do it better than others, but in the end, if we weren’t getting paid, do you think we’d put up with half the crudge we do?
’ Then a samosa. Chewing away with a frown.
‘Let’s be honest: no sane person would police Aberdeen for free.
’ Giving her a food-flecked smile. ‘Except for you of course, cos you’re not weird at all. ’
‘Cheeky bugger.’ Polishing off the last pakora, before Greedy Guts struck again. ‘I do it because I get an obscene amount of pleasure from proving twunts like Chief Superintendent Pine wrong. And in this life you need to—’
Deep in Roberta’s pocket, ‘Take Your Mama’ discoed into life.
She sooked her fingers clean, wiping them on a napkin, before checking her phone: ‘SKETCHY DAVEY’.
Hmmph . . .
Probably calling to apologise for being a traitorous prick back at Charlotte MacNeal’s house – about sodding time too.
Roberta hit the green button. ‘Well, well, well: look who comes grovelling back. I suppose you saw my massive triumph at Noel—’
‘Thank you.’ Wouldn’t have thought anyone could get so much clipped, trembly anger into those two words, but Davey managed. ‘Thank you very fucking much!’
‘Oh don’t whinge. You could’ve been there when I took his empire down, but you—’
‘His bloody wife won’t pay my bill now, because every penny they’ve got is subject to a Proceeds of Crime order!’
And that was Roberta’s fault, how?
‘Well, she can hardly—’
‘Doesn’t matter what she gets awarded in the divorce, bloody Crown’s confiscating it all! She’ll probably lose the house!’
Now wait a minute.
Roberta sat up, teeth bared, more than happy to bite back. ‘Then she shouldn’t’ve married a sodding drug—’
‘AND I GET SCREWED!’ Loud enough to make her wrench the phone from her ear and hold it at arm’s length till Davey finished bellowing.
Soon as he had, she was back in there like a knife. ‘Oh aye: I take Aberdeen’s biggest drug-dealing-kingpin scumbag off the streets, and you’re having a moan because you won’t—’
‘YOU JUST DESTROY EVERYTHING, DON’T YOU? YOU JUST BLOODY—’
Sod this.
She hung up.
Screw him.
Screw Wee Davey Wanky McLeod.
With a big fucking stick.
She brought up her contacts and renamed his from ‘SKETCHY DAVEY’ to ‘SHITEHEAD!’ And yes, she could just delete it, but then he’d go back to being an ‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’ – at least this way she’d know when the ungrateful bastard called.
Which would suffice till she figured out how to block him.
Or got Tufty to do it. Or Jasmine would know . . .
While she’d been busy with Shitehead, Harmsworth had wrestled his way into the haggis vindaloo, and was now stuffing his face with spicy vinegared offal.
Speaking with his mouth full. ‘Your mate sounded happy.’
‘Prick that he is.’ She put her phone away. ‘Tell you, Owen: some bastards don’t know which side they’re buttered.’
Which left the jalfrezi.
Roberta dug a spork into it, scooping out a bite of piquant mince-and-tattie delight. Even though buggering Davey had soured it a bit.
She chewed away, scowling as the wind raged, rain strafed, and waves crashed upon the shore.
A battered red hatchback emerged from the storm, wobbling with every gust as it parked between the Volvo and the tiger-striped Transit. Poor thing was all dents and scrapes, with one wing a completely different shade to the rest of it.
The driver’s door cracked open and out climbed a woman in her late thirties who had not dressed for the weather.
Instead of thick trousers and a padded waterproof, she sported a short skirt, knobbly knees, a crop-top, and blouson jacket.
Hunching her way to the serving hatch on too-high heels, bleach-blonde hair streaming out sideways – turning mousy in the downpour.
Silly sod.
Harmsworth shovelled in more vindaloo. ‘Know what I think?’
Roberta just sat there in sulky silence. Chewing.
‘No.’ He sniffed. ‘No, Owen, please share with me the unfettered genius of your wisdom and insight.’ Spearing a chunk of curried neep and holding it aloft. ‘I think they’re all in on it: the UK New Horizons guys. Like a joint-enterprise, everyone’s-a-killer deal.’
She grimaced. ‘Been there, done that.’
‘That’s why they’re all saying nothing. Keeping schtum for the good of the team.’
Sheltering beneath the Transit’s open hatch, Little Miss Underdressed ordered her food, then huddled there, stomping her high heels on the damp tarmac. Lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers.
Not surprised she was shivering, given how much corpse-pale flesh she had on show. Must be freezing.
Harmsworth chewed his neep. ‘Would explain why none of the interns can ID the culprit. How do they single out one individual when they’re all responsible.’ A frown. ‘And I’m aware that’s an orphaned pronoun, but you know what I mean.’
God, he didn’t half talk some bollocks.
He gave her a condescending smile. ‘It’s when a pronoun – like “he” or “she” or “they” – is ambiguous because it’s not entirely clear who’s being referred to.’
‘You want to wear that sodding curry, you patronising snudge?’
A harrumph. Sporking up some more vindaloo. ‘That’s what I think, anyway.’
Don’t know what the woman ordered, but it was already being handed over in a blue plastic bag that bulged with takeaway containers.
She didn’t sod off out of the rain, though.
She stood there, shuffling her feet, one hand clutching her sallow throat.
Face all contorted, as if she was wheedling and whining about something.
Not enough poppadoms?
Harmsworth shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s immaterial, really. Not as if we can prove anything if they all close ranks.’
Whatever the moaning was about, it must’ve worked, because another blue plastic bag appeared.
Not full of rectangular shapes like the first, but something lopsided and lumpy.
Maybe a couple portions of keema rowies?
The woman grabbed it, and a sickly grin spread across her pale face.
Then she hurried back to the pock-marked hatchback. Clambering inside.
Could only see the back of her head and shoulders from here, but it looked as if she dumped one of her bags in the passenger footwell, then hugged the other. Reaching inside to pull out a teddy bear.
Oh for Jesus’s hairy . . .
Roberta screwed her eyes shut.
Wait a minute.
She snapped them open again. Reached across the car and thumped Harmsworth. ‘Seat back.’
He stared at her. ‘Eh?’
‘Put your sodding seat back!’ Roberta reclined hers as far as it would go, then whipped out her phone – fumbling through the camera settings to put it in video mode. Holding the thing up like a periscope, peeking over the dashboard and through the rain-flecked windscreen.
Filming as the woman turned her new teddy bear face down, bum in the air.
Harmsworth ratchetted his seat back. ‘Why are we lying down?’ A slight hint of panic in his voice. ‘Is this some sort of . . . sexual thing?’
‘Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .!’ Zooming the phone in.
The woman looked around, furtive, sneaky. Then a flick-knife clacked open in her other hand. She stabbed the bear in the head, sawing her way down its spine, splitting the seam. Dug her fingers into the kapok. And pulled out a handful of little plastic baggies.
She dropped the bear and cradled her find instead, rocking back and forth, spare hand covering her mouth as her shoulders shook.
Then the hatchback’s running lights clicked on, a whoomph of exhaust stuttered out into the downpour, and away she drove – while Roberta got a full-screen shot of her number plate.
‘You wee dancer.’