Chapter 3.17
Roberta sat on the ink-black toilet, having a swanky wee – because might as well, since she was here anyway. After all, it helped kill a bit of time, and with any luck Hector The Infector might have got bored and sodded off by the time she’d finished.
Then she could get back to snooping.
Meantime, she checked her phone.
TUFTY:
Why do I have to do all the finding of stuff?
Does your phone not have Google?
Arrrrgh!
Here:
He’d added four attachments.
She poked the first one, getting a photo for her trouble.
Only it wasn’t an official police crime-scene snap, it was a shot of the gate outside Graeme Anderson’s house, with a patrol car blocking access and a fire engine just visible through the trees behind it.
A caption was superimposed across the bottom: ‘EMERGENCY SERVICES RUSHED TO THE SCENE, NEAR NEWMACHAR ? Aberdeen Examiner’.
The next photo was much the same, only from the Press And Journal.
The third came courtesy of the Scottish Daily Post. Only the Sharny Dick Plop didn’t give a toss about privacy, so they’d sent a drone in over the wall – giving an aerial view of the house, with the conservatory off to one side.
And the lawn with its brave little robotic soldier.
And the smouldering, burnt-out wreck of a vehicle, about halfway down the drive.
No idea what brand or make the car was, but the roof had been peeled off in the blast. The grass on either side of the road was seared and blackened in a huge teardrop shape.
Must’ve been quite an explosion . . .
A handful of figures in white SOC suits picked through the debris. That would be the Mob Squad’s special forensic team.
‘DID SICKO JIHADIS BOMB brAVE ANDERSON?’
The fourth attachment was an article from the Aberdeen Examiner, which was light on detail and heavy on speculation.
But it did say the car in question used to be a Fiat Uno, stolen from a housing estate in Northfield, and packed with DIY explosives.
They’d done a mini-interview with the woman who’d owned it, as if getting your car nicked gave you an insight into acts of terrorism.
Waste of sodding time.
Roberta poked away at her phone:
Where’s my crime reports on the car bomb?
Forensics?
Photos?
Finger out, you lazy wee snidge!
SEND.
She was fiddling with the loo roll when the reply came in.
TUFTY:
Oh noes! Not sharing confidential stuff! Public domain only!
Tufty does like being an Police Officer!
NO GETTING HIM FIRED!!!!!!!!
Wee shite.
Mind you, given Chief Superintendent Pine was on the rampage, he was probably right.
OK, give it another five minutes and Hector The Inspector should’ve buggered off. Which could mean only one thing: another game of Hedgehog Hodgepodge . . .
By the time Roberta eased open the wet-room door to sneak a peek, her bum was well and truly numb. That was the problem with toilet seats, even swanky ones.
Right, no sign of Hector The Objector, which meant—
‘Ex-Detective Inspector Steel.’
Little sod had been lurking behind those fishing rods. Standing there with his arms crossed. Waiting.
She slipped through the door, closing it behind her. ‘Aye, I’d leave that a minute if I was you.’
Silence.
Roberta pulled on her ‘innocent’ smile. ‘Don’t let me keep you. Sure you’ve got loads of things need doing about the place.’
‘I’ll escort you back to the conservatory. In case you get “lost” again.’
Crap.
Horrible Hector The Roberta Collector stood guard by the conservatory door, radiating disapproval. Probably worrying about the alleged massive poop she’d allegedly clogged the wet-room toilet with. Allegedly.
Because if you couldn’t screw with prissy wee racist pricks, what was the point?
Harmsworth fiddled with his phone.
Roberta slumped all the way back on the couch, legs dangling over the arm, wearing a doily on her forehead. Making a game of trying to blow it off. Which lacked the bells, whistle, and flashing lights of Hedgehog Hodgepodge, but Doily Blow was harder than it looked.
Pfffffffff . . .
Nope.
Pfffffffffffffff . . .
Finally, the door opened and in strode the man himself: Graeme Anderson. At long sodding last. Rolling his sleeves up as if he was about to fight them all.
A patronising smile. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ve been on a Zoom call with the US.’
As if that was supposed to impress anyone.
Harmsworth scrambled to his feet. Standing to attention as he hid his phone away and dug out his notebook. Pen poised.
Meh.
Roberta stayed where she was, still having no luck moving that doily. ‘While we were waiting, I may or may not have blocked your wet-room toilet.’ Nothing like doubling down on a lie.
Pfffffffffffffffff . . .
Pffffff . . . Pfffffff . . . Pffffffffffffffffff . . .
Nope. This doily wasn’t for moving.
She peered at him, between the lacy bits. ‘You seem to be very popular with the blowing-things-up crowd, Graeme. Getting to be a habit.’
He did that ‘caring’ face he always faked for the TV cameras. ‘Are you feeling better? I was going to visit you in hospital, but you wouldn’t believe what the first few months are like when you’re elected to Parliament.’
Pfffffffffffffff . . .
‘Aye: first the industrial estate goes boom, then a Fiat Uno, right outside your palatial gaff?’
His lips went as stiff as his starched shirt.
Probably getting a touch peeved at the lack of forelock-tugging.
Poor baby. ‘Can you not lie on my sofa; I’ve just had it cleaned.
’ Checking his big, fancy watch. ‘Is there a reason for this visit? Only I’ve got Beijing at ten past. Perhaps you came here to say, “thank you” – for me saving your life? ’
‘Aye, but the dreaded Industrial-Estate Bomber wasn’t targeting me, though, was he. He was after you.’
Pffffffffffffffffffff . . .
Pfffffffft . . .
She shrugged, which was weird lying down. ‘So, if you think about it, it’s your fault I got blown-up in the first place.’
And yes, that was the same line she’d given Billie Nesbit in hospital, but it was still true.
Plus it seemed to have hit a nerve.
Pink flushed across Anderson’s cheeks, making him that bit more gammony. ‘That’s not the point. Look, will you sit up when I’m talking to you?’
Nope.
‘I’ve been speaking to your wee friends, Graeme. Great bunch of lads; lovely tattoos; nearly all their own teeth.’
Pffffffffffffffffffffffff . . .
She raised a finger. ‘One of them said something that got me thinking.’
Pffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff . . .
Anderson marched over and snatched the doily from her forehead. Scrunched it in his fist. ‘I saved your life.’
Roberta didn’t get up. ‘See that Fiat Uno?’ Pointing in the vague direction of the front lawn. ‘How come it went BANG! halfway up the drive?’
‘This is ridiculous. Clearly that blow to your head damaged something inside.’
‘How come it wasn’t stopped at the gates, like we were?’
Hector The Interjector scowled down his nose at her. ‘The gates had been stuck open for a couple of months. Took ages to get the parts in from Belgium.’
‘Ah, Brexit – the gift that keeps on giving.’ Throwing the wee loon a wink.
‘So, why detonate the bomb all the way down there? Why no’ drive up to the house?
Much better chance of killing someone. Instead: what did they take out – few blades of grass and a couple of moles?
’ Letting the words hang in silence for a breath or two. ‘That no’ seem odd to you?’
Anderson stuffed the crumpled doily in his pocket. ‘I’m willing to make allowances, because of your injury, but there are limits, Ex-Detective Inspector.’
‘You’re no’ going all domestic violency on me, are you? Thought you were a changed man. Pillar of the community!’
A glare. ‘I actually thought you’d come here to say “thank you”, but you’re just like all the others, aren’t you?’
Roberta grinned at him. ‘Oh no, no, no – I’m quite . . . unique. Aren’t I, Owen?’
Harmsworth grimaced. ‘And then some.’
A knock at the door, and who should poke her head in, but Little Miss Stocky McSquare-Forehead – with a fancy cordless phone pressed against her rectangular boobs.
Only instead of the expected Eastern European accent, when she spoke it was pure Mockney.
‘Boss? Got Radio Four on the blower – you wanna do the Today programme tomorra?’
Anderson blinked, turned. ‘Who else is on? What about?’
‘“Migrants ate my baby.” I dunno, do I – some EU trade bollocks. With a Tory prick and some Labour wanker.’
His face scrunched. ‘Fine. Yes. As long as it’s not Angela Rayner. Bloody woman’s like a beartrap.’
The newcomer jerked her chin at Roberta. ‘Speaking of wankers . . .?’
Roberta gave her a little wave. ‘We were just asking your employer about Billie Nesbit getting stabbed.’
Anderson’s chin retreated. ‘What?’
Ever slow on the uptake.
‘Didn’t see you at the protest.’
McForehead seemed puzzled by that, so Roberta frowned at Anderson instead.
Gave him a disappointed sigh. Then: ‘Tut, tut, tut, Graeme. I thought Wee Louie Kelman was your right-hand man. Person. Creature. Does he know you’re two-timing him with Dick Van Dyke, here?’
Van Dyke curled her free hand into a fist. ‘Eh?’
‘Stephanie is my PA. Running a parliamentary office takes a lot of organisation.’ Another ostentatious glance at his ostentatious watch.
‘And I have a meeting with the Chinese government to prepare for.’ Pointing at Stephanie.
‘See them out.’ Then Anderson swept from the room. Not so much as a tatty-bye-bye.
Soon as the door clunked shut, Stephanie McSquare-Bits was on the phone. ‘You still there? Yeah, he’ll do it. Send us the details.’ She hung up. Jerked a thumb over her shoulder, glowering at Roberta. ‘You: on your feet. You’re leavin’.’
Aye, right.
Roberta stayed where she was, swinging her legs, kicking her heels against the side of the couch. ‘So, are you more a Bernard Woolley or a Humphrey Appleby type of character, Steph? When you’re wheeling and dealing in Westminster.’
Which seemed to go completely over Stephanie’s rectangular head. ‘Don’t fink I won’t drag you out by the ankles.’
Suppose people just didn’t appreciate classic TV shows anymore. Which was sad.
Or maybe Roberta was just getting old.
Which was sadder.
A sigh. ‘Ah, what the hell.’ She swivelled her legs off the couch and stood, making a big show of yawning and stretching. ‘Thanks for the tea, Hector. Take care of yourself, eh? Things around Graeme Anderson have a habit of exploding.’ Then threw a wee salute to Stephanie. ‘Do svidaniya, Comrade.’
Which seemed to completely fluster Stephanie, leaving her staring with her gob hanging open, showing off lots of dark metal fillings.
Good.
Roberta swaggered from the room.
Behind her, Stephanie’s voice growled out. ‘You too, Lard Boy.’
Cruel, but fair.
Harmsworth’s face was crumpled and sour as they headed down the driveway, blowers on, radio off.
Roberta scootched down in her seat, watching as Graeme Anderson’s swanky home retreated in the rear-view mirror.
And there she was: the mysterious Stephanie, standing outside the conservatory in the pouring rain, scowling after the Volvo.
Really tempted to wind down the window and give her a cheery wave goodbye. But it wasn’t worth getting wet for.
A snort from the driver’s seat. ‘What was the point of coming all the way out here, just to rile the guy up?’
‘Because sometimes – and pin back your lugs here, Owen, I’m about to lay some Wisdom Of The Ancients on you – you’ve got to shake the tree to see what falls out.’
His face darkened. ‘She called me “Lard Boy”!’
‘Stop here.’
‘What?’ Looking around. ‘Why? Why am I— Ow!’
She hit him again, and the Volvo came to an emergency stop on a section of tarmac that was a good three shades darker than the road on either side. No sign of any scorch marks in the grass, though. Already grown in, green and lush . . .
Roberta sat upright again, frowning out at the lawn. ‘Why stop here? Makes bugger-all sense.’
‘Cos you told me to!’ Rubbing his battered arm.
‘Don’t be dense, Owen.’ She turned in her seat and peered back at the house.
Stephanie hadn’t moved. Probably wondering what they’d stopped for.
‘Oh . . .’ Harmsworth’s eyes widened. ‘You mean, the bomber!’ Engaging that four-watt brain of his. ‘Maybe it was just a warning?’
‘Then stick a severed pig’s head in the bugger’s bed. Or send him a shoebox full of dog shit. Or an unlubed dildo studded with nails . . .’ Drumming her fingers on the dashboard. ‘Why here?’
Didn’t make any sense.
‘Can we go home now?’
‘Unless you wanted to cause as little harm as possible?’ She pointed at the patched tarmac and reseeded turf. ‘Too far away to damage the house or burn down the woods.’
‘Exactly!’ Giving himself a smug wee nod. ‘That’s what I said: sending a message.’
‘Aye . . . But who to?’
The wee robot mower wobbled past through the downpour, making sod-all difference to the soggy grass.
Harmsworth wriggled in his seat again, foostering about with his sandpapered unmentionables. Accompanied by a woe-is-me sigh.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Go on, then.’
And away they drove . . .