Chapter 3.19 #2
‘By then Norman was obsessed with Billie Nesbit. So . . .’ Lady Fordyce mimed a little goodbye wave. ‘And now it’s “Isn’t Vivian Staybridge capable and hard-working and clever and we should really promote her to Media Liaison.” As if I can’t see what he’s doing . . .’
Rubbity, rub, rub.
‘So divorce the bastard. He’s worth millions, right? Take him for every penny.’
‘It’s not that easy when you’re a sitting MSP.
’ The bitter edge soured even more. ‘And a woman. And the right-wing press hates you. And your husband is screwing twenty-one-year-olds!’ She weighed the glass in her hand – no gin left, just a rattle of ice cubes, then hurled it into the sink with a shattering crash.
‘SHE’S YOUNG ENOUGH TO BE HIS BLOODY GRANDDAUGHTER! ’
Waldorf and Statler leapt to their feet, scampering across the kitchen tiles to whine up at their mum with big button eyes and swishing tails. Cute and pathetic.
Steel sat back and sipped her tea.
Took a while, but eventually Lady Fordyce’s breathing slowed and her shoulders drooped.
‘Sorry. That was . . .’ Hands spread out on the table again.
‘The only bright side is that he’s never managed to accidentally impregnate one of his stupid little girls.
Can you imagine if the press got hold of that? ’
Yeah . . .
Actually, it wasn’t hard to imagine something much, much worse.
Lady Fordyce didn’t come to the front door and wave them a cheery goodbye. Instead, Harmsworth’s Volvo had barely pulled away before the house spotlights clanked off, leaving nothing but headlights to illuminate the thrashing trees and driving rain.
Harmsworth sooked in a breath through clenched teeth. ‘Frank Abercrombie’s getting fired tomorrow, isn’t he.’
‘Oh aye.’
Because rich, posh gits were always happiest when they could blame the hired help for their own cock-ups . . .
The Volvo grumbled around the bypass, swaying about in the wind’s push-and-shove.
Rain snarling against the windscreen as the wipers’ screek-scronk did its best to clear the view.
But the car was still only doing forty, with Harmsworth hunched over the steering wheel like a saggy old man. Peering out into the storm.
Making for the Kingswells South Junction.
Roberta slouched in her seat, frowning down at her phone.
LOGAN:
So either our boy’s not killed anyone since the 15th, or he’s decided to start hiding the bodies instead of just leaving them lying about where he ripped them.
Hmmm . . .
She leaned her forehead against the passenger window’s cool glass.
Headlights crawled past in the opposite direction as the Volvo staggered onto the slip road.
Ding-buzz.
LOGAN:
And the notes the bastard leaves are no sodding use.
Got ourselves a forensic psychologist who couldn’t analyse Beardy Beattie for Restless Moron Syndrome.
You’d think the top brass WANT us to fail!
Moan, moan, moan.
Her thumbs tick-tick-ticked across the cracked screen:
Tell you what: I’ll do you a favour.
You send me your Ripper’s notes and I’ll see what I can deduce. I’ve dealt with enough sick-and-twisted tosspots to know my way around an offender profile.
Mates rates?!?!
How could anyone say no to an offer like that?
SEND.
The lights of Westhill sparkled off to the right, rising up the hill like a knot of depressing fairy lights through the downpour.
Well, Roberta and Harmsworth were about to make them even more miserable . . .
She hunched her back against the wind and rain, hands out to receive the hairbrush in its clear plastic sandwich bag.
Mr Lockheart hesitated. ‘And you’re sure they’ll give it back?
’ He can’t have been a day over forty-five, but he looked mid-sixties – what with the bald-shaved head and the big tuft of grey in his spade-sized beard.
Wearing an ‘EMMA DORNOCH ~ BETTER FOR SCOTLAND!’ T-shirt, with a grey hoodie on top. Bags under his pinched eyes.
Roberta nodded. ‘Oh aye. Bound to.’
The family home wasn’t even vaguely Scottish.
Instead, the whole street had been clad in faux-sandstone blocks, making it look as if the builders had meant to stick all this up in the Cotswolds somewhere and got hopelessly lost. Identikit foreign houses, thumped down en masse on the edge of Westhill, with tiny gardens, UPVC windows-and-doors, and no privacy.
Adding yet more new-build sprawl to a commuter town, five miles from Aberdeen, that’d spent the last forty years spreading across the countryside like a growth.
Megan’s dad sniffed. ‘Only it’s her favourite brush, so she’s gonna want it when she gets home.’
Poor sod.
Roberta faked a reassuring smile. ‘I’ll make sure they get their finger out.’
He frowned on that for a moment, then placed the bag in her hands.
Lucky Megan didn’t clean her favourite brush very often, because the thing was like a mammal-on-a-stick, tangled with long brown hair.
Roberta produced a Sharpie and marked the bag with time, date, location, her name and Mr Lockheart’s. Getting him to sign it, as a chain of evidence. ‘Thanks. We’ll be in touch.’ She turned to hobble back to the rain-lashed Volvo.
‘It’s been nearly five months.’ His voice caught on the words, as if each one was made of broken glass: ‘Just tell Megan we want her to come home and we’re sorry for whatever it is we did to make her leave . . .’
What the hell were you supposed to say to that?
So Roberta gave him a nod and a wee wave with her walking stick. Then limped away.