Chapter 3.20
The Volvo’s windscreen wipers mourned back and forth across the glass as rain clattered against the bonnet.
‘I know, I know, but just cool your bum.’ Roberta switched the phone to her other ear – putting it between her and Harmsworth. Not because he was earwigging, just so she wouldn’t have to look at his droopy face, drooping even further as they drifted down King’s Gate in the dark.
He was even more hunched-over now, squinting through the gloom and spray and haze from oncoming headlights, the bags under his eyes swollen to industrial sacks.
Doing far too much sighing too.
But at least he wasn’t banging on about mince.
Roberta glanced out the passenger window, checking their progress.
Streetlights swayed in the storm, their wan glow guttering through the thrashing tree branches.
Not even at the Atholl Hotel, yet.
‘We’ll be there in . . . two minutes? Tops.’ Which was a lie.
Tufty groaned in her earhole. ‘But I have proper work to do! I am a dedicated officer of the law, and I cannot afford to take time away from my allotted duties for frivolous activities.’ Which sounded weird, even for him.
Beginning to get the feeling the wee loon wasn’t right in the head.
‘Three, four minutes and you’ll be on your way. Snidging about to your bizarre little heart’s content.’
‘Urgh . . .’ Deep breath. ‘Honestly, this is like when Admiral Ackbar led the assault on the second Death Star. In Return of the Jedi?’
What?
The boy was an idiot.
King’s Gate turned into Beechgrove Terrace with yet more big granite houses.
‘And while we’re at it, where’s my triple-D on Sir Norman Wingwang Fordyce?’
He sighed. ‘You really need to learn how to use Google. I cannot always be there to hold your hand during these activities.’
‘Stop slacking and get it done!’
‘It is like dropping out of hyperspace, near the forest moon of Endor, only to find there are dozens of Star Destroyers waiting for us!’
A genuine card-carrying, chrome-plated idiot.
‘Blah, blah, blah. Are you my team lynchpin or aren’t you?’
Harmsworth stiffened in the driver’s seat.
‘OK.’ Another sigh, bigger this time, pained. Resigned. ‘Remember: I tried.’
‘Good boy.’ One more look out the window. ‘Five or six minutes. Tops.’ She hung up. Shook her head. ‘Swear to God, he’s getting odder by the day.’
They tootled along in silence. Past terraces of neat grey homes, then BBC Scotland’s Beechgrove Studios, then a bunch of—
‘You said I was the team lynchpin!’ Harmsworth glared across the car at her.
Ah . . .
Right.
She shifted in her seat. ‘Aye, well . . . obviously I have to tell Tufty he’s the lynchpin, cos the wee sod’s so insecure!
Always needing his ego stroked.’ Yeah, that would work.
She threw in a reassuring smile. ‘Wouldn’t do a lick of work otherwise.
No’ like you, Owen.’ Adding a twirly hand gesture to really sell it.
‘With the boy it’s just shameless flattery, with you it’s the truth. ’
Silence.
The lights turned green ahead as Harmsworth chewed on that one, and they wheeched straight across the junction outside the Co-op.
‘Hmmm . . .’ He nodded, liking the taste. ‘I see. Yes.’ A smile. ‘That does make sense.’
Sometimes you really had to worry about the state of police recruitment in Scotland.
Harmsworth pulled up outside the Nelson Street labs. A ragged pine tree drooped on one side of the double gates, and a big yellow bin for grit on the other.
For a main entrance it wasn’t very swanky – looked more like the arse-end of the building than the front – with a large yard all wrapped around in spiky metal fencing. None of your easy-to-climb chain-link here. This was the kind of stuff that left puncture wounds.
Security lights blazed down inside, illuminating a collection of police vans, patrol cars, and support vehicles, where Mobile Command Units rubbed shoulders with trailers, forensic Transits, and seized vehicles.
The building itself wasn’t much better: a magnificently depressing lump of grey, with two dirty-terracotta vertical stripes on each side, and a band of dirty-terracotta around the top.
It was probably meant to make the place look jaunty, but really it was more like a manky ribbon on the world’s most miserable Christmas present.
Tufty shuffled his feet by the grit bin, standing beneath one of those spotlights – making his high-vis jacket glow as rain thundered down. Bouncing off his wee peaked cap.
Yeah . . .
Maybe it was a bit cruel to leave him standing out here for ages. But hey-ho.
Roberta wound down her window, but he didn’t move from his post.
Even waving at him made no difference – he just stood there. Lazy wee shite that he was.
Oh for God’s sake . . .
She grabbed her umbrella and hobbled out into the downpour. Popping the canopy.
Rain drummed on the taut fabric.
Tufty didn’t even meet her halfway, she had to limp and hurple all the way over there.
‘OK, so we’re a couple minutes late. Is your sulk worth us both getting wet?’
He drooped. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you fridging should be. Just dried out from last time. Here:’ She produced the makeshift evidence bag, with Megan’s brush inside. ‘Need this tested for DNA. And get them to sharpish it. None of that “backlog” bollocks: ASAFWP.’
He took the bag and drooped even further. ‘I tried to warn you, I really did.’
‘Tried to . . .’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘What?’
‘Well, well, well . . .’ A man’s voice, behind her.
Roberta turned and there was Acting Detective Chief Inspector Beardy Bloody Beattie, emerging from behind the tree.
So not a man’s voice: a wee prick’s. He’d got himself a high-vis too, but it was one of the long ones and about three sizes too big, dwarfing his dumpy frame.
Pot-bellied, slouchy, and useless, with a supply-teacher beard and hooded eyes.
The kind of copper whose fighting suit had never seen a fight.
He curled his lip. ‘If it isn’t the late, great, ex-Detective Sergeant Roberta Steel.’
She squared her shoulders. ‘Ex-Detective Inspector, you pube-faced dick-wobble.’
‘Hmph . . . I’ll take that.’ Snatching the sandwich bag from Tufty’s hands. ‘Do you have any idea how much trouble officer Quirrel would be in if he gave this to the labs?’
Roberta went to snatch it back, but Beattie wheeched the bag away, stuffing it into an inside pocket.
‘DNA tests cost money. And that money comes out of my budget. And you have no authority to spend it!’
‘Give me back that bloody . . .’
‘No.’ Beattie danced away from her, around the back of Tufty, using him as a human shield.
‘And there’ll be no more of this “Queen Street Irregulars” nonsense!
You’re not a member of the force anymore, and you will not interfere with ongoing investigations!
And any serving officer found helping you will face disciplinary action.
’ He gave Tufty a shove. ‘Is that clear: Constable Quirrel.’
The wee loon’s voice was flat as a week-old balloon. ‘Yes, Acting DCI Beattie.’
A grin. Then Beattie pointed at Roberta.
‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Trying to take over my cases.
Well, you’re not a police officer! I am.
’ Thumping a hand down on Tufty’s shoulder.
‘And unless you want to ruin your whole team’s careers, you’ll sod off, play crown bowls, and crochet toilet-roll holders – or whatever it is you OAPs do – and leave policing to the professionals! ’
She glanced back at the Volvo for backup, but Harmsworth was sinking down in his seat, trying to disappear his lumpy self behind the dashboard. Out the line of fire.
Nose in the air and oozing triumph, Beattie buzzed himself through the smaller, officer-sized gate in the fence. And flounced away across the car park.
Roberta scowled after him, then turned and thumped Tufty. ‘What the buggering hell were you playing at? You set me up!’
‘I tried to warn you! Admiral Ackbar: “It’s a trap!” How could you not know that? It’s his only famous line in the whole— Ow!’ Retreating out of hitting range.
‘Next time just say it’s a trap!’
‘He was standing right there, when you called!’ Jabbing a finger at the pavement next to himself.
‘I put on a weird voice and everything. What was I supposed to do? And there won’t be a next time.
You heard him: “disciplinary action”.’ The finger came up to point at his own chest. ‘Does not want disciplinary action!’
They stood there, the only noise: the gallows drum of rain on her umbrella.
Then Tufty shook his head, sighed, and made for the gate.
‘Fine. I’ll . . .’ Roberta waved a hand about, ‘see you Wednesday. The kids have sequined some arcane runes on my wizard hat.’
He paused, one hand on the keypad, sounding as if he’d just buried a beloved pet. ‘Maybe it’d be best if you don’t come round for a while.’
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Then slipped through the gate and scuffed off into the spotlit gloom.
Leaving her standing there in the rain, all on her own.
She sagged. ‘Tufty?’
But he just kept going.
The drive home wasn’t exactly full of happy chitter-chat. Instead, they sat in bleak silence as Harmsworth drew up to the kerb outside Roberta’s home.
She forced a bit of fake cheer into her voice. ‘Bloody Beardy Beattie, eh? Thinks he can throw his weight about. Lardy lump of poop that he is.’ Giving Harmsworth’s arm a playful punch. ‘Like he’s going to intimidate you guys! Ha!’
Harmsworth shifted in his seat, and for once it probably had nothing to do with the sand in his undergarments. Not saying anything.
‘Right, Owen?’
‘Riiiiiiight . . .’ Looking down at his fingers.
‘Cool.’ She climbed from the passenger seat, grabbing her bag and brolly, because it was still dinging down. Looking back into the car. ‘Same time tomorrow?’
He scrunched his shoulders, picking at the steering wheel. ‘I can’t tomorrow, I’m . . . I’ve got a thing. You know. Last minute . . . thing.’
‘Oh.’ She puffed out her cheeks. ‘Right.’
‘Yeah.’ Deep breath. ‘OK. Well, I’d better be . . . You know.’ Trying for the same faux cheeriness. ‘Got to get this sand out my pork scratchings! Ha, ha, ha . . .’
Silence.
A hollow weight sank through Roberta’s chest.
She nodded. ‘Thanks for all your help today.’ Then stepped back and closed the door.
Stood there in the rain as the Volvo pulled away.
Didn’t even bother unfurling her brolly.
Just watched Harmsworth’s scarlet taillights disappear into the night.
A deep sigh.
Then Roberta turned her back on the world and limped up the path. Let herself in and slumped against the door.
Dark in here.
Flipping the switch sent light blooming through the hallway, glinting off the framed photos. ‘HELLO? SUSAN? MONSTERS?’
No reply.
‘MR RUMMMMMMPOLE? GENNNNNGHIS?’
But no wife, kids, cat, or dog came scampering up to greet her.
Half eight.
Where the hell was everybody?
The bag-for-life went on the sideboard, the umbrella in the stand by the front door, her jacket on its hook. Then she booted off her boots and slipped on her slippers.
Sagged there like a rag doll, grimacing at the ceiling.
They had to be somewhere.
Roberta scuffed through to the kitchen, turned the lights on, and scowled at the soggy apparition reflected in the patio doors – looking like a wet weekend in Rhynie.
No jumble of plates and mugs in here, but there was a note, sitting on the countertop:
Dear Robbie,
We’ve gone to Waterstones for that Book Event with JC Williams.
Jazz has scored us an invite to dinner with JC & her editor & publicist!
Got you a microwave lasagne – in fridge.
Susan
Great.
A ready meal.
While they were off partying with publishing types, eating prawns and steak, and drinking buckets and buckets of wine . . .
Urgh.
She checked her phone, but instead of a slew of grovelling texts – apologising for grassing her up to Beattie – there was nothing from Tufty. Nothing from Harmsworth, either. Or Logan.
Nobody wanted or needed her . . .
Well, there was only one thing for it:
Roberta got out the whisky.