Chapter 4.01 #2
Did you remember to walk Genghis?
Sod.
Erm . . .
Of course I did. Paragon of virtue, me!
SEND.
Right, better grab the wee stinker’s lead, and get it done before Susan got back.
Flipping heck . . .
Roberta hobbled along the pavement, moving tortoise-slow and getting slower. Because this heavy-arsed bag-for-life was killing her, and Genghis kept pulling at his lead – eager to get home now he’d piddled on nearly every lamppost, tree, and car tyre between home, Fountainhall Road, and back.
To be honest, tottering all the way to the off-licence had probably not been the best of ideas.
And yes, it would probably be easier if her walking stick, the lead, and clinking bag weren’t all in the same hand, but she needed the other one free to hold her phone.
Logan’s voice worried in her ear. ‘Far as we can tell, the latest one isn’t.’
‘Isn’t . . . isn’t . . . what?’ Limp, shamble, pech, heech.
‘A real Ripper victim. The MO’s all different.’
Why did her sodding street have to be so long? House was still miles away.
‘Are you sure you’re OK? You’re breathing like a sex offender.’
Lumber, lurch, puff, pant. ‘Fit as . . . as a fiddle, . . . me.’
A fiddle on the brink of a frunking heart attack.
A weird whooshing noise had started about two streets ago, pulsing and whumping, not quite in time with her steps.
‘I mean, how screwed-up does someone have to be to look at a string of horrific murders and think, “Yeah, I fancy having a go at that!”’
‘Uh-huh . . .’
Strange little black dots followed the noise – swirling around the edges of the road and houses. Whoosh, whump.
Logan sighed. ‘Starting to think we’re never going to catch this bastard.’
And on she slogged, sweat dribbling between her shoulder blades to soak into her bra.
Whoosh, whump.
At least she could see the end of the road now.
Like a sodding mirage between the dripping trees.
Calling to her.
Whoosh, whump.
A final resting place to lay her knackered bones.
They could bury her between Stalin and Old Faithful.
Whoosh, whump, whoosh, whump, whoosh, whump.
‘You still there?’
Barely.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You should get yourself an exercise bike or something.’
‘Feel free . . . to sod . . . off.’
Whoosh, Whump.
‘Might do you some good: from one previously-blown-up person to another.’ He huffed out a breath. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any point telling you to go easy on Tufty? Poor wee loon was only doing his best.’
‘He’s a . . . traitorous . . . wee . . . turd.’
‘Yeah, thought as much. If they ever make “Being Thrawn” an Olympic sport, you’re a shoo-in.’ Another sigh. ‘Anyway, got to go: briefing’s in ten, and this new Superintendent they’ve inflicted on us is doing my balls in.’
WHOOSH, Whump.
Someone must’ve tied breeze blocks to her ankles in the off-licence, cos no way her shoes weighed this much when she put them on. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘Catch you later, Beattie hater.’ And Logan was gone.
WHOOSH, WHUMP.
Roberta stuck the phone in her pocket and collapsed against the nearest tree, forehead pressed into the bark.
WHOOSH, WHUMP. WHOOSH, WHUMP.
Wheezing and coughing.
WHOOSH, WHUMP. WHOOSH, WHUMP. WHOOSH, Whump. Whoosh, Whump. Whoosh, whump . . .
Staying there, until the world stopped swirling.
Maybe Logan was right about the exercise bike?
Had to be better than this, anyway.
Finally, the noises faded, and the twirling black dots withered away.
Pfff . . .
Come on: nearly there.
She straightened up and lumbered homeward.
Past the neighbours, and thence to Casa Steel-Wallace.
The Big Car was back, parked in front of her poor sticky old MX-5.
‘Should’ve . . . called Susan . . . and got her . . . to give me . . . a sodding lift . . . back!’ Wheeze, hiss, rattle, pant.
Strangled weasel voice: ‘But . . . but Mummy Steel, . . . then it . . . wouldn’t be . . . a nice . . . surprise!’
Cough. Gasp. Puff.
‘Oh, cause . . . cause me having . . . a sodding . . . heart attack . . . will be a delightful . . . shock . . .’
Roberta struggled down the path to the front door. Unlocked it. And stumbled inside. Thunked the thing closed, and slumped against the wall. Eyes shut, lungs burning, legs aching, head throbbing, little dog whimpering . . .
She let him off his lead and away he scampered – making for the closed living-room door. Gazing up at it, then at her, then the door, then her, with his gob hanging open and tail wagging.
Roberta hung up her coat and got into her slippers, then dragged herself over there to open the door for him.
Only, as she reached for the handle, a burst of laughter came from inside, followed by voices. Too muffled to make out the actual words, but it didn’t sound like the TV. It sounded like visitors.
Which was the last thing anyone needed with a sweaty bra.
Mind you, maybe it was Lund? Or Harmsworth? Or maybe even Barrett, come to see how she was getting on?
Course it was.
Or maybe all three: turned up with a few bottles of wine and a selection of fancy crisps, to show how much they’d missed her since she’d retired.
And complain about everything going to hell.
And Beattie being a tit. And Tufty being a greasy treacherous wee shite.
And how Police Scotland simply couldn’t cope without her . . .
Grinning in the hall mirror, Roberta wiped her shiny face. Straightened her collar. Then opened the door and followed the wee man as he scrambled into the living room.
And stopped dead.
Because it wasn’t Lund and Harmsworth and Barrett. It was that sinister prick, Superintendent Rifkind, and his wardrobe-sized sidekick, DI Kensington, from Organised Crime and Counter Terrorism.
The Mob Squad.