Chapter 4.03
Roberta lay flat on her back under the duvet, one hand massaging her forehead, while the other held the phone to her ear.
Trying not to move too much, because the post-whisky malaise is a harsh mistress.
And vomiting wasn’t as much fun as young people thought.
‘Of course I’m up and doing. Why would I no’ be up and doing?
It’s . . .’ She checked the alarm-clock-radio.
‘Five past eleven on a lovely Wednesday morning.’
The useless curtains were still drawn, but that didn’t stop the morning’s miserable light from spilling in around the edges. Making the room grey and gloomy.
‘Oh, Robbie.’ Susan groaned in that disappointed way she had. ‘You’ve been moping around the house for days! You need some fresh air. Go do something fun for a change.’
‘I have no’ been moping. And it’s only been one day.’ Well, two if you counted today. Two days since Rifkind and his pet gorilla turned up to tell her that Graeme Anderson almost got her killed in a fake terrorist attack. ‘And I’m no’—’
‘How about I take tomorrow morning off, and we can have a lazy breakfast and play a round of golf? Your swing’s getting so much better, it’s—’
‘I’m up and doing!’
A long-suffering sigh. ‘Has Tufty been in touch?’
‘It’s unethical to threaten people with golf. Against my European Convention on Human Whatnots.’
‘Oh, Robbie – talk to him! Apologise. Send him a muffin basket. Make this right!’
‘Apologise?’ She dropped her hand and glared at the ceiling. ‘He’s the one screwed me over!’
Susan broke out the disapproving tut. ‘You put him in an impossible position. What’s he supposed to do; he’s only little.’
Hard to hide the whine in her voice. ‘I’m only little.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re big. Certainly bigger than him. So be the grown-up and say you’re sorry. Maybe he’ll let you back into his role-playing thingy? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
Urgh . . .
Roberta pulled the pillows over her head again. ‘Life was much better when I was ordering people about. Being retired sucks arse!’
Why was sewing such a fiddly sod of a thing?
Roberta sat at the dining-room table, surrounded by plastic boxes, tongue sticking out the side of her mouth as she poked the needle through the felt, then her wizard’s hat, then back through the felt again.
Should’ve used superglue, or some bollocks like that. Be done by now.
But that would be cheating.
And the path to redemption was paved with fiddly bollocks . . .
She tied off the final stitch and sat back to admire her hard work.
The lobsters looked OK. A little wonky maybe, but that was because she’d made them herself, cut from a scrap of red felt with the big scissors you weren’t supposed to run with.
At least Mr Rumpole seemed to approve – supervising from the far end of the table, making schlurping noises as he washed his tummy.
Wonder if her hat needed more sequins? Or—
Her phone buzzzzed, skittering on the table’s protective mat, then launched into ‘Take Your Mama’.
That would be Tufty, calling to say that everything was forgiven and of course she should come to the game tonight, they’d be lost without her, and the whole party was looking forward to . . .
But it was Harmsworth’s name, glowing in the middle of the screen.
Pish.
Hope this wasn’t the Stovies Lecture.
She answered anyway. ‘Hello?’
The sound of a busy room burbled from her phone – lots of voices in an echoey space. Then Harmsworth whispered over the top. Barely audible through the racket. ‘You need to turn your TV on: BBC One.’
Yeah, cos that didn’t sound suspicious.
‘Why?’
‘Lynchpin, remember?’
OK . . .
Roberta plonked her wizard’s hat on her head, stood, and limped through to the living room. Grabbed the remote and pointed it at the television.
It took a couple of moments for the set-top box to warm up, then a big bald TV chef appeared, wanging on about mixing suet through the mince for his burgers. Because Roberta hadn’t had enough mince-talk for one week/lifetime.
She changed the channel. ‘What’s happened?’
BBC One filled the screen. A middle-aged bloke in a too-tight suit – buttoned up, so the centre of his chest looked like a bumhole – waved a hand at a map of the UK.
‘. . . return of those unseasonably high temperatures across most of the country . . .’ Even though a thick band of rain covered all of Scotland and Northern Ireland.
She settled into the couch. ‘And you’re whispering why?’
‘Because we’re not supposed to talk to you, remember? The wee loon got cranked through the mangle yesterday, and even I got a shouting at. Mind you, I didn’t look like I was going to cry afterwards, but then I’m made of sterner stuff.’
Still whispering, though.
Mr Bumhole-Suit turned his back on the map. ‘. . . returning to normal by the end of the week. So don’t put away your wellies and brollies just yet.’ Winsome smile. Chuckle. ‘Back to you, Miriam.’
The picture cut to a glamorous older woman, in a blue suit and modest cleavage. Sensible haircut. Standing in front of her generic studio backdrop. ‘Thanks, Rob. That’s all from us; now it’s time for the news and weather, wherever you are.’
The screen launched into the BBC News ident, in all its horrible pulsating scarlet glory. Like a colonoscopy-themed rave.
‘How is he: Tufty?’
‘Just off nightshift, when I got in this morning. Don’t know what Pine and Beattie said to him, but you could grill toast on the poor wee sod’s lugs.’
Yeah . . . Maybe Susan was right.
On screen, the Throbbing Colon of News gave way to a bland studio, featuring an attractive woman sitting behind a curved desk thing. She had shoulder-length dark hair, and a matching pair of beauty spots – one on each cheek. Heavyset, but just enough to ensure exciting jiggling at bedtime. A NRILF.
She smiled at the camera. ‘Good afternoon. Here’s the Scottish headlines.’ Pause for effect. ‘Three people have been stabbed in what police are calling a “terror attack” on Glasgow’s Sauchiehall Street.’
Harmsworth hissed out a breath. ‘Good job Tufty’s off till the weekend now, cos he looks like someone drove over him with a threshing machine.’
Yeah . . . Maybe Susan was right.
‘The east-coast line remains shut following yesterday’s storm, as crews battle to remove fallen trees and debris.’ Another pause. ‘Government minister denies shoplifting from Edinburgh sex shop.’ And again. ‘But first: Aberdeen.’
An inset graphic appeared – showing the lay-by on the A96, where they’d found the Body-In-The-Bin.
Or what was left of her. A couple of patrol cars were parked up, along with the Scenes van, and a couple of characters in white SOC suits, picking their way along the railway tracks in the background.
That would be Lund and Harmsworth, doing their fingertip search.
‘Police have made a breakthrough in the murder of a young woman, as the victim’s remains are identified after DNA testing. We go live to Aberdeen.’
The media briefing room at DHQ filled the screen. They’d set up a small stage – with a covered table, four seats, a bouquet of microphones, and one of those foldable exhibition-stand backings covered in little Police Scotland logos and adverts for Crimestoppers.
Mr Lockheart sat behind the table, on the outside left, blinking back tears in an ill-fitting suit.
Beside him was an earth-mothery blonde, whose curly hair hung lank around her shell-shocked face.
That would be Megan’s mum. Next: the Arch Wank, Acting DCI Beardy Beattie, who couldn’t seem to decide if he was looking grim or smug, today.
And last, but definitely least, the Media Liaison Officer, AKA: PC Nigel Sweeny – a worried-looking bloke, with an outsized nose and massive chin, who was one hunch short of whacking a crocodile with a stick and screeching ‘That’s the way you do it! ’
A pair of large flatscreen TVs flanked the stage, displaying yet more Police Scotland logos. In case anyone had confused this for a car boot sale.
Beattie shuffled his papers. ‘Good afternoon.’
A weird pre-echo came from Roberta’s phone, which meant Harmsworth must’ve been at the briefing. That explained all the whispering.
‘Earlier this morning we were finally able to identify the remains discovered in a lay-by off the A96 as missing twenty-one-year-old, Megan Lockheart, from Westhill.’
A portrait of Megan appeared on both monitors. It wasn’t the one Tufty had plucked from the internet, or the one Davey printed on his missing-person poster, but a professional head-and-shoulder shot. And she was painfully pretty.
At which point, no amount of blinking would keep Mr Lockheart’s tears in check. He wiped them away with a trembling hand.
Roberta sat back. ‘Buggering hell . . .’
‘You were right.’
‘That’s no sodding comfort, Owen.’
Beattie waited for the press to settle down. ‘Megan was a popular young woman who had many friends and accomplishments, and our sympathies are with her family at this terrible time.’
‘Hold on.’ Roberta hit ‘RECORD’ on the remote, followed by ‘MUTE’ – leaving Beattie flapping his gums in silence.
Harmsworth sniffed. ‘Of course, according to Beattie, he’s the one responsible for figuring all this out. Apparently, you and I had nothing to do with it.’ A bitter harrumph. ‘With the risk of sounding like The Idiot Tufty: Beattie’s a snudge-wadging snidge.’
And then some.
‘Doesn’t really matter.’ Roberta puffed her cheeks out, wincing as Mr Lockheart struggled his way through a short pre-written statement, wiping his eyes every couple of seconds while his poor wife sat there in some sort of horrified trance.
‘What matters is they finally know what happened to their poor wee girl.’
‘Yeah.’ A sigh. ‘Kinda leaves one big question hanging though, doesn’t it: who killed her?’
‘Two questions, Owen: who killed her, and who got her pregnant. And are they the same person.’
‘That’s three questions.’
She frowned at the screen. ‘And do you want to guess who’s top of my suspect list?’