Chapter 4.03 #2
Mr Lockheart finally got to the end of his statement. He lowered his eyes, then his head, sagging there as if someone had just . . . switched him off.
A barrage of flash photography was reflected in his bald head. Because nothing sold papers like raw agonising grief.
Beattie reached out and squeezed Mr Lockheart’s shoulder.
Wasn’t expecting a gesture of humanity from the bearded tit. Didn’t think he had it in him.
Harmsworth cleared his throat. ‘Yeah . . . About that . . .’
Oh, for God’s sake.
Roberta slumped back on the couch, free hand covering her eyes. ‘Owen! What did you do?’
‘Well, I had to tell him, didn’t I? It’s a murder investigation.’
On her TV: the Media Liaison Officer silently threw the briefing open for questions. On the phone: everyone shouted over one another. Barracking to get the first juicy soundbite.
Even Harmsworth had to raise his voice. ‘We’re mobbing out to Fordyce House later: just in time for the six o’clock news.
A pair of OSU teams; Dog Units; flashing lights; a marquee; not one, but two forensic teams in the full Smurf get-up.
Making a big dramatic thing out of it for the cameras.
’ Snort. ‘You’d think we were bringing down Pablo Escobar. ’
‘Seriously?’
‘I would’ve done it on the QT, myself, but what do I know? I’m only the smartest person on the team. I’m sure Beattie knows much better than me.’
A major operation, organised by Acting Detective Chief Inspector Beardy Bollock-Face Beattie. No way that could be a complete and utter cocking disaster . . .
Bloody Beardy Bloody Beattie . . .
Roberta sploshed her sponge into the bucket of warm soapy water and hauled it out again. Slapped it onto the MX-5’s sticky, filthy bonnet. Scrubbing and scowling.
How dare the fat hairy bastard ruin things.
Come between her and her Queen Street Irregulars?
Splosh. Slap. Sending a froomph of bubbles up into the chilly afternoon air.
Half an hour she’d been at this, and the car was just as manky as when she’d started. And she was soaked – all down her front and up to her elbows.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
Picking on the wee loon!
Which was inex-sodding-cusable.
No one picked on Tufty but her.
Splosh. Slap. Scrub.
And she only did it to toughen him up and help him learn. So turd-snudgers like Beattie wouldn’t take advantage of him.
She was like a big sister to that boy.
Beattie was lucky she didn’t limp over there and punch him right on his big fat beardy nose.
Scrub, scrub, scrub, scrub-scrub-scrub.
Hauling in a deep breath and bellowing it out: ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
On the other side of the road, one of the neighbours averted his gaze and sped up – getting out of there before she popped.
Got a good sodding mind to do it.
She hurled her sponge into the bucket, sending up a sploosh of grubby water.
Yeah, why not?
What the hell did she have to lose?
Call a taxi, take a ride down to DHQ, call the greasy incompetent twunt out, and BANG! Right in the face. Break his bastarding nose.
Serve him right!
Roberta kicked the bucket over, turned, and hobble-stomped back into the house . . .
She limped down the stairs – showered, scrubbed, and suited. Because, if you were going to twat an acting detective chief inspector, you might as well look your best.
Roberta shot her cuffs, checking herself in the hall mirror.
Good enough.
‘Let’s do this.’
Her Genghis voice growled in agreement. ‘That’s the ticket, Mummy Steel! Let’s go fuck that fucking fucker up!’
‘Damn straight.’
Then Mr Rumpole chipped in, sleek and refined.
‘What a great idea, Mother. Assaulting a police officer? There’s no way that could lead to legal repercussions!
Maybe you’ll even get to pay Beattie damages?
You’ll like that, won’t you: your hard-earned cash in his bearded little pocket, while he plays the martyr? ’
She scowled at her reflection. ‘Shut up.’
Genghis: ‘Yeah! Shut up!’ Bark-bark-barking at the mirror. ‘Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!’
Mr Rumpole: ‘There’s a reason revenge isn’t served hot.’
Silence settled in on the hall.
The Roberta in the mirror’s shoulders drooped.
Then the real thing sagged back against the wall and grimaced at the ceiling. ‘Starting to think Susan’s right. Maybe being cooped up in here all day is making me round-the-twisty.’
Mr Rumpole: ‘Well, I could’ve told you that.’
Which made her smile.
But it faded.
‘Yeah . . . I’ve got to stop doing that.’
Didn’t change the fact that her Mr Rumpole voice was right, though: punching Beattie wasn’t going to fix anything. Fun though it might be.
Pfff . . .
And if Susan was right about the whole round-the-twisty thing, she was probably right about Tufty too.
The muffled blare of a car horn sounded outside, and when Roberta opened the front door, there was her taxi – ready to whisk her away to Divisional Headquarters and Beattie’s oh-so-punchable face.
She locked up and limped down the path, opened the passenger door and leaned in.
Her driver looked as if someone had crossed an orangutan with a turnip, sitting there in a shirt and tie that seemed to be cutting off all the blood to his sideburns. A nod. ‘Aye, aye. Polis station, is it?’
‘Change of plan.’ She slipped into the front seat. ‘We’ve got a couple of stops to make.’
The taxi pulled up outside Martin House: twelve storeys of grey with added grey on top.
Each flat had its own wee balcony, but it was a miserly affair, not best suited to a dreich Aberdonian Wednesday in October. Unless you enjoyed chilblains and frostbite.
For some weird reason, the ground floor was smaller than all the others, so the whole structure seemed to perch, uncomfortably, on concrete box pillars. Onto which someone had spray painted a big hairy willy.
Roberta paid her extortionate fare – so much for the ex-cop discount – with a fair amount of bad grace and muttering, then hobbled in through the building’s entrance, struggling under the weight of two bulging carrier bags.
Into the lift.
And up to the sixth floor.
Those pot plants needed a water.
She dumped her bags outside Tufty’s flat, and pressed the ‘brIDGE’ button.
This time it was ‘Flight Of The Sorcerer’ that twanged out as she partially collapsed against the door, breathing hard.
Because there’d been a lot of hurpling about in the last half hour, and those bags weighed a ton. And about ￡74.30.
No reply from inside, so she set the intercom banjoing again – sticking a finger over the door’s spy hole, just in case the boy was going to be a dick about—
‘I know it’s you.’
She took her finger off. ‘Then open . . . the door.’
‘No. Go away: I’m asleep.’
Urgh . . .
He was going to make her do the full humble-pie spiel, wasn’t he.
Roberta pressed her forehead against the White Tree of Gondor.
‘I’m sorry, OK? . . . I didn’t get . . .
the Admiral Handbag reference. . . . I .
. .’ Shuffling her feet on the grey-bobbly flooring.
‘I got all dressed up . . . to go to DHQ . . . so I could punch Beattie’s lights out, .
. . cos he was mean to you. . . . Booked a taxi and everything. ’
There was a pause, then: ‘Ackbar. Admiral Ackbar, not “Admiral Handbag”.’
‘Well, I don’t know, do I! New to all this nerdy-geek stuff.
’ She took a step back, so he could get a proper look through the spy hole at her best contrite face.
‘I’m sorry I got you into trouble. Beattie’s a dick.
And I brought peace offerings.’ She hefted one bag up into viewing range.
It clinked. ‘Really, really expensive ones.’ Frown.
‘And before you say anything, Susan wanted me to get you a muffin basket. I went for fancy-pants cheese, wine, crusty bread, paté, and imported pickles.’
Silence.
‘And did I mention that I’m sorry?’
The door popped open an inch and a wee rumpled face peered out. ‘Were you really going to punch him?’
‘Right on his fat beardy nose.’ Indicating her last ever Police Scotland fighting suit. ‘And I was going to do it in style, and everything.’
‘Fair enough.’ Tufty opened the door wide, revealing the rest of him – wearing Tribble slippers and pale-blue PJs, covered in little Daleks and TARDISs. His eyes narrowed, making wrinkles on his sleep-puffied face. ‘But these better be super-nice cheeses.’