Chapter 4.04 #2
The camera drone swooped closer, getting a nice juicy close-up as whoever was in charge gave the nod, and Mrs Big Thug swung her mini-battering-ram, smashing the Fordyces’ front door right off its hinges on the first go.
Which wasn’t easy.
Tufty held his phone up, screen facing Roberta – as if she could read all that teeny writing from here, without her glasses. ‘Second of May, this year.’
Everyone swarmed inside, followed by a couple of dirty-huge Alsatians, dragging their handlers through the front door.
Wonder if one of them was PD Branston.
Hope so.
She’d sink her teeth into Sir Norman Fordyce’s buttocks quicker than you could say ‘police brutality’.
Roberta squinted at the indecipherable text. ‘What about the next one?’
‘Erms . . . Also second of May.’
‘Keep going.’
‘Righty-bing-bongs.’ Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle.
Now that half of NE Division had piled into Fordyce House, nothing much seemed to be happening. So, it was a safe bet that there would be some sort of pointless voiceover at this point, filling in time by repeating everything already in the public domain.
The chyron, scrolling across the bottom of the TV, went for ‘LIVE: POLICE RAID MSP’s HOUSE IN MURDER INVESTIGATION’.
An inset graphic appeared of Megan Lockheart – looking stunning in a strappy top – putting her on display, so everyone could have a wee thrill to see another beautiful young woman murdered by a dickhead man.
‘Here we does go. The first batch: brackets, piggy feastings, close brackets, are from the second of May; spicy-crab-fest is the third; and cocktails on the beach are the fourth.’
Roberta frowned at the telly. ‘Of May?’
‘Of, as they say, May.’ Tufty reached for another cracker, then froze. Pulling the next word out and buttering it with suspicion: ‘Whhhhhhhhhhhhhhhy?’
The drone circled the building, presumably to add a bit of visual interest to the whole heap of nothing going on at the scene.
A sleekit grin spread across Roberta’s face. ‘Just interested. Cos early May’s when the Instawhatsit posts say they were taken.’
The wee loon threw his hands in the air. ‘Then why did I waste my time looking at the metadata?’
Her grin grew wider and eviller as she unlocked her own phone and scrolled through the contacts.
‘What?’ Tufty shrank back again. ‘What have I did?’
Onscreen, the whole heap of nothing came to a dramatic halt, as a trio of officers frogmarched Sir Norman from the house – hands cuffed behind his back.
They bundled him into a patrol car and the chyron changed to ‘LIVE: SIR NORMAN FORDYCE ARRESTED IN CONNECTION WITH MURDER OF MEGAN LOCKHEART (21).’
Perfect.
Roberta poked the call button and listened to it ring.
Took a while, but eventually Harmsworth picked up, with a curt, ‘Not a good time.’
‘Owen! How’s my favourite lynchpin? Listen, I need you to get your pork scratchings round to Tufty’s, sharpish. The game’s afoot.’
Could actually hear his gob opening and closing and opening and closing. ‘Are you insane? Turn your TV on, we’re in the middle of—’
‘I know, I’m watching it.’ She waved at the telly. ‘Can’t you see me waving?’
‘Then how can I go anywhere?’
‘And bring Lund with you. Barrett too, if he’s about. I’m getting the band back together.’
‘And I repeat, once more, for the benefit of those no longer with us: I can’t, we’re—’
‘Because the wheels are about to come off Operation Demogorgon, big style. And you can stay for the crash, like an idiot, or eject before things start exploding. Boom! Splatter! Aaaargh!’ Making one hand into a claw and crushing an imaginary Boris Johnson’s head.
Pkonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngk . . .
Could hear the wobble in Harmsworth’s voice now. ‘But it’s—’
‘Pretend you’ve got a tummy ache, or a knob ache, or the squits. Don’t care. Just get your bits here now!’ She hung up.
Glonk.
Tufty blinked at her. Grimaced. Put down his half-eaten biscuit. ‘Oh noes . . .’ Knees together. Slippers tippy-tapping on the carpet. ‘This is all going to go horribly wrong, isn’t it.’
She beamed back. ‘Probably,’ a wink, ‘but when did that ever stop us?’
Twilight turned the sky from pale blue to inky violet as the Volvo headed out the A944, past trees and fields. Which was a real improvement on yesterday’s wind and rain.
Harmsworth sat behind the wheel, face squinched and pinched, as if someone had jammed something spiky where angels feared to tread.
He’d changed out of his uniform and into civvies, making him look like someone’s uncle from the seventies.
Roberta had the passenger seat, dressed to impress.
Tufty was in the back, wearing jeans and a stripy top, like a trainee burglar.
While Lund sat next to him: pink sweatshirt and blue joggies.
In hindsight, probably should’ve asked everyone to wear their fighting suits. But it was a bit late now.
Harmsworth fidgeted at the steering wheel. ‘Are we sure this is wise? Only I was supposed to be on a green shift and if we’re all getting fired, I’d really like paid for the extra hours I did.’
Lund lounged. ‘Don’t look at me, I clocked off at four, like a normal person. The buggers can’t touch me for skipping work.’
Tufty put his hand up. ‘Rest day.’
Roberta grinned. ‘Retired.’
A long, semi-sobbed groan wrenched its way out of their driver. ‘So just me, then.’
The fields gave way to a narrow band of trees, and there, on the other side, was Dunecht. In all its lopsided, little-village splendour.
Roberta rubbed at her aching leg. ‘How do you think they’re getting on, with Sir Norman Fiddly Fordyce?’
‘Well,’ Lund leaned through from the back, ‘if they arrested him at . . . six? He’s probably stewing in his cell waiting for his fancy solicitor to arrive.’
‘Good. Cos I would hate it if he spoiled my surprise.’ She produced her mobile, scrolled through the contacts to ‘FLAT-ARSE!’, and poked the button.
Sticking it on speakerphone as it rang and rang and rang and rang.
But eventually, Chief Superintendent Pine’s carrion-crow voice scrawked out into the car: ‘This better be good.’
‘Rosy!’ Roberta held her phone out, so everyone could hear. ‘How’s my least favourite Chief Superintendent?’
‘All right, I gave you a chance. I’m hanging up, right—’
‘Before you do, let me ask you a quick question. Apropos: Sir Norman Fordyce.’
A sniff. ‘We’re not issuing any statements at the moment. You’ll just have to wait for—’
‘What do Singapore chilli crab, a Singapore sling, and a suckling pig at the Raffles Hotel in Singapore have in common?’
‘Goodbye, ex-Detective—’
‘Fine, make a fool of yourself. See if I care. But can’t say I didn’t try to warn you . . .’ Roberta hung up and winked at her team. ‘Now we wait.’
Harmsworth groaned again. ‘We’re all getting fired, aren’t we.’
Didn’t have to wait long, though, because Roberta’s mobile launched into ‘Take Your Mama’ before they were even halfway through Dunecht. And whose name glowed in the middle of the screen? Good old ‘FLAT-ARSE!’.
Roberta bopped away in her seat for a bit, grooving to that disco beat, before answering. ‘Rosy! What a coincidence.’
On speakerphone again.
‘You have one minute.’
‘See: what those things all have in common is one Sir Norman Fordyce. He posted all about them on his Instagram.’
‘Fifty seconds.’
‘Because he was there between the second and fourth of May, before heading to Australia for a week of meetings, scuba diving, and fine dining.’
‘Forty seconds.’
Oh, this was just too easy.
‘Come on, Rosy, engage that wee lump of gristle nestling between your lugs. When did Megan Lockheart go missing?’
‘Hmmph. I don’t see how that’s relevant. She was last seen . . .’
Silence.
They passed the estate offices and the turnoff for Echt.
Took a while, but Pine finally twigged. ‘Oh for the love of the bastarding . . .’ Her voice went all muffled – probably a hand-over-the-phone job. ‘brOOKMINSTER! GET IN HERE!’
‘There we go! Knew you’d work it out eventually.’ Roberta wriggled in her seat, like a happy Jack Russell. Really laying it on thick now: ‘Good job you didn’t make a big show of arresting him in some sort of elaborate circus of lights and sirens and TV coverage, right?’
‘brOOKMINSTER! WHERE’S BEATTIE? I WANT THAT HAIRY CRETIN IN MY OFFICE, NOW!’
Roberta didn’t bother to press the mute button, just burst into a proper rattling bout of maniacal laughter.