Chapter 4.05
An unmarked pool car was waiting for them at the turnoff to Corskieford Croft.
Well, not so much ‘unmarked’ as filthy, with ‘WARNING: CONTAINS BACON!’ scratched deep into the Vauxhall’s paintwork, all across the boot and bonnet.
The last member of Roberta’s Queen Street Irregulars was sitting behind the wheel – Acting Detective Sergeant David Barrett.
With his oversized ears, snub nose, blond hair, and the kind of prominent overbite that gave him an unmistakable air of .
. . Watership Downiness. A tall man, in a dark-grey fighting suit.
So at least someone else looked the part.
Harmsworth made an ‘after you’ gesture through the windscreen, and Barrett turned his scrimshawed Vauxhall onto the track, leading the way. Headlights off, to maintain the element of surprise.
The Volvo followed at a safe-ish distance, gravel ping-clanging in its wheel arches. Crawling along.
By the time they’d reached the converted steadings/holiday homes at the end of the track, Barrett had already blocked Frank Abercrombie’s Range Rover in.
And now he stood, leaning back against the Baconmobile, with his arms crossed in the gathering gloom.
Watching as Harmsworth parked outside the holiday home next door.
Roberta climbed out, and Barrett gave her a wee salute:
‘Guv.’ He straightened up to his full six-foot-three. ‘Before it’s too late, I want to go on record saying this is a silly idea and we’re all going to end up in a world of frudge.’
Which got him lots of agreeing nods.
Ungrateful sods.
‘It’s no’ a “silly idea”, it’s the unfettered genius of Roberta Steel!’ She pointed down the length of the steading. ‘Lund, Harmsworth: round the back, in case Abercrombie does a runner.’
And off they trotted, disappearing behind the steadings. Like a good little boy and girl.
Her pointy finger found Tufty next. ‘Quirrel: you guard the front. Last resort in case he gets past us.’
‘Guv.’
The pointy finger turned into a poker – right in the middle of the wee loon’s chest. ‘And if this one ends up under a train, my boot is getting lodged in your small intestine, understand?’
‘Eeek!’ Snapping to attention. ‘Guv! Yes, Guv!’
She jerked her head at Barrett. ‘You’re with me.’ Then limped for ‘DUNLOBBYIN’.
Barrett slouched along on his long, long legs, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘Do you think Tufty knows there isn’t a railway line for, like, fifteen miles?’
‘I won’t tell him if you don’t.’
A shrug. Then Barrett stuck his hands in his pockets, looking out at the landscape. ‘So . . . are you planning on telling me why we’re here, oh Great Unfettered Genius? Or is this meant to be some sort of blind-loyalty test?’
‘Because, my dear Meadowcroft, I asked myself “who in this benighted maze of filth and horror could benefit from crimes as grotesque as these?”’
He frowned at her. ‘Retirement’s made you a bit weird, hasn’t it.’ Not waiting for an answer. ‘We got a plan?’
‘Same as usual: I rattle our scumbag’s tree till all the squirrels fall out. You arrest him. Home in time for tea and medals.’
Barrett smiled. ‘Good to have you back, Guv.’ Then reached for the doorbell.
But she stopped him. ‘Policeman’s three, I think.’
‘Fair enough.’ He pounded on the door with his fist instead – hard and sharp. Ominous. The kind of noise that could awaken the dead. Or a pished campaign manager.
And sure enough, less than a minute later the outside light bloomed on, the door opened, and there was Frank Abercrombie. All rumpled and bleary, in creased jeans, a bright-yellow tank-top, and an un-ironed pink shirt.
Roberta gave him a big smile. ‘Frankie-Boy! I think we need to talk, don’t you?’
He stared at her for a moment. Then his bottom lip trembled. And he burst into tears.
‘All right.’ Her smile faded. ‘Why don’t we talk in—’
Frank slammed the door in her face.
Actually, properly right in her face, making her flinch back. ‘Ow!’ One hand over her stingy nose. ‘Barrett!’
Barrett shoulder-charged the door, flinging it wide.
His rabbity bulk almost blocked the hallway, but there was just enough room to make out Abercrombie sprinting for a door at the far end – wrestling it open and buggering off into the great outdoors.
Barrett hammered after him, with Roberta limping along at the rear.
It was a fairly bland hallway. Nicely decorated, in a restrained kind of way, with a handful of photos of a happy couple on holiday, gracing the walls.
Only one half of the happy couple didn’t have a face anymore.
Abercrombie had scrubbed the guy’s features out with a biro, hard enough to chew through the glossy print all the way to the backing board beneath.
Kind of weird that he must’ve taken them out of the frames first, then returned them afterwards . . .
Harmsworth’s voice blared like a foghorn, somewhere behind the steading: ‘OH NO YOU— GHAHHHH! OW! OW! OW!’
By which point Barrett had reached the end of the hall and was hurtling out after Abercrombie.
A bellow from Lund: ‘COME BACK HERE!’
Roberta lurched down the hall to the back door, which now lay wide to the world.
Hard to tell if the view was nice or not: the steading’s security lights only reached as far as the drystane dyke at the end of the garden. On the other side lay a dark wodge of field – maybe grass for haylage? – then up a slight hill to a darker band of trees beyond.
Abercrombie was legging it for the far horizon, his tank-top and shirt standing out against the battered grass, with Lund and Barrett in hot pursuit.
But not Harmsworth, who lay flat on his back by the garden wall, thrashing about like an overturned turtle.
A wee pointy-nosed figure, dressed like a burglar, streaked into view. But while Barrett and Lund were chasing straight after Abercrombie, Tufty was on a curving intercept course. A stripy, shortarsed, scroat-seeking missile.
Had to admit, for a guy who must’ve been about eighty-percent fermented grape juice, Frank Abercrombie had a fair turn of speed on him.
Not quite fast enough, though.
Tufty slammed into his side and the pair of them disappeared into the long grass in a tumble of limbs and swearing. Lund and Barrett leapt on top, turning it into a proper piley-on.
Back in the garden, Harmsworth rolled onto his front and slowly struggled upright, breathing hard. One hand propping himself up against the stone wall, the other prodding away at the base of his spine. ‘Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow . . .’
Roberta gave him a wee round of applause. ‘Never mind, Owen: good effort.’
Out in the field, Barrett dragged Abercrombie to his feet.
They already had both hands cuffed behind his back. Proving that Police Scotland officers could actually catch fleeing suspects, when a proper Great Unfettered Genius was in charge.
Tufty mugged a grinning thumbs up.
Then Lund and Barrett marched their prisoner back towards the house.