Chapter 4.07
‘. . . absolutely no sodding idea what’s happened to him.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Roberta scuffed in through the front door and thunked it closed behind her. Shutting out the streetlights and chilly air. Shifting her phone from one ear to the other as she locked-up and dumped her keys in the drawer.
All while Logan moaned on and on: ‘I mean, the last victim was a month ago, and there’s been no new bodies since. What kind of Ripper gives up when they’re on a roll?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Kicking off her fighting boots, she pulled on her cosying slippers.
‘You know what I think? He was escalating, right? The gap between murders getting shorter? Serial killers don’t just go to ground after that. Not voluntarily.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Muffled television noises oozed through the closed living-room door. Some sort of canned-laughter panel show.
‘I think he’s either had some sort of accident – or a stroke, heart attack – and ended up in hospital.
Maybe one of his victims fought back and he’s dead in a ditch somewhere, and we won’t find his body for years.
He’s been banged-up for some minor offence and this’ll all start again when he gets out. Or he’s killed himself.’
‘Uh-huh.’ She headed through, and there was Susan, snoozing away on the main couch, with Genghis and Mr Rumpole curled up beside her.
‘You’re not listening at all, are you.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Mr Rumpole stretched as Roberta came in, but stayed where he was, while the wee lad hopped down and scampered around her legs – yipping away, gazing up as if she were the most wonderful thing ever to walk the earth.
Daft lovely little sod that he was.
‘This is all because you caught your killer, and I didn’t catch mine.’
‘Yup.’ Mind you, hard to know exactly what the appropriate response was: smug celebration, for solving the case; or soul-crushing depression at how horrible people were.
Maybe a bit of both.
‘I’ll give it two weeks, then put in for a transfer home.’
‘Told you: should’ve hired the great Roberta Steel, Consulting Detective.’ She picked Genghis up and the wee dog trembled with joy, tongue going like a slobbery pink thing. ‘Would’ve got the guy ages ago.’
‘Blah, blah, blah . . .’
On the couch, Susan snorked and sat up. ‘What? Why?’ Blink. Blink. ‘Robbie.’ Sticking her arms out for a hug. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Got to go.’ Roberta hung up, popped Genghis down, leaned in, and gave Susan a squeeze and a smooch. ‘I’ve been having a bloody good day, thank you very much. Caught a murderer, ruined Beattie’s career, and seriously antagonised Chief Superinfectant Pine.’ Grin. ‘Ah, it was glorious.’
A yawn. ‘Been trying to call you for ages.’
‘Had my phone off.’ Disentangling herself, Roberta limped over to the drinks cabinet. ‘You want?’ Pointing at the booze.
Susan shook her head. ‘Mint tea.’
‘They let me watch from the observation suite while they did the initial interview. Thought Pine was going to have an aneurism from the strain of being nice to me. Ha!’ Pouring herself a mighty whisky.
A yawn. ‘I put your friend in the spare room.’
Got to love whisky. It tasted of smoke and fire and victory . . .
Hang on a minute.
Roberta lowered her glass. ‘What “friend”?’
Maybe it was one of the Wednesday-Night-Dungeon-Crew? Outie, or The Horn, or Baddy? Couldn’t be Tufty – he’d gone back to his love nest for rampant Nerdsex.
Susan frowned. ‘David . . . Thingummy. I’m sorry, I didn’t really catch his last name on account of Mr Rumpole yacking up this huge hairball on the rug. Your friend? The one you were private-eyeing with?’
Roberta’s jaw clenched. ‘Wee Davey McLeod?’
The two-faced, back-stabbing, shite-brained wee fuck was here? In her spare bloody room?
Well, he was in for a rude sodding—
‘Oh, Robbie,’ Susan put a hand to her chest, ‘his wife, Jenny, just died.’
Oh . . .
Roberta placed her drink on the coffee table.
Ears going warm in the now too-hot room, even though all the fire had drained right out of her.
‘That’s . . .’ Jesus. ‘OK. Right.’
‘He was lost, and alone, and a little bit drunk. Maybe you should take him a cup of coffee, or an Ovaltine, or something? Talk to him.’
She puffed out a lonnnnnnnnnnng breath.
Dead.
Wow.
That kind of put everything into perspective, didn’t it.
‘Yes. I’ll . . . Ovaltine.’
It wasn’t easy, carrying a big porcelain mug of steaming-hot-malty-bedtime-drink and a large Bowmore, while in possession of a walking stick, but Roberta did her best. Didn’t even spill any of it – well, none of the whisky, which was the important thing – all the way up the stairs, and down the hall to right outside the spare room.
For a bit of procrastinating.
Because, you know: dead . . .
At least Genghis had decided to keep her company. Just in case she had some bacon hidden about her person and might need a small obliging dog to dispose of it. Nice to have some moral support, though.
OK.
Roberta propped her stick against the wallpaper, and raised a hand to knock.
Deep breath.
Then rapped on the door.
Counted to ten.
She eased it open a fraction.
The lights were off, but the curtains open – letting in the stale-urine glow of corporation streetlights. But it did nothing to dispel the gloom.
She cleared her throat. ‘Davey, you awake?’
No reply.
‘I heard about Jenny. I’m sorry.’
Still nothing.
Poor sod was probably asleep.
‘OK, I’ll just leave you to rest.’
His voice wobbled out of the darkness. ‘Forty-one years.’ The words were a little mushy, softened around the edges with grief and alcohol. ‘Forty-one years, we were married.’
‘Cancer sucks balls.’
‘I never looked at another woman, all that time. Not even when she got sick.’
Roberta nodded.
What was it she’d told Lady Fordyce? Right: ‘“Turns out, when you love someone – properly, deep down in your bones – you don’t need to cheat.”’
‘All I wanted was . . . to do one nice thing for her, before she went. You know? Something that wasn’t just washing her, or cleaning up after a visit. Something that wasn’t about . . . her illness.’
Poor sod.
Roberta hurpled into the room, leaving her walking stick behind. Davey’s toasty-hot beverage in one hand, her tumbler of neat Bowmore in the other.
Dark in here, with just the vaguest of shapes visible. Genghis trotted ahead to investigate, tail going, because who knew when bacon would strike?
‘I brought you some Ovaltine.’ She looked down at the glass. ‘Or a whisky, if you want?’ Because, while she might’ve been many things, Roberta Steel was not a monster.
‘It’s not much to ask for, is it?’ Davey’s voice cracked. ‘Just a little something?’
A wee sob was all it took to locate his position – a slightly darker silhouette, in the chair beside the window. Turned, so the occupant would be spared the streetlight’s pustulant glow.
Probably been crying.
Couldn’t really blame him.
‘Davey, I’m so sorry.’ Moving closer, then stumbling over something hidden in the gloom – nearly going arse-over-beak – because trying to walk without her stick wasn’t hard enough.
Hot Ovaltine sloshed down the back of her hand.
‘Buggering . . .’ Roberta clamped her mouth shut, because a foul-mouthed tirade probably wasn’t appropriate right now.
‘Do you want to switch the light on? Dark as a superintendent’s heart in here. ’
He sniffed. ‘Close the door? I . . . I don’t want anyone else to see me like this.’
Fair enough.
She pushed the door shut, and the hallway lights disappeared. Making the room even darker. Then a click, and the wee lamp on the table in the bay window bloomed into life, chasing away the gloom.
Revealing Davey, sitting there, fully dressed, holding a double-barrelled shotgun. That came up to point right at Roberta’s chest.