Chapter 5.02
Now that Susan and the monsters were off to work and school, peace and calm returned to the kitchen, leaving only a battlefield of abandoned plates, bowls, mugs, and cutlery behind.
Roberta limp-hobbled back and forth, filling the dishwasher with the aftermath of breakfast.
How did three people make so much sodding mess every morning?
The radio burbled away to itself in the background, because it was better than silence, as she tidied up.
‘. . . and between you and me, he’s been half-naked ever since.’ A wee pause. ‘But we’ve got a special guest for you the day: Graeme Anderson, who’ll be answering a’ your questions. So dinna be shy – you can email, text, or phone in, any time aifter ten.’
Bloody Graeme Bloody Anderson.
She jammed a couple of knives in the cutlery bit. ‘Here’s a question for you: WHY ARE YOU SUCH A MASSIVE TWAT?’
Which didn’t help anything, because he wasn’t on-air for half an hour yet. No point shouting at the radio if the person wasn’t even there.
Cereal bowls and spoons.
Mr Rumpole: ‘You still have to do something about the bastard, Mother. After all, are you really going to let him get away with blowing up the great Roberta Steel?’
Not in this sodding lifetime.
‘Now, how do ye fancy a bittie old-fashioned rocktastic rocking rock? Here’s The Unfettered, wi’ “Burning Bones”!’
Drums and electric guitars pounded and twanged.
Roberta scraped sticky crumbs from toast plates as a bloke roared and squeaked in true 1970s fashion.
‘Down in the river, washing this clean,
Finding the places that lay in-between,
Can’t stop, this mayhem machine,
Giving your life, guillotine gasoline,
To the guys on their thrones,
Throwing stones, burning bones!
The house phone launched into its rendition of The South Bank Show theme tune. Which really didn’t go with the adenoidal screeching.
She turned the radio down then picked up the handset – disturbingly sticky and smelling of marmalade. ‘I’m no’ in.’
A man’s voice, posh and Scottish, old and patriarchal: ‘Good morning, lovely Roberta, I hope today finds you well?’ Rifkind.
The mugs went in the top bit. ‘I was just thinking about you. And your Neanderthal friend.’
‘How kind. Listen, I’ve been thinking about that favour of yours—’
‘Too late for take-backsies – they already tested the hairbrush for DNA. Suspect is in custody, a confession has been beaten out of him, and the case is closed.’
‘That’s why I’m calling. You see, I can’t help thinking: as your “favour” was essentially altruistic – catching a killer, bringing closure to Megan Lockheart’s family – you should probably get that one for free.’
Roberta paused, scrambled-egg pot in hand. ‘For free?’
‘Call it a gesture of largesse. What with us having a deal and all: you, leaving Graeme Anderson and his little Russian friends to me?’ Adopting the kind of ‘chummy’ tone that had an underlay of warning to it. ‘You do remember that, don’t you?’
Eh?
She turned in place, looking up at the kitchen units and light fittings.
Did the bugger have a spy camera or microphone hidden in here? How did he know?
‘You’re no more from Organised Crime and Counter Terrorism than I am.’
Could hear the laugh in his voice. ‘Aren’t I?’
‘Aye.’ The pot went in the sink. ‘Thirty years on the Job: I can smell another cop a mile off, and you don’t smell of cop – you smell of spook. MI5, or MI6, or SIS, or whatever the hell it is you’re calling yourselves these days.’
‘Nonsense. I’m just a simple, run-of-the-mill detective superintendent.
Cor blimey, Guvnor, salt of the earth, etcetera.
’ Hard not to see him sitting forward, like a spider, ready to strike.
‘And even if I were some sort of secret agent – which, I’m not, of course – wouldn’t it be nice to have someone like that on your side, Roberta?
’ A loaded silence. ‘Hypothetically speaking, of course.’
Which just made it sound even more like a not-so-veiled threat: right now, you have a powerful friend. Don’t turn him into a powerful enemy.
Yeah . . .
Maybe screwing Rifkind over wouldn’t be the best of ideas.
She put the butter back in the fridge. ‘Hypothetically? Aye.’
Still stuck in her gusset, though.
‘Excellent!’ Sounding genuinely pleased that he wouldn’t need to have her killed. Yet. ‘Take care of yourself, Roberta. We’ll be in touch.’
And with that, he was gone.
Hmmm . . .
On the bright side: she now had friends in high places, who still owed her a favour.
Which might come in handy.
She turned the radio up again, and the screeching broke free:
‘Going in hard, we’ll live till we die,
Cranked up to ten, the screams amplify,
Rattle the walls with our battle cry!’
Might not be a bad idea to get the wee loon round. See if he couldn’t do some sort of sweep for bugs. Kid on it was just research, for work. Assuming he even knew how to do that.
Bet if he didn’t, he’d look it up on the internet . . .
She popped a tablet into the dishwasher and whumped the door closed. Beep-beep-booped the controls in time with the song.
‘It’s time for the fire,
It’s time: let it burn,
Let it burn, let it burn,
Let the flames all burn higher!’
Followed by an Epic Guitar Solo.
Roberta joined in on her walking stick, using it as a faux air guitar. ‘Come on, Genghis, dance with Mummy!’
But Genghis had no intention of dancing with anyone.
Instead, he lay in a plush new bed – in the corner, by the radiator – wearing the cone of shame. The poor lad was wrapped in bandages from the shoulders down, looking very sorry for himself. Which was understandable, given he now had one fewer back leg than before.
But at least his tail still wagged.
She put on a bit of a show for him, giving it the full Middle-Aged-Jimi-Hendrix-In-The-Kitchen Experience – when the doorbell tolled its traditional dinnnnnnng-donnnnnng.
Killing the radio, Roberta wiped her hands on a tea-towel, grabbed her walking stick, and limped out into the hall.
‘Friends’ or not, it couldn’t hurt to do a wee bit of digging into Anderson and his dirty little Kremlin comrades, could it? On the quiet: lowdown, sneaky style.
A figure lurked on the other side of the frosted glass.
Better leave it a couple of weeks, though: let the trail go cold.
Maybe a month. Just to be sure.
After all, these spooks had fingers everywhere. Eyes in every pie . . .
She opened the door.
It was a woman: one of those mid-forties, hard-faced types, dressed like a sack of tatties against the nippy weather. Red nose, red ears, pink cheeks, multicoloured gloves and a Blackburn Rovers bobble hat.
Mrs Bobble-Hat pointed at the brand-new plaque, mounted beside Roberta’s front door:
R. STEEL & ASSOCIATES
CONSULTING DETECTIVES
(FEATURING THE QUEEN STREET IRREGULARS)
A late retirement present from Tufty and the team. Because they weren’t bad spuds, really.
The woman sniffed back a drip. ‘This you?’
‘Yup.’
A frown. ‘Is the “R Steel” like in “Remington Steel”?’ Wobbling one hand about in a seesaw gesture. ‘Plucky young female private detective has to pretend a man’s in charge so people will take her seriously?’
‘No. It’s my first name: Roberta.’
‘Oh. Right, right. Mine’s Stacey. Stacey Burrows.
’ Stacey had a scratch beneath her bobble hat.
‘I’m looking for someone to find my sister, Ruby.
She went missing from work: Kirkenwell Academy, she’s a music teacher.
Just drove out of the staff car park one day and we haven’t seen or heard from her since. ’
Which sounded kind of familiar . . .
‘Oh aye?’
‘I did hire a private detective, but he fell out a window.’ That pink face scrunched into a frown. ‘And now he’s in prison, and won’t give me my deposit back. And I read about you in the papers. And I just want someone to find my sister.’
Roberta pulled on a reassuring smile. ‘Why don’t you come in and tell me all about it?’
Because maybe being retired wouldn’t be so bad after all?