The remaining patrons were never going to see forty again. Drinking pints of Export, having a game of dominos, keeping an eye on the racing playing quietly on the telly.
Bailiff Rick closed the door and stood in front of it, blocking the exit.
Then Bailiff Marty raised a hand and pointed at a table in the corner, by the gents. ‘That’s him: Phil Innes.’
A bruiser sat there on his own, back to the wall, nursing a Guinness and a nip. Big bloke. Expensive-looking leather jacket, silk shirt, side parting in his blond hair. Designer stubble and a diamond earring.
‘Right, you wee shite.’ Roberta marched over and flashed her warrant card. ‘Philip Innes, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act, because I believe you to have committed a crime punishable by imprisonment.’
Innes took a sip of stout. Nodded at Rick and Marty. ‘Rosencrantz, Guildenstern.’
Oh, aren’t I so cool?
No’ this time.
Roberta hooked a thumb at the ceiling. ‘On your feet.’
He stayed where he was. ‘And what is it you think I’ve done?’
‘Constable,’ she snapped her fingers, ‘handcuff him.’
And nothing happened.
Typical Tufty: paying no attention to what was actually going on. Instead he was frowning at the troop of wee schemie neds playing the puggy machine. Useless sod.
She pulled out her own cuffs and dangled them in front of Innes. ‘You killed an old lady’s dog. You wrecked her flat. You beat the crap out of her. Now: on – your – feet!’
Innes had a sip at his nip. Pursed his lips. ‘She told you that, did she?’
Tufty inched closer to the tracksuit baboons. Could the boy no’ focus for two sodding minutes?
‘You’re a loanshark, Philly-boy. You prey on the weak.’
‘Let me get this straight – you’re saying some little old lady accused me of killing her dog? That right?’
Tufty turned back and grabbed at her sleeve. ‘Sarge?’
‘Get off me you idiot.’ She pulled herself free. ‘I said, on – your – feet.’
‘I never laid a finger on anyone’s dog. I like dogs. She must have been thinking of someone else.’
‘Sarge!’ The wee sod grabbed her again, pointing at the guy feeding pound coins into the puggy. ‘Kenny Milne!’
At the name, the guy looked up, and it was. Kenny Milne. Nasty kidnappy, child-abducting scumbag that he was.
Oh you wee dancer. They’d got themselves that most sexy of arrests: a twofer – Milne and Innes, both in custody in the one shout.
One by one Milne’s gang of underaged neds turned to stare. None of them looked a day over twelve, and each and every one of them held a tin of extra-strong cider.
That made it a threefer – the landlord was coming down the nick too.
Kenny Milne’s mouth snapped shut. Then, ‘Shite! Splinter!’
And that’s exactly what his troop did, baying like dogs as they ran for it.
Rick grinned at them, chest out, massive arms stretched wide. Get past me, if you can.
They leapt on him, dragging him to the ground, whooping.
Milne sprinted for the exit, only this time Tufty was faster. He launched himself into a rugby tackle, smashing into Milne’s waist and sending him staggering sideways.
The pair of them crashed into a table, sending pints and dominos flying.
An auld mannie in a tweed jacket shook his fist. ‘I wis winning!’
His mate threw his bunnet at him. ‘You wis cheating!’
‘You dirty wee …’ He lunged at his bunnetless mate. They grappled with each other, all false-teeth snarls and muttered swearing. There was a half-arsed attempt at a headlock and they lurched against someone else’s table. A pint of lager tipped over, flooding into its owner’s lap.
She reared upright, eyes glassy, face red. ‘HOY!’ Her fist swung wide, missed the old blokes, and clobbered the back of someone else’s head instead.
And that was it: instant bar brawl. Everyone throwing punches, kicking, biting.
Tufty and Milne rolled around on the sticky floor, grunting and grappling.
Someone thumped the drunk woman with a bar stool, only it didn’t break like they did in the movies. She did. Avalanching down on top of Tufty and Milne.
An auld mannie hurled a chair over the bar – shattering optics and The Broken Spider’s mirror.
Innes just stayed where he was, taking sips from his pint. He nodded at the wrestling match taking place on the floor between the tables. ‘You going to help your little friend?’
One of the neds went flying, following the chair. Cleared the taps and crashed into the till.
The auld mannie in the tweed jacket landed a solid right hook on his bunnetless opponent – walloping him backwards to bounce off the puggy machine – his knees wobbled then gave way, spilling him across the floor as the machine bleeped its tinny fanfare and paid out an avalanche of pound coins.
Roberta glared at the ceiling for a heartbeat. ‘Fudgemonkeys.’ She yanked her extendable baton free and whapped it out to full length.
Innes raised an eyebrow. ‘And I thought you were just pleased to see me.’
‘Stay there.’ She jabbed it in his general direction. ‘I’m no’ finished with you!’
Deep breath, then Roberta turned and waded into the fray.
‘Ow …’ Tufty wobbled on his bar stool, a tea towel full of ice clamped to his face. Poor wee sod. Blood smeared one side of his collar, turning the blue fabric a dirty reddish-purple.
Blue-and-white light flickered in through the pub’s front window, as if someone had set up a miserable disco right outside.
Roberta glanced around the room. Upturned tables, broken bottles, spilled pints, smashed chairs, the mirror behind the bar all cracked and broken – reflecting back a jagged patchwork version of the wreckage. ‘Get the feeling we’re probably barred?’
‘Urgh …’
She picked up a bar stool, brushed off the dust, and set it next to Tufty’s. Slumped herself onto it. ‘Susan’ll kill me when she sees the state of this suit. Look at it.’ She held up an arm – the thing was rumpled and stained with beer. The shirt beneath it hung down over her fingertips, torn and dirty. Ah well. She still looked a hell of a lot better than Tufty. Roberta patted him on the back. ‘The world stopped spinning yet?’
He poked at the inside of his mouth with his tongue. ‘Think I chipped a tooth.’
‘You’re supposed to arrest people, no’ bite them.’ She peeled the tea towel from his grip and he blinked back at her, one eye no’ quite in time with the other. So she flipped him the Vs. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘Three?’
‘Yeah, you’re going to hospital.’
He weebled round on his stool, till he was squinting into the corner where Philip Innes used to sit. ‘What happened to the dog-murdering fudgemonkey?’
Her teeth clenched, but she forced a smile. ‘Come on, let’s get you into the car. And if you’re really lucky, a nice nurse will take your temperature the naughty way …’
The doctor eased the ward door shut, then turned and gave Roberta a little smile. ‘Sorry about that.’ Tall and wide, with freckles and big hands – a traditional Northeast farmer’s quine. The kind of daughter you could trust with the lambing, hurling bales of hay, or lifting a whole tractor by herself. She led the way down the corridor to the nurses’ station where she flicked through a set of notes. ‘OK, well, he’s definitely got concussion, and I think he’s probably in for a lovely black eye, but other than that he’ll be fine.’
Roberta nodded at the ward, with its array of auld mannies laid out beneath their itchy blankets. Tufty was in the far corner, one eye screwed shut, the other staring at a wee individual carton of fruit juice. ‘Fine enough to go back on duty?’
They watched him for a minute, trying to get the straw in through the little circle of foil in the top. And failing.
<
br /> The doctor sucked a breath in through her teeth. ‘Yeah … I think we’d better keep him in overnight. Unless you’re going to stay up with him in case something happens?’
‘Aye, that’ll be shining. I’ll pick him up tomorrow.’ Roberta sniffed. Looked away. ‘Take care of him, OK? He’s an annoying wee spud, but he’s ours.’
That got her a warm smile and a squeeze on the arm from one of those massive hands. ‘We’ll do our best.’
The same weedy PC was on guard outside Beatrice Edwards’ room. Which didn’t pose much of a challenge in itself, but that tosser DI Vine was there with one of his Eighties-reject sidekicks too. Honestly, the ugly lump was two rolled-up jacket sleeves away from being in a Miami Vice cover band.
So maybe best no’ to pay a visit.
Roberta backtracked down the corridor to the lifts, then up a couple of floors, along a squeaky corridor lined with questionable art, and left into another ward. The nurses on station were all sitting drinking tea and reading dirty novels.
She rapped on the desk and a thin birdy one looked up from Fifty Shades of Anti-Feminist Smut. ‘Aye?’
‘Kenny Milne.’ Roberta flashed her warrant card.’
A larger nurse put down The Story of O. ‘He’s sedated. Strictly no visitors. It’s disgraceful how much police brutality that poor man’s suffered. Violence solves nothing!’
‘Says the woman getting all hot and bothered reading about BDSM.’
Her nose came up. ‘It’s called a book club, thank you very much! Some people are interested in literature.’
‘Dirty nurses!’ Roberta wagged a finger at them, then turned, sauntering from the room, singing:
‘Whips and chains excite me,
They make my love life spicy,
We spank both hard and lightly,
And dream of Aphrodite,
Spreading jam on Keira Knightley …’
Roberta frowned at the form on her computer screen. Who the hell came up with this rubbish? Just because one little officer had been bashed on the head and hospitalised for the night, suddenly three tons of sodding paperwork needed filling out.
Did you do a risk assessment?
Did you appraise the chain of command before commencing operations?
Did everyone present sign the appropriate warrants before it/they were executed?
Presumably they were talking about the warrants there, no’ the people.
Did you enter all command decisions into your Decision Log?
And of course they were all yes/no tick boxes so you couldn’t even type ‘SOD OFF!’ into them.
Bloody Tufty and his delicate useless head.
Bet he did it on purpose, just to make more work for her.
See when she got her hands on him tomorrow—
Someone knocked on the door.
Pause. One. Two. Three. Four …
For God’s sake.
Roberta took a deep breath and bellowed it out, ‘WELL? DON’T JUST STAND THERE LIKE A NEEP, COME IN!’
The door opened and a rather sexy young hottie stepped into the CID office. Pert. Fresh. Browny-blonde hair all the way down to the perky swell of her gorgeous breasts. Naughty-librarian glasses, and I’ve-been-a-bad-girl-spank-me smile. Dressed in a PC’s black T-shirt and standard-issue itchy black trousers.
Come in, my precious, let me relieve you of those nasty itchy things.
The delicious perky wee constable blinked at her. ‘Sorry, did you say something?’
‘No’ out loud, I hope.’ Roberta slid her keyboard to one side. ‘Now, what can I do to you?’
She checked her notebook. ‘I was looking for Detective Constable Quirrel?’
‘Oh, were you now.’ Disappointing. ‘And what do you want our wee Tufty for? He’s no’ got you in the family way, has he? He’s a scamp that one.’
Was that a blush? It was.
Roberta settled back in her seat. ‘Of course it’s my fault really: kept meaning to have him fixed, but you know what they’re like at that age.’ A shrug. ‘We’d definitely have to make him wear the Cone of Shame, though. He’d have his stitches out otherwise.’
‘No! No. I mean … no, it was …’ She took a couple of breaths to compose herself. It made exciting things happen underneath her T-shirt. ‘He came past earlier with a Yorkshire terrier’s remains. Wanted to know if there was some way to get Pudding a proper burial …’ Frowning just made her sexier. ‘What? Why are you smiling at me?’
Roberta shrugged. ‘He asked you that?’
‘He said the old lady who owned Pudding couldn’t afford a funeral.’
OK, so Tufty was a pain in the backside, an idiot, and a total waste of skin, but organising a burial for Mrs Galloway’s poor wee dog? Right now Roberta could’ve kissed him. She held a hand out. ‘Detective Sergeant Roberta Steel. You’ll have heard rumours of my sexual prowess.’ A wink. ‘Tufty’s no’ here right now, but you can leave a message after the beep.’
‘Right. Well. Detective Sergeant Steel.’ The blush deepened a couple of shades. ‘When Constable Quirrel gets back, can you tell him that PC Mackintosh came past about Pudding? I’m the Wildlife Crime Officer.’
Roberta grinned at her. ‘And does the lovely PC Mackintosh have a first name?’
The blush went nuclear. ‘Kate.’
‘Don’t worry, Kate, I shall make sure Constable Quirrel gets your message first thing tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ Then for some bizarre reason she did a proper about-face turn and marched from the room, back straight, arms swinging as if she was back on the parade ground at Tulliallan.
Nice bum too.
Before she’d managed to close the door behind her, Roberta launched into, ‘Kate and Tufty, sitting in a tree, H.U.M.P.I.N.G.’
Ah young love …
The cursor blinked at her on the computer screen.
Should really get back to those forms.
Nah, sod that. It was half six on a balmy Tuesday in Aberdeen. Time to go home, crack out the barbecue, get Susan a bit squiffy on sauvignon blanc and take advantage of her.
There’d be time for crappy paperwork tomorrow.
CHAPTER FOUR
in which Roberta learns an Important Lesson
About Friendship and we meet a lawyer
I
Sunlight washed in through the French doors, making the kitchen work surface gleam like an oiled stripper.
Susan took a sheet of paper and pinned it to the fridge door amongst all the other kids’ pictures: frogs, princesses, unicorns, dragons, and monster trucks. All of which looked as if they’d been done during Picasso’s Off His Face period. The new one was some sort of dinosaur/unicorn hybrid wearing a pirate hat.
She still had a lovely arse – Susan, no’ the dinosaur – firm and round and spankable. The kind of bum you could really sink your teeth into. The rest of her wasn’t bad either. A curvier Doris Day in her heyday, wearing a sundress covered in little pink flowers. Shame about the Crocs, though.
The perpetrator of the fridge’s latest artistic travesty was sitting at the breakfast bar, shovelling cornflakes into her gob and swilling down the orange juice. Her wee sister, on the other hand, wheeched round and round the floor with a toy truck, making roaring noises.
The toast went chlack! and Susan fished it out. Dumped both slices on a plate. ‘Come on, Robbie, it wouldn’t kill you to speak to the man.’
Roberta took hold of the litter tray and gave it a shake, evening out the wooden pellets and making dark things rise from the depths. She scooped them out with a plastic bag. Held it up for the world to see. ‘Oh look, Mr Rumpole’s made a little Logan McRae! Isn’t that clever? Looks just like him.’
‘The girls need to see their father.’
The turd went in the bin, and her hands went under the tap. ‘Am I stopping them?’
‘I’m serious.’
‘And I’m late.’ She kissed Jasmine on the head—
‘Gerroffus, Mum.’
; —swept Naomi up for a hug and a kiss.
Giggles.
Then groped that magnificent arse of Susan’s, gave her a smooch, accepted the proffered slices of hot buttered toast and swept from the room.
Susan’s voice thumped out from the kitchen as Roberta marched down the hall. ‘Don’t be late tonight! We’re going to see that play. And remember to pick up my trophy from the engravers!’
‘Love you.’
Photos of every family holiday they’d ever taken lined the walls. Just the two of them in Benidorm, Margate, Normandy, Shetland, Edinburgh, Wales. Half a dozen pictures of Susan on her own, showing off her latest golfing trophy. That trip to New York when Susan was six months pregnant. Then more holidays with the addition of a teeny weeny Jasmine – getting bigger and bigger. And finally: all four of them on the sands at Lossiemouth, everyone but Naomi grinning at the camera – she was too busy trying to eat a flip-flop.
Roberta grabbed her jacket from the coat rack, chomping on toast as she plucked car keys from the bowl and pulled out her phone. Bumping out the front door, dialling and chewing all at the same time. Multitasking.
Sunlight dappled through the trees, making leopard-spot shadows undulate across the garden. Next door were getting their roof redone – the whole place shrouded in scaffolding, their builders far too well behaved to wolf whistle. Well, Rubislaw Den was a classy area. Couldn’t have riff-raff swinging from the scaffolding with their sexual harassment and hairy arse-cracks on show.
Barrett’s voice sounded in her ear, all efficient and polite. ‘CID office, can I help you?’
‘Aye, aye, Davey. Is everyone in?’
‘In and working, Sarge.’
‘God, that’ll be a first.’ She plipped the locks on her MX-5 and clambered in behind the wheel. Propped the toast up on the dashboard. ‘What about Beatrice Edwards?’
‘Your rape victim? Nothing so far.’
She started the car and pulled away from the kerb. ‘But they’ve arrested that crenelated fudgemonkey Wallace, right?’
Now We Are Dead Page 9