Another note went in Tufty’s book. ‘And did he...?’ A euphemistic hand gesture. ‘You know?’
‘What?’
Thick as two shorts.
Probably better help the poor thing. Roberta leaned forward and put a chocolaty hand on her knee. ‘Did he arrive? Did he succeed in his endeavour? Did he finish his fun?’ A wink. ‘Did he squirt his filthy man-mayonnaise all over your begonias?’
Mrs Rice stared back, horrified.
Roberta popped the remaining half biscuit in her mouth. ‘Cos if he did, then my constable here can scoop it up and we’ll run some tests. Maybe find out who your saucy wee friend is.’
‘Oh...’ Her face curdled for a moment, then she forced an unconvincing smile and reached for the pot. ‘Oh. Er... More tea?’
The kitchen was minuscule, nearly every flat surface covered in carrier bags and boxes of cereal and plates and pots and pans. More carrier bags on the floor.
Mrs Morden shook her head and poured boiling water into four mugs, sending up the burnt-toast scent of cheap instant coffee. Her tracksuit looked nearly as tired as she did.
Tufty shuffled his feet in one of the few patches of clear linoleum. Pen poised.
‘Urgh...’ She stirred the burnt brown liquid with a fork. ‘Well, it’s not every day you see the Caped Crusader having a batwank in your back garden, is it? The security lights came on and everything.’
The kitchen spotlights glittered back from the polished black granite worktops. Oak units. Slate tiles on the floor.
A man in jeans, a Jeremy-Corbyn-as-Che-Guevara T-shirt, and flip-flops handed Steel a mug of tea. ‘Yeah, he was wearing this Incredible Hulk mask. Only the Incredible Hulk is meant to be big and green. And he was neither.’ A wink. ‘If you know what I mean.’
Kids’ toys littered the living room: Lego, Night Garden, SpongeBob, Transformers, My Little Ponies, balls, ray guns, teddy bears... Mrs Allsop wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered as Steel helped herself to yet another Penguin biscuit. ‘Oh it was horrible.’
Tufty nodded. ‘I know. I’m sorry, but you say he was wearing a mask?’
II
Tufty checked his notebook, with his back to the lay-by, reading by the pool car’s headlights. ‘So: that’s one Incredible Hulk; one Iron Man; three Spider-Mans... Spider-Men? no, definitely Spider-Mans; an Asterix the Gaul; two Batmans; one of “those horrible Ninja Turtle things”; and, for some unknown reason, a Peppa Pig too.’
The car’s engine was running, radio on, volume turned up, newsreader booming out her local reports, but it still couldn’t cover the disturbing sounds coming from the bushes at the side of the road.
Steel groaned. ‘Oooooh... that’s better.’
‘... outside the Music Hall from six tomorrow.’
‘Oooooohhhhh... Bit steamy, mind.’
Urgh. The shudder rippled all the way through Tufty wearing cloggity boots. ‘Too much information!’
‘Complaints are pouring in after farmers threatened to bring Union Street to a halt this weekend in protest against the proposed changes to farm subsidy payments.’
‘Should’ve nicked some toilet paper from that last place.’
A man’s voice growled from the car’s speakers. ‘We’re sorry it’s had to come to this, but the government’s left us no choice. If farming’s going to survive in this country, we need this sorted now!’
Tufty stared straight ahead. ‘Could you not have just gone when we were there?’
And the newsreader was back. ‘Finally, miscarriage of justice victim, Jack Wallace, is to sue Police Scotland for what he calls its gross negligence and culture of lies.’
‘Oh don’t be such a girl, Tufty. The bladder wants what the bladder wants.’ Steel emerged from the bushes, wiping her hands on her trousers. ‘Better out than in.’ She froze, staring at the car as Jack Wallace came on the radio.
‘The only way Police Scotland are ever going to change is if we, the people, stand up and sue them. They think they can get away with murder and I’m here to say, “No, you can’t!”’
Steel snarled at the car. ‘Dirty wee shite.’
The newsreader took over again. ‘Police Scotland have declined to comment at this time. Weather now, and there’s sunshine on the way this weekend as high pressure...’
‘Turn it off.’
Blackburn glittered in the darkness — ribbons of yellow streetlight coiling around each other, windows glowing as people settled down to a night in front of the telly. All visible through the windscreen of their wheelie-bin pool car, parked on the outskirts of the dormitory town. Only ‘town’ was stretching it a bit. If you sneezed while driving through the place you’d miss half of it.
Roberta let out a long, slow breath. Sod this for a game of soldiers.
She took her feet off the dashboard. ‘I’m calling it. This was a complete waste of time. Why on earth did I listen to you?’ A quick backhand to the arm had him flinching. ‘You are a detective constable of Very Little Brain!’
‘Ow! Hey, no fair...’
She was gearing up to hit him again, when her phone launched into the theme tune from Cagney & Lacey. The caller ID was enough to make everything taste bitter and coppery. Like sucking on a dirty penny. ‘TRAITOR BASTARD’.
Tufty pointed. ‘You going to answer that?’
‘How did you work out tonight was wanking night?’
‘Might be important.’
She turned in her seat to face him. ‘It’s no’ important. It’s that tosser McRae.’
‘Oh... OK. Well, when I figured out there was probably two shift patterns involved I put one set on one side and one set on the other and shoogled them about till there was a match with the nights he... I thought you wanted to know this?’
Roberta stared past him, through the driver’s window at a little path that snaked away from the road, skirting the back gardens at the edge of Blackburn. There was a shape in the darkness, just visible in the pale grey moonlight that oozed its way through the clouds. A figure, picking its way through the gloom. ‘Over there. By the trees.’
Something must’ve triggered the security light in the garden beyond, because it cracked on.
The figure froze. A man, middle-aged, paunchy, parka jacket with the hood pulled up. Two steps and he was in the gloom again.
Roberta narrowed her eyes. ‘He look suspicious to you?’
Course he did.
She declined the call on her phone and stuffed it in her pocket. Clambered from the car. Closed the door without making a sound.
Her breath fogged around her head.
Tufty got out of the driver’s side and joined her. Standing there in plain view like a vast twit. At least he was bright enough to keep his voice down: ‘What now?’
The guy in the parka jacket was hunched over, fiddling with something at groin height.
She whispered, nice and quiet. ‘Think I owe you a fish supper.’
They crept across the road, sticking to the cover of the whin bushes that grew like massive rustling beasts along the pavement. Closer. Closer.
What was he fiddling with? Please be his willy. Please be his willy...
The moon broke through the clouds — full, heavy, and round — casting its ghostly light over everything.
Closer...
Then her phone launched into Cagney & Sodding Lacey again.