The wee man gave a little squeak, flashed a glance over his shoulder at them, then ran.
Tufty jumped up from his crouch. ‘Come back here!’
Idiot.
She hit him again. ‘Don’t just stand there!’
He lurched into a run, giving chase. Getting faster with every stride.
That was more like it.
She hammered after him, following their pervert across the road, away from the streetlights and back gardens. Over a drystane dyke and into a stubble field. Into the brown, heavy scent of wet earth that squelched beneath her feet.
Moonlight turned the world into a shadow play — silhouettes in shades of blue and grey, the trees: spidery ink blots. Shining patches of silver where puddles reflected back the lunar glow.
The masturbating wee turd had a head start and he was fast, but Tufty was faster. Closing the gap.
Water sploshed up Roberta’s leg as she charged through a hidden puddle. ‘Gahhh!’ Cold. And wet. Slippery too.
A handful of sheep stopped doing whatever it was sheep did at half nine on a Monday night to watch the three of them squelch past. Tufty almost on him. Roberta bringing up the rear. ‘Sodding horrible, muddy, clarty, slippy...’
The filthy sod jinked left, then right, just as Tufty made a grab for him.
Tufty’s hands closed on sod-all. A brief squeak of terror, and he windmilled his arms, trying to stay upright. Then went splattering down in a dark muddy patch, skidding to a halt flat on his back with his arms and legs in the air like a tipped-over tortoise. ‘Aaaaargh!’
The pervert glanced back at the muddy scream, which was why he didn’t see her cut right in front of him, one hand out to snatch at the parka’s hood. She grabbed a handful of furry collar and dug in her heels.
‘Ulk!’ His feet kept going forward, but the rest of him stayed where it was, suspended in mid-air for a breath... before slamming down into the mud with a wet squelchy thump. Right on his backside at Roberta’s feet.
She loomed over him, grinning. ‘Your Womble Whapping days are over, sunshine!’
Tufty dragged their prisoner back across the squelchy field, over the drystane dyke, across the road, and under a streetlight. Ooh, yeah. Tufty was filthy. No’ just a wee bit grubby, but completely and utterly clarted in mud. All up his back. And most of his front. Kind of a funky smell about him too...
Roberta gave him a sniff, then recoiled — wafting a hand in front of her face. ‘Aye, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you fell in more than just mud.’
He grimaced, looking down at his filthy, filthy self. ‘Argh...’
Under the streetlight, their prisoner emerged from the shadow of his parka’s hood. No’ exactly George Clooney. No’ even George Clooney’s ugly brother. A forgettable wee man with a forgettable face and squint glasses.
Roberta fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Do you come here often? Pun intended.’
The nasty wee wanker drew himself up to his full five-foot-four and stuck his chin out. ‘Let go of me, or... or I’ll call the police!’
‘That’s a coincidence: me and my sharny little friend here are the police.’ She patted the whiny sod on his shiny cheek. ‘Now, how can we help you? Having difficulty getting it up? Trouble deciding which house to wank outside?’
He pulled that forgettable chin in again. ‘What?’
‘We know it’s you, sunshine. Now, let’s get you down the station, into a cell, and onto the sex offenders’ register.’
‘But I haven’t done anything!’
Tufty spun him around a half turn, so they were face to face. ‘Oh yeah? Then why did you run?’
‘It’s the middle of the night and you were chasing me. Of course I ran. You could’ve been anyone.’
Tufty loomed. ‘We’re the police.’
‘Well why didn’t you say anything? I thought you were muggers.’ He dug into his parka’s pockets and came out with a dog lead and what looked like a filled plastic poo-bag. ‘I was walking Sheba, and next thing I know I’m being attacked by you pair of maniacs!’
‘Ah...’
Still, could be a ruse. She pointed at the bag. ‘Detective Constable: examine the evidence.’
He stared at her. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘Just give it a squeeze or something. Make sure it’s really poo.’
‘Oh for...’ But he curled his lip and reached out anyway. Gave the bag a quick squeeze. ‘Urgh, it’s still warm.’
‘I see.’ Roberta cleared her throat and looked away. ‘You were walking your dog?’
‘And God knows where she’s got to now. Greyhounds are incredibly sensitive.’
‘Well, you can understand why we thought—’
‘Probably spend half the night looking for her. Thank you very much.’
Roberta shuffled her feet. ‘Yes. Well, no one’s perfect, are they?’ She straightened his jacket. Brushed a bit of mud off his shoulder. ‘Still no harm done, eh?’
‘I’m going to make a complaint, just you see if I don’t!’
Of course he was.
‘Oh joy.’
It just wasn’t fair. Here she was, knocking her pan in, trying to make a difference, and what did she get? Lumbered with a mud-slathered idiot for a sidekick, a night stuck in a manky pool car that smelled like the inside of a wheelie-bin, and a complaint from a poo-gathering member of the public. Because she needed more complaints on her file, didn’t she? Because there weren’t enough on there already.
Pffffff...
Roberta groaned, letting one arm flop across her face. Lying draped across the back seat of the car, one leg dangling over the edge. Making rustling noises in the garbage with her boot.
Tufty had himself another whinge. ‘Come on, it’s freezing out here.’
‘No’ till you’re dry. We’re in enough trouble as it is without—’
Her phone launched into Cagney & Lacey again.
‘Gah...’ She pulled it out and peered at the screen.
Same caller ID as last time: ‘TRAITOR BASTARD’.
The orchestra joined in with the tootly horns as the theme tune really got into its stride.
Tufty knocked on the car window. ‘You’re going to have to talk to him sometime.’
‘Where did it all go wrong, Tufty?’
‘Might have been when you tried to fit Jack Wallace up on kiddy-fiddling charges? Just a guess.’
‘I’m in my prime here.’
‘Please can I get back in the car? I can’t feel my toes.’
‘Arrrrgh!’ She covered her face with both hands, as the phone belted out its tune. ‘Should be catching killers and getting commendations and medals. Nothing snake-alicious ever happens to me...’
‘Look, I’ll answer it if you like?’
‘I am no’ talking to that back-stabbing, two-faced, Judas-licking... motherfunker.’
The phone fell silent. Finally.
Ding-ding. Incoming text. She snuck a glance:
I heard about Wallace suing Police Scotland.
Do you want to talk about it? I’m still at yours.
Logan.
No she sodding wouldn’t. You’re getting deleted, sunshine.
Delete.
Then the car’s police radio had a go. ‘All units: anyone in the vicinity of Blackburn? Got reports of an unidentified individual performing a solo sex-act in the caller’s back garden.’
Ha!
She sat up, grabbed her phone before it disappeared into the drifts of crisp packets. ‘We’re on!’