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.
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.