Barrett pointed at his precious evidence crates. ‘That box are contacted and waiting pickup. That one’s phones we can’t unlock. And that—’
‘Yeah, blah, blah, blah.’ Steel hauled up her trousers. ‘What about my look-out request on Philip Dog-Murdering-Fudgemonkey Innes?’
He checked his clipboard. ‘They’re still looking. And “fudgemonkey” was yesterday. Today we’re saying “felchbunny” for bad stuff, or “sproing!” if it’s good.’
‘Hmph, takes all sorts.’
Another thump as Harmsworth dunted his head off the desk again. ‘Because I’m calling about your mobile phone, remember?... No.’
Steel settled on the edge of her desk. ‘Chase up the look-out. And remind me to check in on Agnes Galloway too. Make sure she’s doing OK.’
Barrett made a note. ‘Are you remembering DCI Rutherford?’
Yet another thump. ‘Because being English isn’t a crime, that’s why!’
‘Don’t spoil my good mood, eh, Davey? Who’s in charge of working girls these days?’
‘DI Beattie’s team.’
Steel groaned. ‘God help us.’
‘Look, do you want this phone back or not?’
Barrett checked his clipboard again. ‘Oh, and Tufty? A PC Mackintosh came past wanting to talk about some Yorkshire terrier’s funeral arrangements?’
Steel nudged him in the ribs with an elbow. ‘She’s a bit of a hottie too. Nurses and Wildlife Crime Officers chasing after you? You’re like ugly catnip for short-sighted women.’
Tufty beamed. ‘I has a popular!’
‘Aye, well, there’s no accounting for taste. Now get your arse on those phones, I want as many of them reunited with their rightful owners as possible before I have to brave DCI Rutherford and his Horrible Meeting of Doom.’
You could tell a lot about a police officer by looking at their office. Which was why Detective Inspector Beattie’s office was a complete and utter craphole. Piles of paperwork on the desk. Piles of paperwork on the floor. Piles of paperwork on the filing cabinets. Evidence bags heaped on top of the piles of paperwork on the filing cabinets. A whiteboard solid with scribbled stuff. And sitting behind the desk, five-foot-eight of pure useless in a saggy suit. Biscuit crumbs mixed with beardy dandruff all down the front of his off-grey shirt. What was probably egg yolk on his brown tie.
He was on the phone, one hand scrunched over his eyes as Roberta barged in. ‘I don’t care... Do I look like I care? No... No, because I don’t. Now get your finger out!’ Beattie looked up as Roberta collapsed into the only visitors’ chair no’ covered in crap. Scowled and hung up. ‘You’re supposed to knock. And if this is about that sponsored swim, I’m skint, OK?’
Rude little fudgemonkey.
She stretched out her legs, hands linked behind her head. ‘You’re in charge of the Prozzie Patrol, Beardie. I need details on two of your congregation: Daphne McClellan and Sally Gray. And a cuppa wouldn’t go amiss either.’
His face darkened. ‘I do not make tea for sergeants, Sergeant.’
Roberta let her smile grow cold. Stared right back.
He held her gaze for a couple of beats — three seconds tops — before looking away. Then stood and rifled through a filing cabinet. ‘Daphne McClellan; AKA: Daphne Macintyre; AKA: Natasha Sparkles, back when she was lap-dancing at Secret Service.’ He pulled out a file and held it out.
She stayed where she was, hands behind her head.
Beattie shuffled forward and placed it in her lap. Then went back to the files. ‘Sally Gray, AKA: Sally Anderson. Moved over here from Northern Ireland in the noughties.’ He pulled out another file. ‘Just bring them back when you’ve finished.’
Had to hand it to the useless hairy wee lump — he IDed both girls off the top of his head. Didn’t mean she was letting him get away with that ‘I don’t make tea for sergeants’ dig, though.
She nodded at the files. ‘Why don’t you summarise them for me.’
A blush reddened the skin beneath the beard. Beattie gathered up both files and scampered back to the safety of his desk. Clearing his throat as he flicked through them. ‘Pretty much identical. Form for soliciting, possession, assault, shoplifting... Social services. Methadone. Relapse. Possession again. And again. And again. Public urination...’ A sigh. ‘If it wasn’t for the drugs, maybe? But life’s not like that for these girls.’
‘What about kids?’
Beattie checked the files again. ‘Sally’s got four. Two in care. Daphne has three: they stay with her mother in Stonehaven.’
Aye right.
Roberta had a dig at her underwire. How come no bugger could make a bra that fitted properly? Wasn’t as if boobs were a new invention. ‘We picked up two wee kids at Kenny Milne’s house, day before yesterday. Kenny says they’re Daphne and Sally’s. He’s been training them up Fagin-style and—’
The office door battered open and a PC scuttered into the room, nearly colliding with a pile of boxes. He was far too young to be shaving, never mind wear a police uniform. A tenner said he couldn’t get served in a pub. Probably didn’t even have pubes yet. He completely ignored Beattie, which was nice, and turned to Roberta instead. Face all shiny, breathing like a pervert in a changing room. ‘Sergeant... Sergeant Steel?... The DCI’s... looking for you... and... and he’s... I mean a hundred percent right now.’
Pff...
Ah well, better get it over with.
And hopefully, by now, the team had been in touch with enough stolen-phone owners to make DCI Rutherford shut up about his stupid press conference.
She creaked to her feet. ‘Thanks for the info, Beardie. Get some biscuits in for next time, though, eh?’ She poked the panting PC. ‘Come on then, sweaty, don’t want to keep the big man waiting, do we? He might blame you.’
The nervous, sweaty wee PC hopped from one foot to the other as Roberta pushed through into the CID office. ‘He really did say it was urgent!’
‘Blah, blah, blah.’ She frowned. ‘Where’s everyone gone?’
The only person in the room was Tufty, with his stupid gauze and stupider black eye. He tossed a re-boxed phone into the crate marked ‘CAN’T UNLOCK’. ‘Harmsworth was moaning so much that Lund wheeched him off for a cup of tea and a Wagon Wheel. Barrett’s taking the latest batch of mobiles down to Lost-and-Found for collection. And I am working away like the brave little soldier I am.’
‘I mean, really, really, really urgent!’
She sighed. ‘Everyone with a pip on their shoulder says it’s urgent. Whatever they want, they want it now. Does them good to wait for it every now and then.’ She pointed at Tufty. ‘Did Barrett leave his Blessed Clipboard of all Knowledge?’
Tufty nodded. ‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘Good: grab it and follow me. You can pretend to know what you’re talking about when the DCI starts asking questions about all the mobile phones we’ve returned.’
The nervous, sweaty, wee PC’s bottom lip was trembling. ‘Please?’
‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ She shoved him towards the door. ‘Honestly, you’re panicking over nothing. It’s just a wee meeting. Nothing to worry about.’
Nothing to worry about at all.
The sweaty wee PC opened the meeting room door and Roberta sauntered in, hands in her pockets. Be nice to get a pat on the back for a...
She stopped.
Sodding cockwombling hell.
Jack Wallace was in here, sitting at the oval meeting table right next to Hissing Sid. The lawyer’s suit probably cost more than Roberta made in a month, grey and well cut, a scarlet hankie poking out of the top pocket, matching silk tie. Grey hair swept back from a high forehead. A nose that never really went straight again after getting broken.