Vine pulled his chin up. ‘I was impressed by your work on the Blackburn Onanist case, Constable Quirrel — figuring out the shift patterns like that. Other teams had been trying for weeks and got nowhere.’
‘Thanks, Guv.’ Playing it cool. But deep inside? Totally woot!
Nice to be appreciated for a change.
Steel flinched, but Wallace kept talking.
One of Vine’s hands thumped down on Tufty’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘DS Steel might not be with us for that much longer. And when she goes, I want you to come work for me.’ He gave Tufty a little shoogle. ‘Put that brain of yours to work in a decent team for a change.’
Steel sniffed, scowling out through the glass-fronted reception area at the sunny day outside.
Tufty grinned. ‘If the wind changes, your face will stay like that.’
Not so much as a flicker.
She didn’t even look at him. Just kept on scowling. ‘What were you and Arsebucket McVine talking about behind my back?’
Outside, DCI Rutherford stopped half a dozen paces from the front door. He said something to Moir-Farquharson, face all serious and ingratiating, then shook the lawyer’s hand. Did the same with Jack Wallace.
Wallace patted him on the arm, like they were old friends, then walked away, hands in his pockets. Down the slope and out onto the street. Leaving the DCI and the lawyer standing on their own.
More talking.
Steel swung around and poked Tufty. ‘Well?’
A shrug. ‘He thinks I has a genius for catching the Blackburn Womble Whapper. Thinks I should go work for him instead. Thinks I’m totally sproing!’ Wink.
‘He’s sodding welcome to you!’
DCI Rutherford grimaced, then shook Moir-Farquharson’s hand again, before marching back through the station entrance and right up in front of Steel. Trembling slightly. Eyes bugging a bit. Voice like a hammer covered in razor blades. ‘I meant what I said, Sergeant, you will stay away from that man. You will track down your phone owners. You will busy yourself with bits and bobs. You will stay — away — from Jack Wallace! Are we clear?’
She just looked at him.
‘I said, ARE — WE — BLOODY — CLEAR?’ Little flecks of spit gleamed in the light.
‘Guv.’
‘Good!’ He stormed off, thumped through the key-code door and away into the station. No doubt to spread his very own brand of joy and happiness.
The lawyer still hadn’t moved, stayed where he was, basking in the sun. Like a crocodile.
Tufty put on his innocent voice. ‘Speaking of which: what did he say to you? Wallace. At the end of the meeting?’
Her face hardened. ‘Nothing.’
Earlier... (in which Roberta has a flashback)
Look at them all, congratulating themselves like the smug bunch of turdmagnets they were. Roberta tightened her grip on the arms of her chair, teeth grinding.
Hissing Sid was off talking to Rutherford, probably doing some sort of dodgy deal to stitch her up again. The idiot Tufty, talking to Vine. More dodgy deals. The only one no’ talking was the raping sack of vomit sitting on the other side of the meeting-room table, fiddling with his phone.
Jack Wallace.
Six months in HMP Grampian hadn’t done him any harm. He was leaner. A bit more muscle on that nasty wee frame of his. Must’ve spent a lot of time in the prison gym. Maybe so he could enjoy the communal showers with his fellow perverts.
He looked up from the phone and caught her staring. Smiled. Stood. Then wandered around the table and sat on it, right next to her. ‘No hard feelings?’
Wallace stuck his hand out for shaking. No way in hell she was touching him.
He leaned in close, voice dropped to a whisper. ‘It’s you gave me the idea. After all, if Mr Moir-Farquharson can get a guilty, lying piece of shit like you off, what’s he going to do for a properly innocent client?’
She bared her teeth at him, matching his whisper. ‘You’re no’ innocent. You’re a raping cockwomble and I’m going to prove it.’
‘No you’re not. Cos I know you’ve been hanging about outside my house at night. I’ve got proof. You’re harassing me.’ His smile became a grin. ‘And if you don’t sod off, I’m going to tear your little world to pieces. Understand?’
Tufty raised his stupid eyebrows at her. ‘Wallace didn’t say anything at all?’
Roberta shrugged. ‘Nothing important.’
Hissing Sid was still out there. As if he was waiting for something. Or someone. He raised a hand and waved at her.
Fair enough.
‘Tufty, get your arse back to the office and light a fire under your fellow halfwits. You heard the DCI — phones, back with their owners.’
‘Sure you don’t want me to—’
‘Now, Constable.’
‘OK... Wow.’ He backed off, hands up. ‘I’m going, I’m going.’
She turned her back on him and pushed out through the reception door, into the sunshine. The rumble of traffic punctuated by screeching seagulls.
Hissing Sid just stood there, smiling at her. ‘Ah, DS Steel. I’m sorry our reunion had to be under such unpleasant circumstances.’
Unpleasant? She’d give him sodding unpleasant.
‘How could you, Sandy? How could you represent that nasty raping wee bawbag?’
He tilted his head to one side. ‘I make no moral judgement of my clients: a criminal act is a criminal act. Whether it’s yours or his.’
What?
‘You did not just compare me to Jack Bloody Wallace!’
‘So it’s all right for me to have you found “not guilty” when you perverted the course of justice, but not for me to defend Wallace for a rape he didn’t commit?’ A tiny theatrical frown. ‘That’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it?’
Gah!
She marched off a couple of steps then back again. ‘Who’s paying for all this? We know you’re no’ cheap, Sandy, where’s Jack Wallace getting the cash?’
‘You know I can’t tell you that. Let’s just say that as your friends came to your aid during your hour of need, so did his. Isn’t it nice to have friends?’ He turned his face to the sun and sighed. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to pick up some ice lollies on the way back to the office. Give everyone a bit of a treat. In the meantime...’ Hissing Sid put a warm hand on her shoulder. ‘Try and stay out of trouble.’
Aye, well... Going on past performance that wasn’t very likely.
Gloom shrouded the CCTV room, the only light coming from the bank of TV monitors that covered nearly one entire wall. Lots of little views of Aberdeen and its citizens going about their business. A control desk ran down the middle of the room, manned and womaned by three support staff, each one fiddling with a wee joystick — shifting the cameras by remote control.
Tufty looked as if he was bursting for the toilet: shuffling from foot to foot, making uncomfortable faces, constantly glancing towards the door. Big girl’s blouse that he was.
‘Right, here we go.’ Inspector Pearce pointed at a screen mounted on its own at the back of the room, behind the consoles. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Then poked a couple of buttons on her keyboard. ‘And then Wallace comes out here.’
Roberta leaned in for a better look.
The camera was mounted about halfway up Windmill Brae, the cobbled street sweeping downhill from there until it finally disappeared under Bridge Street. Nightclubs, kebab shops, and bars stretched all the way down one side; more nightclubs on the other. Knots of drunken men and women staggered in or out of them. A couple opened and shut their mouths in unison — could be singing? — but no sound came out of the speakers. Probably just as well.