No’ the greatest of views.
Probably wasting her time sitting there, but after today even a tiny success would be terrific. A minute achievement. A microscopic win. Anything to dull the image of that poor wee boy, standing in his crib, bawling his eyes out.
All those tins... Were his teeny fingers strong enough to lever the lids off himself, or had his darling mother done that for him before shooting up?
And what sort of scumbag fed their toddler dog food? Even if it was the expensive stuff you didn’t need a tin-opener for. After all, if you’re going to shoplift, why no’ shoplift the best?
Aye, well. Wasn’t as if she’d be doing it again, was it?
Or anything else, come to that.
Overdosing in front of her wee boy — what was wrong with people?
For once in his miserable life, DI Beardie Beattie was right: if it wasn’t for the drugs...
Stop it.
Sitting here brooding wasn’t helping.
Roberta puffed on her e-cigarette, billowing out clouds of strawberry-and-lime-flavoured steam.
Come on, Roberta: focus.
There was a perfect view between the recycling bins and the back of the library. If anyone turned up to do something dodgy, she’d be on them like stupid on Tufty.
Mind you, twenty minutes parked here and what did she have to show for her one-woman surveillance operation? Sod, and indeed, all.
No sign of Tommy Shand or his horrible orange Peugeot.
Pfff...
Well, it’d been a long shot anyway.
Should probably just show that mobile phone to the Procurator Fiscal and do Tommy for making indecent images and having sex with an older child. But getting him for possession with intent as well? That would be the bacon in the butty.
She pulled out her phone and poked at her contacts, setting the thing ringing.
‘Control Room.’
‘Aye, Benny: Tommy Shand. If anyone phones up to complain he’s dealing behind Airyhall Library again, I want you to call me. OK?’
Benny tutted at her down the phone. ‘You do know that’s DI McPherson’s case, don’t you? He’s first point of—’
‘Do you want me to tell your boyfriend what you get up to on those Police Scotland team-building away days?’
‘Ah... I thought we had an... understanding about that. After last time? You promised!’
‘You hear anything, you call me, Benny.’
A groan. Then, ‘All right, all right. Jesus.’
‘Good boy.’
She hung up. Drummed her fingers on the steering wheel.
Sodding Tommy Sodding Shand. Here she was, ready to take this crappy, crappy day out on him and he didn’t even have the common decency to bother showing up. Selfish felchbunny.
Her phone ding-dinged at her:
I’ve got the chardonnay in the fridge and
the takeaway menus out waiting for you.
Now slipping into something slinky...
Naughty old Susan.
Poor old Susan too. She deserved better than a grumpy wife, stomping about the house, swearing about how people were all scumbags.
Roberta thumbed out a reply:
Be there soon. Got a quick stop to make.
After all, just because Tommy Shand was a no-show, didn’t mean she couldn’t take her crappy day out on somebody else. And one person in particular deserved it more than anyone.
Jack Wallace was out washing his fake four-by-four as Roberta pulled into the residential street.
He scrubbed away at the car’s roof with a big yellow sponge. Headphones on. Oblivious as she drove by his house in search of a parking spot. A Hoover sat on the pavement, under one of the trees lining the road — an extension lead snaking up the path and in through the raping wee shite’s open front door. Very suburban and domesticated.
No’ the sort of thing predators were meant to do.
And who washed their car at five to nine on a Wednesday night anyway?
People trying to get rid of evidence, that’s who.
She pulled into a spot on the other side of the road, about four houses down. Sat there, watching him in the passenger wing mirror.
Couldn’t arrest him for washing his car. Couldn’t arrest him for anything at all.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t rattle his cage a bit. See what fell out.
Roberta climbed out of her MX-5 and balled her fists. Marched up the middle of the road and—
A hand grabbed her arm.
She spun around, fist at the ready...
Tufty let go and danced back a couple of steps, eyes wide, even the black one. ‘Whoa!’
She lowered her fist. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Then turned back towards Wallace. ‘You know what? Don’t care.’
Tufty grabbed her again. ‘Don’t!’ He scurried around till he was in front of her. Blocking the way. ‘DCI Rutherford will mount your head on a pike outside the castle wall. You heard him: we have to stay away from Jack Wallace!’
‘Get out of my sodding way.’
‘I followed you, OK? Because I knew you’d do something daft.’
She stepped forward, but he didn’t move.
‘What happened to Agnes Galloway wasn’t your fault. What happened to Sally Gray’s kid wasn’t your fault either. Doing what you’re doing won’t help them!’
She closed her eyes. ‘Felchbunnies...’ For once Tufty was right. Fronting Wallace up was about as bright as punching a wasps’ nest. Her shoulders slumped. ‘The poor wee sod was living on dog food, in a five-day-old nappy.’
‘I know. But—’
‘Well, well, well.’ A voice behind her. ‘What have we got here?’
She turned, and there was Jack Wallace, smiling at them, headphones around the back of his neck, bucket of soapy water in one hand, frothy sponge in the other.
‘Have to admit, I really didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come back here, Detective Sergeant Steel. My lawyer’s going to be very upset when I tell him you’ve been harassing me again.’
She glared at him. ‘We’re just leaving.’
‘So soon? You don’t want to come in and plant some evidence? Like you did last time?’
‘How did you know?’
‘That you planted evidence?’ He laughed in her face. ‘I knew, because I’m not a kiddy fiddler.’
‘No: how did you know you needed an alibi that night? All that waving at the cameras: how did you know?’
‘You never learn, do you?’ He walked back to his car and placed the sponge on the roof. Hefted the bucket. Time to rinse off the bubbles.
‘How did you know you needed an alibi, Jack?’
Tufty tugged at her sleeve. ‘Don’t get drawn in. Let’s go.’
‘Well? Come on, Jacky Boy: impress us with your brilliance.’
‘OK.’ He swung the bucket at the car, swivelling at the very last moment, swinging wide. The soapy water arced out like a big wet tongue.
Roberta scrambled sideways and the whole lot went splosh — all over Tufty. He stood there with his arms out, dripping. ‘Aaaargh...!’
She hauled out her handcuffs. Grinned. ‘You just assaulted a police officer! Jack Wallace, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen—’
‘You don’t even know how much trouble you’re in right now.’ He grinned right back at her. ‘But you’re about to find out.’
DCI Rutherford glared at them from behind his desk. At least he’d changed out of his T-shirt and jammie bottoms. Tufty stood to attention in the middle of the room, his fighting suit two shades darker than it had been at the start of the shift. Damp as a dishcloth.