‘Well?’ Rutherford’s voice was just this side of shouting, his face just this side of aneurism-red. ‘What the bloody hell did you think you were playing at, dragging this soggy idiot along with you? Is chucking your own career in the septic tank not enough? Do you have to ruin his as well?’
Tufty eeked.
Roberta patted the silly sod on the back. ‘Constable Quirrel was there trying to stop me. He had just succeeded when Jack Wallace attacked us with a bucket of soapy—’
‘DON’T INTERRUPT!’ Rutherford was on his feet now, fists resting on his desk, spittle gleaming on his bared teeth. ‘Your reckless, idiotic antics have made NE Division look like a bunch of bloody halfwit amateurs!’
She shrugged. ‘To be fair—’
‘You were given a second chance, Sergeant. We could’ve fired you for what you did, but we thought, for some godforsaken reason, that you’d learn from your mistake. Well, apparently we were wrong!’
The only sound came from the radiator, pinging and gurgling like an unfed stomach.
Outside, in the corridor, someone laughed.
The mobile phone on Rutherford’s desk buzzed twice then went silent.
She pursed her lips. Maybe a bit of contrition would make him feel a bit less shouty? ‘Actually, Guv, if you—’
‘ENOUGH!’ He stabbed a finger at his office door. ‘Get out of my sight. I need to decide what to do about you.’ Rutherford curled his lip in disgust and turned away. Couldn’t even look at her. ‘You’re an embarrassment.’
Sunset painted the granite houses in fiery shades of amber and peach. The trees glowed. And Roberta sat there, in her car, parked outside her own house for a change.
She closed her eyes and curled forward till her forehead came to rest on the steering wheel. Let her arms dangle either side of her knees.
‘Sodding, felchbunnied, fudgemonkeying...’ Deep breath. ‘MOTHERFUNKER!’ Bellowing it out into the footwell.
Was there ever a crappier day?
One: Agnes Galloway battered into intensive care. Two: Philip Sodding Innes sitting happily at home while half the idiots in NE Division were out looking for him. Then having to let him go! Three: Jack Wallace walking free. Again. Four: a full-on bollocking from DCI Rutherford. And last, but crappiest of all, Five: Sally Gray’s poor wee boy.
Dog food.
No’ just the fact he’d been fed on it, but that he’d eaten the lot. Every last scrap. How long had he stood there, in his filthy nappy in his filthy cot while his mother rotted into a filthy mattress in that filthy hole of a house? Starving. Licking the tins out again and again till his little fingers and wrists and nose and cheeks were a network of sharp little cuts from the metal edges.
And the sores... All up and down his legs and bottom.
No child deserved that.
No one did.
Roberta’s phone ding-dinged at her.
She hauled it out.
If you’re not home in the next 5 minutes
I’m putting on joggie bottoms and that
sweatshirt you hate.
Great.
A long hard sigh, then she climbed out of the car. Got the box with Susan’s trophy in it out of the boot. Plipped the locks. Slouched up the path to the front door.
It swung open and there was Susan, posing in a low-cut lacy negligée, bottle of fizzy wine in one hand, champagne flutes in the other. ‘I cheated: saw you parking when...’ Little creases formed across her brow. ‘Oh, Robbie, what’s wrong?’
The hallway got all wobbly, the breath sharp and lumpy in her throat.
Susan opened her arms and swept her up into a hug. Warm and soft and comforting. ‘Shhh... It’ll be OK. I promise.’
Roberta just stood there and cried.
Chapter Six
in which it is shown that PC Harmsworth should Never
Get Naked In Public, we find out if rubber willies float,
and Tufty catches someone red-handed
I
‘Gah...’ Roberta pushed the scrambled eggs around her plate some more. It’d gone all cold and congealed, greyed by the liberal application of Worcestershire sauce, the toast beneath it turned to soggy linoleum.
Which pretty much summed this whole week up.
Susan pushed a cup of coffee in front of her. ‘What’s wrong with my scrambled eggs?’
A shrug.
‘Honestly, some people.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Right, Naughty Monkey Number Two: do you want more soldiers?’
Naomi squealed in her high chair, a big smile on her face as she painted herself with baked beans.
‘No. OK, then. Naughty Monkey Number One, what do you fancy for your packed lunch: peanut-butter-and-banana, or cheese-and-pickle?’
Jasmine stuffed another spoonful of Rice Krispies in her gob, chewing as she talked. ‘Chicken jam!’
‘Chicken jam it is. And don’t talk with your mouth full.’ Susan reached for the chicken pâté, spreading a thick layer onto a round of soft white bread. ‘Robbie, are you going to be late tonight? Because I thought we could go to that new French place on Holburn Street. Cheer us up a bit. Dolly says she’ll watch the kids.’
Roberta stared into the lumpy grey mess clarting her plate. ‘Mmmph.’
‘Robbie!’
When she spoke the words came out all flat and dead. ‘Sorry. Not really hungry.’
Susan put down the knife, sooked her fingers clean, then took hold of Roberta’s face. Stared right into her eyes. ‘Do you want to quit? Because if you do, you march in there today and you tell them to take their horrible job and ram it so far up their backsides a spelunking team couldn’t get it out.’
Her mouth twitched. ‘That far?’
‘Further.’ Susan leaned in and gave her a kiss, soft and warm and faintly chickeny. ‘Sod them.’
Barrett was up front at the whiteboard again, that clipboard of his clutched to his chest like a teddy bear. ‘... so keep an eye out if you can.’
Harmsworth slouched in his seat, digging away at one ear with a relentless finger. Lund stifled a yawn, both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. Steel, on the other hand, wasn’t really there. She sat staring out of the window, face droopy as a basset hound, drumming out a funeral beat on her desk jotter with her hand.
Only Brave Sir Tufty was paying any attention to the morning briefing. He’d taken notes and everything.
‘Finally...’ Barrett dug out the upturned police cap and went a-rummaging. Pulled out one blue bit of paper and one red. Unfolded them both. ‘Today’s word of approbation is “Spanktastic” and for disapprobation we have “Funkbiscuits”. And that concludes morning prayers. Sarge?’
Everyone turned to look at her.
No reply.
Barrett tried again, only louder. ‘Sarge?’
She sighed. Shrugged. ‘Finish with the phones.’ You could’ve ironed your shirt on those words, they were that flat.
‘OK, you heard the lady: phone time!’
While everyone else picked a new mobile to try, Tufty stuck his heels into the carpet tiles and backward-walked his office chair over to Steel’s desk. Put on a bit of a whisper: ‘Are you OK, Sarge? Only you seem a bit... suicidal.’
She sagged a bit further. ‘Ask no’ for whom the bell tolls, Tufty, today it tolls for me.’ Steel checked her watch. ‘In five, four, three, two...’ She pointed at the office door.