The errant Lion Bar wobbled, then tipped off the end of its coil and into the dispensing tray. And, as an unexpected bonus, a bag of Skittles decided that if the Lion Bar was going — it was going too.
He jabbed both hands into the air. ‘Yay!’ Then lowered them again, heat flushing across his cheeks and up into his ears. ‘That would’ve been a lot cooler if I hadn’t done that last bit, wouldn’t it?’
She dropped down and retrieved the machine’s offerings. Stood and gave him the Skittles. ‘I couldn’t get a burial plot for Pudding, but I pulled in a couple of favours and the council will do us a cremation for free. We don’t get an urn or anything, but they’ll give us the ashes in a cardboard box so Mrs Galloway can scatter them somewhere nice.’
‘Oh.’ He frowned down at the Skittles. ‘Given... you know, what happened to him, don’t know if cremation’s maybe a bit...?’
Her cheeks went pink. ‘Ah. Yes. I see what you—’
‘No, but I’m probably being a little over—’
‘—poor wee thing, but a coffin and a burial plot cost so much and—’
‘Honestly I think it’s a great idea. I was being daft...’ He huffed out his cheeks. ‘Sorry.’
Steel’s voice came floating across the room like a vulture. ‘FOR GOD’S SAKE, SHUT UP AND SNOG HER YOU IDIOT!’
PC Mackintosh’s blush darkened a couple of shades. ‘I better go.’ Her glasses were steaming up a smidge too.
‘Wait!’ He stuffed the Skittles in his pocket and pulled out a Police Scotland business card. Scribbled his mobile number on the back. ‘Call me.’ Argh. Now it definitely looked like he was coming on to her. ‘So we can work out the arrangements? Erm... For Pudding?’
She reached out and took the card. Her fingertips were warm and smooth, the nails short and bitten ragged.
‘HUMPY, HUMPY, HUMPITTY, HUMP!’
Tufty turned and glared at Steel. ‘You’re not helping!’
But by the time he turned back, PC Mackintosh was already hurrying from the room. She thumped through the door, leaving Tufty alone with the Wrinkled Filthy Horror of Doom.
Steel grinned at him. ‘Think you’re in there.’
‘I hate you.’
‘Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, chocolate...’ Roberta nibbled the coating off the top of her Jaffa Cake, exposing the tangy orangey bit sitting like a rubbery splot on top of the sponge base.
Was there any finer word in the English language than ‘chocolate’?
Well, except for ‘Keira Knightley’, ‘nipples’, and ‘moist’.
Better yet, a combination of all four.
She had a lick of the orangey bit.
The CID office was abuzz with the sound of pointless policework.
Lund, Barrett, and Harmsworth were on the phones again — busy as busy buzzy bees being busy — reuniting stolen mobiles with their owners so DCI Pain-in-the-Rear Rutherford would take his pain and insert it in someone else’s rear for a change.
No idea where the idiot Tufty was, though. Probably off having a stationery-cupboard fumble with his perky Wildlife Crime Officer. Dirty, lucky, wee sod that he was.
A list of the day’s jobs was up on the whiteboard, along with the words ‘CRUDWEASEL’ and ‘RIPPA!’, two wanted posters: Lord Lucan and Philip Innes, and a drawing of a big hairy willy — which was hairy enough to be Harmsworth’s, but no’ small enough and no’ floppy enough either.
Barrett ticked something off on his clipboard. ‘Hello? Yes, I’m calling from Police Scotland. Has your mobile phone been stolen recently?... Yes, that’s right.’
The office door opened and Tufty backed into the room, carrying a tray laden with mugs.
Lund helped herself to one. ‘Ooh, thank God for that. I’m gasping!’
Roberta gave him a squint. ‘About sodding time! Running out of Jaffa Cakes here.’
He handed her a mug. ‘If it’s not spanky hot don’t blame me. Got waylaid by DI Vine on the stairs.’
‘Oh aye? And what did Buggerlugs McVine want?’ She had a sip of her coffee. Bland and anaemic with a bitter edge to it. ‘Urgh... Did you put sugar in this?’
‘Two. And you’re welcome.’ He dumped a mug down in front of Barrett — got a thumbs up in reply. Did the same for Harmsworth.
‘That’s not my mug.’
‘It’s a mug and it’s clean.’
‘My mug has a thistle on it.’
‘It wasn’t there, I looked, OK?’ Tufty helped himself to the last one, then perched his cheeky wee bum on the edge of Roberta’s desk. ‘Spoke to the hospital this morning: Mrs Galloway woke up.’
Now there was some good news for a change. ‘Excellent. We’ll pop over and—’ Her phone Cagney-&-Laceyed at her. ‘Hold that thought.’ She picked it up. ‘This better be important, I’ve got Jaffa Cakes on the go.’
‘Aye, it’s Benny. You wanted to know next time Tommy Shand’s spotted behind Airyhall Library? He’s there now.’
Ha!
Her cheeks tightened as a massive grin snapped into place. ‘Ooh, see if you weren’t so ugly? I’d kiss you, Benny.’ She hung up and grabbed her coat. ‘Tufty: forget your horrible coffee, we’ve got a drug dealer to lift.’
The pool car snaked along Union Grove, engine growling as Tufty changed down and overtook a delivery van. Trees flashing past the windows. Grey tenements little more than a blur.
Steel leaned across from the passenger seat and thumped his arm. ‘Come on, come on! Foot down!’
He kept his eyes on the road. ‘I’m doing fifty.’
‘Well put on the blues-and-twos.’
‘Do you want to drive? Cos I can pull over, you know!’
She hit him again. ‘You drive like an old lady.’ Then reached across the car and honked the horn. ‘MOVE IT, GRANDAD!’
The Volkswagen in front of them didn’t.
‘Oh for... Right. That’s it. Pull over.’
Tufty kept driving. ‘I’m not—’
‘Pull over, you big damp jessie. It’ll be Christmas by the time we get there.’
You know what? Fine.
He slammed on the brakes and pulled into the kerb. ‘Happy now?’
She scrambled out of the passenger side and ran around the bonnet. Hauled open the driver’s door. ‘Shift over you idiot!’
Tufty groaned and clambered over the gearstick and handbrake. He’d barely got his legs into the footwell before the tyres gave a tortured-pig screech and the car fishtailed away from the kerb again. ‘Let me get my seatbelt on!’
She jabbed the ‘999’ button on the dashboard and the siren wailed, blue-and-white lights flickering out through the front grille — reflecting back from the Volkswagen’s rear as they got closer, closer, closer...
‘Too close, too close, too close!’ Tufty clutched at the grab handle above his door, other hand fumbling with the seatbelt catch. ‘Aaaargh!’
She wrenched the steering wheel to the right and they swung out around the Volkswagen, right into the path of an oncoming Clio.
‘Car! Car! Car!’
They lurched to the left with only inches to spare as the Clio slithered to a halt in a cloud of blue tyre smoke.
‘Are you trying to kill us?’
She didn’t slow down for the roundabout onto Cromwell Road, throwing them around it like a runaway rollercoaster.
Finally! The seatbelt buckle clicked into its holder as they flew past the playing fields.
‘I should never have let you drive!’
‘Will you shut up whinging? I’m concentrating here.’