Roberta gave Tufty a poke. ‘You’ll have to shift the car, or he can’t leave.’
‘I know.’ A nasty wee smile on his face. Arms folded. Going nowhere.
Fair enough.
Tommy stood leaning back against the horrible-orange Peugeot. Scowling and pouting all at the same time.
His spare wheel, tyre iron, and jack lay on the tarmac by the open boot, the cartridge from the CD changer balanced on top.
Tufty nodded at Tommy’s car. ‘How about you?’
‘No.’
Roberta pulled out the confiscated smartphone and poked at the buttons till the screen came to life. Password protected. She held it out to Tommy. ‘Unlock it.’
‘God...’ Tommy’s shoulders drooped and he stared up at the bright blue sky for a moment. ‘Dad’s right, we’re living in a fascist police state.’ But he typed four numbers into the screen then handed it back.
Roberta found the pictures icon and went digging through the folders. Selfies. Selfies. Selfies. What the hell was wrong with kids these days? More selfies, but at least these had Josie Stephenson in them. Fully clothed, but it was a start. More selfies. For goodness’ sake... How many photos did one seventeen-year-old need of themselves?
The last folder was a set taken at Aberdeen Beach. Josie starred in most of them, but the most racy shot was her paddling in the sea with her trousers rolled to the knee. Roberta flipped the cover closed. ‘Where’s the other one?’
‘Other what?’
‘Phone. Where’s the other phone? The one you picked up from the station last night.’
A frown. ‘Yeah... No idea what you’re talking about.’
Roberta poked him in the chest. ‘You’re sodding lucky you’re no’ on your way to jail, Tommy.’
He hauled his shoulders back. ‘I told you: Noel and me wasn’t doing nothing!’
‘Josie Stephenson is fifteen years old. The only reason I’m no’ arresting you right now, is you got that phone back before I could do you under Section Twenty-Eight of the Sexual Offences, Scotland, Act!’
He shrank back against the car. ‘What?’
‘She’s fifteen, you randy wee shite! That means you should be on the Sex Offenders’ Register.’
His eyes widened. ‘I didn’t... I... We never—’
‘Don’t bother, I’ve heard it all before. And delete those dirty photos off your phone, show some damn respect.’
‘But I don’t—’
‘HER DAD’S DYING OF CANCER, YOU WEE SHITE!’ Little bobbles of spit glittered and shone in the sunlight.
Tommy shrank down a bit, his weaselly little face just begging for a fist. ‘What photos? I don’t have no photos.’
‘What photos?’ Begging for more than just one fist — begging for a whole army of them. ‘The photos on your phone! The phone that got stolen? The photos of you getting balls-deep in a fifteen-year-old girl, in a fancy bathroom!’
‘Nah, I swear.’ Tommy slithered along the Peugeot’s side, hands up. ‘I swear that’s not me. That is so not me.’
‘I saw them!’
He slid off the back end, retreated a couple of steps, till Tufty stepped right behind him.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, Josie’s lovely and that, but...’ Deep breath. ‘Look, I haven’t had sex with her, OK? I haven’t. I’m...’ He licked his lips, then his voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the traffic on Springfield Road, ‘I’m gay. That OK with you? I’m gay. That’s why I’m hanging about in a library car park miles away from home.’ Getting louder and bolder with every word. ‘I’m meeting my boyfriend!’ He jabbed his arms out, as if he was being crucified.
Roberta stared at him. Then in through the windows to the Honda Civic and Ronaldo with his nasty bowl-haircut. Then back at Tommy again. ‘You’re gay? Oh... Congratulations.’ She patted him on the shoulder. ‘Welcome to the club.’
He lowered his arms and drooped back against the car. ‘Josie pretends we’re all loved up, so no one finds out. You don’t know what my mum’s like, she’s all “born again” and that. Thinks Graham Norton and Julian Clary are gonna burn in hell...’ Tommy paled, one hand clutching at his stomach. ‘Oh God, you can’t tell her! She’ll kill me if she finds out!’
Poor wee sod.
Seventeen years old and too terrified of his mum to come out.
Roberta stepped forward and gave him a quick hug.
He went rigid. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Being nice. Don’t get used to it.’ She let go, pulled out her e-cigarette and had a couple of hard puffs on it. Hissed pineapple-flavour vapour out of her nose. ‘If you’re Josie’s fake boyfriend, who’s the real one?’
‘She doesn’t have one.’ He pulled his chin in again. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? She doesn’t. Says she wants to concentrate on her exams. Josie’s my best friend — she’d tell me if she was seeing someone.’
Aye, you keep telling yourself that.
‘So basically,’ Tufty scowled across the car at her as Anderson Drive drifted by the windows, ‘we nearly got killed by that lorry for nothing.’
‘I’m on the phone, you divot.’ Roberta put her feet up on the dashboard. ‘No’ you, Gary, I was talking to another divot.’
‘Don’t you get all huffy at me!’
‘I’m no’ “getting all huffy”, Gary, I just want to know who picked up that sodding phone!’
‘Yes, you are.’ A crunch came from the earpiece and Big Gary’s voice went a bit chewy and muffled. The fat sod was eating something. Bet it was biscuits. ‘And how am I supposed to know? Am I psychic now?’
The car paused for a second at the roundabout with Queen’s Road to let a bendy bus grumble by.
‘So ask Jeff Downie. He’s the idiot who gave it away.’
‘Oh, I see. Why didn’t you say?’ The biscuit muffling went away, replaced by a singsong tone — as if he was talking to a wee kid. ‘Sergeant Downie was on nightshift. He’s at home now, going sleepy bye-byes.’
‘Oh for... crudweasels.’ She had a dig at the itchy bit under her left boob. ‘Well, he must’ve written it down somewhere! Find it.’
‘With the greatest of respect, Detective Sergeant Steel, pucker up and French-kiss my fuzzy bumhole.’ Then silence: the cheeky biscuit-munching scumbag had hung up on her.
‘Gah.’ She stuck the phone back in her pocket. ‘I miss being a detective chief inspector. People did what they were sodding well told, back then.’
Tufty overtook a car waiting to turn left into the business park. ‘Think we should stop somewhere and buy Mrs Galloway a bunch of grapes?’
‘Grapes are Satan’s haemorrhoids, Tufty. Chocolate’s where it’s at.’
‘Oh, wow...’ Tufty pointed. The brake light and indicator on the right of the pool car was a jagged hole fringed with broken plastic. So that’s what the crunch was when they almost got flattened by the eighteen-wheeler. ‘Look at it!’ He pointed again, but Steel just wandered off, puffing on her rotten e-cigarette again. He locked the car. Hurried to catch up. ‘I’m putting in the logbook that was your fault.’
‘Don’t be silly, little Tufty, I can’t have been driving. You were the one signed the car out.’