Steel knocked on the potting table and ‘STACEY’ looked up. Smiled.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Aye, Big Jimmy Grieve about?’
She pointed at a door in the wall at the end of the warehouse. ‘Garden sheds and gazebos.’
‘Cheers.’ Steel marched off, past a display of water features and out through the door.
Tufty loped along beside her. ‘Who’s “Big Jimmy Grieve”?’
She kept marching.
A twelve-foot-high chainlink fence was lined with shelves of landscapy stuff — bags of gravel, fencing panels, rolls of wire, that kind of thing. They surrounded a collection of pre-built sheds that formed their own little shantytown, painted in jaunty outdoor colours.
An old man was fiddling about with bits of wood, building himself a gazebo on the outskirts of Jaunty Shed Shantytown. Doing a good job of it too. Which was just as well, because you’d have to be suicidal to tell him he was doing anything other than a good job.
He was huge. Grey hair cropped close to his head. Broad shouldered. Big arms and hands. Powerful. Like a rugby player and a boxer gave birth to a bouncer.
Steel came to a halt behind him. Leaned against a pastel-blue shed.
He didn’t look round. Picked a nail from the box at his feet and pounded it in with three mighty blows.
She waited for the thumping to stop. ‘Mr Grieve. Didn’t have you down as the green-fingered type.’
He froze. Then turned.
Nyah... There was a face to frighten the living hell out of Rottweilers. Chiselled with creases. Eyes of frozen granite. But when he opened his mouth, the words didn’t boom out, they slid softly. Calm. Controlled. Still. ‘Roberta Steel. What brings you out?’ He didn’t move either, didn’t fidget. Just stood there impersonating a very menacing statue.
‘Oh, just passing, Mr Grieve, just passing...’ A shrug. ‘How’s Sheila and the grandkids?’
A smile deepened the lines around his eyes. ‘They’re good, thanks. Macy’s at big school now. Says she’s going to be a systems architect, whatever that is.’
‘That’s nice. Give them my best.’
A nod. He picked up the next bit of the gazebo kit, lining it up with the bit he’d just nailed on.
She stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘You ever heard of a wee scroat called Philip Innes?’
‘Should I have?’ Still and menacing again.
‘A wee birdie tells me he’s loansharking at Cairnhill Court. You grew up there, didn’t you?’
‘Long time ago.’
‘This Philip Innes attacked a little old lady. Put her in hospital. Microwaved her dog. Sad, isn’t it?’
Big Jimmy Grieve’s voice got quieter. Harder. ‘So why don’t you arrest him?’
‘Can’t touch the guy.’ A sigh. ‘You know how it is: everyone’s too scared to say anything. Whole place has come down with amnesia, laryngitis, and a nasty dose of selective blindness.’
‘I see.’
Something uncomfortable shifted in Tufty’s stomach. Made the back of his neck go all clammy. This was definitely a very, very bad idea.
‘Wasn’t like that in your day, was it, Mr Grieve?’ Steel shook her head. ‘OK, so no one went clyping to the police, but they didn’t have to, did they? They knew the building took care of its own.’
Big Jimmy Grieve stared down at the hammer in his massive hand. Like he was feeling its weight. Said nothing.
‘You stepped out of line in those days — you smacked an old lady about? — you got slapped down. Hard. No’ today, though...’ Another sigh, then she reached up and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Ah well, enough reminiscing. I better get back to work.’
He stood there, still and cold as a granite headstone, staring at the hammer.
‘Tell Sheila I said, “Hi.”’ Steel turned and walked off.
Oh no, she was not leaving him alone with Big Jimmy Grieve.
Tufty scurried after her, not even trying to look cool.
He caught up halfway across the warehouse. Grabbed her arm. ‘What did you just do?’
Steel turned and stared at him.
OK. Maybe no grabbing.
He let go.
She started walking again. ‘I said hello to an old friend.’
‘An old...?’ Tufty dropped his voice to a hissing whisper as they passed ‘STACEY’ and her amazing pigtails. ‘He looks like a serial killer!’
‘Is it lunchtime yet? I’m feeling lunch-ish.’
‘Why can’t you do anything by the rules?’
‘Lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch.’ She pushed through the main door and into the car park.
‘Who’s Big Jimmy Grieve? What’s he going to do to Phil Innes?’
‘I’m thinking: fish supper, avec les onions pickled and peas à la mush.’
Tufty nipped around in front of her, blocking the way. ‘What if he beats Phil Innes up? What if he kills him? Are we accessories to murder now?’
Steel smiled back. ‘You worry too much.’
Then she stepped around him, sauntering away to where they’d parked the pool car.
Tufty stayed where he was. Risked a glance back towards the garden centre.
Big Jimmy Grieve’s carved granite face stared out at him from just inside the main doors. Still and lifeless. Watching.
Oh they were so screwed.
Chapter Eight
in which Tufty goes to the shops, and
we find out what happens
when you stand up to a Very Scary Man
I
‘Oh, and I found the cutest set of antique golf clubs in a wee shop today, Robbie.’
‘Uh-huh...’ Roberta scrubbed the soap into her hands, phone pinned between her ear and her shoulder. ‘You really need more golf clubs?’
‘They’re not for playing with, they’re decorative. Six clubs in a lovely leather-and-canvas bag with a stand. I’m going to put it in the living room, next to the—’
The rest of it was drowned out by the roar of the hand dryer.
‘—for dinner?’
‘Yeah, probably.’ She hauled up her trousers. ‘You know: my breeks are definitely looser than they used to be. Must be losing weight. Wasting away cos you don’t feed me enough.’
‘You’re not wasting away. And stop calling me when you’re on the toilet, it’s not hygienic.’
‘Ah well, better get back to it I suppose. Got an idiot waiting for me.’ She hung up and thumped out of the ladies. ‘And there he is.’
Tufty was slumped against the wall outside, looking bored. Poor wee sausage.
God knew what that Wildlife Crime Officer saw in him. The pointy face with bits of red paint still stuck in the crevasses; the dirty-big thumbprint of a black eye. The sulking.
He did one of those teenagers’ sighs. ‘Can we go now?’
‘Hey, when nature calls you can’t just ask it to leave a message. Sometimes you have to...’ Oh for God’s sake.
That frantic nervous wee PC from before — the one running DCI Sodding Rutherford’s errands — came clattering down the stairs and staggered to a halt right in front of her. Peching and heeching like a broken kettle. Face shiny and pink. ‘Sar... Sarge?’
‘No’ you again!’
PC Sweaty-and-Nervous grabbed at the handrail to keep himself upright. ‘Sarge... DCI... DCI Rutherford wants... wants you... both... in his office.’