‘I’m busy.’
‘He was... was very particular... about it... being completely... totally right now.’
She narrowed her eyes and gave the PC a poke. ‘I’m beginning to go off you.’
The boy Rutherford was standing behind his desk with his back to the room, staring out of his office window, hands crossed behind him. As if he was watching a parade marching across the Rear Podium car park six floors below. He didn’t shift as Roberta wandered in. Didn’t say a word. Ride git.
Rutherford wasn’t the only one there, though.
Hissing Sid sat prim as a vicar’s wife in one of the visitors’ chairs. He gave her a teeny shake of the head and a disappointed look.
DI Vine had the other chair. Glowering. ‘About time.’
Behind her, Tufty swore very, very quietly.
The wee loon wasn’t wrong either: this was it, they were dead. Hissing Sid wouldn’t rock up in his fancy suit and leather briefcase if Jack Raping Scumbag Wallace hadn’t made another complaint. And now Rutherford would make good on his threat — Roberta and Tufty, up in front of the firing squad. He’d given them one last chance, but now they were dead. Dead, screwed, buggered, spanked, wingwanged, crudweaselled, and completely and utterly dead.
Didn’t mean she was going quietly, though.
She sniffed. Nodded at Hissing Sid. ‘Going to be one of those meetings, is it?’
‘Detective Sergeant Steel.’ Rutherford kept staring out of his window, but you could’ve shaved your legs on his voice. Probably get frostbite doing it, though. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson tells me you’ve been hanging around outside Jack Wallace’s house. WHEN I SPECIFICALLY ORDERED YOU NOT TO!’
That boomed around the room, bouncing off the filing cabinets and whiteboards before fading away.
Tufty licked his lips and backed towards the door. ‘Maybe I should just—’
‘Oh no you don’t: you stay right there!’ Rutherford uncrossed his hands — clenched them into fists instead. ‘DS Steel, what did I tell you would happen if you screwed up again? That I would hold Constable Quirrel jointly responsible for your actions. Well congratulations.’
She jerked her chin up, shoulders back. ‘Whatever Jack Wallace said, he’s a lying wee turd.’
Hissing Sid sighed. ‘Actually, in this instance, Mr Wallace has documentary evidence. To wit: a series of photographs of your car parked outside his property on no fewer than a dozen occasions.’
‘Nah, don’t believe you. They’re fake photos.’
Rutherford turned around at that, face all dark and trembling. ‘For God’s sake, Sergeant, you’re not president of the United States; you can’t just say everything incriminating is fake!’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson?’
Hissing Sid dug into his briefcase and produced the same slimline laptop as last time. He placed it on the desk and opened it up. Tapped at the keyboard.
The screen filled with a photo of her MX-5, parked beneath the trees outside Wallace’s house, the colours muted in the darkness. Tap. Another night-time photo: her car parked a couple of doors down. Tap. There she was, leaning against one of those trees, a cloud of vapour caught by a streetlight as she puffed on her e-cigarette. Tap. The car again, her face clearly visible through the rain-flecked windscreen as she stared up at the house.
Hissing Sid sighed. ‘And last but not least...’ Tap. In this one she was rummaging through Wallace’s wheelie-bin, a torch clenched between her teeth.
Sod. He did have photographs.
Rutherford placed his fists on the desk. Looming over the laptop. ‘Well?’
‘I know this looks bad, but—’
‘Looks bad? What did I tell you?’
‘I was pursuing an ongoing investigation and—’
‘I TOLD YOU SPECIFICALLY TO STAY AWAY FROM HIM!’
Outside a siren burst into life, fading away into the distance.
The sound of a phone ringing filtered through from the office next door.
Tufty shuffled his feet. ‘Er... Can I...?’ He pointed at the laptop.
DI Vine turned his glower on him. ‘What?’
‘Well, I couldn’t help noticing that DS Steel’s wearing a green shirt and her blue suit in that last photo.’
‘This isn’t Loose Women, Constable, we’re not here for bloody fashion tips!’
‘No, yes, but we took her blue suit to the cleaners a fortnight ago, because Scabby George puked all over it when we did him for peeing off the top of Chapel Street multi-storey car park. She hasn’t had it on since.’ He inched his way forward and pointed at the laptop again. ‘So can I...?’
Hissing Sid shrugged. ‘I have no objection.’
Tufty fiddled about with the laptop’s trackpad.
Rutherford stared at her. ‘Is this true, DS Steel?’
‘Scabby George? Oh aye. He’d been swigging down two-litre bottles of super-strength cider all morning. Said if society thought it was OK to piss on him the whole time, it was only fair he got his own back.’
Tufty held up a hand. ‘Here we go. Look.’ He stepped back from the screen. A window with file information sat on top. ‘The image files’ “created on” dates are weeks and weeks ago. The photos aren’t recent.’
Ooh, you lovely wee spud of a man.
Roberta grinned. ‘So we’re off the hook.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Vine poked at the arm of his chair. ‘That doesn’t change the facts at all.’
‘Aye it does. These photos were all taken before our happy little meeting yesterday.’
‘You were harassing Jack Wallace!’
Thicky McVine clearly wasn’t getting it.
Try again, nice and slow. ‘He took these photos ages ago, right? Then he came in yesterday and forgave everything, remember? You remember him forgiving everything? At the meeting? You were there?’ Then she turned and snapped to attention in front of DCI Rutherford. ‘You ordered me to stand down, sir, and down I jolly well stood!’ She even threw in a salute for good measure.
Rutherford frowned at her for a bit, head on one side. Then nodded. ‘Very well. So, Mr Moir-Farquharson, why is your client bringing this up now?’
She clicked her heels together. ‘I can answer that one, sir. It’s because he’s a stirring wee shite.’
A smile flickered across Moir-Farquharson’s face, before he caught and squashed it.
‘I see.’ Rutherford sank into his office chair. ‘So you’re no longer keeping Jack Wallace’s house under surveillance?’
‘And disobey a direct order from you, Guv? Wouldn’t dream of it.’
DI Vine stood outside in the stairwell, scowling in at her as the lift doors slid shut.
Roberta gave him a wee wave and a wink just before he disappeared.
Miserable jobbie-faced crudweasel that he was.
It wasn’t a huge lift to start with, but when you squeezed in one detective chief inspector, a very expensive criminal lawyer, a sexy bombshell detective sergeant, and a lovely wee Tufty-shaped star, it was more like a coffin that went up and down a bit.
No one said anything, just stood there in awkward silence, trying no’ to rub up against anyone else in a faux-pervy manner.
Roberta leaned closer to Tufty and whispered in his ear. ‘Hope nobody farts!’
The look on his face was thanks enough.