‘Right. Yes. Harder. And I... I want you to have my car as an apology!’ Babbling it out as he tossed his keys down beside the envelope. ‘It’s a Jaguar XJ with leather trim and heated seats...’
‘And?’
Phil Innes’s bottom lip wobbled, his eyes wet and glistening. ‘And... And my watch too?’
‘There we go.’ Big Jimmy Grieve smiled. ‘Now, doesn’t that make you feel a bit better about yourself, Philip?’
He wiped a hand across his tear-moistened face. ‘Please can I go to prison now?’
III
Lund checked Phil Innes was all seatbelted in, then climbed out of the cage and locked the van’s back door. She hooked a thumb at it. ‘Ready to go when you are, Sarge.’
Steel nodded. ‘Give us a minute, Veronica. Got some business to finish.’
Tufty shuffled his feet as Lund climbed in through the police van’s side door and slid it shut, leaving him all alone with Steel and the horror that was Big Jimmy Grieve. ‘Er, Sarge? Do you want I should...?’ Pointing back at the van.
‘You stay where you are. Might learn something.’ Then Steel turned her back on him. ‘Still got it, Mr Grieve.’
A modest shrug from those broad granite shoulders.
‘As a gesture of our gratitude, I shall present you with your usual fee...’ She held out her hand to Tufty for some reason. Like he had the slightest clue what was going on here.
‘I have no idea what you’re— Ow!’
She smacked him on the back of the head again.
‘Ow!’
‘Get the rowies.’
Rowies? They were all mad.
He hurried around to the passenger side, opened the door, retrieved the greasy paper bag from the dashboard, and hurried back again. Passed it to Steel. Who handed it to Big Jimmy Grieve.
‘Half a dozen. You can count them, if you want?’
Big Jimmy Grieve weighed the bag in his hand. ‘I trust you. Now, if we’re all done here, it’s Friday, it’s half past five, and I have a bird table to put up.’
He turned to go.
OK, so it was now or never.
Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Mr Grieve?’
The huge figure stopped, looked back over his shoulder. Made the kind of eye contact that caused perfectly brave detective constables’ bowels to clench.
Right.
Here we go.
Deep breath. ‘What did you do to Philip Innes? He was... It was like someone had run over him with a steamroller — squeezed the horrible right out of him. What are his defence going to hit us with when this goes to trial?’ Tufty’s chin came up: getting his righteous on with every sentence. ‘I want to know what you did.’
Big Jimmy Grieve walked over until he was right in front of him — the tips of his boots pressing into Tufty’s — and stood there. Not moving. Not saying anything. Just staring with those frozen granite eyes...
Yeah.
Maybe not.
Definitely not.
Tufty swallowed, backed away, pointing over his shoulder at the van. ‘I’m gonna just... Erm...’
Big Jimmy Grieve looked at Steel. ‘They don’t get any brighter, do they?’
‘I keep hoping, but no.’
Tufty hauled the side door open and clambered inside. Thumped it closed again. Locked it.
Sank into his seat.
And nearly jumped straight back out of it as a hand landed on his shoulder. He didn’t mean to go, ‘Eeek!’ he really didn’t.
Lund gave his shoulder a little squeeze. ‘Did we try measuring willies with Big Jimmy Grieve? Did we lose?’
Outside, Steel stood on her tiptoes and kissed Mr Grieve on the cheek.
The hulking monster nodded, stared in through the police van windows for a heartbeat too many — like he was memorising Tufty’s face and planning on rearranging it with his boot at some point — then lumbered off.
A shudder rippled its way down Tufty’s back. ‘That is, without any kind of doubt, the scariest motherfunker I have ever met.’
Tufty shoved the CID door open and bounded inside like a labradoodle puppy, belting out a one-man fanfare. ‘Tan-tan-ta-ta!’
Barrett, Lund, and Harmsworth spun around in their office chairs as Roberta swaggered in, both hands up flashing the victory Vs.
She sang it out: ‘We are the champions!’
Lund beamed. ‘He cop to it?’
‘Didn’t even try to “no comment”.’ Roberta danced a couple of wee pas de basques. ‘Shortest interview I’ve ever done: aggravated assault, animal cruelty, illegal money lending, harassment, and forty-nine other offences to be taken into consideration. CHAMPIONS!’ Another two pas de basques, three high cuts, and done. She stood there grinning at them. Lowered her arms. ‘We, my little love-monkeys, are off to the pub tonight to celebrate!’
Lund punched the air. ‘Rippa!’
‘Actually...’ Barrett held up a hand. ‘Remember we’ve got that farmers’ protest tomorrow morning? And the TV will be there, so we’ve got a full kit inspection first thing.’
‘Aye, so?’
‘So, perhaps, flaming Sambucas till three in the morning isn’t such a good idea?’
Cagney & Lacey belted out into the room. ‘Hold that thought.’ She pulled out her phone.
‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’.
Roberta pressed the button. ‘Hello?’
Sodding Jack Sodding Wallace. ‘Well, welclass="underline" if it isn’t my favourite demoted police officer.’
The phone groaned a little as she squeezed it. ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘Did you enjoy seeing my photographs? Good, weren’t they?’
She poked at the screen again, putting it on speakerphone. ‘You know where you can stick your photos, Wallace?’
Everyone in the room gathered closer, staring at her mobile as his slimy voice slithered out of the speaker again.
‘Oh, don’t be so grumpy. I’m just here enjoying a nice meal at Doug’s Dinner, with my mates, and thought I’d check in. We’ve been here, oh, at least, what?’
A muffled voice in the background: ‘Hour and a half?’
Tufty pulled a face at her, then scurried over to the whiteboard, wiping off the words of the day and the collection of willies scrawled up there.
‘An hour and a half. Now we’re off to see a film. Something exciting. Should take us till... oh, about half nine?’
‘Yawn.’ Roberta perched on the edge of the nearest desk. ‘And I care because?’
Tufty yanked the top off a whiteboard pen, printed the word ‘ALIBI!!!’ in big red letters and underlined it. Made big pantomime gestures at the board.
Goat-buggering hell in a carrier bag: the wee sod was right. ‘Wallace? What have you done?’
‘Me?’ A greasy little laugh. ‘Nothing. That’s the point.’
And the line went dead. He’d hung up.
Roberta stared at the screen, then out at her team. ‘Grab your coats and handcuffs: we’re going out again. Now!’ She marched from the room, scrolling through her contacts as everyone scurried into place behind her. Poked the button and set it ringing. ‘Tufty: get us a Black Maria. Owen: you and Davey—’
A sharp impatient voice battered out of her phone. ‘Vine.’
‘Aye, John — Jack Wallace is up to something.’
‘Oh in the name of... We’ve been over this! You can’t just—’
‘Will you pin back your lugs for two minutes?’ She barged through the double doors at the end of the corridor, boot heels echoing back off the concrete stairwell. ‘Wallace just called me.’