Tufty squeezed past, taking the steps two at a time.
They all hurried down after him.
‘Look, I’m in the middle of an investigation here, so—’
‘Wallace wanted me to know that he’d been at dinner with his mates for an hour and a half, and then he was off to the pictures till half nine.’
Vine’s voice got darker and louder. ‘And you actually thought that was important enough to interrupt a—’
‘He’s setting up another alibi.’ Around the landing and down the next flight. ‘Some poor woman’s getting raped tonight!’
One last flight of stairs and along a corridor lined with ‘WANTED’ posters.
‘John? You still there?’
She barged out through the door at the end and into the car park reserved for police vans.
‘Detective Inspector Vine?’
Tufty came sprinting around the corner, waving a set of keys with a pink fuzzy fob dangling off them. ‘Got it!’
The sound of a child crying came from the phone’s speaker, then some scrunching noises.
‘Did you hear me? Some woman’s about to get raped!’
Tufty unlocked the van and they all piled inside. ‘Buckle up, people!’
Roberta clambered into the passenger side as Vine’s voice came back on. All flat — the anger drained out of it.
‘I see.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You’re too late.’
‘FUCK!’ She punched the dashboard as Tufty hauled the van around the right way and roared away down Poultry Market Lane.
‘Where am I going?’
‘Union Square.’ Back to the phone. ‘I bloody well told you, didn’t I?’
‘Just... don’t. OK?’ That wee kid was still wailing in the background. ‘Karen Marsh. Teacher. On maternity leave. I’ve seen some things in my time, but... Jesus.’
The van burst out from behind Division Headquarters and onto Queen Street. Tufty hit the ‘999’ button and the sirens screeched, blue-and-whites flickering back from the parked cars and shop windows.
‘We’re on our way to arrest Jack Wallace.’
Vine groaned. ‘If he phoned you to boast about his alibi, what do you think the chances are it’s waterproof? Because he knows we’ll check.’
‘It’s fake. It has to be.’ She grabbed the handle above her door as the van screeched around the corner onto Broad Street. ‘He claims he’s at Union Square. We’re going to pull the security camera footage and drag his raping arse out of the cinema.’
‘Can you hear yourself? If he’s on camera there, and he’s still at the pictures, he — couldn’t — have — done — this.’
‘He’s still involved! He knows!’
Right, onto Union Street, the traffic parting before them as Tufty gunned it.
‘And how do we prove it? What magical bloody fairy wand do we wave to make that one stick?’
‘We can’t just sit on our thumbs and do nothing: women are getting raped!’
The traffic lights up ahead were red, Tufty pulled out onto the wrong side of the road, jabbing at the horn as a big blue Isuzu D-Max blocked the box junction, the bearded idiot behind the wheel grimacing at them as if that was going to help.
‘No. We can’t sit on our thumbs. But you have to.’
Finally the idiot reversed out of the way and the van roared forwards, round onto Market Street.
‘I’m no’—’
‘Send two of your team to review the security footage. They can haul Wallace out of the cinema too: make sure he’s not slipped out through a side door. But you go nowhere near him, understand?’
Aye, right.
‘He’s involved!’
‘They’re — going — to — fire — you, Roberta! Stay the hell away from Jack Wallace.’
The van wheeched around the corner and onto Guild Street. The dark, rectangular, grey bulk of Union Square loomed up ahead. They eased their way around a cluster of buses, through two red lights, past the Jury’s Inn and right up to the metal bollards outside Union Square.
‘Did you hear what I said? They’ll fire you.’
Roberta sniffed. Stared out of the window at the shopping centre’s huge glass façade, bolted onto the side of the train station. ‘Didn’t know you cared.’
‘You’re a good police officer, Roberta, you just... got obsessed and lost your way. This is your second chance, don’t piss it away on a piece of dirt like Jack Wallace. We’ll get him.’
‘Oh my...’ She put a hand over her heart. ‘Think I’m tearing up a little... I mean, I’m a married woman, but yes! Yes, I will run away with you!’
‘I’m serious.’
A sigh, then she sagged back in her seat. ‘Fine.’
‘Good. Let me know if your team finds anything.’ He hung up.
She stuffed her phone back in its pocket.
Stay away from Jack Wallace. They’ll fire you. You’re a good police officer, Roberta. We love you, Roberta. Please don’t leave us.
She scrunched her face closed. Took a deep breath. Bellowed it out: ‘AAAAAAAARGH!’ Grabbed at the dashboard, fingernails digging into the plastic as she wrenched herself back and forward six or seven times making it creak and groan. Then let go and slumped.
Everyone was staring at her, mouths pursed, eyebrows raised.
A shrug. ‘I hate it when they’re so sodding reasonable.’ She waved a hand at the back seats. ‘Davey: you and Veronica go check out Wallace’s alibi.’
Barrett clutched his clipboard. ‘Sarge.’
Lund hauled open the door and they both hopped out onto the cobbles. Marched away towards Union Square.
Harmsworth slid the door shut again then shoogled forward. ‘Well done. It’ll be good for them to handle a wee job on their own. They might learn something.’
Tufty tapped the steering wheel. ‘Do we wait for them, or are we back to the station?’
‘Pfff...’ Roberta shook her head. ‘No point hanging about. Might as well go back to the ranch.’
‘Sarge.’ He pulled the van around in a lumpy four-point turn.
Harmsworth changed seats so he was in the ones directly behind the front, facing the other way. ‘And it won’t hurt DC Barrett to miss the first couple of drinks in the pub. He gets far too loud and irritating with six pints in him. And as for Lund? Pffff...’ He turned in his seat, draping an arm around both her and Tufty’s shoulders. ‘We’re the heart of the team. It’s only fitting we—’
Roberta brushed his hand away. ‘Sit your arse back down, Owen, and put your seatbelt on. They won’t let me arrest Wallace, but I swear on God’s fluffy slippers: I’m arresting someone tonight if it kills me.’
Roberta banged both the rear doors open and swept into the custody block like an outraged parent, Tufty scurrying along in her wake. A tubby PC in the full going-out kit was in front of the custody desk, holding onto a bootfaced middle-aged wifie dressed in fishnets, a short skirt, and a PVC leather jacket. Hair all Brillo pad.
Downie was on the desk again, peering at her over the top of his glasses. ‘I see. And did the gentleman in question pay for these amorous services in advance, or does he have an account?’
‘Oh aye, and a frequent flyer card and all. We give Nectar points these days, you know?’
‘Hoy, Downie!’ Roberta stormed up to the desk. ‘Who did you give that mobile phone to? The stolen one? I want a name!’