The bootfaced prostitute stuck her nose in the air. ‘Do you mind? Me and Sergeant Downie is having an intimate moment here.’
‘Shove it, Dorothy.’ Roberta jabbed a finger. ‘Don’t screw with me tonight, Downie: Susan swears I’m menopausal and I’m looking for a fight.’
He took off his glasses. ‘If you’d checked your pigeon hole at the start of the shift you’d have found out, wouldn’t you?’
She balled her fists. ‘Don’t say you weren’t warned...’
His eyes widened, then he ducked down, below the desk — coming back up with a work book. Flicked through it. ‘Phone, phone, phone... Ah, yes. Here we are.’
Downie spun the book around and pushed it towards her.
She squinted at it — all blurry and out of focus. ‘How am I supposed to read that? Your handwriting’s like two spiders fighting a hedgehog.’
‘My handwriting is perfectly clear, thank you very much. It says, “Peter Stephenson, twenty-four Lochnagar Drive”.’
Peter...?
Uncle Pete.
Married to horrible Aunt Vicki.
The scumbag who took those porn pics of Josie Stephenson was her uncle.
Roberta bared her teeth. ‘Dirty... GRAAAAAAH!’ She thumped her fist down on the desk. Growling it out. ‘Constable Quirreclass="underline" back in the van!’
IV
‘YOU BASTARD! YOU FILTHY PERVERT BASTARD!’ Aunt Vicki lunged, swinging her claws.
Harmsworth grabbed her, holding on as Tufty marched Peter Stephenson out of the living room. The place could’ve starred in a supermarket magazine: a wallpaper feature wall with ferny fronds on it, loads of Ikea furniture, themed ornaments and throw pillows, pebbles and bits of driftwood in frames above the fireplace, a fake log fire flickering gaily away to itself.
And yes, they could have let Uncle Pete get dressed, but sod it. Getting dragged down the station in his boxer shorts, beige slippers, and an old T-shirt would be good practice for him. Going to be plenty more humiliation where he was going.
Roberta slipped the previously stolen Nokia into an evidence bag. Glanced at Aunt Vicki. ‘Do you want to tell Josie’s mum, or will we?’
‘If I ever see that bastard again I’ll kill him!’
No’ a bad plan.
‘So...?’
Aunt Vicki’s chin came up. ‘You do it. I’ll never be able to look her in the eye again after this. Because of that BASTARD!’ Still struggling in Harmsworth’s hairy embrace.
‘Fair enough.’ Roberta turned and wandered out into the evening.
She’d barely gone halfway down the garden path before Aunt Vicki exploded from the front door. Screaming at the broken droopy wee figure of her husband as Tufty man-handled him into the back of the police van.
‘YOU’RE DEAD TO ME, YOU HEAR ME, PERVERT? YOU’RE DEAD!’
Harmsworth bustled out after her. Grabbed her arms again. ‘It’s not my fault, Sarge, she bit me!’
‘YOU’RE DEAD, YOU KIDDY-FIDDLING PAEDO BASTARD! DEAD!’
‘Get her back inside.’
‘Sarge.’
Every window had someone peering out of it, getting a good eyeful of the wee domestic drama playing out on their cosy middle-class street. The dinner-party set would be dining out on it for months.
Roberta scuffed over to the van.
Tufty was strapping scumbag Uncle Pete into the cage. Snapping the seatbelt over his handcuffs. After all, wouldn’t want him hurting himself before someone got the chance to shank him in the prison showers.
Soon as Uncle Pete was all trussed up and cosy, Roberta hooked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Constable Quirrel, go give Owen a hand calming the wife down before she breaks something.’
He looked at her, then at the house, then back again, a worried frown on his weaselly face. ‘Sarge? You’re not...?’ Nodding at Uncle Pete.
‘Now, Constable.’
‘OK...’ He scurried off back into the house.
She gave it a count of ten, then climbed into the prisoner cage and thumped the doors shut behind her. Glowered.
Uncle Pete was folded as far over as the seatbelt would allow. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...’
‘Your brother’s dying in hospital and you’re screwing his fifteen-year-old daughter.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...’
‘YOU TOOK PHOTOS OF IT ON YOUR BLOODY PHONE!’ It boomed around the van like thunder.
He shrank back into his seat.
Roberta took a breath. Hissed it out. Calm.
‘You pin back your lugs and you listen good: we’re going to take you back to Queen Street and process you. You’re going to call your solicitor and he’s going to tell you to “no comment” the whole thing. He’ll tell you if you keep your mouth shut he might be able to get you off with a slap on the wrists.’ She held up the evidence bag with the offending DIY-porn-filled Nokia in it. ‘And then we’ll all have to go to court. They’ll put Josie on the stand and make her tell the world how her uncle abused her. We’ll have to show the photos. In court. In front of her mum, while her father’s dying. You going to put Josie through that?’
‘I... love her.’
‘Because either way, Good Old Uncle Pete’s off to prison.’
He stared at his bare knees. Sniffed. Cleared his throat. Did his best to sound reasonable. ‘It wasn’t my idea. She got me drunk and—’
‘DON’T YOU BLOODY DARE! You’re a middle-aged man and she’s fifteen.’
‘But—’
‘Let’s count off how screwed you are, shall we?’ She stuck out her thumb: ‘Sex with an older child.’ Forefinger: ‘Sexual abuse of trust.’ Middle finger: ‘Making indecent images of a child.’ Ring finger: ‘Attempting to pervert the course of justice.’ She stepped closer, looming over him in the back of the van. ‘And you know what, Petey-boy? I’d love you to “no comment”, because if you don’t plead guilty before the trial we get to send you down for twenty-nine years.’
‘Twenty...?’ His cheeks paled, then his mouth fell open. A smear of snot glistened on his top lip.
‘Twenty-nine years locked up with all the other paedos and rapists.’ OK, so that wasn’t strictly true — get a soft enough sheriff and they’d bundle all four charges into one concurrent job-lot, which meant fourteen years max — but Good Old Uncle Pete didn’t know that. ‘And if you tell anyone about this conversation, I swear to God the nonces in prison are going to be the least of your troubles. Understand?’
Uncle Pete collapsed into himself and sobbed.
‘Good.’ She climbed out, slammed the van doors hard enough to make the whole thing rock on its suspension. Turned, and marched back to the house.
Tufty was waiting for her. ‘Sarge?’
‘The wife any calmer?’
‘Stopped screaming, which is nice.’ He shuffled his feet and stared over her shoulder at the van. ‘Er, Sarge, you didn’t...?’
‘When we get back to the ranch, you process and interview him.’
Tufty raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t want to?’
‘No. Because if I have to look at his slimy wee face once more tonight, I’m going to do what you think I just did. Only harder. And with a baseball bat.’
North Deeside Drive drifted by the van windows, the grumbling diesel engine no’ quite loud enough to drown out Uncle Pete sobbing in the cage at the back.
Big houses, big gardens, big hedges, big trees, all painted in sparkling sunshine.
Roberta’s phone buzzed at her, like a teeny ineffective vibrator. Text message:
Are you coming home tonight or not? You