still owe me a fancy French meal, you
workaholic bumhead!
True.
She was halfway through thumbing out a reply when the thing launched into Cagney & Lacey. ‘WEE DAVEY BARRETT’ popped up on screen. She hit the button. ‘Davey? Tell me you’ve got good news for your lovely Aunty Roberta.’
‘Sorry, Sarge. We’ve been through the security camera footage and Jack Wallace was right where he said he was. Doug’s Dinner for an hour and three-quarters, then off to the cinema to see Once Upon a Time in Dundee.’
She frowned out at a chunk of parkland. Happy couples strolling hand-in-hand along the winding path. ‘Maybe he slipped out?’
‘Nope. We went through the restaurant’s footage too — longest he’s away from the table is a five-minute trip to the loo. We rousted him from Screen Four, just as Ewan McGregor was mid-shootout in the Overgate Centre. Got a lot of swearing chucked our way when we had the lights turned on. Him and his two buddies were right in the middle of a row. No way they could’ve sneaked away with no one noticing.’
Gah...
The perfect end to the perfect day.
Roberta sagged back in her seat and covered her eyes with a hand. ‘Thanks, Davey. You and Lund write it up and head off home.’
‘Cheers, Sarge.’
And, no doubt, tomorrow there’d be yet another visit from Jack Bloody Wallace and Hissing Sodding Sid. In to moan about how the poor raping wee turdbasket was being ‘harassed’.
Tufty poked her in the shoulder. ‘Sarge, you OK?’
‘No. No I’m not.’ She deleted her text to Susan and composed a new reply:
Too late to get a table booked.
Stick the vodka in the freezer and get the
holiday brochures out.
Let’s make a night of it.
Think they’re going to fire me tomorrow.
Send.
And you know what? Good riddance to the lot of them.
Tufty was looking at her with that spanked puppy dog expression on his stupid face. ‘Want to talk about it?’
‘No. I want to go home and get very, very drunk.’
Whatever crap was coming tomorrow could wait.
Chapter Nine
in which some tractors drive down Union Street
and Everyone Has A Bath
I
‘Urgh...’ Roberta struggled her way into the itchiest black trousers ever invented by man. And it had to be a man — no woman would ever create something as horrible as Police-Scotland-issue uniform leg torturers.
Didn’t help that they’d shrunk about two sizes since she’d last had them on.
She thumped back onto the floral-print duvet and puffed and wriggled, hauling them up.
Susan leaned back against the vanity unit, one foot up on the tartan chaise longue. Smiling away in her floaty Laura Ashley dress.
Rotten sod.
Finally the trousers gave up the fight! Roberta rolled off the bed, pulled in her stomach and did up the button. Zipped the bulgy bits in.
These trousers had definitely shrunk.
Susan sauntered over and brushed a bit of cat hair from the epaulettes buttoned to Roberta’s black T-shirt. ‘Oh, I do love a woman in uniform.’
‘Surprised they still fit... Almost... Long as I don’t breathe... And they’re all itchy.’
‘Well I think you look very sexy.’ She threaded the black belt through the belt loops. Bit her bottom lip. ‘Maybe you should keep it on when you get home? And don’t forget your handcuffs. After all, I’m going to cream Marion Bridgeport on the golf course today: I’ll be in the mood to celebrate.’
Roberta groaned down onto the chaise longue and pulled on her boots. Laced them up as all the blood above her trousers shoved its way into her head and the waistband made breathing impossible. Slumped back and sucked in a deep breath. ‘Sodding hell...’
Really needed bigger trousers.
She looked up at Susan. ‘Turns out Hissing Sid didn’t defend me for free — someone paid him. It was—’
‘Logan. He didn’t want you to know and be all stubborn about it.’ A small sad sigh as she brushed at the epaulettes again. ‘It’s a shame they had to swap the shirt-and-tie for a T-shirt. I always loved you in a tie.’
Wonderful. So everyone knew but her.
Roberta looked away. No’ meeting Susan’s eye. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because I didn’t want you to be all stubborn about it either. How am I supposed to get my kinky on with you banged up in prison somewhere?’
She pulled herself up with one of the bed’s four posts. ‘He ratted me out to the rubber heelers.’
‘Plus, I really don’t think I could trust you — locked in with all those naughty women, twenty-four hours a day? Communal showers? What would you get up to?’
‘I trusted him.’
‘I know you did, Robbie.’ Then she reached around and took a good handful of Roberta’s bum and squeezed. ‘Now, get this sexy itchy backside downstairs. French toast for breakfast!’
‘Hi.’ He’d been aiming for cool-and-manly, but what came out was more of a testicularly ruptured squeak. Tufty cleared his throat and tried again. Much deeper this time. ‘Constable Mackintosh.’
A faint pink tinge spread across her neck, where it poked out of her stabproof vest and high-viz waistcoat. ‘Detective Constable Quirrel.’
Uniformed officers crowded the muster room, laughing, joking, moaning, whinging, talking about how great it was to be kicking off at nine in the morning instead of seven for a change.
‘So... You all set for today?’
She nodded. ‘You?’
He slipped his hands into the armpits of his stabproof. ‘Nice being back in uniform again. Don’t get me wrong, CID’s fun, but it’s not the same when you’re running about in your own clothes. Like you’re only playing at being a police officer.’
‘Right.’
Yeah, this wasn’t really going as well as he’d planned.
Tufty cleared his throat again. Safer ground. ‘So... Half two this afternoon?’
‘Yes.’ A small smile. ‘Looking forward to it. Well, not. Sort of. It’s a wee dog’s funeral and what kind of sicko enjoys that? I mean, it’s good to be doing something nice for an old lady...’ Constable Mackintosh straightened her equipment belt with its collection of limb restraints, handcuffs, pepper spray, and extendable baton. ‘Shame we don’t have an urn though. For the look of the thing.’
‘Yeah. A lot nicer than getting your dog back in a shoebox.’ He stared at his feet. ‘After the funeral, do you want to—’
A voice boomed out from the doorway. ‘All right, everyone, settle down.’ Whoever was speaking, they were hidden behind the sea of heads. ‘Chief Superintendent Campbell wants a word before you head out. Boss?’
‘Thanks, Steve. Ladies, gentlemen, and Detective Sergeant Marshall, social media is fizzing with posts from those who look at today’s farmers’ protest as an excuse to settle old scores. Independence: in — out. Brexit: in — out.’ A sheaf of paper appeared above the waves of close-cropped haircuts for a brief shoogle. ‘You should all have an information sheet — I want you to pay particular attention to Gareth Thannet and Angus Menzies. Last time this pair of individuals clashed, Glasgow city centre was turned into a warzone. And now they seem to think that they can come up to Aberdeen on a jolly and cause trouble on our streets. Are they right?’