‘Well... I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.’
No prizes for guessing what that meant.
‘... so maybe you simply can’t combine quantum theory and general relativity?’
There was a ding-dinging noise and Steel peered at her mobile phone. ‘Susan wants me to pick up toilet paper, nappies, and a thing of athlete’s foot powder.’
‘Cos Einstein showed that gravity’s an illusion, right? It’s really just acceleration caused by mass distorting space-time and—’
‘Tell you, Tufty, being a lesbian: it’s no’ all sex-swings and dildos.’
The guy had finally finished mowing his lawn and moved on to trimming his hedges with a massive electric orange swordfish thing.
Tufty sat up in his seat. ‘Ooh, I know: “Motor Bike!”’
‘No.’
‘... and I wonder: what if he was right?’ Roberta sagged a bit further, till Jack Wallace’s house almost disappeared behind the car door.
The whole thing was all screwed up. And no’ just Jack Scumbag Wallace — everything. From Detective Chief Inspector right down to Detective Sergeant. Two ranks. The biggest demotion Professional Standards were legally allowed to give her. One step up from taking her warrant card back and kicking her out onto the street.
All because she wouldn’t... no, couldn’t let Jack Wallace get away with it.
Planting evidence?
‘Gah...’ How could she think that was a good idea? How?
What a massive motherfunking moron.
Tufty stared around him, like a Labrador in a squirrel shop. ‘“Black Bird”?’
‘“BD.” “D”, you idiot.’ She rubbed a hand over her closed eyes. ‘What would’ve happened if McRae hadn’t clyped on me to the rubber heelers — would I have done it again? Fitted someone else up? Maybe forced a confession? Or beat up someone in custody? Taken bribes...’ Oh aye, it was easy to say that’d never happen, but Hannibal Lecter didn’t jump straight into the murdering and eating people, did he. Probably eased his way into it. Like getting into a hot bath.
She’d dipped her toe in the water.
‘“Black Dog”!’
And Logan McRae had stopped her.
What if she’d been wrong all this time?
‘What if he was actually saving me?’
Tufty poked her. ‘Is it “Black Dog”?’
‘No.’
‘Erm... Sarge?’
She kept her eyes on her phone’s screen, thumbs poking away at the buttons. Maybe if she pretended she couldn’t see or hear him he’d shut up about sodding gravitational lensing?
How did you get on at the golf then? Are
you going to be a grumpy old Susan when
you get home?
Send.
Tufty poked her. ‘Sarge?’
Don’t give up — keep ignoring him and he’ll go away.
Ding-ding.
Six under par! A personal best! Only Gillian
McMillan to beat & the Great Hazlehead
Ladies Challenge Cup is mine for another
year!
MINE!
My Precious!!!!!!!!
;P
At least someone was having a good day.
Another poke. ‘Sarge? Hello, Sarge?’
Damn it — ignoring him didn’t work. Ah well, it’d been worth a try.
She gave Tufty a free sigh: nice and exasperated so he knew what a pain in the ring he was. ‘OK, OK: “Beech Tree”.’
‘No. Well, yes it is “Beech Tree”, but that’s not what I’m Hello-Sarge-ing about. Jack Wallace.’
‘El Magnito del Turdo.’
‘Yeah, him. What I was trying to say earlier, but you threatened me with a coconut suppository: why are we here? I mean, it’s a waste of time, right?’
She glowered across the car. ‘We are here because some poor woman’s going to be raped tonight!’
‘I get that, but why are we here, here? Wallace called you up with his pre-alibi, right? He’s going out for a meal, then off to the pictures. He’ll make sure he’s on CCTV so we can’t pin anything on him. Whoever does the actual raping, it won’t be him. And suppose he does come home and we grab him — he knows we can’t rattle it out of him. All Wallace has to do is keep schtum and wait for his lawyer to appear. He makes a complaint, we have to let him go, then DCI Rutherford kicks us in the nads till we squeak and fires us both.’
‘Aye, I’ll do the motivational speeches, thank you very much.’
‘But I’m right, aren’t I? He knows we’ll check, so his alibi’s going to be tight as Harmsworth’s wallet. All we can do here is cock it up and get ourselves chucked off the force. Wallace wins.’
Roberta ground her teeth for a bit, scowling out at the trees, the houses, the horrible blue sky.
Sodding hell.
The ugly wee spud was right. Wallace knew there was going to be a rape, but short of tying him to a chair and beating the living hell out of him with a sock full of batteries, how would they get him to talk? No’ that the battery/sock thing wasn’t appealing...
Hannibal Lecter, remember?
Gaaaaaah...!
There you go: Tufty was right and she was wrong.
No way she was admitting it, though. ‘I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with “DM”.’
‘... so the two kids you found in that wardrobe are sorted.’
Roberta had a dig at an armpit. ‘Good foster homes?’
There was a pause from the other end of the phone. ‘No, crap ones. We like children to have a really horrible upbringing wherever possible. Keeps us in work.’
God save us from sarcastic social workers. Mind you, was there any other kind?
‘What about Harrison Gray?’
‘Other than changing his name to something less bullyable? Going to take a while. But we should have something by the time he gets out of hospital. Maybe a family with a dog so he can find out what Pedigree Chum is really for?’
‘Thanks, Pauline, I owe you one.’
‘Oh you owe me several.’ And Pauline was gone.
Tufty was staring at her. ‘What?’
‘You’re smiling. Why are you smiling?’
‘None of your business. And you’ve got three guesses left: “HP”.’
‘“Happy Police”?’
‘No.’
Her phone ding-dinged at her again. Harmsworth this time:
I hate to disturb whatever important mission
you’re on, but is there any chance you could
actually turn up at the pub? Or are you just
hoping Owen will starve to death here?
Because that’s what I’m
Ding-ding.
doing!!!
As if there was any chance of that happening. He had enough blubber reserves to last him till next Christmas. Still, it wasn’t as if they were achieving anything here, was it? And surely Tufty would’ve forgotten it was his idea to leave by now, wouldn’t he? The wee loon had the attention span of a butterfly.
Look at him, sitting there in the passenger seat banging on about sod-knew what.
‘... and how can you come up with a theory of quantum gravity if gravity doesn’t really exist? Stands to reason.’
So the choice was sit here — just to prove a point — or head down the pub and drink the Chief Superintendent’s two hundred and fifty quid?