No contest, really...
She stuffed her phone away. Buttoned her dungers up again. ‘OK, that’s it. If I have to sit here for one more second I’m going to commit manslaughter. Well, idiotslaughter in your case.’ She cranked the engine, setting it growling.
Tufty waggled his eyebrows. ‘Pub?’
‘Let’s get utterly crudweaselled.’
II
A cheer went up from the table in the corner as Steel and Tufty pushed into the Flare and Futtrit. Lund and Barrett were on their feet, whooping and whistling in their knock-off Trading Standards finest.
Harmsworth stayed in his seat giving them a slow handclap. ‘About time!’
The jukebox oozed smooth classics into a lounge bar that had probably been trendy around the same time as big hair and shoulder pads. Abstract neon shapes in pastel colours glowed around the grey checked wallpaper. A carpet that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the seats of a bus.
A vast array of platters covered the table: deep-fried things, sandwiches, bowls of crisps, sausage rolls, wee individual quiches, more deep-fried things, wee individual pork pies, yet more deep-fried things.
Barrett toasted them with a half-full pint of something lagery. ‘They say they’ll do us some chips too, if you want?’
Lund whooped and knocked back a shot of something. ‘Chips!’
‘Now, if you don’t mind,’ Harmsworth peeled the clingfilm off a platter, ‘can we finally start in on the buffet? I’m starving...’
‘Hoy!’ Steel chucked a beer mat at him. ‘No’ so fast, greedy guts. Got something to say.’
He crunched back in his seat and covered his face with his hands. ‘Argh, what fresh hell is this?’
‘Listen up, people: we did good today... Well, Tufty and I did good — tackling two jobbie-flinging tractors while the rest of you stood about dripping like spare socks at an orgy — but the important thing is: we prevented a riot.’ She gave them all a good hard stare. ‘Chief Superintendent Campbell, DCI Rutherford, DI Vine: they think we’re a bunch of idiots. That they can keep us out of trouble by wasting our time with stupid stolen mobile phones. That we can’t be trusted with anything else. Well, you know what? Sod them. Sod them in the ear with a stick!’
Yeah... If this was meant to be inspiring, it wasn’t really working.
‘We are damn fine police officers. We’re the best police officers. Nobody has better police officers than I do! And we’re no’ going to let them village-idiot us any more. As long as there’s rapey bastards like Jack Wallace out there, we’re going to be the ones who get in their way. We’re going to be the ones who catch him before he hurts anyone else. And if DCI Crudweaselling Rutherford thinks we’re going back to returning mobile sodding phones, he can jam the lot of them up his motherfunking bumhole!’ She banged her fist on the table. ‘I didn’t join the police force to be a glorified Christmas Elf at the Lost-and-Found Workshop, did you?’
Barrett shook his head. Harmsworth grunted. Lund stuck her chin in the air: ‘Hell no!’
‘We’re going to make a sodding difference, aren’t we?’
The response was a bit more enthusiastic this time. Dark mutterings and nods from everyone.
‘We’re going to show those felchmonkeys what real police officers can do!’
‘Yeah!’
They were all on their feet now.
‘Jack Wallace isn’t getting away with it any more. We will find him in the bushes! We will find him in the nightclubs. We will find him in the streets and we will never surrender!’
Lund gave her a big-throated, ‘WHOOOO!’
Barrett burst into applause. ‘Damn right!’
Tufty punched the air. ‘Testify!’
‘Hurrah, etc.’ Harmsworth sat back down again. ‘Can we eat the buffet now?’
‘Oh all right then, you unpatriotic sod.’ Steel rubbed her hands. ‘So: who’s in charge of the kitty? Your Aunty Roberta’s got a thirst on her the night.’
Tufty stuck one finger in his ear and moved over to the other side of the lounge, by the pool table. Kept his voice all smooth and sober. No slurring or sounding drunk at all. Nope, nope, nopeitty, nope. ‘So, I was just wondering what you were doing tomorrow?’
A slow song slunk out of the jukebox and Lund was up dancing on her own. Wiggling and doing stuff with her hands that bordered on the obscene without ever actually crossing over.
‘Tomorrow?’ PC Mackintosh had a sort of doubtful sound in her voice, like she wasn’t really certain what tomorrow was, or why some weird guy had phoned to ask her about it.
‘It’s DC Quirrel, by the way. From the crematorium?’
‘Yes, I know. You’ve said that three times already.’
‘Sorry. I’m not drunk or anything, we’re just celebrating a little. Because of the tractors.’ He was blowing it. He was definitely blowing it. Abort. ABORT! ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have called. I’m... Sorry.’
‘I’m off seeing my mother tomorrow till five. After that I’m doing my laundry. You can come over and help me fold, if you like?’
Tufty’s chest went all tingly and big. ‘Cool. I would. Yes. Cool.’
‘Good. Bring wine.’ There was a small pause. ‘How are you with ironing?’
They weren’t a bad bunch of spuds, really. Her team. Her minions. Her henchmen. And one henchwoman. Roberta smiled as Barrett placed a full shot glass in front of each of them. Even Harmsworth wasn’t that bad once you got to know him. And as long as you didn’t have to spend too long with the misery-faced old bugger. And could tell him to sod off and go be depressing somewhere else.
‘OK,’ Barrett knocked on the table, ‘we go on three. Not three and go, on three. OK? OK.’ His smile was getting a bit fuzzy at the edges, his eyes too. ‘One. Two. Three!’
They all snatched up their shots and hammered them back. Thumped their glasses down on the table again.
The floral-bitter-chemical hit punched its way down through her chest, breath like a gas leak awaiting a match. ‘Hoooo!’
Lund drummed on the table with her palms. ‘More tequila!’
‘You heard the lady.’ Barrett dug a handful of change out of a Ziploc bag. ‘Come on, everyone: another twenty quid each for the kitty.’
Because let’s be honest, two hundred and fifty quid didn’t go far split between five. Even at the Flare and Futtrit’s special Police Scotland discount mates’ rates.
And the night was still young.
Tufty poked her. ‘You’re snoring.’
But it didn’t make any difference, Lund just stayed where she was: slumped back in her chair, mouth open, making raspy chainsaw-in-a-metal-dustbin noises. Mind you, she wasn’t the only one who’d had a bit much.
Look at Harmsworth — one arm wrapped around Steel’s shoulders, shoogling her from side to side. ‘No, I mean it. I love you. I do.’ Another shoogle. ‘You’re the best DS in the world.’
Steel nodded. ‘That’s... that’s very true. I’m—’ A hiccup. ‘I’m lovely.’
Tufty nudged Barrett. ‘I think Owen’s a bit squiffy.’
Barrett didn’t look up from the pair of chicken legs he was playing with — making them do the sword dance around a pair of crossed sausage rolls. ‘Hippity, hoppity, hippity hop.’
‘Did I tell you about her hair, Davey?’ Tufty nudged him again. ‘Police Constable Mackintosh’s hair is like... is like that wheat field at the start of Gladiator. Only... only not full of dead people.’