Logan picked both mugs up again and followed Steel inside. Cleared his throat as she dug a sachet of cat food out of a cupboard and ripped it open. ‘Roberta, I—’
‘Don’t. OK?’ She didn’t look at him, just squatted down and squeezed the food into Mr Rumpole’s bowl. ‘I know.’
‘But—’
‘You didn’t clype on me because you’re a traitorous bastard. You clyped on me because I was wrong. I should never have framed Jack Wallace, no matter how much of a rapey scumbag he is. I screwed up. If I’d played by the rules he wouldn’t have come here. I put Susan, Jasmine and Naomi in danger.’ She stamped on the bin’s pedal and dropped the empty sachet in. ‘You were right and I was wrong.’
Roberta Steel admitting she was wrong?
Dear Lord, that was a first.
He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m really, really sorry it worked out the way it did.’
‘Me too.’ She sighed, then turned to face him. Opened her arms wide, voice catching a little on the words ‘Come on then, you big girl.’
He hugged her and she squeezed back so hard it made his ribs creak.
Steel sniffed. Let go of him and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. ‘Gah...’
Logan smiled. ‘A hug and tears? You’re just a big softy, aren’t you?’
‘If you ever tell anyone I just did that, I’ll castrate you too.’ She reached into her pocket and dropped a little shrivelled bloody chunk of flesh on top of the cat food. Picked Mr Rumpole off the breakfast bar and set him down in front of his bowl. ‘Dinner time.’
He wolfed the lot down as they watched in silence.
When it was all gone, Steel clapped her hands. ‘Right. Now, how about we break out that whisky?’
IV
‘COME BACK HERE!’ Roberta shoved through a clot of halfwits in hoodies and puffy trainers.
‘Hoy, watch it, Grandma!’
‘“Grandma”, nice one, Baz.’
Morons.
Union Street was almost solid with shoppers — old, young, men, women, rich, poor, and all of them IN THE SODDING WAY!
That red hoodie was getting further away, barging past families and oldies while she was mired neck-deep in a swamp of idiots.
Billy Moon glanced back over his shoulder and hooted at her, stuck his tongue out, then wheeched around the corner onto Market Street.
Cheeky wee sod.
She gritted her teeth and ran after him.
Tufty helped the old guy to his feet. Grey hair and damp eyes — the iris ringed in pale grey. Marks & Spencer ready meals littered the pavement all around them, a bottle of red smashed to curls of green glass. ‘Are you OK?’
‘He got my wallet and my phone!’ The man waved a shaky fist across the road, where Steel and Billy Moon’s red hoodie and black backpack were rapidly disappearing downhill. ‘You wee shite! I’ll tan your arse for you!’
‘Stay here.’
And Tufty was off, sprinting across the road, ducking and dodging the traffic to the other side. Steel and Billy Moon were legging it down Market Street, but Tufty had a clever. Instead of following them he turned the other way, running up Union Street towards the Trinity Centre.
It was time for a cunning plan.
Billy Moon jinked right, clattering down the stairs and into the Aberdeen Market shopping centre — a grey slab of a building with about as much charm as a litter tray.
He burst through the doors, trainers squeaking on the floor.
Roberta grabbed the stainless-steel handrail and swept around and down, after him. Through the doors and into a labyrinth of wee booth-type shops.
She hauled out her phone and thumbed the screen as she ran.
‘Control Room.’
‘Where’s my sodding backup?’
Past places that unlocked mobile phones or flogged novelty balloons or sold underwear in six-packs.
‘I’ve told you already: we don’t do backup for shoplifters!’
Useless Spungbadgers.
She stuck her phone away again, whooshing past a homemade-jewellery shop, one selling ancient electrical equipment, tattoos while you wait, a greengrocer...
Billy was just visible up ahead: laughing, shoving through people, leaving a wake of fallen pensioners and their spilled shopping.
Arrrgh...
Roberta leaped over an auld wifie sprawled amongst a dozen packs of lacy pants as a clutch of ‘HAPPY HEN NIGHT!’ balloons — at least half of which were shaped like willies — bobbed against the ceiling tiles.
And past. Around the corner.
A two-storey atrium dropped away below her, a set of stairs descending to the floor below. Billy Moon was already halfway down them.
Tufty grabbed the edge of the Thorntons shop and swung himself around the corner and onto the Back Wynd Stairs, hammering down them two at a time towards the Green below. Arms out for balance, mouth wide. ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’
Holy mother of Fish that was steep!
The granite steps were worn in the middle, acned with chewing gum, streaked with snotter-green moss and algae, but they were still hard and sharp enough to split a skull like a dropped Pot Noodle.
Across a small landing and down the other side.
‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’
Billy Moon did a weird show-off twirling-jump thing over the edge of the stairwell, dropping onto the edge of a big wooden planter and back-flipping. Trainers squealing on the floor as he slid to a halt, both arms up, hands curled into fists, middle fingers out. Grinning.
Cheeky wee shite.
Roberta lumbered down the stairs.
He was backing away slowly. Actually, no he wasn’t: the arrogant sod was moonwalking away. Letting her catch up a bit.
Well, when she caught up she was going to introduce the pointy bit of Mrs Shoe to the dark and stinky bit of Mr Bumhole!
He made a loudhailer out of his hands. ‘Come on, Granny, you can do it!’
What the hell was it with people shouting ‘Granny’ at her? She was no’ a sodding granny. Nowhere near old enough for a start! As Billy Cheeky Spungbadger Moon was about to find out!
Roberta put on an extra spurt of speed, thundered down the last flight of stairs and out onto the atrium floor.
‘Woooo!’ He turned and barged out through the doors.
She clattered across the atrium and out onto the Green.
A Mondeo estate slammed on its brakes, screeching to a halt on the cobblestones as Billy Moon danced past its bonnet, sticking two fingers up at the driver. Laughing. The Mondeo’s horn blared.
And he was out of there, arms and legs pumping.
Roberta puffed and panted, sweat dribbling down between her breasts and buttocks. A tiny jagged knife jabbing away inside her ribs with every step.
She wasn’t too old for this. She was just... too important.
Chasing cheeky wee scroats was a job for detective constables, no’ detective sergeants.
And where the hell was Tufty when you needed him?
This was his sodding job!
Argh...
Roberta lumbered after Billy Moon, but she was getting slower and he was getting away — looking back over his shoulder as he ran. Laughing. Hooting.
Young, fast, and never, ever going to—
Tufty appeared from behind the eating area in the middle of the Green, one arm out, and THUMP — Billy stopped dead, clotheslined.
His legs shot out in front of him, arse a good four feet off the cobbles, hanging there as if gravity didn’t exist. Then it grabbed hold again and he clattered down, flat on his backpack. Lay there groaning.