She staggered over, bent double, grabbed hold of her knees, and hacked up a lung. ‘Aaaaaargh... Stitch...’
Tufty jumped up and down, like a thin ugly version of Rocky at the top of the Art Museum steps. ‘I has a win!’
‘Idiot... Ahhh... Spungbadgering hell...’ More coughing. ‘Argh...’
He hauled Billy to his feet. ‘William Moon, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the...’ Tufty trailed off as Billy’s bottom lip trembled, then the tears started. Snot making two shiny trails down his top lip.
‘For goodness’ sake.’ Roberta straightened up. ‘Don’t be such a wimp.’
All that brash ‘Aren’t I young, and untouchable?’ bravado had evaporated, leaving a teeny wee boy behind. What was he, ten years old? Maybe eleven at a push?
No’ the big-time criminal he thought he was.
The crying got louder, damper, and snotterier.
Tufty shuffled his feet. ‘Maybe just this once...?’
A ten-year-old boy, bawling his wee heart out on Aberdeen’s cobbles.
Ah, what the hell...
She sighed. ‘Go on then.’
He went through Billy’s pockets, digging out mobile phones and wallets and watches and stuffing them into the backpack. Slipped the backpack’s straps off and hefted it over his own shoulder. ‘I’m confiscating the lot.’
Billy blinked at him and sniffed. Wiped his shiny nose on his sleeve. ‘I’m sorry, Mister.’
‘And stop nicking stuff off people! You want to end up like your mate, Charlie Roberts?’
He shook his head and sobbed some more.
Tufty pointed. ‘Go on then, off you jolly well sod.’
Billy just stared at him. Sniffed again. Glanced over his shoulder, where Tufty was pointing, then legged it — away at full speed, the soles of his trainers flapping, arms swinging. Sprinting into the tunnel beneath the St Nicholas Centre, just like last time.
His voice echoed out from the gloom as he vanished. ‘CATCH YOU LATER, MASTURBATORS!’
And he was gone.
Roberta stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘Why do I get the feeling we’ve just been foolish and deluded?’
A shrug. ‘Probably. Maybe we should—’ The theme tune to The Sweeney belted out from his pocket and he produced his phone. Shrugged at her. ‘What, you’ve got a monopoly on old TV show ringtones?’ Hit the button. ‘Kate?’ A grin. ‘Yeah...’
Ah to be young, stupid, gangly and in love.
He wandered off a couple of paces. ‘Is she? That’s great. Yeah... No... I know...’
Probably organising a threesome.
Roberta dug out her own phone, scrolling through her text messages. Logan’s one was still sitting there.
Jasmine’s party: I can get hold of a bouncy
castle, if you like?
A guy I know has one shaped like a pirate
ship and he’ll do us a deal.
She smiled and thumbed out a reply.
Perfect — it’ll go great with the zombie
theme.
Just make sure you bring a LOT of booze
with you. Going to be a LONG day.
Send.
When she looked up, Tufty was standing there beaming at her. ‘That was Kate. She says Mrs Galloway’s getting out of hospital today. We’re going round to make sure she’s settled into the sheltered housing place OK. Want to come?’
‘Why no’?’
They wandered back towards the Aberdeen Market.
Roberta kicked an empty plastic bottle, sending it skittering across the cobbles. ‘And is Agnes keeping the car, or selling it?’
‘Selling. Even second hand it’s worth about thirty grand.’ He shifted his grip on the backpack. ‘Sarge, about the car?’
Her stomach made a wee rumbling grumbling noise. ‘Ooh. Think I need a little smackerel of something.’
‘Yeah, but the car, the cash, the watch. Big Jimmy Grieve...’ A grimace. ‘Do we owe him favours now? Only I don’t want to owe gangsters favours.’
‘Silly Tufty, Mr Grieve isn’t a gangster, he’s a retired cop. First DI I ever worked for. God, now there’s a man who can drink. I could tell you stories that’d make your pubes go straight.’
‘Oh thank God for that.’ Tufty sagged a bit. ‘Thought it was going to turn into one of those Godfather deals.’ He flinched as her stomach growled again. ‘Back to the station for tea and biscuits?’
‘That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all day.’
‘After all, must be nearly time for tenses,’ he checked his watch, ‘we can...’ His eyes widened as he stared at the pale hairy stripe on his wrist. Then pulled up his other sleeve and stared at the wrist on that side. Then back to the first wrist. ‘That rancid little spungbadger’s nicked my watch!’ He charged off towards the tunnel under the St Nicholas Centre. ‘COME BACK HERE YOU THIEVING WEE JOBBIE!’
See? That was what you got for being nice to people.
Roberta shook her head. ‘Foolish and deluded.’ Then lumbered after him.
After all, he might be a useless wee spud, but he was her useless wee spud.
And some days, that was what counted.
Before We Say Goodbye
in which Stuart says thank you to some
People Who Helped
Thank you to: Fiona (partner in crime, maker of tea and naughty Fife person) — she knows what for; Grendel (fuzzy cat, companion, muse and advisor on all the gory bits) — so does she; Beetroot (teeny velvety cat) for trying to catch all the words on the screen as I typed them; Susan Calman (excellent stand-up, author, and all-round Radio-4-type funny person) for permission to quote the line ‘it’s not all sex-swings and dildos’; Chuck Imisson (bookseller extraordinaire and Death Watch frontman) for inspiring the CID team’s ‘Word of the Day’ thing; Charlie Morrison (mechanical guru) for coming to the rescue on more than one occasion; Allan Buchan (AKA: Allan Guthrie, excellent writer of proper tartan noir) for all his input and feedback on this book and the shenanigans contained within; Terence Caven (production Man of Steel) for putting up with all my Oldcastle map-flavoured madness; Sergeant Bruce ‘Brucie’ Crawford (award-winning police-tweeter) who continues to be a font of many knowledges; everyone at HarperCollins but especially Sarah Hodgson (longsuffering editing guru, who’s put up with my nonsense for years), Jane Johnson, Julia Wisdom, Jaime Frost, Anna Derkacz, Sarah Collett, Charlie Redmayne, Roger Cazalet, Kate Elton, Hannah Gamon, Sarah Shea, Damon Greeney, Finn Cotton, the eagle-eyed Rhian McKay, Marie Goldie and the DC Bishopbriggs Naughty Monkey Gang; Phil Patterson and the team at Marjacq Scripts; everyone who works in a bookshop or a library also deserves a massive wodge of thanks, so often they’re the ones who get people excited about books — they’re Monsters of Fabulousness!
Last, but by no means least, I want to take my hat off to you — the person reading this book. If it wasn’t for readers there wouldn’t be writers, libraries, bookshops, or publishers. And what a crappy dreich grey world it would be.
