‘He’s a scroungy—’
‘His step-daughter’s missing!’
A shrug. ‘Yeah, but he’s the one probably—’
‘And you did it in front of a journalist!’ Getting even louder. ‘Because God forbid you go to all that trouble acting like an arsehole without an actual audience!’
She took one hand off the steering wheel and gave him the same Vs she’d given Angela Parks. Long and slow. ‘For your information, sunshine, Russell Morton is an abusive, sexist, misogynistic wankspasm.’
‘I don’t care if he’s Jack the Ripper — you want to rattle him to see what falls out? That’s fine. But you don’t do it in front of a reporter!’
‘Aye, well, doesn’t matter, does it?’ Steel took them out onto Tillydrone Avenue again. ‘You heard him: if she prints a word of it, he’ll “have her”. And where does that lanky strip of puke get off calling her a “skinny munter cow”? He looks like the bastard lovechild of Frankenstein’s monster and a bicycle-seat sniffing smackhead.’
Unbelievable.
‘You think that makes it OK?’
‘Course it does.’
The woman was completely unbelievable.
‘What would’ve happened if I’d done something that stupid when I was working for you? You’d have blown your rag.’
‘Blah, blah, blah.’
Why did he bother? Why? What was the point?
He thumped back in his seat. ‘I should’ve stuck with Rennie. You’re a crap sidekick.’
‘Oh aye. And if you ever shout at me like that again I’m going to rip your nadgers off and feed them to your cat.’
North Anderson Drive slid by, taking its tower blocks, roundabouts, and soggy housing estates with it.
Steel overtook a rusty Land Rover with a yellow ‘BEARDED SEXGOD ON BOARD’ sign stuck to the rear window. ‘See, if you ask me—’
‘Which I didn’t.’ Logan poked at his phone again. No new text messages.
‘We’re wasting our time searching for Ellie Morton.’
‘She’s a little girl!’
‘She’s a dead little girl.’ A right at the roundabout, onto King’s Gate — with its squat granite bungalows and cycle lanes. ‘Russell Morton comes home drunk and stoned, tries it on with her — cos he’s that sort of guy, you can tell just by looking at him — she screams, he kills her.’
‘And where’s Ellie’s mum when all this is happening?’
‘Probably passed out on the couch, surrounded by empty lager cans and copies of Dysfunctional Family Monthly.’
Trees lined the road, opening up into parkland, the grass so waterlogged after the last few days it had grown its own lochan.
‘He was with his mates, remember?’ That was the trouble with Steel — never paid any attention to anything. Or anyone.
‘Aye, if you believe Ellie went missing when they say she did.’
Ah... Logan nodded. Good point. ‘So when Chalmers checked his alibi...?’
‘Exactly.’ She smiled across the car at him. ‘See? We’ll make an inspector of you yet.’
‘Cheeky sod.’
Righty-diddle-doodie, let’s do this.
Tufty grabbed the folder from the back seat of his pool car and a-rummaging he did go. ‘For whosoever pulls the sword from the stone...’ Found it. He held the key aloft, his other hand curled into a claw beneath it, teeth bared, belting the word out: ‘EXCALIBUR!’
And so began the glorious reign of Tufty Drizzleborn; first of his name; Lord of Flat 24, Martin House, Hazlehead; Protector of the Great Biscuit Tin, Breaker of Teapots; Father of Rubber Ducks.
Who was about to get wet.
He climbed out into the rain and hurried up the driveway to the front door — sheltering under the teeny porch while he unlocked DS Chalmers’ house and let himself in.
Not a bad place. A lot bigger than his, that was for certain. And they had stairs! How cool was that? Your very own stairs that went all the way up and all the way down again.
Now, where best to start searching? Up those lovely stairs, or down here?
How about a compromise: kitchen.
Kitchen it was.
Tufty wandered down the hall, pausing to frisk his way through the pockets of the six assorted jackets hanging there: lint, some change, a roll of dog-poo bags — which was a bit weird as Chalmers didn’t own a dog — a couple of takeaway menus, and a packet of peppermint Rennies. No phone.
Onwards ever...
Tufty stopped. Frowned.
There was a weird noise coming from behind a white-painted panel door on the left. A sort of grunty, panting noise. Maybe Chalmers did have a dog after all? And if she was dead, and her scumbagular ex-husband was off playing naughty games with an account manager called Stephanie, who was feeding and walking the poor wee thing?
‘Tufty to the rescue!’
He yanked open the door.
A small garage lay on the other side, lined with shelves full of boxes and tins and bottles and sports stuff and things. Exposed joists, for the room above, ran from side to side, but one near the middle had a chunk of white electrical flex wrapped around it. The end snipped clean where they must have cut down Lorna Chalmers’ body.
And right underneath that was a naked man. Well, not entirely naked, he did have a set of super-huge over-ear headphones on — connected to the laptop sitting on the concrete floor in front of him. Next to a squirty container of hand cream. Which he was massaging into his erection with quite a lot of vigour.
Smiling and grunting. One tattooed arm pumping up and down.
Yeah... No way Tufty was feeding him and taking him walkies.
There was some sort of candid camera footage on the laptop’s screen: Lorna Chalmers, in her back garden and a bikini, on a sun lounger. Working on her tan.
Dirty wee monkey.
There was a packet of non-stick scrubby pads for doing the dishes on the shelf next to the door. Tufty grabbed it and lobbed it at the onanistic halfwit. It bounced off the back of his head.
Woot!
‘Ten points!’
The guy turned, a scowl on his face, then his eyes locked onto Tufty’s. They widened. A look of horror spread like custard. Then he screamed. Covering his willy with one hand, the other slamming the laptop shut, heels scrabbling at the hand-cream-spattered concrete.
Tufty grinned. ‘Get your clothes on, you filthy sod. You’re utterly nicked!’
Tufty propelled No-Longer-Naked Norman the Naughty Knob Noodler down the hallway — both hands securely cuffed behind his back in ‘pat the dog’ position.
The filthy sod snivelled and sniffed. ‘Please, this is all a misunderstanding, yeah?’
Tufty picked ‘SERGEANT MCRAE’ from the contacts list on his phone and set it ringing as he gave Norman another push towards the front door.
‘You don’t have to arrest me: I’m not hurting anyone! How am I hurting anyone?’
The Sarge’s voice whumped out of the phone, a bit tinny and boomy like he was in a car. ‘Tufty?’
‘Guv? I’ve just arrested someone.’ He followed Norman into the rain, grabbing a handful of checked shirt to stop him getting away while the house door got locked.
‘Who?’
A couple of teeny kids danced about on next-door’s lawn in wellies and waterproofs.
Norman lunged at them. ‘Leo, get Mum, yeah? Please get Mum! Get Mum!’
Tufty tightened his grip. ‘Shut up you.’ Then pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder so he could dig out the pool car’s keys and plip the locks. ‘Caught him in Chalmers’ house. He’d broken in and was giving himself a wee treat on the garage floor right under where she was hanged.’