Close to the Bone

‘We’re doing Peggy’s birthday cake in a minute — her daughter’s picking her up at quarter past for a day’s shopping in Dundee. Takes all sorts.’ He folded up the hanky and stuck it back in his pocket. ‘You want to come sing? ’

A big smile. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Just let me see to these nice police officers, and I’ll be right through.’ Then she mouthed, ‘Police!’ at him.

He just stared at her.

Dildo plonked the pricking dagger, witch-finder’s badge, T-shirts and caps down in front of Ma. ‘Care to explain these? ’

Her thick fingers drummed on the counter, gold and diamond rings shining. ‘These. .? Sorry, I really have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, how about a nice cup of tea? ’

‘How many times do we have to have the talk, Ma? You can’t counterfeit other people’s merchandise.’

‘How about a slice of birthday cake? It’s a Victoria sponge, Janice makes the best-’

‘I’ve got a warrant.’

Her face sagged around a scarlet pout. ‘But I’ve not done anything wrong. .’

The last wobbling strains of ‘Happy Birthday to You’ faded away, then Peggy leaned forward and huffed out the candles in three wheezing breaths. A cheer went up from the assembled dozen-or-so OAPs and she sat back beaming her dentures at them, rubbing knobble-knuckled hands as Ma Stewart cut the cake.

Radio 2 burbled out into the large room. The ceiling was a patchwork of stained grey tiles, the breezeblock walls painted white and covered with posters of kittens and ‘You Don’t Have To Be Mad To Work HERE’, the floor with beige carpet tiles patched with duct tape. .

Metal modular shelving ran around the outside of the room, between the posters, spider plants trailing their pale-green tendrils down from between cardboard boxes of dittay books and baseball caps. Benches and tables filled the middle of the room, some with sewing machines, others with glue and glitter, another handful with assorted tools, bales of fabric, sheets of leather, cutting tools. . A proper little cottage counterfeiting industry.

The wee man in the baggy cardigan handed out china plates with slices of birthday cake on them. A blue- rinsed woman — hunched over like a quaver — followed him with cups of tea.

Logan took one of each and settled back against a workbench festooned with blank notebooks. A pile of red leather covers lay next to them — each one tooled with the dittay book’s swirls and patterns. He took a bite, and a sip of tea. Good cake. Nice and moist.

Ma swept her hands up, until she stood there like an over-inflated letter T. ‘See, how can this possibly be wrong? ’

Dildo picked up a witch-finder badge, the enamel only half done. ‘Because it’s illegal.’

‘I’m providing a service to the community. These poor dears need something to keep them busy, don’t you, Dougie? ’

A man in a tank-top, shirt, and tie nodded, making his comb-over bang up and down like a trapdoor. ‘Better than listening to some wee tosspot singing ye olde wartime songs at us. I’m seventy-five, not ninety — I saw the Rolling Stones live about a dozen times. And the Sex Pistols. “Knees up Mother Brown” my sharny arse.’

Peggy put an arthritis-twisted hand to her chest and rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, Mr Galloway, such language!’

He grinned. ‘Ah, you love it when I talk dirty.’

Ma’s chest swelled up, as if she was about to explode. ‘You see? They get out and about, we have nice lunches, tea and biscuits, they get to make new friends, gossip, maybe a little romance. .? ’

A blush spread across Peggy’s lined cheeks. ‘One knee-trembler after the pub shuts and they never let you forget it.’

‘And you know what the state pension’s worth these days, don’t you? Nowhere near enough to keep body and soul together. I provide my ladies and gentlemen with a nice little income and a lovely place to work.’

Dildo sighed. ‘That’s not the point. It’s still-’

‘And who’s it hurting? The film people aren’t making anything themselves, are they? So it can’t be illegal. Stands to reason. You can’t counterfeit something that doesn’t exist yet.’

‘Ma, you have to stop doing this.’

‘They like getting together and making things. And they do such a good job too, have you seen the quality? ’

‘It — doesn’t — matter!’

Logan plucked a pricking knife from a box. They’d fixed the guard in place, but the pommel was missing and the hilt wasn’t wrapped in leather yet, the words ‘MADE IN ABERDEENSHIRE’ stamped into the metal. Eight-inch blade at one end, tiny half-centimetre blade at the other. ‘How many of these have you made? ’

She smiled. ‘Lovely, aren’t they? There’s a wee engineering works I know that produces the most wonderful metalwork. Between you and me: the manager picks his nose, but you have to overlook that kind of thing in an artiste.’

‘How many? ’

‘Oh, we’ve got about three hundred in the store, don’t we, Charles? ’

The man in the saggy cardigan shrugged. ‘Can’t make any more till we get those blanks in.’

Three hundred. So much for tracking down the murder weapon.

Dildo held up his warrant. ‘Right, I’m confiscating this lot. You know the drill: stop what you’re doing. And if anyone wants to lend a hand loading it all into the van. .? ’

‘It’s so unfair. .’ Ma Stewart leaned against the betting shop counter, fanning herself with her gossip mag as Dildo staggered out to the van under the weight of half a dozen cardboard boxes. ‘We’re only trying to give the old folks something productive to do.’

Logan unscrewed the pommel from a counterfeit pricking knife and ran his thumb across the minute triangular blade. Sharp. ‘Where did you get the designs from? ’

‘You don’t want them just mouldering away in a retirement home, do you? They need something to focus on.’

‘Knives, costumes, swords, badges, books. . They’re all identical to the film props, so someone must be slipping you the plans on how to make them.’

Ma puckered her scarlet lips. ‘I have my sources.’

‘Someone in the props department? ’

‘Surely we could come to some sort of arrangement? If I can’t sell the merchandise, I can’t pay my people. That’s not what you want, is it? Them going home empty-handed after putting in so much work? ’

‘Who — did — you — get — the — designs — from? ’

A big sigh swelled her cleavage again. ‘All right, all right. Since it’s you: I had a contact on the inside. A lovely girl who wanted to help my pensioners. Pretty little thing, and so polite! Shame about her boyfriend. .’

‘It was Agnes Garfield, wasn’t it? You’re the reason she was stealing stuff from the set.’

‘She did not “steal”. She borrowed.’ Ma raised her chin, dragging ripples with it. ‘Agnes adores those books, she just wants to make sure people can hold a bit of it in their hands. It was her idea to use my ladies and gentlemen, so they’d have something to do, and a bit of spending money to brighten up their old age.’ A tear sparkled in the corner of Ma’s eye. ‘She didn’t even want a cut of the profits. But I insisted: I said to her, I said, “It’s only fair you get your share. We couldn’t do it without you.” We’ve still got her money sitting here. Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised if she gives it all to charity.’

Dildo marched back in through the shop’s front door, and out through the rear again.

‘Why can’t more people be like that, Sergeant McRae? Selfless and giving? ’

And psychotic, and delusional, and dangerous. .

‘How do you get in touch? ’

A smile. ‘We phone her, silly. Everyone has a mobile these days. My Norman calls me on mine all the time, ever since he split up from Marcus. So sad. They made a lovely couple, but it’s Bobbit and Rascal I feel sorry for. .’

Mobile. Worth a go. ‘What’s her number? ’

‘No one ever thinks of the terriers, do they? ’ Ma slipped on a pair of half-moon spectacles and peered into a thick address book, lips moving as she scanned her finger across the page. ‘Here we are. .’