Chapter 5
‘SUSAN!’ Roberta sprinted across the bedroom to where a pair of crossed claymores were mounted on the wall above the fireplace, along with a wee round shield. She grabbed the handle of one and yanked. Bloody thing wouldn’t move. Some idiot had bolted it up there.
Another scream, from somewhere out in the corridor.
No time to sod about with immovable swords, grab a weapon!
An antique-looking chamber pot sat on the table under the window. It’d have to do.
She snatched it up by the handle and barrelled out into the corridor.
No sign of anyone.
‘SUSAN, I’M COMING!’
A man’s voice wafted up from the other side of the fire door, loud and trembling: ‘There’s been a murder!’
Right.
Roberta thumped through the fire door and out onto the balcony that ran along this side of the hotel lobby.
A blaze of flickering white crackled through the windows, harsh and bright, and every light in the room went out, plunging the whole place into gloom.
Then a deafening roar of thunder, loud enough to make her diaphragm shake.
‘SUSAN!’
She battered down the sweeping wooden staircase, barged her way between a fat old git in silk PJs who’d forgotten to put his teeth in and a mouldering debutant smeared with far too much night cream. Ran past that stupid statue. ‘SUSAN!’
Roberta skittered to a halt on the tartan carpet.
Susan was there, standing in a small group of middle-aged lumpies, everyone in assorted nightclothes with just-clambered-out-of-bed hair. All of them staring up at the huge metal stag that towered above them.
The weird gingery hotel maid was there too, wearing her uniform short tartan skirt and flouncy blouse, clutching her chest and laughing in a kind of hysterical manner. Standing with her knees crossed, like she’d wet herself.
Roberta grabbed Susan, pulled her into a one-handed hug, trying not to bash her on the head with the chamber pot. ‘Are you all right?’
Susan didn’t even look at her. Instead she pointed upwards, still staring at that moronic statue.
OK . . . Roberta followed the pointy finger.
Wasn’t easy to see in the gloom, but there was definitely something up there. The oversized stag had grown some sort of decoration.
Another crackle of lightning threw the lobby into monochrome relief.
Sodding hell.
The ‘something up there’ was a body, impaled on the stag’s metal antlers.
Back arched and arms outstretched – the furthermost points poking through the palm of one hand and the wrist on the other arm.
As if he’d been crucified. And it was definitely a ‘him’, because the body’s tartan pyjama bottoms were down around his ankles, leaving his shrivelled-up unmentionables on display.
And it was all seared onto Roberta’s irises, still visible as the lightning faded, leaving the scene in darkness again. ‘Oh, shite.’
This time, when the thunder boomed, it was right on top of them.
It was surprising how much light two dozen smartphones could produce – all of them held up, filming away, getting brighter as more hotel guests shuffled into the lobby to see what the hell all the screaming was about.
Everyone in pyjamas and nighties and fluffy hotel bathrobes. Bleary-eyed and shaggy-haired. Speculating about why and who and how and wasn’t it horrible and shocking and grisly and I hope I’ve got enough battery left to get a good film of it uploaded onto Facebook.
A couple of hotel staff had joined the gathering crowd – that old bloke with the shotgun, in his tweedy outdoors get-up.
And the doorman made of string-and-bones, stripped of his kilt but with his knobbly knees still on show, because they poked out from an oversized kitten-pink T-shirt.
‘SLEEPYTIME FRIENDS ARE THE BESTEST!’ according to the gold sequined letters across its front.
The pair of them milling about like they were supposed to do something, but didn’t quite know what.
Roberta stared up at the lower naked portions of the dead body. ‘Please tell me that’s not who I think it is.’
The redhead maid nodded, her voice full of hushed awe. ‘It’s Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott!’
Of course it was. The man she’d tried to slap the smug off, for grabbing Susan’s bum. Because Roberta was cursed, wasn’t she?
As usual.
She took a deep breath, gave herself a wee shake, and pulled her shoulders back. ‘OK, here’s what we need to do . . .’
That old git from the top table marched into the room.
Lord Thingummy-Whatsit, the one who’d given the longest and most boring speech known to mankind.
The one who owned the place, sweeping in – all imperious, with his paisley-patterned PJs and matching dressing gown.
Dramatic entrance complete, he clapped his hands.
‘All right, everyone, that’s enough. If I can have your attention please? ’
But everyone just kept on filming and gossiping.
So, the gamekeeper thumped his shotgun’s butt on the floor three times. ‘ALL RIGHT, YOU LOT, SILENCE! THE LAIRD’S SPEAKING!’
All those filming phones phones turned to point at the old git in paisley pyjamas.
‘Thank you.’ Lord Thingumy-BingBong preened a little in the silence.
‘Now, I’m sure you’re all aware how essential it is we have order and discipline at times like this, so I’m going to have to ask all the ladies to retire to their rooms. There’s no need for you to see any more of this unpleasantness.
’ He clapped his hands again. ‘Off you go, chop, chop. There’s good girls. ’
Patronising git.
Some of the women did what they were told, which was pretty sodding unbelievable in this day and age. Like feminism never happened. Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott wasn’t the only one in need of a damn hard slap. But before Roberta could do the needful, he was at it again.
‘Not to worry, you’re all perfectly safe. There we go.’ Wafting them away with a dismissive gesture. Trying the same thing with Roberta and Susan. ‘You too.’
‘Aye, that’ll be shining.’ She squared up to him, chest and chin out. ‘You wanting me to shove my righteous feminist boot up your wrinkly sexist bumhole, grandad?’
He flinched back a couple of steps. ‘Your breath is repulsive.’ Wafting a hand in front of his face. ‘And this is a time for level heads, not . . . undisciplined rude people running around in their revolting underwear.’
Underwear?
Roberta had a wee glance in the downward direction.
Ah. Right. Yup, she’d rushed down here wearing nothing on her top half but her bra.
Oh, Old Faithful had started out white, but after years and years of washing she’d faded to a kind of dental-plaque-beigey-grey colour.
OK, so maybe she wasn’t in the first flush of youth, and her underwire had a habit of wandering from time to time, but she was a bra you could count on.
Dependable. Sturdy. Comfortable. Which was more than could be said of the twin-lacy-black-hammocks monstrosity she’d tried on yesterday.
And at least Roberta’s lower half was covered, right? Even if it was in grass-stained suit trousers and damp stripy socks.
Sometimes you just had to work with what you had.
She gave him the benefit of a good hard evil eye. ‘Oh, you think so, do you?’ Then hauled on her proper DCI voice, the one that struck fear into constables and detective inspectors alike. ‘RIGHT, YOU LOT, STOP FILMING THAT BLOODY BODY AND CALL THE POLICE!’
A nervous woman’s voice wafted through from the back of the group. ‘There’s no reception?’
Bit ironic for a wedding . . .
‘Ah yes.’ A flat, monotone English accent. ‘Storm must’ve disabled the masts. Happens all the time out here in the sticks.’
A monotone Edinburgh voice joined in. ‘And the power, of course.’ Disappointed tut. ‘Surprised somewhere like this doesn’t have a backup generator, mind you.’
‘That’s very true. I know they can be expensive to install, but the support they—’
‘Nairn,’ the old git in the paisley PJs snapped his fingers, ‘see to the generator.’
The gamekeeper actually tugged the brim of his tartan bunnet. ‘Aye, Your Lairdship.’ Then scurried off, taking his shotgun with him.
The Laird clapped his hands again. ‘Now, let’s not have any more of this silliness. I’m in command here and—’
‘My sharny arse, you are.’ Roberta stepped in close, breath and bra be damned. ‘I’m—’
‘Given your vulgar display last night I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands!’
‘Who are you calling “vulgar”, you scrotum-faced old bawbag?’
A sneer curled his military moustache. ‘You’re a nasty woman who clearly needs a man’s firm hand to teach you humility and some damned manners!’
Right, that was it: time to introduce her knee bone to His Lordship’s bollocks as hard as—
Sergeant Sandy Moore pushed his way between them, wearing a pair of Spider-Man pyjamas.
And not pyjamas with Spider-Man on them, these were actually printed to look like the costume – blue and red, complete with webbing and the logo on his barrel chest. ‘All right, break it up!’ Forcing them both back, then raising his voice to bellow out: ‘CONSTABLE MCKINNON?’
The wee loon’s muffled voice came from somewhere over by the ballroom doors. ‘Sarge?’
‘Get your uniform on. Then: back here ASAP and secure this crime scene!’
‘Sarge.’
Sergeant Moore gave Roberta and Lord Thingumy-Whatsit a stern look, then turned to the crowd. ‘I need you all to return to your rooms and stay there until you’re called on for a statement.’ Another stern look. ‘And that’s all of you, not just the ladies.’
His Lordship straightened up to his full height. ‘I think you’ll find that I’m the ranking official here, Sergeant. And it’s my castle, so I’ll—’
‘With all due respect, Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith, the ranking official is right there.’ Moore pointed at her. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel, NE Division.’
Oops . . . He still thought she was a DCI.
Should really have said something about that.
Kinda too late, now.