Chapter 5 #2
Susan had a bit of a glare at her. Not sure if that was a ‘You’re not a DCI any more!’ glare, or a ‘You’re embarrassing me in your ancient bra!’ glare, or even a ‘You got blootered last night and acted like a proper arsehole!’ one. Some days were just an embarrassment of riches.
That boring Edinburgh drone started up again. ‘Ah, yes, but this is Highlands and Islands Division, isn’t it? So, I think you’ll find a DCI from Northeast Division doesn’t have jurisdiction here.’
His drony English friend joined in. ‘He makes a very good point.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Smug git.
Sergeant Moore held up a hand. ‘Under Police Scotland, she has jurisdiction everywhere.’
There was some grumbling at that, but nothing more from the Boring Brothers.
Roberta nodded. ‘All right, you heard the sergeant: back to your rooms the lot of you.’
No one moved.
‘Go on, shoo!’
It earned her some dark looks, but finally the wedding guests and hotel staff got the message and drifted away, disappearing upstairs – leaving the lobby empty, except for Roberta, Susan, Sergeant Moore, and Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith. And the body, of course.
Lordy glowered down his nose at her. ‘Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this. I’m very good friends with the Chief Constable!’
‘Aye, good for you.’ Roberta gave him a wee wink.
‘You can have a nice whinge when the pair of you are rolling up your trouser legs in the Lodge next time. Till then . . .’ She clapped her hands, just like he had, not even trying to hide the grin on her face.
‘Chop, chop, off you trot. There’s a good boy. ’
A haughty sniff, then His Lordship turned smartly on his heel and marched off in proper parade-ground style. Back straight, arms swinging.
The effect was somewhat undermined by the PJs and dressing gown, though.
Soon as the old prick had gone she let everything slump. ‘Urrrrgh . . .’ Massaging her temples with a shaky hand. ‘My head . . .’
For some unfathomable reason, Susan didn’t come through with tea and sympathy. ‘Serves you right for drinking all that whisky last night; you should know better at your age! And why aren’t you wearing a top? Bad enough I have to suffer your horrid grey bra, does everyone else need to see it?’
Fine, well two could play at that game. Especially if she was going to be nasty about Old Faithful.
Roberta jerked a thumb in Susan’s direction. ‘Sergeant?’
Took him a moment, but he got there in the end. ‘Ah, right.’ Moore guided Susan towards the stairs. ‘If you don’t mind, madam, this is a police matter, now. Thank you for your cooperation.’
A puzzled frown. ‘But I’m—’
He gave her a gentle shove. ‘Thank you, that’s a great help. Off you go.’
Susan stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked back at Roberta.
Yeah, not going to happen.
Then Susan gave a pointed, ‘Humph!’ and marched off.
Probably going to pay for that later, but what could you do?
Roberta slumped against the reception desk and buried her face in her hands, trying to squeeze the burning weasels back inside her skull.
Sergeant Moore’s voice happied its way through her weasel wrangling.
‘I’ve wanted to do that for years. Pull rank on the old bugger: put him in his place!
’ He launched into a less than flattering impersonation for, ‘“I’m Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith and I’m on the 1922 committee, I brought down Theresa May, I’m much more important than you lowly police plebs! ”’
When Roberta peered out between her fingers, Moore was making wanking gestures.
A laugh. ‘Important this, Your Lordship.’ He frowned at her. ‘Are you OK?’
‘No.’
‘Ah, OK.’ He took a couple of steps back and stared up at the body. ‘Never done a murder before. Couple of missing persons and the occasional domestic, but drink driving’s the crime à la mode d’ ici.’
PC McKinnon scurried back into the lobby, fiddling with the Velcro on his stabproof vest. He’d changed into the full Police Scotland kit, peaked cap just a little bit too large for him, making the tips of his ears stick out at right angles. ‘What did I miss?’
‘Just said I’ve never done a murder before.’
‘Oh, aye.’ He followed the sergeant’s gaze up to Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott and his exposed nether regions. ‘Could be suicide, though. Or an accident?’
‘Very true. Have to keep an open mind with something like this.’
Idiots.
Roberta groaned. Gave her forehead another squeeze. ‘Coffee . . .’
PC McKinnon pulled a face. ‘Knowing our luck, it’s probably an accident, though.’
A sigh. ‘More than likely, but a boy can dream.’
OK, they were clearly not listening, so she tried again. ‘Coffee!’
Sergeant Moore shook his head. ‘Don’t think that’s—’
‘Coffee, coffee, coffee!’
‘It’s just: the power’s out.’
Of course it was. The lightning had fried something important and now there wasn’t any electricity. No electricity, no kettle. No kettle, no boiling water. No boiling water, no coffee!
‘Noooooo . . .’ She slumped even further into her completely undeserved misery. Then scowled at both of them. ‘You’re a pair of idiots, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Hey!’ Moore looked a bit hurt at that. ‘It’s not our fault the power’s—’
‘How the hell is this an accident? Look at it.’
They did.
And then, after an awkward silence, PC McKinnon raised one shoulder in a half-arsed shrug. ‘I don’t get it.’
How did this pair ever get to be police officers?
She held up a hand, counting the points off on her fingers, rudest digits first. ‘One: how do you accidentally slip and fall on a massive great metal stag statue? It’s no’ like he was hoovering naked, is it? And it’s, what, sixteen, eighteen feet from down here to those antlers?’
‘Well, maybe he was—’
‘And where’s he going to fall from?’
A pause as they looked at the body, then at the stairs behind it, and the balconies on either side of the lobby.
The only thing in front of the statue was the castle wall – adorned with a couple of dangly woven banners, depicting hunting scenes, that looked in need of a good wash. And possibly burning.
She pointed. ‘Come on then, Hamish Macbeth, was he shinning up a tapestry and lost his grip?’
Pink rushed up Sergeant Moore’s cheeks. ‘Ah . . .’
‘Then let’s take a look at the main impediment to this so called “theory”.’ Her index finger joined the middle one. ‘Two: what happens when you slip and fall on a dirty-big set of pointy metal antlers?’
PC McKinnon had a go at that one: keen, but dim. ‘You die?’
‘You bleed, you corrugated funtmuppet. And are we currently standing in a humongous pool of blood? Anyone?’
Moore groaned as common sense finally worked its way through his six-inch-cavity-wall-insulated cranium. ‘He was already dead when he went up there!’
‘Give that man a Bounty Bar! There’s hope for you yet, Sandy. Only way you’d get a body up there would be a ladder. And a really long one at that.’
‘Ooh, ooh,’ McKinnon bounced up and down, ‘so maybe the pyjamas round the ankles is, like, a message!’
‘Something sexual?’ Moore’s face creased. ‘Or maybe it’s a ritual humiliation?’
‘Or maybe his breeks fell down when he was chucked there.’
The three of them stared up at Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott’s half-naked remains.
One thing was certain: whatever the message was, someone had gone to a lot of trouble sending it.