Chapter 6 #2
‘Fifty-two suspects, less the corpse, and I didn’t kill him, so call it fifty .
. . carry the two . . . that makes it sixteen-and-two-thirds each.
Mind you, how do you spot a deranged, heartless, amoral psychopath when everyone’s a Tory?
Like trying to spot a Mars Bar in a swimming pool full of jobbies. ’
He emerged from a cupboard holding a wee yellow jar aloft. ‘English mustard!’
‘Maybe we can thin the herd a bit? Must be some of them who didn’t hate Sir Reginald’s slimy bum-grabbing guts.’
‘Don’t look at me.’ Sergeant Moore got himself a clean knife and spread one side of his soggy gravied-bread with a thin scraping of hot yellow mustard, then passed the jar over.
‘OK, what do we know about our victim?’ Roberta didn’t go in for any of this namby-pamby thin scraping nonsense. The whole point of mustard was to slather the stuff on, like Nutella on Keira Knightley’s buttocks.
He shuddered watching her. ‘Got his knighthood in 1991, “services to charity and local politics” for which you can read “making a scandal involving a high-ranking cabinet member and a Lithuanian rent boy go away”. Been the local MP here for yonks. Weighed in on a handful of dodgy planning decisions. Made a fortune in privatised healthcare and some,’ Moore made a set of air quotes with his gravy-greased fingers, ‘“completely above board” property deals. Married: two kids, one’s an investment banker, and the other’s now my daughter-in-law.
Because apparently I did something horrible in a former life. ’
More than likely.
She chewed her way through a spicy mouthful, getting the full-on eye-and-nose-watering mustard hit. ‘Property deals are a good place to start: plenty of motive when there’s cash involved.’
‘Had his fingers in a ski resort that never managed to turn a profit, despite being jam-packed every year; a leisure centre in Dundee that “accidentally” burned down; and a bunch of flats in Edinburgh – chucked up when they were building the parliament,’ more air quotes, ‘“allegedly” used to launder money from his vodka-swilling mates in the Kremlin. Some dodgy “investment opportunities”. Bunch of other stuff, but most of it seems legit.’
Roberta raised an eyebrow. ‘You been keeping tabs on him?’
‘Soon as I found out he was going to be family? Aye.’
They slurped and chewed in silence for a bit.
Why did it feel like they were missing something? Something they should’ve done already? Something important . . .?
Oh, buggering hell. Of course: ‘Anybody told the next of kin yet?’
Sergeant Moore slumped. ‘Lady Bradbury-Scott . . . Didn’t see her in the lobby.’
‘Finish your sarnie, we’ve got a death message to deliver.’
This part of the castle was just that bit swankier than the one Roberta and Susan were staying in. The wallpaper just that bit more lush. The shade of red it was painted, just that bit more affluent. The carpet just that bit deeper in its tartany pile.
Polished oak wainscoting on the walls. Yet more stuffed animals in display cases.
The door at the end was named, ‘MACALLAN VALERIO ADAMI 1926’. So, just that bit wankier too.
Roberta gave Sergeant Moore a poke. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, knock!’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He had a go, but it was pretty crap to be honest. Two gentle raps on the varnished wood. Followed by an awkward silence.
She checked her watch – quarter to seven. What a way to start someone’s day . . .
Rain drummed against the window.
Outside, wind howled through the trees.
Sergeant Moore shuffled his feet.
Oh, for God’s sake.
She gave him another poke. ‘Do it again! Only better.’
At least this time the door got a proper police-officer knock – three, hard and sharp.
He cleared his throat. ‘Mikey . . . PC McKinnon, told me about your deduction thing. You know, figuring out he was Job, just by looking at him?’
Quarter to seven, so where was the widow?
‘Thought Sir Reginald’s wife was meant to be in?’
‘No, but how did you do that? How did you know he was Job?’
She gave the door a good battering. ‘POLICE! OPEN UP, OR WE’LL HAVE TO FORCE ENTRY!’
His face went a shade of shaky grey. ‘I don’t think we can just . . .’
She tried the handle – it turned. Not locked. Fair enough.
Roberta opened the door and stepped inside. ‘Come on, then.’
‘. . . or maybe we can.’
It was a sitting room, the kind of place estate agents called ‘well appointed’, ‘spacious’, and ‘boldly decorated’, with lots of velvet curtains and the obligatory tartan carpet, tartan cushions, and a tartan three-piece suite too.
The curtains were open, letting in that thin rainy light. Good view, though: down an avenue of oak trees, to the lochan at the bottom. All of it whipped by the wind and crackling rain.
Lightning flashed in the distance, followed a few seconds later by another roll of thunder.
A couple of doors led off the room, one on either side.
Roberta ran a finger along the dust-free top of a sideboard – where a platter of fruit was displayed next to an unopened bottle of Veuve Clicquot in an ice-free ice bucket. ‘All right for some, isn’t it?’
She tried the nearest door.
A HUGE bathroom lurked on the other side.
A large roll-top bath sat in the middle of it, surrounded by weird pipes and nozzles and taps, as if the hotel had got Heath Robinson blootered on mescal and asked him to design a shower.
Fancy tiles on the floor and walls, lovely view of the rain-lashed estate from the window.
Even had a bidet, because who didn’t love a clean bumhole?
She closed the door and tried the other one, while Sergeant Moore just stood there fidgeting, like someone had filled his Spider-Man PJs with burning ants.
The curtains were drawn, but just enough light oozed in around their edges to make out a gargantuan canopied bed, antique furniture, and a Corby trouser press. Très swanky.
A woman lay on her back, on top of the duvet, wearing a silky nightdress and a frilly eye-mask. Grey hair all wrapped up in curlers. Arms crossed over her chest. Clearly going for the Bride-of-Dracula look. Or, in this case, Mother-of-the-Bride-of-Dracula.
An expensive Rolex-looking watch sat on the nightstand beside her, a matching white stripe on her right wrist cutting through the exotic tan to show where it usually lived.
Lady Bradbury-Scott.
Roberta sniffed. ‘Bleeding heck, smells like a tart’s knicker drawer in here.’ She edged towards the bed. ‘Hello?’
Nothing from Dracula’s mother-in-law.
Sergeant Moore shuffled his feet again. ‘She’s not dead too, is she?’
‘Don’t be so damp.’ Roberta inched closer to the bed. ‘Wakey, wakey?’
‘Oh, Lord, she’s dead as well.’ He paced up and down at the end of the four-poster. ‘It’s a disaster . . .’
‘Will you shut up?’
‘We’ve got a serial killer, roaming the castle, picking off the landed gentry!’