Chapter 8
The ABS juddered, but the Land Rover didn’t stop – it kept on going, skidding across the slippery mud.
What the hell was McKinnon screaming about? Couldn’t see a bloody thing through all this filth.
Deep breath from the driver’s seat. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
The Land Rover finally came to a halt and McKinnon sat there, teeth clenched, breath coming out in hard little puffs, like he was at antenatal class.
Roberta thumped him one. ‘What the ferret-spudging hell is wrong with you?’
The windscreen wipers and rain finally managed to clear a couple of arcs through the muck . . .
Oh.
That lovely humpback bridge she’d tootled over in her MX-5 yesterday was gone.
The only thing left was a stone pillar on the opposite bank of the very steep ravine.
And between here and there: a granite-coloured rush of water battered past, tearing at the banks, its surface flecked with angry white spray as it wheeched a couple of full-sized trees past like they were paper boats.
And the Land Rover had slithered to a halt about six inches from where the road came to a sudden stop.
She took her feet off the dashboard and stared. ‘Wow.’
McKinnon’s breathing slowed to a hissing rasp. ‘Don’t move. Please don’t move.’
He put the car in reverse and eased them back a good ten feet, before hauling on the handbrake and half-climbing/half-falling out into the pouring rain to stand there, gawping at the chasm they’d nearly skidded into.
‘Ooh . . . Oh dear hairy . . .’ He folded in half, grabbed his knees, and hyperventilated for a bit.
Had to admit, he kinda had a point.
But when you were kidding on you were a detective chief inspector, there were certain standards to maintain. So, Roberta dug into her jacket pocket and pulled out her mobile phone. Checked the display: no bars.
Typical. Couldn’t be that easy, could it? Noooo . . .
She tucked the phone away and dug out her e-cigarette instead.
About the size of a house-brick with a mouthpiece sticking out of one side.
Flicked the switch and took a good long sook, holding the cherry-flavoured fog inside for a count of three before letting it loose in a Land-Rover-filling whoosh of steam.
Humming Bach’s ‘Air on a G String’ for good measure. ‘Dum, da-dum, da, dum da-dum, da . . .’
McKinnon was still bent double, rain bouncing off the back of his stabproof vest. ‘We could’ve died.’
Another whoosh of cherry. ‘Dum, da-da-da-da-da-da-da, da-dada-da, da daaaa . . .’
‘We nearly died, we nearly died, we nearly died . . .’
She leaned across the car and waved at him through the open driver’s door. ‘Hoy, Soggypants – there another way off this estate?’
He turned and said something, but it was drowned out by a snarling roar of thunder.
‘What?’
McKinnon staggered and slipped his way back to the car, raising his voice over the rushing river and thumping rain. ‘The only other way is up the Hangman’s Ladder, over The Devil’s Razor, then Deadfall Pass through the mountains.’
Why did country bumpkins always have to ‘sexy’ up their backwater locations with melodramatic place names? They weren’t fooling anyone.
‘Right, we’ll try that, then.’
‘Are you insane? In this weather, it’d be suicide!’ He jabbed a hand at the missing bridge. ‘WE NEARLY DIED!’
‘You Highland bunnets are a bit . . . sensitive, aren’t you?’
He hauled his soggy backside into the driver’s seat and sat there dripping.
‘Two climbers tried it last spring, and that was in the sunshine. Didn’t find their bodies till autumn.
’ He started the engine and eased the Land Rover through a slow, oh-so-careful, three-point turn.
Wincing every time they moved so much as an inch towards the ruined riverbank. ‘We’re going back to the castle.’
‘Moan, whinge, gripe, complain.’ Roberta let loose another fog of vape. ‘In my day, lowly police constables did what they were told.’
Muscles clenched along the side of his jaw, but he kept his gob shut and didn’t rise to it. Maybe the boy wasn’t as thick as he looked? Good for him.
She clicked off her e-cigarette and put it away as the forest swallowed the car again. ‘So, we’re right back where we started from. No phone, no backup, and fifty-one people to interview.’
‘Forty-six people.’ Trying to sound all in control again, like she didn’t know he’d probably crapped himself when they’d nearly gone over the edge.
‘Oh aye? Let’s hear it then, Sherlock.’
‘I didn’t kill him, Sergeant Moore didn’t kill him.’ McKinnon risked a quick glance across the car at her. ‘I’m assuming you didn’t kill him, and neither did your wife or my Barbara. That makes it forty-six left to interview.’
True.
Roberta stuck her feet back on the dashboard. ‘What, no Mrs Sergeant Moore?’
‘Not any more. And we don’t talk about it if we know what’s good for us.
’ The Land Rover splooshed through that huge puddle again, sending another wall of filthy water up over the bonnet and windscreen.
McKinnon slowed them to a crawl, even though Certain Death at the Skirivour Rapids was in the opposite direction.
‘His wife was having an affair with the local butcher, amongst others.’
Roberta sighed. ‘I know you can judge a good butcher by the quality of their sausage, but you’re no’ meant to take that figuratively.’
‘Lives in Australia now, with her “partner”.’ McKinnon made one-handed air quotes. ‘Douglas, the bridegroom? Can’t stand her. Said he’d rather drive burning nails into his balls than invite, and I quote, “that two-faced duplicitous bitch” to his wedding. His own mum!’
‘Got to love a happy family.’
‘So, now the Sarge just sits at home, on his own, watching movies, reading books, and painting landscapes.’
‘Any good?’
PC McKinnon pulled a frog face and shook his head.
So much for Sergeant Moore the renaissance man.
The Land Rover turned onto a straight bit and the whole world lit up bright white as a massive slash of lightning ground-zeroed just ahead. The thunderclap slammed into the car before she could breathe, rattling the air in her lungs.
McKinnon slammed on the brakes again, the ABS’s tremble joined by the screeching crackle of punished wood as a huge oak tree timbered down onto the road in front of them, leaving its scarred white stump behind.
Hitting the road in slow motion, the bounce of its leaves and branches pounded in time with the blood in Roberta’s ears.
The Land Rover slid to a halt a good thirty feet from the smouldering trunk.
They sat there, looking at it for a bit.
That was twice Mother Nature had tried to kill her today. Three times, if you counted the Hangover From Hell. Starting to feel a little personal, to be honest.
Roberta thumped McKinnon on the arm. ‘Don’t just sit there: get it shifted.’
He looked at her as if she’d just crapped on the dashboard. ‘Shift it with what?’
‘You’ve got a tow thing on the car. Use that.’
His mouth hung open for a moment, clearly absorbing her genius. ‘It’s a massive oak tree! It’ll weigh at least fifteen, twenty tons – no way the Landy will pull it.’
Boy was an idiot.
‘So, chop it into smaller bits!’
‘What with, your cutting wit?’ He made a show of patting down his stabproof vest. ‘Because I seem to have left my chainsaw in my other suit.’
The only sound was the rain, clattering down on the Land Rover’s roof.
Roberta narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re getting very cheeky for someone at risk of a punch in the nadgers from a superior officer.’
‘Sorry, ma’am.’ The tips of his ears went bright red.
Should think so too.
She pointed off into the woods. ‘There a way around it?’
‘Erm . . .?’ A pained smile.
Wonderful. Just. Sodding. Wonderful.
Gah . . .
Didn’t feel this long on the way out.
Rain hurtled down from the bruised sky, bouncing off the ground at her feet and drumming away on her pilfered umbrella, as Roberta slogged her way back along the road.
Which, now that she had to walk along the bloody thing, turned out to be little more than a crappy track, full of rough bits, stones, and bastarding puddles.
Might as well stand in a bucket of lukewarm water, for all the protection her stupid shoes were giving.
And the high-vis raincoat McKinnon had dug out the back of the Land Rover stank of wet sheep. And the wetter it got, the more it stank. AND IT STANK A LOT.
McKinnon slumped along beside her, in a high-vis of his own, but where hers reached down past her knees, his was a proper size.
Which meant everything from the waist down was getting drenched.
Rain sparked off his peaked cap, great thick drips of it trickling down his neck and into his collar, where it was probably soaking him right through.
Good. Served the bugger right.
Yes, technically, she could be nice and let him share her brolly, but he was all: oh no, I couldn’t possibly, it’s a death trap waiting to happen in a lightning storm. Whinge, moan, complain.
Idiot.
You were more likely to win the lottery than get struck by lightning . . . Or was that the other way around? Roberta peered around the edge of her dripping umbrella at the lowering sky. Then ducked back in again.
Sod it, she’d take her chances.
And, if that wasn’t bad enough, Sergeant Moore had been right about the temperature.
Just gone eight and already the heat was beginning to build.
The rain should’ve cooled everything down, but it just made the air muggy and humid.
And having to wear a thick, padded, high-vis horror waterproof wasn’t helping either.
A thin trickle of sweat waltzed its way down her spine and into her pants, more prickling out beneath Old Faithful’s underband.
Ugh . . .
She gave McKinnon the gift of a good hard glower. ‘This is all your fault.’
‘But I didn’t—’
‘I don’t know how it’s your fault yet, but I’ll work it out. And see when I do . . .?’
His face fell as that sank in. Bet he wished they’d gone over the edge and into the river, now. Really wasn’t his lucky day, was it?