Chapter -10
Roberta dumped the last net of carrots onto the stack just outside the walk-in fridge’s door, meaning the big wire shelf they’d occupied was now empty.
PC McKinnon and Sergeant Moore lowered Sir Reginald’s body onto the cleared space, their breaths misting in the cold air.
You’d never think McKinnon was the youngest of them, his face all flushed and sweaty from carrying the body down here, steam rising from his arms and shoulders as he puffed and panted. Moore wasn’t even breathing hard.
‘Pfff . . .’ McKinnon pulled his hat off and wiped a hand across his soggy forehead. ‘Doesn’t . . . seem . . . very dignified.’
Sergeant Moore shrugged. ‘Compared to hanging in reception with his willy out? I’d say it’s definitely an improvement.’
‘True.’ McKinnon bent double and grabbed his own knees. ‘Argh . . . Talk about . . . a dead weight!’
Roberta wiped her carroty hands on a box of mushrooms. ‘Have you two finished?’
‘See?’ A tut from Moore. ‘That’s the trouble with you new lot, back in my day: you joined the job, you played rugby and shinty against the other police forces. Climbed mountains in your spare time.’
McKinnon brought his shiny face up. ‘I’m in . . . the chess club.’
‘Chess isn’t a sport, Mikey, it’s a cry for help from people who can’t get laid.’
‘Hey!’
‘Enough.’ Roberta pointed. ‘I want a padlock on that fridge door, and to hell with anyone who complains they can’t have bacon with their full Scottish .
. .’ Wait a minute. ‘Well, maybe no’ the bacon.
Or sausages. Or black pudding.’ She checked her watch again: just gone ten, and no breakfast yet.
A rumbling growl sounded deep within her belly, because a DIY sandwich of pilfered leftovers, four hours ago, didn’t count. ‘Anyone else starving?’
PC McKinnon and Sergeant Moore looked at each other.
Too polite to say anything. Must be.
She gave the wee loon a poke. ‘When it’s breakfast time .
. . well, suppose we’d better call it brunchtime, now – you’ll just have to stand guard.
Make sure no one gets served a portion of gammon with their eggs.
’ They’d need to plan it, though. Couldn’t have the guests running loose in the hotel; who knew what they’d get up to?
Have to keep the buggers segregated till they’d all been interviewed.
‘Bring them down in small batches, they’re no’ allowed to talk to each other, and after brunch everyone goes right back to their rooms. No exceptions.
Then you patrol the hotel: stop the buggers sneaking out to shag a neighbour or plant evidence. ’
Sergeant Moore pulled a face. ‘But—’
‘You’re the one said they’d all need fed and watered, remember? Besides, the Procurator Fiscal’s going to string us up for moving the body anyway, might as well get a decent nosh-up out of it.’
The sound of clattering pots and frying pans echoed through from the kitchen, reverberating around the walk-in fridge, bringing with it the dark mysterious scent of sizzling bacon and other delicious things. Not-so-muffled voices, as orders were shouted and fulfilled.
‘Need two full Scottish with scrambled, and a poached egg on haddock! Brown toast!’
Clang bash. Then a harsh French accent: ‘Stovies ’ash, beetroot compote, deux ?ufs sur le plat, for table six. Service!’
All right for some, getting their faces fed while other poor sods had to keep working.
Bet PC McKinnon was nibbling away on a bacon buttie when he was meant to be standing guard too. He looked the type.
Roberta unwrapped the last corner of sheet from Sir Reginald’s head, the fabric squeaky in her blue-nitrile-gloved fingers.
Sergeant Moore looked down at the dead face and shuddered. ‘Are you sure about this? I mean, moving the body to a secure location’s one thing, but—’
‘It’s a clue. Can’t catch Buffalo Bill without clues, Clarice.’ She made the Hannibal Lecter ‘nice glass of chianti’ sound, but Moore just stared at her.
‘Nah, you’ve lost me there.’
‘Silence of the Lambs?’
That got her a puzzled shrug.
Seriously?
Thought he was meant to be into movies?
‘Oh, come on, you must’ve seen Silence of the Lambs! The victim’s got a death’s-head moth in his throat? That’s how we know the killer’s into metamorphosis?’
‘Sorry.’
Unbelievable. ‘I’m working with cultural philistines.
’ She puffed out a deep, disappointed breath, then went back to the body.
Cupping the jaw between her hands and wobbling the whole head from side to side.
Moved without a problem – nice and loose.
‘No sign of rigor mortis, so death was probably between twelve and eighteen hours ago. Six hours to get stiff, six hours being stiff, six hours to go floppy again. Like with Viagra.’ She gave Moore a wink and he blushed.
‘Attend enough post mortems and something’s bound to rub off. ’ Like morbid frottage.
‘It’s . . .’ he checked his watch, ‘twenty-five to ten. Eighteen hours ago we’d only just finished the ceremony. They were still doing photographs.’
‘Well, maybe he’s at the getting-stiff stage, then? Time of death’s more an art than a science. That’s why pathologists make such a production out of it.’
She worked her fingers down and in, feeling her way through that suspiciously dark mop of hair, which was definitely dyed, because a teeny sliver of grey roots was just visible where they joined the scalp.
Ooh, now that was interesting.
The fingers on her right hand explored the indentation again. Little hard bits moving beneath the skin, about the diameter of a golf ball. Like someone had been a bit too rough with a chocolate Easter egg.
‘Got a squishy bit at the back here, on the right – well, my right, not his – the skull’s gone crackly.’
‘Blunt instrument to the back of the head?’
‘Probably.’ She let go and held her hand up, rubbing her fingertips together in the fridge’s cold light.
A tiny smear of dark red marked the blue nitrile.
‘Or he fell on something. Difficult to say without X-rays.’ Frown.
‘Anyway, time for the main event.’ She tilted Sir Reginald’s head back and opened his mouth wide.
Took her phone and shone its torch inside.
‘Well? Is it a moth?’
‘Course it’s no’ a moth.’ Black and a little bit shiny. Fabric. All balled up in there. She held out her hand. ‘Pass us those tongs.’
He did.
To be honest, they were far too large, clearly the kind of implements more suited to burning sausages on a barbecue than performing delicate post-mortem procedures, the tips covered in thick red silicone. Still, it wasn’t like Sir Reginald was going to complain, was it?
Roberta went fishing in his gaping mouth, pinching an edge of fabric between the silicone points. ‘Gotcha!’ She pulled whatever it was free and held it aloft in triumph. Where it promptly unfurled itself like a little black flag, revealing its true nature. ‘Oh.’
Sergeant Moore cleared his throat. ‘Dearie me . . .’
The ‘thing’ stuffed down Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott’s throat was a pair of lacy silk panties.
Expensive ones, not end-of-season-bargain-bin Ann Summers.
A thong, though, so even more bumcrackular than the Brazilian ones Susan had bought.
‘Well, I guess that explains why his PJs were round his ankles.’
‘Dirty old bugger.’ The smile faded on Moore’s face. ‘You don’t think we should check he’s not been . . . you know, erm . . . interfered with. Sexually.’
Roberta raised an eyebrow. ‘You any idea how to do that?’
A grimace and a shaken head.
‘Didn’t think so.’ She lowered the panties into a pilfered freezer bag and tied the top.
Didn’t look as if they’d been worn – no handy stains on the gusset – but maybe, when the cavalry arrived, they could get some DNA off the things?
‘So, we’ve narrowed it down to: sexual adventure goes horribly wrong; jilted lover takes revenge; or jealous husband, in the library, with a claw-hammer. ’
Sergeant Moore snapped off his nitrile gloves. ‘Or business deal turns sour and the killer makes it look like something kinky to hide their tracks.’
True.
She frowned at the partially cocooned body. Lot of possible motives there, which didn’t exactly help whittle down their list of suspects. Only one way to make any progress, then.
Roberta wrapped the sheets over Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott’s face again. ‘Get breakfast down you, then we start interrogating folk. See if we can’t find ourselves a murderer.’
Sergeant Moore stifled a belch. ‘Sorry. Shouldn’t have eaten that second hash-brown-and-black-pudding-buttie.’ Greedy sod.
Roberta sooked the last remnants of sticky savoury sweetness from her fingers and pointed at the door in front of them. The one marked ‘BUNNAHABHAIN’. ‘Ready when you are.’
The hotel was strangely silent with everyone confined to their rooms. Well, except for whoever was taking their turn eating a silent breakfast in the dining room under the watchful eye of PC McKinnon. Assuming he hadn’t snuck off for fourths, that is.
Moore hesitated, his knuckles six inches from the wood. ‘Can I just bring up the value of interviewing them separately again? Only—’
‘No, unless you want my boot up your bum.’ Wiping her sooked fingers dry on her jeans.
‘Anyway, each couple’s been cooped up together since about six this morning.
A fiver gets you twenty they’ve spent the whole time rehearsing their stories.
’ She thumped his arm with the back of her hand. ‘Now: arse in gear.’
Moore checked his notebook and knocked – none of that namby-pamby stuff this time, proper hard police-officer belts. ‘Mr Reeves? It’s the police, can you open up, please?’
Roberta settled back against the wall, a wee smile frolicking across her face. Had to admit, life seemed a lot better after a wriggle with the wife and a stack of sticky maple bacon pancakes. Should definitely do that more often.
Still nothing from ‘BUNNAHABHAIN’.