Chapter -10 #2
She was about to tell Sergeant Moore to give the door another hammering when it creaked open and a fusty bloke in his late sixties opened it and scowled out at them.
Probably going for outraged-but-upstanding-member-of-the-community, but it was a difficult look to carry off when you resembled a half-sooked lollypop that’d been trapped down the back of the sofa for a couple of weeks.
He stuck his nose in the air. Accent so posh you’d need a silver fish knife to cut it. ‘Are we to be permitted to leave our room, or is this a police state now?’
‘Mr Reeves.’ Sergeant Moore gave him a bland smile. ‘We’ll only take a couple minutes of your time, sir.’
A big, I’m-so-important, sigh, and he led them into a bedroom that was almost identical to Roberta and Susan’s. Only tartanier.
A woman sat in a straight-backed wooden chair by the little desk. Luckily, she was every bit as warm and welcoming as her husband had been. As if someone had stuffed sixteen stone of cold malevolence into a fourteen-stone bag.
Roberta settled herself on the end of the bed, bouncing a couple of times to test the springs. ‘On you go, Sergeant.’
He flipped his notebook open and stood there with pen poised. ‘Mr Reeves, I understand you and Sir Reginald weren’t on the best of terms?’
Mr Reeves gave Roberta the kind of look probably reserved for the revolting lower classes.
‘Sir Reginald and I were very good friends, we played golf together. We may have had our differences in the past, but that’s all water under the bridge, now.
He was a decent chap. The kind of chap that any chap would be jolly lucky to count as a friend.
’ Chest out. ‘Won’t hear a bad word said about the man! ’
Mrs Reeves nodded. ‘Quite right, Hugo.’
‘Salt of the earth.’
‘I’ll bet he was.’ Roberta stopped bouncing. ‘So, what was this falling out about?’
‘A mere misunderstanding. All forgiven and forgotten, as I said.’
‘Aye, right . . .’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘And, now he’s dead, you’re going to pretend everything was hunky-dory?’
A smug, smarmy smile pulled that sooked-lollypop face out of shape. ‘If it wasn’t, I’d hardly be attending his daughter’s wedding, now would I?’
Condescending prick.
‘LAGAVULIN’ was just as tartany as ‘BUNNAHABHAIN’. Roberta lounged by the window, leaning against the wall as Sergeant Moore took down the long and boring anecdote Mortimer Beresford still hadn’t finished telling.
‘And I know corporate law can be a bit cut-throat at times, but as I always say to your good lady wife, “Susan,” I say, “Susan, it could be worse, at least we’re not merchant bankers!”’ He’d ditched last night’s morning suit in favour of a pair of corduroy trousers in an apoplectic shade of burgundy and a pink shirt.
Still had on far too much jewellery, though.
He gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry we can’t be more help. ’
His wife – what was it, Agatha? Agnes? Abigail?
– placed a hand on his shoulder. For some reason, she’d thought it was a good idea to dress in the same clothes as her husband.
Like some bizarre before-and-after photograph.
‘And don’t forget all that money Sir Reginald raised for Romanian orphans, Mortimer. ’
His whole face seemed to blossom at that. ‘Oh yes, quite right! Upright chap, Reggie. A real character.’
The only thing to differentiate ‘GLENDRONACH’ from every other bedroom they’d visited so far was the view. This one overlooked the waterlogged car park with its collection of drowning vehicles.
Mr and Mrs Ratchett had probably gone for ‘business casual’, but ended up looking like a pair of yuppies well past their sell-by date. They clearly hadn’t got the memo that the Eighties were over. Or if they had, they’d left it in their Filofax.
Mrs Ratchett made a proper pantomime show of thinking about it, tapping her fingertips against her almost non-existent chin. ‘I think, what I liked most about Sir Reginald was his . . . his generosity of spirit, didn’t you, Adrian?’
A nod. ‘Oh definitely. Generosity of spirit.’
‘Always thinking of others, wasn’t he?’
‘Always. Always thinking of others.’
She clenched her hands to her bosom. ‘It’s just so terrible to think he’s gone . . .’
‘Terrible, just terrible. He was the salt of the earth.’
Now, ‘CRAGGANMORE’ was a bit grander than the bedrooms they’d been in so far.
A junior suite, which meant you didn’t get a sitting room, but you did get a putting machine and a bedroom big enough for a couch.
The sideboard behind it played host to an ice bucket, full of fresh ice cubes, and a bottle of something fizzy and expensive.
Which was odd, given that everyone including the hotel staff were meant to be on lockdown.
The room’s occupant had the kind of head you could probably use to bang nails in, a short rectangular body and strangely tiny feet.
No business casual for him, though, he was done up in an expensive-looking suit, with perfectly manicured nails, a porcelain-white smile featuring a gold tooth at the front, and a full-on Kremlin-issue accent.
Smiling as he poured himself another glass of champagne.
‘Meester Bradbury-Scott, he was good man. Very trustworthy.’
Sergeant Moore wrote that down. ‘I hear you and he had a falling out over some investments in Edinburgh, Mr . . . Volkov?’
‘Please, you call me Maksim.’ He flashed that gold tooth again. ‘This was . . . misunderstanding. He come to me and he say, “Maksim Arturovich, we must to be friends again, no more fighting. Is bad for business, yes?” So, we drink vodka and, how you say, bury the axe?’
Roberta peered out the window. His view was better too – across the trees to what looked like a wee stone circle, lurking in the downpour.
‘Takes a lot for someone like you to forgive someone like Bradbury-Scott. Treating you with disrespect? Conning you?’ She turned back to the room. ‘Wouldn’t like that.’
‘Someone like me?’ A modest shrug. ‘I am simple flower merchant, I have no problem can not be made go away with good friendship.’ He gave her a wink, toasting her with his champagne flute.
‘And good vodka!’ Knocking back the whole glass, then sighing and shaking his head.
‘It is great shame about Meester Bradbury-Scott, he was, how you say . . .?’
‘Salt of the earth?’
Maksim Arturovich Volkov’s gold-toothed smile returned. ‘Yes! This is it exactly. Salt of the earth.’
Of course it sodding was.
Sergeant Moore eased the door to ‘CRAGGANMORE’ closed, then stood there frowning at it while Roberta had a sly puff on her e-cigarette – filling the corridor with cherry-scented steam. Like a wee fruity dragon.
She had a bash at a smokeless smoke ring. It looked like a Moomin with piles. ‘“Flower merchant” my sharny arse. If he’s a flower merchant, I’m a sack of geraniums.’
‘You starting to see a pattern here?’
‘No one’s that universally beloved. No one.’ Her second go at a smoke ring wasn’t much better, more legless sheep than doughnut. ‘You know what I think? I think . . .’
Hang on a minute.
Roberta hurried over to the window, squinting out the rain-pebbled glass. There was someone out there. A figure, barely visible through the downpour. ‘There! You see that?’
‘See what?’
She thumped a fingertip against the glass. ‘There: disappearing into the trees?’
Couldn’t make out much detail from this distance, but it was definitely a person, at the far end of the castle’s manicured gardens, disappearing into the woods.
Moore stared. ‘Everyone’s supposed to be confined to their rooms.’
She stuffed her e-cigarette away and lurched into a run. ‘Well don’t just stand there!’
Along the corridor, skidding around the corner and down the sweeping wooden steps, taking them two at a time and across the lobby floor.
Sprinting past the huge body-less stag. Wheeching the soggy high-vis raincoats off the coatstand by the door and thumping out into the dreich and drookit afternoon.