Chapter 14
At least the hotel laundry didn’t have a stupid whisky name.
Wooden shelves wrapped around three sides of the room, stacked high with bed linen, towels, and the rest of that housekeeping malarkey.
A couple of massive tumble driers sat against the other wall, whurrrrrrring and rumbling, each one easily large enough to take a family of four – if you didn’t mind squishing the children up a bit – leaving the middle of the room to a bank of industrial-strength washing machines that chugged, sloshed, and whirred as the weird ginger woman in the tartan miniskirt ironed her way through a stack of pillow cases.
Doing her best not to look at the half-naked police officers loitering in her place of work.
Roberta wrapped the edge of the sheet around herself again, covering Old Faithful’s straps. Didn’t want Sergeant Moore getting all hot and bothered. That was the trouble with these heterosexual men: no self-control when it came to a flash of sexy flesh.
He didn’t seem very comfortable in his sheet, shifting and fidgeting with it – like anyone was interested in his scabby blue Markie’s pants and hairy knees – as he tried to take notes at the same time.
You know, with the pair of them done up in their DIY togas, and the weird woman in her short skirt, the laundry room kinda resembled a really badly organised Roman orgy, where no one remembered to bring any booze. Or butt plugs.
Their hostess finished ironing one pillowcase, folded it, and started on another. ‘Oh, Sir Reginald was quite the regular here.’ A sigh – both wistful and sad. ‘Lovely man. Tipped really well.’ She wiped a wee tear from her eye. ‘All the staff loved him.’
‘Oh aye?’ Roberta leaned back against a washing machine as it whirrrred into its spin cycle, the whole thing vibrating enough make the floor judder. Like a huge, rectangular, stainless-steel sex toy.
Roberta’s voice came out all wobbly as the machine really got into the throb of things. ‘Then how come he came off as such a prick?’
‘Oh, that was just his way. He was lovely, deep down. A proper gentleman.’ She pointed the iron at them. ‘You know what he was?’
‘If you say “salt of the earth”, “such a card”, or “a real character” I’m going to cram that ironing board right up your laundry chute.’
Her cheeks flushed hot pink, clashing with her freckles and hair. ‘Charming, I’m sure!’
Moore fiddled with his sheet again. ‘What about Albert Nairn?’
‘The gamekeeper?’ She puffed out a breath. ‘Now you’re asking. He’s quite good on washing machines, but hopeless with the rumblers.’ Nodding at the two huge monstrosities as Roberta’s trainers boinged and clonked, churning round and round and round . . .
‘Did he have a problem with Sir Reginald?’
‘What, like did they fight or something?’ A laugh.
‘God, can you imagine?’ On to the next pillowcase.
‘Anyway, Old Nairny wouldn’t do anything that’d hurt His Lordship.
Totally devoted, so he is. It’s sweet, really.
Killing a guest? God knows what the TripAdvisor reviews are going to be like after this weekend.
’ She put on a mock-posh voice. ‘“Lovely food and excellent service, but our stay was somewhat marred by the father-of-the-bride getting crucified in the lobby: three stars.”’
‘Damn it.’ Sergeant Moore fumbled with his notebook and one side of his sheet slipped, exposing a nipple and the tattoo above – a skull and dagger with a woman’s name wrapped around it on a scroll.
Only the name had been scored out with a thick red line that looked a lot fresher than the faded blue-grey of the original design.
‘Sorry.’ He hauled the sheet back into place.
‘Nairn’s never threatened Sir Reginald in any way? ’
‘Don’t be silly.’
The giant driers went ding and stopped turning.
Little Miss Miniskirt marched over there and pulled open both doors, letting out the warm fluffy scent of freshly tumbled clothes. ‘There you go, all nice and dry and toasty.’ She dug Roberta’s T-shirt, jeans, socks, and trainers from the drum. ‘Do you want them ironed?’
‘Oh, no. I love it when they’re still warm from the machine.’ Roberta took the lot from her, holding the bundle close. Mmmmm, fuzzy loveliness. ‘Sergeant Moore, you can either face the wall, cover your eyes, or get a knee in the nadgers.’
‘Oh, not this again.’ He turned to face the wall.
Roberta stuck her clothes on top of the ironing board and, as a special treat, gave the weird ginger woman a saucy wink and a good hard flash of Old Faithful. Something sexy for her to think about next time she was doing a big wash and the machines hit the spin cycle.
Never let it be said that Roberta Steel didn’t do her bit for morale.
‘Sorry, again.’ Sergeant Moore waved at the weird woman and eased the laundry door closed, shutting her inside.
Leaving him and Roberta outside in a bland magnolia corridor with pipes running along the ceiling.
He’d ditched the toga for his now-dry clothes, shoes clutched in one hand and full of scrunched-up newspapers.
Frowning at Roberta as she wriggled from side to side. ‘Was that really necessary?’
‘Mmmmm . . .’ Eyes half-closed in bliss as the tumble-drier warmth seeped into her.
‘Did you have to traumatise the poor woman?’
‘I love jeans straight out the tumble drier – all nice and toasty on your bum and bits.’
Cheeky sod pretended to have a wee dry-boak at the image. Then: ‘So, what do you want to do? More interviews, or—’
‘Hoy!’ She thumped him. ‘One of life’s little pleasures that is: toasty bits.’
He retreated out of bashing range and checked his notebook. ‘So far, we’ve done eight couples and four singles, including our weird friend the animal-stuffer. That leaves seventeen guests and nine hotel staff to go.’
Roberta sagged a bit and frowned at him. ‘You’re harshing my mellow again, Sergeant.’
‘We could do another three interviews, and that would make it halfway?’
‘Sod that.’ Roberta had one last toasty wriggle. ‘Been ages since brunch and I’m starving. I don’t get fed soon I’m going to hunt one of your Tories down and eat them.’
Bangs, clangs, and sizzling filled the kitchen, accompanied by great gouts of steam as Gérard de Larosière, AKA: Tony Heppelthwaite, bustled from worktop to stove. Chopping, stirring, tossing – but not in a rude way – as he roasted, boiled and sautéed his big fat fake-French heart out.
Didn’t even look up from his pots as Roberta barged her way in. ‘Hoy, garcon! When’s dinner?’
That faux-Gallic accent was dialled up to full. ‘Deener? DEENER? ’Ow am I supposed to create culinary miracles when your stupide police boy locks my freedge every time he goes on patrol? C’est impossible!’
She gave him a proper hard stare. ‘Union Canal, remember?’
He backed away from the stove, wiping his shiny face on a tea towel, back to broad Brummie again.
‘Giz a chance, eh? Albert only terned up with the main course five minutes ago.’ Gérard pointed across the room with a ladle, towards the vast hairy carcass of a deer.
Which not only wasn’t already sizzling in a pan, the damn thing still had hooves, fur, and antlers on it.
‘But I’m hungry now!’
‘Youse can have it raw, if ye like – venison tartare wit’ capers and shallots – but it’ll be nicer if ye beggar off an’ lerrus do me job.’
‘But . . . But . . .’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Hour, hour and a half, tops. Promise.’
‘Gah . . .’
She spun on her heel and stomped away. Pushing past Sergeant Moore, who was just standing there, blocking the way like some sort of idiot Labrador.
Moore hurried after her. ‘So, we’ve got time for a few more interviews, right?’
Bloody man was obsessed.
‘Fine!’ Roberta threw her hands in the air.
‘If it’ll stop you wanging on about it.’ She stopped dead, turned, and poked him.
‘But if I have to be nice to one more stuck-up, salt-of-the-earth-spouting tosspot, I’m going to explode.
No’ figuratively: literally. BANG! Bits of Roberta all over the walls and ceiling. ’
He was probably aiming for a cajoling smile, but it came off as patronising wankbaggery. ‘Come on, I’m sure once we get going it won’t be as bad as you—’
‘BANG!’ Another poke. ‘And I’m taking you with me!’
‘All right, all right: enough interviewing Tories for one day. How about we try some members of staff instead? That’ll be better, won’t it?’
Probably not.
Kinda hard to concentrate, when her innards were howling like a pack of wolves on a day-trip to the sausage factory, so Roberta didn’t even bother. Just sat there and let Sergeant Moore ask all the questions.
Yes, you could argue that it was highly unprofessional to have a hungry sulk when you should be trying to catch a killer, but they already had a prime suspect.
And besides, the hotel staff were all so boring: the gardener with the shaky hands and strong smell of ‘medicinal cigarettes’, who couldn’t have held an opinion of his own if you’d duct-taped it to his hand; the cleaner with a thick Romanian accent, who spent most of the interview insisting she was in the country legally; and last, but by all means least, the spotty youth responsible for valet parking and washing all the guests’ cars.
And not one of the buggers had a single useful thing to say about Sir Reginald Bumfaced-Scumbag, Albert Nairn, or any sodding thing.
‘Right, thank you for your time, Mr Hastings.’ Moore put his notebook away and stood.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll see ourselves out.’ Not that it would’ve been difficult – the room was about the size of a phone box, plastered in posters of fast cars and ladies in very skimpy bikinis who for some reason seemed to have embarked on a career in automotive repair, only without any of the normal protective gear.
Health and Safety would have a field day.
Hard to tell what the wee lad spent more time masturbating over – the cars or the women.
No wonder it smelled funky in here.