Chapter 17
The relentless hiss of rain slithered in through the open hotel doors. Dawn hadn’t so much broken as cracked, letting only the thinnest hint of daylight slip across the drowning world.
Standing on the nasty tartan threshold, Roberta pulled the zip up on her still-damp high-vis jacket, then did a little pirouette with her arms out in true catwalk fashion. ‘What every well-dressed sexy police officer is wearing this season.’
Susan smiled, stepped in close, licked her own thumb, and scrubbed at something on Roberta’s chin. ‘Honestly, you’ve got breakfast all over you.’
‘I’m a passionate person.’
‘And don’t I know it.’ She wrapped her arms around Roberta and gave her a long wriggly kiss that tasted faintly of sausage, bacon, two fried eggs, baked beans, and a slice of haggis.
Mmm, sexy Sunday breakfast.
By the time they parted lips, Sergeant Moore was staring off into the corner, face a hot shade of Barbie pink.
Susan straightened the lapels of the high-vis. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be OK?’
‘Well, just in case . . .’ Roberta dipped a hand into a jacket pocket and pulled out the little stuffed mouse. ‘You look after Teeny Roberta for me till I get back, OK?’
‘What . . .?’ She looked at it, in its little trousers, bra, and socks with what could only be described as a mixture of revulsion and horror. Holding it between two fingertips, like it was a little plastic bag full of soft, warm dog poo. ‘What the hell is this revolting thing?’
‘Now, if Albert Nairn kills us all, you’ll have something to remember me by.’
Susan held it out at arm’s length. ‘Robbie, when people give their loved one something to look after till their return, it’s meant to be something romantic. A family heirloom. Jewellery. Not a dead mouse!’
‘Look, she’s even wearing a tiny Old Faithful.’
‘Urgh . . .’ Chin in, mouth curdling.
Sergeant Moore did one of those loud on-purpose, ‘ahem’s, making a whole pantomime of checking his watch. ‘That’s PC McKinnon back now, so we’d better get going.’ He tipped a nod at Susan. ‘Thanks for holding down the fort for us.’
‘Not a problem, I’ll make sure everyone stays in their rooms.’
God help anyone that stepped out of line, she could be right nippy with a righteous wind behind her.
‘Aye, and if they give you any trouble?’ Roberta pointed at the stuffed animal dangling from her fingers. ‘Set Mini-Me-Mouse on them.’ Then turned and marched out to join Moore and PC McKinnon beneath the portico.
The rain was every bit as bad as yesterday, lumping it down from a blackened sky. Bouncing off the sodden ground and shattering the surface of what used to be puddles but were now auditioning as lochs.
Being the lowest on the Police Scotland totem pole, McKinnon didn’t get one of the two high-vis waterproofs, instead he had to make do with a dull-grey outdoor jacket of his own, with his stabproof vest and fluorescent-yellow waistcoat on over the top.
Peaked cap sitting a bit squint due to the messy wodge of bandages wrapped around his head.
The lad was almost buried under the massive pile of stuff in his arms. ‘Little help!’
Sergeant Moore extracted a couple of the heavier items. ‘You get everything?’
‘Binoculars from the Landy; every bit of MOE and protective gear I could find; and the first-aid kit, just in case Albert Nairn shoots and doesn’t kill one-slash-all of us.’
‘Fair doos.’ Moore handed the hooly bar to Roberta and followed it up with a riot helmet.
The three-foot metal rod felt violently familiar in her hands – an oversized crowbar’s claw at one end, a spike and a wedge at the other.
Was there anything more fun than whacking someone’s front window in with one of these, or cracking the door off their secret-stash cupboard?
Or just going crazy apeshite on the bonnet of their car with the spikey bit?
. . . Well, anything that didn’t require taking most of your clothes off?
Her new riot helmet was a bit snug, and brought with it the unmistakable whiff of sheep, but hey-ho.
While she was giving the hooly bar a couple of experimental swings, Moore struggled his way into a set of Method Of Entry gear – gloves, elbow and wrist protectors, knee and shin guards. They looked ridiculous on over his jeans and high-vis.
‘And last but not least.’ PC McKinnon held out a pair of wellington boots. ‘I saw these and thought of you.’
‘You wee dancer.’ Roberta plonked her bum down on the top step, pulled off her trainers, and hauled the wellies on. About two sizes bigger than her feet, but at least they’d keep her socks dry. Even if they did shauchle about a bit.
Susan stepped out onto the gravel, clutching a trio of brollies. ‘Don’t forget your umbrellas.’ Not letting go when she handed one to Roberta. ‘And don’t take any silly risks!’
‘What, like this?’ Roberta grabbed a handful of Susan’s bum and gave her a damn good snogging, with extra tongues as Moore and McKinnon shuffled their feet and looked anywhere other than here.
Sergeant Moore did his throat-clearing thing again. ‘Can we go now? Or do you two want to get a room?’
The forest track squelched beneath her feet; wellington boots making wub-wonk noises as they flapped about.
Should’ve worn her trainers. OK, so her feet would be drowned puddings by now, but see if she needed to run away from a gun-totin’ redneck taxidermist?
These bloody wellies would be the death of her.
Wub-wonk, wub-wonk, wub-wonk . . .
Up at the front of their little high-vis expedition, Moore checked Gérard/Tony’s hand-drawn map from yesterday.
Nodding as if he could tell the difference between one soggy tree and another soggy tree in this massive collection of soggy bloody trees, as they slogged through the rain-drenched gloom of a Scottish summer.
But, on the bright side: at least this pishy weather was keeping the midges at home.
From the tail end of their caterpillar, PC McKinnon sniffed and shuffled – keeping his voice low. ‘What do we do if Nairn won’t come quietly?’
‘Course he’ll come quietly.’ Wub-wonk, wub-wonk, wub-wonk . . .
‘But he’s got a gun! Nothing we’ve got will stop a bullet. Or a shotgun cartridge. We’ve not even done a risk assessment!’
‘Aye, we did. While you were off getting the stuff, Sergeant Moore and me did one, didn’t we, Sergeant Moore?’
Moore glanced back at them, a row of creases between his eyebrows. ‘Not really.’ He looked over her head at McKinnon. ‘We decided that if Albert Nairn comes at us with a gun: we throw you at him and run away.’
The constable’s eyes bulged. ‘That’s not—’
‘He won’t come out shooting.’ Wub-wonk, wub-wonk, wub-wonk . . . ‘It’s the Scottish Highlands, no’ Bonny and Clydeside. We’ll talk to him, he’ll come quietly, we’ll cuff him and take him back to the hotel for a bit of being-locked-in-a-room-till-Inverness-gets-here. End of.’
‘Aye, but what if he—’
‘First sign of him kicking off, we go back to the hotel and wait him out. No taking risks, no buggering about. There, you happy now?’
McKinnon curled his top lip and kept on shuffling. Looking like he was about to pee himself. ‘Kinda . . .?’
Roberta shook her head at Sergeant Moore. ‘They always grow PCs this wet up here?’
Moore grimaced back at her. ‘Just try not to get us all killed, OK?’
She gave him a grin. ‘Do my best, but I’m not promising anything.’
Roberta hunkered down and peered over the same knot of brambles they’d hidden behind yesterday. The bone-riddled clearing that surrounded Albert Nairn’s personal haunted-house-of-creepiness was every bit as uninviting as last time. Only wetter.
PC McKinnon’s eyes widened as he took it all in. ‘Good God . . . It’s like something out of a horror movie.’ Never let it be said the boy didn’t pay attention.
Sergeant Moore flexed his hands in his MOE gloves. ‘So, do we split up, or stick together?’
‘Easier target if we stick together, Sarge. Split up and we can surround the place.’
Roberta thumped him one. ‘No one’s splitting up till we see what’s what.’ She stuck out her hand. ‘Give us the binoculars.’
McKinnon handed them over and she had a good squint at the cottage.
Didn’t look any less spooky in close-up.
Could see the little parade of dead things lined up along the inside of the windowsills, the drawn curtains acting as a backdrop for their Passion Play.
And that wasn’t a euphemism, either – it was a bunch of stuffed mice re-enacting the crucifixion with a stoat Jesus.
Which had to be an instant Go-Straight-To-Hell card.
The curtains on the left-hand side of the door were closed too.
An empty bottle of Grouse sat on the porch, next to the rocking chair.
That would be Albert Nairn – sitting there last night, plotting his revenge, drinking up his nerve to storm the hotel and murder some other poor bugger. Not that Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott counted as a poor bugger . . .
PC McKinnon tapped her on the shoulder. ‘What if he’s gone out?’
‘In this weather?’
‘Could be hunting.’
She swept the binoculars across the front of the property again. ‘Then we can sneak inside and surprise him when he gets home, can’t we?’
‘Oh. Right. OK . . .’
Sergeant Moore hunkered down beside her. ‘You see anything?’
‘No smoke coming from the chimney. Curtains are drawn . . . Might be having a long lie? Looks like he’s necked a bottle of Grouse, so it could be Hangover-From-Hell time.’
‘Or Mikey’s right and he’s out.’
She handed the binoculars back. ‘One way to find out.’
At least there’d been no sign of a rifle barrel poking out through a gap in the curtains, ready to pick off any sexy former detective chief inspectors in their borrowed high-vis jackets.