Chapter 18
The tumble-drier warmth faded from her jeans, socks, and pants, as Roberta perched on the end of the bed in ‘AUCHENTOSHAN’.
Not a double, this time, but two singles with matching tartan bedding.
Like the pair of middle-aged biddies who scowled back at her every time she asked a question. Dorothy and Edith Gladstone.
No wonder her pants had gone cold – these two could suck the life out of a hedgehog at fifty paces.
Their hair was dyed an identical brassy blonde. Matching twinsets and pearls. Even their glasses were the same. One sitting in the armchair by the window, the other standing behind it with a hand on her doppelganger’s shoulder. It gave them a kind of ‘Hinge and Bracket, the early years’ look.
‘I see.’ Sergeant Moore wrote something in his notebook, looked at Dorothy, or was it Edith? ‘And what about you, Mrs Gladstone?’
‘It’s Miss, you imbecile.’ The one in the armchair stuck her chin out. ‘And my sister’s just been over this, weren’t you paying attention?’
The other Miss Gladstone – definitely Edith, she looked like an Edith – nodded. ‘It’s beyond the pale, it really is. We’ve been cooped up in here all morning and all yesterday too!’
‘Even criminals are allowed out to the exercise yard for an hour a day!’
‘We’re on the Scottish Penal Reform Association board, you know.’
Dorothy narrowed her eyes. ‘And we shall be writing a very scathing letter to your superiors about this.’
Of course they would.
Roberta hopped down from the bed and scuffed over to the tea-and-coffee-making facilities. Ooh, they hadn’t eaten their biscuits. More fool them.
She helped herself to a wee individually-wrapped lemon-and-white-chocolate shortbread finger. Spraying citrusy crumbs. ‘You haven’t got any custard creams stashed, have you?’
Both Miss Gladstones stuck their noses in the air, as if she’d never spoken.
Sergeant Moore tapped his notepad. ‘If we could get back to the topic of Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott?’
‘Such a tragedy.’ Edith dabbed at her eye with a lace handkerchief. ‘Good old Sir Reginald.’
Dorothy sat forward. ‘He was a real character, you know.’
A nod from her sister. ‘A real character.’
Not this again.
Roberta curled forward and banged her head off the sideboard, hard enough to make the wood boom. ‘Aaaaargh!’
‘Is she always this uncouth, or have you had her specially trained?’
‘TAMDHU’:
Edmund Blacklock was in his mid-fifties, trying to look early-twenties and not really managing it in chinos and a denim shirt that paunched out over his belt. The Michael-Portillo hair didn’t help.
His wife really was in her early-twenties, but somehow, some evil bastard had managed to convince her that ‘Princess Diana tribute act’ was a good look.
Edmund struck a Churchillian pose. At least he had the jowls for it. ‘There’s no doubt in my mind that Sir Reginald was the salt of the earth. Isn’t that right, Letitia?’
She burst into rapturous applause. ‘Oh well said, Edmund, well said!’
‘KNOCKANDO’:
Hats off to her: Mrs Euphemia De Belleforte was rocking the whole Cougar-auditioning-for-a-reality-TV-show-where-she-gets-to-seduce-middle-aged-police-officers thing.
Flashing heaps of quivering cleavage as she fluttered her eyelashes at Sergeant Moore.
‘Oh yes, dear, dear, Reggie. He was such a card . . .’
Out on the balcony, Roberta leaned forward and boinked her forehead off the wooden handrail, once for every repetition: ‘“Salt of the earth.”’ Boink. ‘“A real character.”’ Boink. ‘“Such a card.”’ Boink.
There was an embarrassed sounding ‘Ahem.’ And when she peeled open one eye, there was PC McKinnon, looking at her as if she’d done something weird and/or terrible.
‘What do you want?’
He pulled a face at Sergeant Moore. ‘Is she OK?’
‘Not entirely sure how to answer that one, Mikey.’
Roberta straightened up. ‘Every single bloody one of them.’ She hauled in a deep breath and bellowed it out into the cavernous lobby: ‘“SALT OF THE EARTH!”’ The echoes didn’t last long – swallowed up by the stuffed animals, oil paintings, and tapestries.
McKinnon grimaced. ‘Maybe her blood sugar’s low? Been a while since lunch, and carrot paté with turnip compote and venison gel doesn’t exactly fill you up, does it?’
She slapped her hand down on the rail. ‘It’s like they’ve all rehearsed their statements! How can one man, one massive dick of a man, be universally loved by all these . . .’ She screwed her face up. ‘Tory twats?’
‘Erm . . .’
Roberta turned and jabbed PC McKinnon with a finger. ‘You told me he screwed everyone over!’
‘I said, “probably not his friends”, though.’ Backing away, hands up. Surrendering.
‘Aaaaargh!’
Sergeant Moore stared at the pointy metal antlers. ‘Maybe Mikey’s right? You don’t crap in your own nest, do you.’
The wee loon nodded. ‘Nope. You poop over the edge of it. Make sure it lands on somebody else. Someone beneath you.’
‘Very true, Mikey.’ He was obviously trying to sound reasonable, but it just came off as patronising. ‘And if he thought they all hated him, why would he invite them to his daughter’s wedding? You any idea how much this shindig must’ve cost?’
Pair of idiots. ‘He was rubbing it in! It’s a power thing with old gits like him; “keep your enemies closer”.’ How could they not see that?
‘Didn’t work out too well, though, did it?’
‘Gah . . .’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘How many more of these scumbags have we got to interview?’
‘One more guest, nine members of staff.’
Roberta let her hands fall to her sides and sagged there for a bit. ‘Why does the universe hate me?’
McKinnon shuffled his trainers. ‘At least we’re doing something, right? We’re trying.’
‘And achieving bugger all!’ She gave the balustrade a kick. The statue a scowl. An oil painting the Vs. Then turned and marched away.
PC McKinnon and Sergeant Moore hurried after her, the wee loon doing his best to look keen and determined. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I’m sick of interviewing monkeys – time to go see the organ grinder!’
The door lay at the end of a slightly tatty wee corridor – the tartan carpet scuffed and faded, its walls in need of a fresh coat of paint and someone to fix that damp patch on the ceiling.
Like the hotel laundry, it hadn’t merited a fancy whisky name.
Instead a simple brass plaque with, ‘PRIVATE RESIDENCE’ was screwed above a letterbox.
All very low key.
Roberta fiddled with Old Faithful, working its wandering underwire into a slightly less pokey position as Sergeant Moore raised his hand to knock.
‘I swear, if one more of these buggers says, “he was a real character”. . .’
Moore sighed. ‘Still think you’re making a rod for yourself. Nairn’s dead, we don’t have to—’
‘Aye, we sodding well do.’
‘All right, all right.’ Hands up. ‘How about this, then: we get this one done, then go have afternoon tea or something? Little finger sandwiches, that kind of stuff. Bet they’ve got loads of leftover wedding cake.’ He tried for a smile. ‘You’ll like that, won’t you? Cake?’
‘I’m no’ six, you patronising cockspanner! Knock on the bloody door.’
‘Only trying to help.’ He gave the wood a traditional police triple.
‘And they better have cake.’
God this was taking forever. What the hell was the old—
A clunk – like a deadbolt being released – and the door swung open, revealing Lord Oliver William Fitzroy-Galbraith in all his disapproving glory.
He’d ditched last night’s paisley-patterned PJs and dressing gown for red corduroy trousers and one of those ugly checked shirts beloved of farmers, people pretending to be farmers, and dickheads.
Given that he’d topped the outfit off with a polka-dot cravat, there were no prizes for guessing which one he was.
Lord Sharny-Bumflaps looked them up and down, curling his lip when he got to Roberta. ‘I assume you’re here to apologise for your terrible behaviour yesterday morning?’
‘Official business.’ She flashed her out-of-date warrant card. ‘We need to talk to you about your old mate Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott. Deceased. And your other old mate, Albert Nairn. Also deceased. Bit of a coincidence, eh?’
That made the temperature drop a bit.
‘I see.’
Sergeant Moore nodded towards the private apartments. ‘So, Your Lordship, if you don’t mind, that is?’
‘Hmph . . .’ He turned. ‘I suppose you’d better follow me.’
They did, into a room that seemed to have escaped whichever tartan-obsessed monster had been allowed to run rampant through the rest of the hotel.
But compared to the guests’ rooms, it was all a bit shabby in here.
The sofa and armchairs sagged like an old cat’s belly.
Faded rugs on the floor almost managing to hide bald patches in the ancient carpet.
Wallpaper that had seen better decades, never mind days.
Window frames that needed painting . . .
Even the view was crap: overlooking what had to be the kitchen roof, extractor-fan outlets dotting it like manky mushrooms. Out across a dip of soggy grass, then nothing but miserable grey rain-battered trees.
And for some reason, Roberta couldn’t help but smile.
‘Schadenfreude’ was a lovely word, wasn’t it?
Sergeant Moore scribbled away in his notebook, sitting in a wingback chair whose stuffing was making a bid for freedom. Writing everything down, as if Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith was saying anything in the least bit useful to their investigation.
Roberta slouched back on the couch, one leg swinging as the interview stretched on into mind-numbing eternity.
‘It’s a terrible shame about Nairn. He was an excellent gamekeeper, led record-breaking shoots every Glorious Twelfth. Don’t know who’ll raise the pheasants now. You see, running a shooting estate takes a lot more work than people realise . . .’
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
On and on and on.
Look at him, standing there in the middle of the room with his hands clasped behind his back, as if he was still in the military. With his silly military moustache and shiny military shoes. Wanging on about how you couldn’t get decent staff any more, because people just didn’t know their place.
And what was with the name? Lord Oliver William Fitzroy-Galbraith. Why did these posh sods have to hyphenate everything? Did they think it made them sound more important? Oh, your surname doesn’t have a hyphen in it? You must be one of those lower classes one hears about!
Mind you, Susan and Roberta had done the same with the kids: Jasmine and Naomi Wallace-Steel. But that was different, and not rampant hypocrisy at all. Because they weren’t posh tossers.
Or something.
Ahem . . .
Anyway, the French had the right idea: march all your aristocrats up to Madame Guillotine and chop their heads off.
Thunk. Crowd cheers. Everyone goes home for baguettes, stinky cheese, and a bonk.
Sometimes you just had to learn the lessons of history.
March ’em up, chop ’em off. And not just the aristos, either – the world would be a much better place if two-thirds of its political class suddenly became ten-inches shorter.
Then there were the people who didn’t indicate at roundabouts.
Or pronounced Glenmorangie, ‘Glen-mor-ANNE-jee’. And what about—
‘I beg your pardon?’
Roberta blinked and there was His Lordship, treating Sergeant Moore to an imperious sneer.
Fitzroy-Galbraith folded his arms. ‘Did he have any enemies? Reginald? Enemies?’
God, the landed gentry loved the sound of their own voices.
She sat up. ‘Any chance you can answer the question instead of repeating it?’
‘Did Reginald have any enemies? Well, Albert Nairn killed him, so I’m guessing he probably did!
’ A haughty sniff. ‘What a stupid question. You don’t get to be an MP without knifing people in the back, and you certainly don’t get to stay one without knifing even more.
Then burying the bodies. And pinning the blame on someone else.
’ He marched over to the window and stood there with his back to the room, staring down at the kitchens.
‘Half the village hated him, and the other half loathed him. He played them for idiots with that Skirivour Goldmine Association thing. Not just them, I’m sorry to say. ’
Ooh, now they were getting somewhere.
‘He play you?’
‘I am Lord Oliver William Fitzroy-Galbraith,’ the words hard and clipped, ‘no one plays me.’
‘If you didn’t like him, how come you let him have his daughter’s wedding here?’
The old git tutted, like it was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. ‘Do you have any idea what the upkeep on a place like this is? Running an ancestral pile is crippling; the arrangement was purely financial.’
‘Didn’t look like that during the speeches, Friday night. Looked like the two of you were total BFFs.’
A short and bitter laugh barked out into the shabby room. ‘A wise man knows when to grease the wheels, Detective Chief Inspector, especially when they belong to your local MP and the man has discretion regarding . . . certain planning applications, grants, funding, and initiatives.’
So she’d been right: friends close, enemies closer.
What was it Susan had been going on about at dinner last night? Holiday homes and high-end villas?
Even more interesting.
‘Oh aye: “planning applications”?’ Roberta raised her eyebrows. ‘Care to elaborate on that?’
‘No, I would not.’
The carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticked, getting louder as the silence stretched. Rain battered the window.
Sergeant Moore cleared his throat, pen poised and ready.
But Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith just stood there, hands clasped behind his back, scowling down at the kitchen and its mushroomy extractor-fan outlets.
OK . . .
She settled into the couch again. ‘What about affairs? Wee birdie tells me our boy Sir Reggie was a bit free and easy where he tossed the old family caber?’
That got her an imperious sniff. ‘I’ll leave the Sergeant to answer that one, I don’t lower myself to backstairs gossip.
’ He checked his watch. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else, I have more important things to do than waste my time with your puerile questions.
Albert Nairn killed Sir Reginald: you have his confession.
This matter is now closed.’ A long thin finger came up and pointed at the door. ‘You may go.’
Aye, that’ll be shining.
Sergeant Moore stood, but Roberta stayed where she was.
‘Quick question for you: if you could describe Sir Reginald in one simple phrase, what would it be?’
Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith turned, nose in the air. ‘“Caveat emptor” springs to mind.’
‘Ah.’ Moore nodded. ‘“Let the buyer beware . . .”’
Yes, thank you Dictionary Corner.
Roberta stood. ‘No’ “salt of the earth”?’
‘Salt is a useful thing, Detective Chief Inspector, but too much can be very bad for your health.’