Chapter 19 #2
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ Lord Fusty-Bumcrack thumped the tip of his walking stick against the floor.
‘This is all immaterial. Albert Nairn was a hardworking and conscientious gamekeeper, but he snapped and for some reason known only to him, decided to kill Sir Reginald. It – was – in – his – suicide – note.’ Saying it slow and clear, so the silly old police officers could understand.
She gave him a cold smile. ‘If you wouldn’t mind hudding your wheesht for five minutes, Your Lordship, maybe you’ll find out why it’s not immaterial at all. In fact, it’s very material indeed.’ Stared him down till he sat back in his armchair again.
‘Very well, proceed.’ As if he was the one in charge here.
‘Sir Reginald was killed by a blow to the head, right here.’ Roberta tapped herself on the noggin, right where she’d found the broken-Easter-egg bit on the body’s skull.
‘This implies his killer came at him from behind. His left-handed killer.’ She did one of those theatrical hand gestures, as if she was introducing a magic trick.
‘And would anyone like to guess if Albert Nairn was left-handed or right-handed? Anyone? He was right-handed, unlike our killer.’
This time the shocked gasping sounded a lot more authentic.
‘Our killer who set Albert Nairn up, and probably killed him too. Made it look like a suicide so we’d stop investigating.
They thought they’d planned for every eventuality.
They thought they’d got away with it. But our killer made one fatal mistake.
’ She left a pause – one hairy bumhole, two hairy bumholes, three hairy bumholes – milking it.
Quick glance to make sure PC McKinnon had his finger on the switch.
Then, ‘A killer who I can now reveal to be . . .!’
McKinnon switched the lights off, plunging the room into darkness.
A scream rang out from the crowd, followed by another one, then the ringing crash of something metal hitting the floor, and the high-pinging-crackle of shattering porcelain. Which set off more screaming.
Exactly as planned.
‘Lights, Constable!’
They flickered on again . . . but everyone was still right where they’d been before the lights went out. The only thing that’d changed was the tray of tea things wasn’t on the coffee table any more – it was spread in jagged shards all over the tartan carpet, bits of cake everywhere.
‘Oh.’ She frowned at what was left of the teapot. ‘Now, you see, that should’ve worked.’ Then at Sergeant Moore. ‘It always works in crime novels.’
Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith banged his stick on the floor again, just to make sure he was the centre of attention. Poncy show-off. ‘Are we done with this ridiculous charade, now?’
Were they hell.
‘Simon says, “Everyone who’s left-handed: stick that sinister paw of yours in the air.”’
Not a single hand went up.
So Roberta put a bit of force behind it. ‘Come on, folks, SIMON SAYS!’
Finally, hands reached up above the crowd. Only three of them, though. The VIPs at the front just stared at her – like she needed scraping off the sole of their shoes. Well, that was about to change.
She grinned at them. ‘Think fast!’ Then pulled the jar of hand cream from her pocket and hurled it at Lady Bradbury-Scott in a perfect flat arc, heading right for that prissy mug of hers.
Her Ladyship flinched back, hands curled in front of her chest, oh God, it was going to smack her right in the—
Her daughter’s hand flashed out and the hand cream slapped into her palm inches from Mummy Dearest’s nose. Her daughter’s left hand.
The plan had worked after all.
Roberta smiled. ‘Interesting . . .’
Adriana rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t be absurd.
My mother and I both wear our watches on our right wrists, of course we’re left-handed.
We never said we weren’t.’ She turned to scan the crowd, until she was staring straight at Susan, her voice a withering sneer.
‘You never told me your wife was a complete idiotfest.’
Susan blushed and looked away.
A triumphant sniff, and Adriana twisted the lid off the hand cream and dabbed a little on the back of her hand. Smoothed it in.
Sergeant Moore’s mouth barely moved as his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again.’
Adriana went in for a second fingertipful.
Oh, you think so, do you?
Roberta marched right over there and stuck her hand under the cow’s nose. Filling the words with menace: ‘That’s no’ yours. Give.’
Silence settled back into the room.
Adriana glared at her, all high and haughty. Chin up. So superior.
Roberta bared her teeth.
Oh, if she thought she was going to get away with treating Susan like that, and stealing Susan’s hand cream like that, and being an utter bitch in front of everyone. Like. That. She was about to find out how a four-knuckle sandwich tasted.
Five.
Four.
Three . . .
Adriana dropped her gaze and held the hand cream out.
Better.
Roberta plucked it from her fingers, tossed it in the air – so everyone could see – and caught it again.
Turned her back on the lot of them. ‘See, our killer thought they could muddy the water so much, no one would ever see the bottom.’ A sigh as she slipped the hand cream back into her pocket.
‘Laying a false trail here, distracting with flashy footwork there.’ Sauntering back to the middle of the room.
‘They say it takes a village to raise a child, but how many people does it take to kill one man?’
She turned, nice and slow. For some reason, no one wanted to make eye contact with her.
Not even the VIPs. ‘Because sooner or later the phones will start working again and, if the bridge is still out, Inverness will send a helicopter full of officers. You’ll all be questioned again, under oath this time, separately.
’ Roberta let them think about that for a moment.
A bit of shuffling at the back.
A woman in twinset-and-pearls let loose a little nervous laugh – Edith or Dorothy, it was difficult to tell from here.
A couple of people cleared their throats.
And still no one could look at her.
‘Three men can keep a secret as long as two of them are dead, right? Someone will crack, they always do. Someone will crack and cut a deal, and then it’ll be too late for the rest of you.’
Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith’s face wrinkled into a mask of upper-class scorn. ‘We don’t have to sit here listening to this poppycock.’
‘So the choice is: save yourself, or sit at home waiting for that patented knock on your door.’ She raised the heel of her boot and hammered it into the carpet – three times, setting the floor booming. Deep breath. ‘POLICE! OPEN UP!’
‘You don’t have any proof anyone’s done anything.’
She nodded. ‘Oh aye, I do.’ Then turned to Sergeant Moore. ‘Don’t I, Sergeant?’
He opened his mouth . . . then closed it again. Turned to look at her. ‘I . . . What?’
Roberta tapped herself on the head again, only round the front this time.
‘See, my little grey cells have been working away like busy, busy bees the whole time. You argued and argued that we had to move the body, didn’t you?
Because you knew your DNA would be all over it from when you stuck him up there.
Now you can claim cross-contamination. Same with Albert Nairn’s “suicide” confession that you so conveniently found. ’
His eyebrows pinched up in the middle. Took him a while, but it finally looked like he’d twigged this was an accusation, not a call for backup. ‘That’s not—’
‘You said you’d never seen Silence of the Lambs, but you can quote it, can’t you? We all heard you do it.’
Sergeant Moore pulled his chin in. ‘Yeah, but everyone can quote—’
‘You killed Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott. You put those panties in his mouth.’ There was another round of shocked gasps at that little revelation.
‘You stuck him on those antlers. Big strong guy like you – used to mountain climbing, rugby, and shinty? Must’ve been a doddle carrying Sir Reginald up that ladder.
And then you killed Albert Nairn and made it look like a suicide to cover your tracks. ’
Moore backed off a step, like she’d offered him a nice steaming hot mug of Ebola. ‘You’re off your tiny hairy rocker, aren’t you?’
‘He was shagging your wife, wasn’t he? Sir Randy Buggery-Snot was having it away with your wife.’
‘Philippa would never—’
She closed the gap again. ‘And you knew. Sitting up there on the top table, at the reception, listening to him gloating about everything he’d achieved. The man who shagged your wife, patting your son on the back and grooming him to be a Tory MP?’
‘No!’ Starting to go a bit red now. ‘I didn’t kill anyone!’
Roberta poked him. ‘How much money did you spaff away on his non-existent goldmine? All of it? Everything you’d saved up for your retirement?’
Sergeant Moore squared his shoulders, face darkening. ‘Will you listen to me?’
‘He took everything from you: your wife, your son, your money, your dignity. What else were you going to do, let him get away with it? Of course you killed him, and you killed Albert Nairn too!’ She raised her finger and poked him again.
Hard. ‘And I’m going to make sure you go down for sixteen to life. ’