Chapter 20 #2
Roberta gestured with the bottle, setting its amber contents sloshing. ‘This. Were you part of it? Every other bugger was.’
‘Robbie!’ Her stern voice. ‘Of course I wasn’t. And you should be ashamed of yourself for even thinking that.’
Yeah, well, one more thing that could join the list.
Rain hissed against the gravel, sparked off the loch-sized puddles around Prostate Fountain, growled in the trees.
Off in the middle distance, a fat black crow lifted above the pines, realised it was still pissing down, and sulked back into the forest again. Probably thinking, ‘Bugger this for a game of soldiers.’ It and her both.
Susan pulled her shoulders up. ‘Mortimer’s offered me a promotion: partnership in the firm. Comes with a thirty percent pay rise, profit share, and eight weeks’ holiday.’
‘Going to take it?’
She made a little humming noise. ‘Haven’t decided. It’s a bribe to keep me quiet, obviously, but it’s a great opportunity too.’ Her shoulder bumped into Roberta’s. ‘The important thing is: what do you want to do?’
‘Pff . . .’ Another big lungful of cherry. Holding it in. ‘None of the buggers in there are going to admit what really happened, are they? They’ve got strength in numbers – what’ve I got?’
‘The truth?’
Hard not to laugh at that. ‘With no evidence? It’s just conjecture and supposition.
Sergeant Buggering Moore’s compromised all the forensics – the Procurator Fiscal won’t touch this one with a stick.
You know what PFs are like: “Too difficult to prove criminal conspiracy,” she’ll say.
“Why didn’t you just pick someone and beat a confession out of them?
”’ Roberta plucked a wee nugget of gravel from between her feet and hurled it out into the rain.
‘Or they’ll just want to pin it on Albert Nairn, and everyone else gets off scot-free. ’
The door creaked open again, and there he was: man of the sodding hour.
Sergeant Moore cleared his throat. ‘Thought I’d find you here.’
Bet he did.
She took another swig. ‘Go away.’
He closed the door behind him and stepped out under the portico. Turned to face her. Standing there with his hands behind his back, like he was reporting for duty and expecting a bollocking.
Roberta pulled on the most disgusted face she could manage. ‘So, you got away with murder, then?’
‘Honestly, I swear on my kids’ lives, I had nothing to do with it, OK?
Scout’s honour.’ He did the little salute.
‘Cross my heart and hope to get a terrible dose of piles.’ He licked his lips in the ensuing silence.
Shifted his feet on the gravel. Cleared his throat again.
‘It wasn’t me, and that’s the God’s honest truth!
I did not kill Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott. ’
Like that mattered.
‘If it wasn’t you, it was your recently widowed girlfriend, and you helped her cover it up. Even if his death was an accident, you’re both guilty: perverting the course of justice, eight years apiece.’
Sergeant Moore clasped a hand over his heart. ‘I had nothing to do with it and neither did Jocasta. We really were together all Friday night. And last night too.’ Frown. ‘Well, most of it anyway.’
‘What I don’t get is: why put the body on display like that? Why no’ just throw him down the stairs and have done with it? Just making work for yourselves.’
‘We’ve been seeing each other since Philippa left me.
And before you ask: no, it wasn’t a revenge affair.
Philippa wasn’t shagging Sir Reginald.’ Deep breath.
‘The butcher she was sleeping with was a woman. So was the lady who ran the mobile library, the receptionist at our local vet’s, and a dental hygienist called Ursula. ’
Lucky old Philippa.
Roberta squinted at him, tilting her head to one side.
‘Or did you stick him up there because: why wouldn’t you?
Whole hotel’s clarted with dead things. Surprised you didn’t have him stuffed and mounted.
Albert Nairn would’ve given you special mates’ rates.
Then, maybe, you wouldn’t have had to kill him too? ’
Moore sagged. ‘Please, I’m baring my soul here!’
‘But, see doing all this when you know there’s a police officer here?
A real police officer, no’ a corrupt parochial bunnet like you and that idiot, McKinnon.
How arrogant would you have to be?’ She took a deep swig of whisky, then handed the bottle to Susan.
Making eye contact with Sergeant Moore the whole time, so he’d know he was being snubbed.
Susan frowned at the bottle. ‘Why does the label have, “Welcome to Skirivour Castle Hotel” on it?’ When she didn’t get an answer, she shrugged and knocked back a glug. Squooshing it through her teeth like it was a fine wine before swallowing. ‘Not bad.’
‘And if that’s not enough:’ he stuck both hands out, shaking his left wrist and shoogling the cheap-looking watch dangling on it.
Wiggling the fingers on his right hand, showing off the inky marks from making all those notes over the last two days.
‘I’m right-handed, see?’ He dropped his arms and leaned back against the nearest pillar.
Staring out into the rain. ‘Far as I can make out, they’ve been planning it for a while.
Don’t know if it was the Russian mobster who actually killed him, or one of the Tory tosspots .
. . or maybe they just paid Nairn to do it?
You heard Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith: “don’t get to be an MP without knifing people in the back, burying the bodies, then pinning the blame on someone else”.
And he’s made it all the way to the House of Lords.
’ A shrug. ‘Whoever did it, the rest of them have closed ranks faster than you can say “dismantling the welfare state”.’
Susan handed the bottle back. ‘So they’re going to get away with it?’
‘Oh aye.’ Roberta took another swig of smoky fire. ‘Welcome to the wonderful world of law enforcement.’ She frowned at the bottle. Bit the inside of her lip. Then held the Glenfeòrag out to Sergeant Moore. Sighed. ‘Go on, then.’
He hesitated for a moment, then accepted the peace offering. Still wiped the neck before taking a hefty scoof, though. Cheeky sod. Like he was going to get cooties from them.
Soon as he swallowed, Sergeant Moore launched into a bout of coughing, wheezing, and spluttering. ‘God, they give the visitors proper rotgut, don’t they? Wouldn’t clean my brushes with that.’ He dug into his back pocket and came out with a pewter hipflask. ‘Try a nip of the decent stuff.’
Roberta did. Making a point of wiping his cooties off first.
It went down like liquid angels.
He gestured for her to share it with Susan. ‘Don’t tell Customs and Excise, but a friend of a friend makes it in an undisclosed location. Might be able to set you up with a bottle or three . . .?’ When Susan had taken a drink he hid the flask away again. ‘Did you really think I’d done it?’
Roberta waggled a hand from side to side.
‘Jury’s still out.’ She leaned back against the wall, squinting at him.
‘All that crap when we went to wake up Lady Barely-Distraught, yesterday morning, and you were kidding on you thought she was dead. Meanwhile: you’d been snoring it up all night, in her bed, with your floppy willy? ’
‘Ah . . . Yeah.’ A nod. ‘Suppose I can’t blame you.
’ Deep breath. ‘But what was I supposed to do: fess up and get kicked off the case? Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott might’ve been a nasty, thieving, lascivious, two-faced, condescending, stuck-up, manipulative, right-wing wanker, but I don’t like murderers running round my patch.
Never mind a whole sodding hotel full of them.
’ He returned their pilfered Glenfeòrag.
‘Anyway, suppose I’d better go make sure PC McKinnon doesn’t compromise himself too much.
Silly sod. He means well, just a bit too eager to please. ’
Sergeant Moore stepped up to the main doors. Paused. Then placed a hand on Roberta’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘We were never going to win, not against this lot. But at least we did our best.’
He disappeared inside and the door clunked shut. Leaving them alone with the rain.
Susan snuggled in closer, Moore’s illegal moonshine warm and sweet on her breath. ‘Well, I thought you were magnificent in there.’ She wrapped an arm around Roberta’s shoulders. ‘Like a young Margaret Rutherford!’
The wedding bunting had faded a bit in the downpour, hanging limp and dangly like a spurned boyfriend.
That crow had another go, flapping away along the misty treetops in a swearing of disgruntled caws.
And still the rain fell.
Susan leaned in and nuzzled her ear. ‘In fact, all your detecting has got me quite a-fluttered. Don’t suppose you fancy . . .?’
Saucy minx.
Roberta let a smile crack through her frown and stood.
Helped Susan up. Gave her a warm whisky kiss.
And wheeched open both sides of the hotel’s double doors for her.
Making a big swanky gesture of it. ‘We’re barricading the room, though.
I wouldn’t trust any of the buggers staying here – they might have a bash tidying up their loose ends.
’ Hang on a minute . . . She paused on the threshold.
‘Or do you think they’ll try to bribe me too? ’
‘Would you take it if they did?’
Good question.
‘Probably no’.’
A determined nod, then Susan gazed deep into her eyes. ‘Then maybe I shouldn’t either? Tell Mortimer to shove his corporate law firm up his fundamental orifice and I can be a stay-at-home mum instead?’
‘Are you insane? On my salary?’ Roberta stared at her like she’d just turned down a threesome with Keira Knightley.
‘Have you seen how much Jasmine’s school fees are?
Never mind saving up for Naomi’s. Then there’s university, and we’ll probably have to buy the pair of them flats as well.
You stay where you are and take all the bribes you can! ’
A naughty wink. ‘I love it when you’re masterful.’
‘Have my moments. And, if you play your cards right, you’ll get a few more of them in a minute. I might even struggle my way into those fancy-pants bra and knickers you like so much.’
A laugh made all the best bits of Susan jiggle. ‘Be still my beating heart.’ Then she smiled, one hand up to stroke Roberta’s cheek. ‘I do love you, you know.’
‘Aye, well, don’t blame you: I’m pretty damned adorable.’ She slapped Susan’s bum. ‘Now get your pert and sexy arse up those stairs, woman!’
Because sometimes, when life screwed you over, you just had to kick it in the nadgers and go have kinky-naked-fun-time with the person you loved.
And with any luck, that person had remembered to pack the Nutella and a photograph of Keira Knightley.