Chapter 3.16 #2
Hector cleared his throat. ‘I’m sure Mr Anderson won’t be long.
’ The voice from the intercom turned out to be a fey young man with a whole heap of tattoos just visible through his crisp white shirt.
They didn’t really go with the smart tweed waistcoat and shiny shoes.
A short-back-and-sides blond, sporting a stupid wee goatee and glasses.
‘In the meantime, please make yourselves comfortable.’
Then away he went, taking his tea tray with him.
Harmsworth helped himself to another Jaffa Cake. ‘How the other half live, eh?’ Slurping from ‘STOP THE BOATS!’
‘Oh, Graeme Anderson’s no’ the “other half”, Owen, he’s the One Percent.
’ She wandered the conservatory, sipping Eurosceptic tea and chomping on a dark-chocolate ginger.
A three-hole golf course was tucked behind the house, along with a tennis court, and right at the bottom of the garden: a pair of mammoth Alsatians stared back at Roberta from the fenced-off kennels.
And the buggers looked hungry.
She popped the last chunk of biscuit in her gob and pulled out her phone. Dropping Tufty a subtle reminder:
Were those Weetabix too much for you?
Where’s my digital deep dive!?!
And see if you can find me pics of that car bomb at Graeme Anderson’s hovel.
Pocketing her phone, Roberta sauntered over to the door that led back through to the house. Acting all calm-and-casual-like.
Harmsworth wolfed down a chocolate-coated jammy dodger. ‘What are we actually doing here, though? If we accept the perfectly plausible hypothesis that it was one of Emma Dornoch’s campaign staff who stabbed—’
‘Now, now, now:’ Roberta tapped her forehead, ‘enquiring mind, remember?’ Then slipped out through the door, like a sleekit jobbie, into a hallway that looked more mid-market hotel than private home.
Magnolia-and-beige, with an oatmeal carpet, a handful of watercolours depicting Aberdeenshire landmarks.
Four doors off.
Couldn’t see any internal security cameras – which didn’t mean there weren’t any, you could hide a spy-cam in pretty much anything these days – but nothing ventured . . .
She tiptoed down the corridor, taking her tea with her.
Door Number One opened on a living room, about three times the size of hers. It was cold and lifeless, though. Decorated in the same Holiday Inn chic as the hall.
Door Number Two: a cupboard full of cleaning things.
Door Number Three: a loo, with sparkling tiles on the floor and walls.
Door Number Four led to a spotless boot room, with a partially-glazed UPVC door down the far end.
Spotless coir matting on a spotless tiled floor.
A spotless bench seat with spotless wellies underneath it, and spotless waxed jackets above.
A special peg for the dogs’ leads. A rack of fishing rods, another for loose golf clubs, and one for croquet mallets – wha-wha-wha, don’cha know, Old Sport.
And unlike all the other rooms, a vague muffle of voices was just audible – coming from somewhere nearby.
Which made this the perfect spot for a touch of light eavesdropping.
Roberta snuck inside.
An internal door sat opposite the bench – couldn’t see it before, because of the fishing rods. She stuck her ear to the panelled wood, but no voices.
A quick peek revealed a wet room: sparkling clean, with white marble tiles; gold taps and matching shower; a black toilet, sink, and bidet. Bet you could take a very swanky crap in there.
That left the back door.
She eased it open a fraction and a woman’s voice lumbered in through the gap, dark and growling – as if the speaker lived on cigarettes and rough vodka:
?А поТом я сказалa: “Сначала я выебу её в жопу, а Ты буДешь смоТреТь. А поТом я Трахну Тебя ТуДа же.“ У неГо, реально, всТало. Да я ему рукИ оТбИла, Для понИманИя.?
Not a bloody clue what any of that was about, but a laugh followed it. Sharp and cruel.
?Ну . . . Да. . . . УблюДкИ Должны научИТся ДелаТь чТо Им велено, И расплачИваТься за ДолГИ.?
Roberta edged the door wider, just far enough to squint out through the gap.
A stocky, stumpy lump of a woman paced back and forth outside the house, smoking a black cigarette that stank like burning rubber. She had broad shoulders to go with her spade-shaped forehead – currently creased as she listened to whoever was on the other end of the phone.
And she looked really familiar . . .
Course she did: it was the woman from Silvermoss Business Centre. The one Graeme Anderson had a conflab with outside the UK.EPF headquarters. Right before the explosion that almost killed everyone.
?НеТ . . . Тебе лучше еГо прИкончИТь. Долбоёбам нельзя ДаваТь спуску, а То осТальные прИкИнуТ чТо ты слабак. ЭТо—?
Then another voice, right behind Roberta, starched and Central-Belty: ‘What are you doing?’ Hector The Detector
She pulled on a big smile and turned, hamming-up the Doric. ‘The very man! Far’s the crapper? Gotta take a dump the size o’ a caravan.’ Handing him her mug. ‘Cheap tea aye goes straight through me.’ Then opened the wet-room door. ‘Aha! This’ll do fine.’
Roberta hobbled inside, and shut the door in Hector The Disinfector’s face.