Chapter 3.19
‘You see, what a lot of people don’t understand is: you can’t properly thicken your mince if you’ve got doughboys floating in it.’
The single-track road wound along the coast for about half a mile, drystane dykes offering no cover from the hammering rain and angry squalls. Off to the right, the North Sea was a huge black mass beneath the coal-scuttle sky, while the western horizon glowed as if Scotland was ablaze.
The last gasp of a dying sun.
Up ahead, the road disappeared between chest-high stone walls, embracing a phalanx of twisted trees and creepy old rhododendron bushes.
A ravine stretched out to either side, lined with gorse – in full bloom, so the whole gully burned as one final burst of sunlight seared across it.
‘And what’s the point of watery mince?’ Harmsworth drove through the open gates. ‘Mince has to be thick. After all, the expression is “thick as mince”, isn’t it – not “Oh, catch the boy, Tufty, he’s thin as mince.” Doesn’t even make sense.’
Fordyce House lay at the end of a twisted, gravel driveway: an eighteenth-century pink-granite lump that not even an estate agent could call ‘charming’. Blocky, with bay windows, a single turret, and a slate roof.
Ivy crawled up the walls, like mould on a corpse. All glowing in the jaundiced glare of a dozen spotlights.
No sign of Sir Norman’s fancy-pants electric BMW – so it was either in the large garage, or he wasn’t home.
‘If you can’t stand a spoon up in it, your mince is too thin. And that’s why Bisto is your friend.’ Harmsworth’s Hearsejobbie grumbled to a halt, right in front of the Fordyce family pile. ‘And that’s how you make the perfect mince-and-tatties.’
Oh thank Christ for that.
Roberta escaped into the rain. Popping her umbrella. Breathing deep the air of freedom.
Didn’t really notice it when Harmsworth was just one voice, vying for attention with the rest of the team, but on his own?
Holy crap that man could bore for Scotland.
She limped her way to the front door – a heavy blue slab, with a brass lion’s-head knocker in the middle. Didn’t wait for Captain Tedious, just whacked the thing herself. Like an animal.
The Duke of Dull locked his Volvo, flipped up his retro collar, and hurried over. Sheltering beneath an overhang of shuddering ivy. ‘Next up: stovies.’
No sodding chance.
She warded him off with a hand. ‘Let’s leave that for next time, eh? Something to look forward to.’ Like scrofula.
Because otherwise they’d be finding bits of his body for months.
‘Oh. OK.’
Roberta knocked again, only this time a salvo of barks rattled out inside the house. Not big scary gunshot ones, more high-pitched and yippy. Something Genghis-sized.
Then a posh woman’s voice bellowed out on the other side of the door.
‘Waldorf! Statler! Quiet down, you pair of twits.’ A clunk, a rumble, and the door opened all the way, revealing Lady Fordyce in a huge baggy green jumper and tartan leggings.
Clogs on her feet. What looked like a gin-and-tonic in her free hand – with cucumber and ice, to show how classy she was.
Sounding a little buzzed as she smiled at Roberta. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Aye, course you can. Is your—’
A pair of terrifying hell hounds rushed forwards to protect their mistress. Well, maybe in their own eyes. But only if Hades had swapped out Cerberus for a wrinkly dachshund and a lopsided corgi. Barking and barking and barking and—
Roberta pointed at them. ‘Wheesht.’
And lo, they did wheesht.
Lady Fordyce stared. ‘Good grief. You found their off switch! Wish I could do that.’ Blink. ‘Sorry, yes, where were we?’
‘Can we come in and have a chat? It’s about your campaign staff.’
And the happy look disappeared, replaced by a pained grimace. ‘What have they done now?’
The kitchen was a mix of old-fashioned and brand-spanking new, with lots of fancy appliances and shiny copper pots on hooks – glinting away in the spotlights as Lady Fordyce filled a teapot from a freshly boiled kettle.
‘. . . so I don’t know if he’ll be back tonight.
Business, business, business. You know what men are like. ’
‘Thankfully: no.’ Roberta hunched in her seat, fussing over Statler and Waldorf. The pair of them beamed up at her with adoring eyes, as if they’d never seen a lesbian sex-goddess before.
Lady Fordyce snorted. ‘Lucky you.’ Then placed the pot on the kitchen table. ‘So, who’s done what to whom, this time?’
Roberta gave the dachshund’s ears one last shoogle then straightened up, cos that sounded interesting. ‘“This time”?’
Over by the fridge-freezer, Harmsworth stood – notepad ready, pen poised.
‘Bless their little hearts.’ Her Ladyship handed out matching campaign mugs.
‘We like to give as many jobs to young people as we can. Means the next generation are a bit more energised and excited to enter politics. There’s enough ancient duffers in the House and Upper Chamber as it is.
’ She pursed her lips. ‘Sometimes the kids have . . . a little growing up to do. Tempers fray, office romances bloom and wither. Jealousy’s a big one.
’ A shrug. ‘Much though I love young people, they can be a bit challenging.’ She surveyed the table.
‘Would you like a biscuit? The Police Investigations and Review Commissioner wouldn’t consider that to be a bribe? ’
Roberta threw her arms wide. ‘I’m retired, so feel free to bribe away.’
‘Oh.’ Lady Fordyce pulled her chin in. ‘I thought this was an official visit.’ Pointing at them both. ‘Aren’t you—’
‘Aye: I got blown-up. And now I’m retired. And I need to ask you about Megan Lockheart.’
Pink flushed the tips of her ears, but Lady Fordyce’s face remained poker still. That was politicians for you. ‘Megan . . .?’
‘You can play cutesy me-no-wemember games, or we can actually help a family find its missing wee girl.’
The poker face changed to a frown, and she sat. ‘Megan’s missing?’
‘Nearly five months.’
Lady Fordyce’s eyes closed, and she stayed there. Silent. Not moving.
Roberta poured the tea. Then motioned to Harmsworth – who got the milk from the fridge and plonked the plastic carton on the table. Heathen.
Lady Fordyce gave herself a wee shake. ‘How awful for her mum and dad. That’s .
. .’ Down the far end of the kitchen, a plastic rendition of the ‘1812 Overture’ rang out.
She rose halfway out of her seat, looking at one of those BT hub-handset things with the built-in answerphone .
. . Then sank back again, letting the machine take care of it.
‘Sorry.’ Sitting forwards. ‘As I was saying, they’ve—’
‘Claire?’ Frank Abercrombie’s voice buzzed out of the speaker, all wobbly and slurred. ‘Claire, hi. . . . Hi, it’s me . . . Frank.’
She stood. ‘Sorry. I’d better get this.’ Moving down the kitchen as Frank kept on talking:
‘Listen. Listen. No, listen . . . I had . . . The police have been to see me . . . about . . . about Sir Norman! . . . They know about . . . about his little . . . peccadildos. Dillos. . . . Don’t know . . . who told them, but don’t worry! I’ll . . . I’ll take care of every—’
She snatched the handset from its base unit, her plummy tones going clipped and cold.
‘Yes, thank you, Frank – they’re here now.
’ Giving Roberta and Harmsworth the side-eye.
‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow. When you’re sober.
’ Wrinkles furrowed her brow, and her voice got even sharper.
‘No, Frank, I think it’s time we had “the talk”.
. . . That’s exactly what I mean. . . . Goodbye. ’
Her thumb stabbed a button on the handset, and she scowled at it for a bit.
Before taking a deep breath and returning the thing to its base.
Pulled on that practised, politicians’ porcelain smile and took her seat again.
Spread her hands upon the table. ‘Right . . .’ Licking her lips.
‘You have to understand that . . . sometimes . . . it’s very difficult.
Living in the public eye. Married to someone who . . .’
Lady Fordyce dipped her head, cleared her throat.
‘Young women are often attracted to older men.’ Eyes flicking to Harmsworth.
‘Not bald, fat ones. Older men like Norman: rich, successful, charming. Powerful.’ Pushing her mug of tea to one side and going back to her gin.
‘And there were times in the past when he felt the need to bask in that attention. Encourage it even.’ Harmsworth got another glance.
‘You know what men are like. They hit middle age and suddenly it’s crisis time: sports cars, ponytails, and . . . younger women.’
Waldorf rolled over on his back to expose his long sausage-dog tummy. Roberta gave it a wee rub, setting his tail wagging.
‘Norman swore it was just a phase, and he needed to work through some things, and he still loved me, but “everyone strays from time to time”.’
‘I used to: till I met my wife.’ Roberta shrugged. ‘Turns out, when you love someone – properly, deep down in your bones – you don’t need to cheat.’
Lady Fordyce gritted her teeth and looked away. No doubt wishing she was a member of the sapphic sisterhood with Romantic Roberta for a partner, instead of the crappy shag-happy Sir Norman of the Wandering Cock.
Took a moment, but she got it together. ‘And every time another pretty young thing came to work for me, there was Norman. Buying pizza and wine for the team. “Mentoring” them. And me? I was just being “paranoid” and “silly” and “jealousy isn’t becoming in a woman your age, Claire” .
. .’ A bitter laugh. ‘Then the shine would wear off his latest gaudy bauble, and he’d tire of them, and I’d have to get Frank to palm them off on someone else’s campaign. ’
‘And Megan was one of “them”.’
Statler, clearly jealous of all the tummy rubbing, tried to muscle in on the act. Grinning up at Roberta with his tongue hanging out. After all, she had two hands, didn’t she?