‘So, ladies, gentlemen, and assorted Terrible Trotskyites, please be upstanding and toast the health of our benefactor, Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith!’
Everyone clambered to their feet, glasses raised. Well, everyone except Roberta, because there was no way in a cold and frosty hell that she was toasting another Tory cocknugget. Instead, she stayed sitting, arms folded, muttering yet more penguiny wanks as some anonymous toady launched into a cry of,‘Speech!’
It was answered by another toady, meaning it had to be mating season for them.‘SPEEEECH!’
Then they were all at it. A frog chorus of toadies. ‘Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech!’
Until, finally, the old git, Lord Thingummy-Whatsit, creaked his way to his feet and hushed them with his hands.
Silence settled across the room, all those eager wee faces turned to the Arch Tory.
He cleared his throat and, in a firm baritone, bestowed upon them the benefit of whatever passed for wisdom with this lot. ‘When I first ran for parliament in 1970, it was a sign of great things to come!’
The toadies cheered.
And Roberta folded forward and banged her head off Michael Heseltine.
It was going to be a long,longnight.
4
Roberta knocked back the last big mouthful of Talisker and thunked the crystal tumbler down on the counter. ‘Same again.’
Well, it was a free bar, be rude not to.
And besides, needed something to drown out the pain of being at a Tory wedding.
That wee PC rocked up beside her, stupid shiny-black kilt jacket abandoned somewhere in favour of rolled-up shirtsleeves and a dangly untied bowtie. Handwritten list in one hand, round brown tray in the other. Nothing about him seemed to fit properly, from the kilt to the awkward smile on his scrawny face.
He gave Roberta a nod as the bloke behind the bar placed a fresh tumbler of eighteen-year-old smoky Skye firewater in front of her.
The bartender had the look of an Eastern European turnip magnate, complete with Balkan-style moustache, but the kind of Welsh accent you could open collieries with. He smiled at PC Thin-and-Awkward. ‘What can I get for yeow?’
‘Hi.’ It came out as a high-pitched squeak, so he tried again, reading off his list: ‘Hi, can I get a negroni, three gin and tonics – one with cucumber, one with lime, no ice in the other, two merlots, a vesper, a large Balvennie – no water, and I’ll have a pint of Tennent’s if you’ve got it?’
‘Ooh, sorry, we don’t have any Ten-ent’s. I can do yeow a Peroni, if that helps?’
The wee lad deflated a bit, but forced his awkward smile back into place again. ‘Aye, that’d be great, thanks. Perfect.’
Bet Little Miss Perky-Cleavage walked all over him. And not in a tie-me-up-and-spank-me kind of way.
As the barman went off to get the drinks, Roberta sidled a little closer to PC Doormat. Gave him a good up-and-down – squinting as if reallythinkingabout it, before holding up a finger. ‘Let me see: callouses on your right hand, that implies some manual work, but there’s none on your left... Tan mark around your watch, so you’ve not been on holiday to get that colour.’
A little pink flush spread across his freckled cheeks. ‘Well no, I’ve—’
‘Shhhh!’ She waggled the finger at him. Had another squint. ‘Mark around your forehead implies you wear a hat. A lot. One with a peak, going by the fact your nose isslightlypaler than your cheeks.’
His ginger eyebrows went up. Clearly impressed by the performance. ‘How did you—’
‘You walked up to the bar with a rolling gait. That’s someone who’s comfortable covering large distances on foot. And, no offence, it looks as if you cut your own hair. Right?’
His mouth hung wide open. ‘That’s—’
‘Police officer.’ She narrowed her eyes even further. ‘Constable. In...’ milking the pause, ‘N Division?’
‘Wow. That’s... You’re right!’ He positively bounced in place.
She gave him a modest shrug. ‘It’s a knack that’s served me well.’ Then dipped into her jacket pocket and pulled out a warrant card. Flipped it open and let him bask in her official Detective-Sergeant-flavoured magnificence.
