No sign of anyone.
‘SUSAN, I’M COMING!’
A man’s voice wafted up from the other side of the fire door, loud and trembling: ‘There’s been a murder!’
Right.
Roberta thumped through the fire door and out onto the balcony that ran along this side of the hotel lobby. A blaze of flickering white crackled through the windows, harsh and bright, and every light in the room went out, plunging the whole place into gloom. Then a deafening roar of thunder, loud enough to make her diaphragm shake.
‘SUSAN!’
She battered down the sweeping wooden staircase, barged her way between a fat old git in silk PJs who’d forgotten to put his teeth in and a mouldering debutant smeared withfartoo much night cream. Ran past that stupid statue. ‘SUSAN!’
Roberta skittered to a halt on the tartan carpet.
Susan was there, standing in a small group of middle-aged lumpies, everyone in assorted nightclothes with just-clambered-out-of-bed hair. All of them staring up at the huge metal stag that towered above them.
The weird gingery hotel maid was there too, wearing her uniform short tartan skirt and flouncy blouse, clutching her chest and laughing in a kind ofhystericalmanner. Standing with her knees crossed, like she’d wet herself.
Roberta grabbed Susan, pulled her into a one-handed hug, trying not to bash her on the head with the chamber pot. ‘Are you all right?’
Susan didn’t even look at her. Instead she pointed upwards, still staring at that moronic statue.
OK... Roberta followed the pointy finger.
Wasn’t easy to see in the gloom, but there was definitely something up there. The oversized stag had grown some sort of decoration.
Another crackle of lightning threw the lobby into monochrome relief.
Sodding hell.
The ‘something up there’ was a body, impaled on the stag’s metal antlers. Back arched and arms outstretched – the furthermost points poking through the palm of one hand and the wrist on the other arm. As if he’d been crucified. And it was definitely a ‘him’, because the body’s tartan pyjama bottoms were down around his ankles, leaving his shrivelled-up unmentionables on display.
And it was all seared onto Roberta’s irises, still visible asthe lightning faded, leaving the scene in darkness again. ‘Oh, shite.’
This time, when the thunder boomed, it was right on top of them.
It was surprising how much light two dozen smartphones could produce – all of them held up, filming away, getting brighter as more hotel guests shuffled into the lobby to see what the hell all the screaming was about.
Everyone in pyjamas and nighties and fluffy hotel bathrobes. Bleary-eyed and shaggy-haired. Speculating about why and who and how and wasn’t it horrible and shocking and grisly and I hope I’ve got enough battery left to get a good film of it uploaded onto Facebook.
A couple of hotel staff had joined the gathering crowd – that old bloke with the shotgun, in his tweedy outdoors get-up. And the doorman made of string-and-bones, stripped of his kilt but with his knobbly knees still on show, because they poked out from an oversized kitten-pink T-shirt. ‘SLEEPYTIMEFRIENDSARETHEBESTEST!’ according to the gold sequined letters across its front. The pair of them milling about like they were supposed to do something, but didn’t quite know what.
Roberta stared up at the lower naked portions of the dead body. ‘Pleasetell me that’s not who I think it is.’
The redhead maid nodded, her voice full of hushed awe. ‘It’s Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott!’
Of course it was. The man she’d tried to slap the smug off, for grabbing Susan’s bum. Because Roberta was cursed, wasn’t she?
As usual.
She took a deep breath, gave herself a wee shake, and pulled her shoulders back. ‘OK, here’s what we need to do...’
That old git from the top table marched into the room. Lord Thingummy-Whatsit, the one who’d given the longest and most boring speech known to mankind. The one who owned the place, sweeping in – all imperious, with his paisley-patterned PJs and matching dressing gown. Dramatic entrance complete, he clapped his hands. ‘All right, everyone, that’s enough. If I can have your attention please?’
But everyone just kept on filming and gossiping.
So, the gamekeeper thumped his shotgun’s butt on the floor three times. ‘ALL RIGHT, YOU LOT, SILENCE! THE LAIRD’S SPEAKING!’
