She pointed. ‘Come on then, Hamish Macbeth, was he shinning up a tapestry and lost his grip?’
Pink rushed up Sergeant Moore’s cheeks. ‘Ah...’
‘Then let’s take a look at themainimpediment to this so called “theory”.’ Her index finger joined the middle one. ‘Two: what happens when you slip and fall on a dirty-big set of pointy metal antlers?’
PC McKinnon had a go at that one: keen, but dim. ‘You die?’
‘Youbleed, you corrugated funtmuppet. And are we currently standing in a humongous pool of blood? Anyone?’
Moore groaned as common sense finally worked its way through his six-inch-cavity-wall-insulated cranium. ‘He was already dead when he went up there!’
‘Give that man a Bounty Bar! There’s hope for you yet, Sandy. Only way you’d get a body up there would be a ladder. And a really long one at that.’
‘Ooh, ooh,’ McKinnon bounced up and down, ‘so maybe the pyjamas round the ankles is, like, amessage!’
‘Something sexual?’ Moore’s face creased. ‘Or maybe it’s a ritual humiliation?’
‘Or maybe his breeks fell down when he was chucked there.’
The three of them stared up at Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott’s half-naked remains.
One thing was certain: whatever the messagewas, someone had gone to a lot of trouble sending it.
6
Roberta sniffed – scrunching up one side of her face as the orchestra in her cranium abandoned death metal for acid jazz. ‘Yousurethere’s no coffee? My head’s like a booby-trapped litter tray.’
Sergeant Moore gave her an appraising once-over. ‘Speaking of booby traps: Mikey, give the DCI your high-vis, eh?’
‘Oh. Right. Sorry.’ He peeled the high-vis waistcoat from his stabproof vest and held it out to her. ‘Might smell a bit of sheep...’
‘Bloody hell...’ He wasn’t kidding – the thing was rank, like someone had marinated a Yorkshire terrier in dung and fusty ditch-water. But it was better than nothing, so she pulled it on and fastened it up. Stinky thing was about three sizes too big, but it covered a multitude of sins. Not very well, though. Could still see a chunk of Old Faithful, in all her baggy grey glory, through the gaps.
‘Better.’ Moore slapped PC McKinnon on the shoulder. ‘Now, go get the crime-scene kit from the Landy. I want this whole area cordoned off. Just like we practised.’
‘Sarge.’
He was halfway to the door when Roberta grabbed him and wrestled his Airwave handset out of its mount on his stabproof vest.
She clicked the button. ‘Alpha Bravo Six Niner to Control, need urgent assistance at Skirivour Castle.’
But when she let go of the button the only response was a hissing crackle from the handset’s speaker.
‘Alpha Bravo Six Niner to Control, do you read me, over?’
‘Sorry.’ The constable gave her an uncomfortable smile. ‘Tried it when I got back to the room. It works off the same towers as the mobile phone signal.’
‘Sod.’ She tossed the handset back to McKinnon.
He grabbed for it, fumbled the catch, and just barely managed to stop it crashing down on the tartan carpet. Then scrambled away, out through the front doors and into the rain.
Useless lump.
‘Bet there’sonething no one’s tried.’ She lumbered over to the reception desk. The phone was one of those beige pushbutton monstrosities that acted like a mini switchboard. Roberta put the handset to her ear and poked the button marked, ‘OUTSIDELINE’.
Not so much as a dialling tone.
She poked the Outside Line button a couple more times, just to make sure.
