There was another smaller box, and when she got the top off, the rich brown scent of gravy oozed out. Looked terrible – all flobby and jellified – but it probably tasted great.
‘The optics aren’t great, him turning up dead like that, is all I’m saying.’
She stacked it, and the beef, on top of the Tupperwarefull of roast tatties and carried them back through into the kitchen. Thumping the fridge door shut behind her.
Sergeant Moore was waiting, face all creased and serious, arms folded. Strict.
Roberta dumped her pilfered food on the countertop and pointed over at the other wall. ‘See if there’s any bread in that bread bin.’
He sighed, then wandered over there, taking his serious face with him. ‘Youdidn’tkill him, did you?’
‘Moi?’
He plonked a loaf of sliced white down in front of her. ‘Only if you did, now would be the time to say. I wouldn’t even blame you.’
She wrestled the lids off the tatties, gravy, and beef. ‘Is that your interviewing technique? Cos it needs work.’ Next up, the loaf – slapping a couple of slices straight onto the countertop. Roberta dug a knife into the congealed gravy and slathered both bits of bread with it.
‘Yes, but you didn’tactuallykill him?’
Cheeky sod.
‘Course I didn’t.’ She plucked a cold roast potato from its box and crushed it between two fingers, like it was one of Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith’s testicles. Stuck the squashed tattie on the gravy-buttered bread and followed it with a few more. Did the same with the other slice. ‘And do you knowhowyou know that I’m telling the truth? They wouldn’t have found his body if I had. No’ even teeny-weeny bits of it.’
It wasn’t really the right knife for the job, but Roberta used it to hack ragged slices off the roast beef anyway, laying them onto both layers of crushed roasties. ‘Aye, and it’s two and a coo in that coffee, by the way.’
Last up: she butter-gravied two more slices of white and flopped them down on top of the two sandwiches. OK, so theyweren’t going to win Celebrity MasterChef anytime soon, but it was the thought that counted.
Sergeant Moore put a mug of coffee in front of her. Eyes narrowed, watching as she sawed each sandwich in half. ‘Milk, two sugars.’ He followed the mug with a blister pack of pills. ‘Found those too.’
‘Paracetamol? Oh, you wee dancer.’ She clicked half a dozen out into her palm and washed them down with a swig of too-hot coffee. Sighed. Smiled. Then pushed one of her monster sandwiches in his direction. ‘Get that down you.’ Ripping out a giant bite of her own one – all slithery and meaty and chewy and potatoey too. Talking around the delicious mouthful. ‘Mggnnnph mmmnmmmt gnnnphhnnnng mmmmmphnnt?’
Cheeky sod had the brass neck to look at the sandwich she’d sokindlymade for him like she’d just plopped a handful of cat turds between two slices of bread without even the benefit of mayonnaise.
She swallowed her mouthful. ‘Clean your lugs out: how many people stayed over after the wedding?’
‘Oh. About forty? It’s not that big a hotel.’
Sod. That was still a lot of potential suspects.
‘What about staff?’
He frowned for a bit, then, ‘Can’t be more than a dozen?’
So, even more potentially guilty buggers. ‘Eat your RBT-and-G.’
He took a teeny wee bite, like the contents were going to kill him.
Roberta frowned at her sandwich. ‘So, that’s fifty-two people needing interviewed. Call it a half hour each, that’s...’ Nope, hangover brain was not cooperating.
‘Twenty-six hours?’
‘Aye. Twenty-six hours – it’d take us all buggering weekend.With no proper interview room, no downstream monitoring suite, no recording equipment. And it’s no’ like we can do PNC checks on them first, is it? Be going at it blind...’ She drummed her fingers on the countertop. ‘Nah: we’ll just have to hold the fort till N Division get a Major Inquiry Team up here. Keep everyone on lockdown.’ More drumming. ‘Mind you, we don’t want to look like we’ve just been sat on our thumbs, do we?’
Sergeant Moore took another, bigger bite, getting gravy on his chin. ‘Actually, this isn’t half bad. Needs a bit of mustard, though.’
As he went a-rummaging, Roberta did the hard job of working out the logistics:
‘Fifty-two suspects, less the corpse, andIdidn’t kill him, so call it fifty... carry the two... that makes it sixteen-and-two-thirds each. Mind you, how do you spot a deranged, heartless, amoral psychopath when everyone’s aTory? Like trying to spot a Mars Bar in a swimming pool full of jobbies.’
