He emerged from a cupboard holding a wee yellow jar aloft. ‘English mustard!’
‘Maybe we can thin the herd a bit? Must be some of them who didn’t hate Sir Reginald’s slimy bum-grabbing guts.’
‘Don’t look at me.’ Sergeant Moore got himself a clean knife and spread one side of his soggy gravied-bread with a thin scraping of hot yellow mustard, then passed the jar over.
‘OK, what do we know about our victim?’ Roberta didn’t go in for any of this namby-pamby thin scraping nonsense. The whole point of mustard was to slather the stuff on, like Nutella on Keira Knightley’s buttocks.
He shuddered watching her. ‘Got his knighthood in 1991, “services to charity and local politics” for which you can read “making a scandal involving a high-ranking cabinet member and a Lithuanian rent boy go away”. Been the local MP herefor yonks. Weighed in on a handful of dodgy planning decisions. Made a fortune in privatised healthcare and some,’ Moore made a set of air quotes with his gravy-greased fingers, ‘“completely above board” property deals. Married: two kids, one’s an investment banker, and the other’s now my daughter-in-law. Because apparently I did something horrible in a former life.’
More than likely.
She chewed her way through a spicy mouthful, getting the full-on eye-and-nose-watering mustard hit. ‘Property deals are a good place to start: plenty of motive when there’s cash involved.’
‘Had his fingers in a ski resort that never managed to turn a profit, despite being jam-packed every year; a leisure centre in Dundee that “accidentally” burned down; and a bunch of flats in Edinburgh – chucked up when they were building the parliament,’ more air quotes, ‘“allegedly” used to launder money from his vodka-swilling mates in the Kremlin. Some dodgy “investment opportunities”. Bunch of other stuff, but most of it seems legit.’
Roberta raised an eyebrow. ‘You been keeping tabs on him?’
‘Soon as I found out he was going to be family? Aye.’
They slurped and chewed in silence for a bit.
Why did it feel like they were missing something? Something they should’ve done already? Something important...?
Oh, buggering hell. Of course: ‘Anybody told the next of kin yet?’
Sergeant Moore slumped. ‘Lady Bradbury-Scott... Didn’t see her in the lobby.’
‘Finish your sarnie, we’ve got a death message to deliver.’
This part of the castle was just that bit swankier than the one Roberta and Susan were staying in. The wallpaper just that bit more lush. The shade of red it was painted, just that bit more affluent. The carpet just that bit deeper in its tartany pile.
Polished oak wainscoting on the walls. Yet more stuffed animals in display cases.
The door at the end was named, ‘MACALLANVALERIOADAMI1926’. So, just that bit wankier too.
Roberta gave Sergeant Moore a poke. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, knock!’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He had a go, but it was pretty crap to be honest. Two gentle raps on the varnished wood. Followed by an awkward silence.
She checked her watch – quarter to seven. What a way to start someone’s day...
Rain drummed against the window.
Outside, wind howled through the trees.
Sergeant Moore shuffled his feet.
Oh, for God’s sake.
She gave him another poke. ‘Do it again! Only better.’
At least this time the door got a proper police-officer knock – three, hard and sharp.
He cleared his throat. ‘Mikey... PC McKinnon, told me about your deduction thing. You know, figuring out he was Job, just by looking at him?’
Quarter to seven, so where was the widow?
‘Thought Sir Reginald’s wife was meant to be in?’
