OK. Well, better check anyway. Duty of care to the public, and all that.
Mind you, feeling for a pulse was always a tricky one.
So, how about... Roberta reached out, took hold of the lace-edged sleeping mask and pulled the whole thing upward till the elastic was stretched tight, then let it ping back down again.
Lady Bradbury-Scott sat bolt upright and screamed.
Roberta screamed too, leaping away from the bed.
Sergeant Moore did the same thing, clutching at his chest,eyes like oversized pickled onions. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
Lady Screamsalot ripped off the sleeping mask. ‘WHO THE HELL ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY BEDROOM? WHERE’S MY HUSBAND?’
Roberta held up her hands. ‘Police! We’re the police!’
‘HELP! POLICE! I’M BEING ASSAULTED BY PERVERTS!’
‘WEARETHE POLICE, YOU DAFT DEAF BINT! Now, could we tone the volume down while we’ve all still got our eardrums?’
A frown. ‘WHAT?’ Then she pulled out a set of earplugs, scrabbled a hand across the nightstand and put on her glasses. Frowned at the man standing at the bottom of her bed. ‘Sandy? What are you doing here?’
He looked down at his Spider-Man PJs, then at Roberta. Who took a quick peek at her own baggy high-vis waistcoat that, to be completely honest, didn’t really complement the ancient grey bra underneath.
Let’s face it: theyprobablydidn’t look the picture of a modern, responsible police force.
‘Well?’
Sergeant Moore sat on the bed, next to Lady Bradbury-Scott, and took her hand. Swallowed. Licked his lips. Took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Jocasta, but we’ve got some very bad news...’
Roberta hauled a clean T-shirt on over Old Faithful, and tucked it into her jeans. Checked her reflection in the mirror: ‘ASK ME ABOUT MY RADICAL LESBIAN FEMINIST AGENDA’ in bold white capitals on a dark-pink background.And, maybe, with a wee bit of slap on, she wouldn’t look like she’d dropped out the back end of Mr Rumpole any more. Well, maybe alittlebit, but there was nothing wrong with lying to yourself every now and then.
Susan glowered at her from the chair by the rain-rattled window – the expression on her face well suited to a wet weekend. ‘I don’t see whyIhave to be cooped up in here all day, it’s not as ifIkilled him!’
Oh, this hotel room was just one gigantic ball of warmth and love, wasn’t it?
‘It’s a murder investigation, OK? Everyone’s confined to barracks.’ Roberta wandered through into the bathroom and toothpasted her toothbrush. Stuffed it in her gob for a good hard scrub, overflowing with minty froth as Susan’s voice stabbed through from the bedroom.
‘“Oh, I’ve come all the way out here to surprise you!” you said. “We’ll have a nice romantic break!” you said. And now you’reworkingagain.’
Wasn’t easy, making yourself heard with a mouthful of toothpaste foam, but she had a bash: ‘Well, what am I supposed to do? You’ve seen what passes for the local plod here: the Chuckle Brothers would be more use, and one of them’s dead.’ More scrubbing. ‘Besides, I’m ranking officer.’
‘You’re a detectivesergeant, not a detective chief inspector!’
Time for the molars. ‘No’ my fault there was an old warrant card in my jacket, was it? I’ve no’ had that thing on for years.’
‘You shouldn’t have told them—’
‘I didn’t! That would be what we in the police call “very, very naughty.”’ Spit. Sploosh a bit of water on the old face to wash away all the foamy white. How did one wee worm of toothpaste create this much mess? Should be able to brushyour teeth without looking like you’d just starred in a mint-flavoured bukkake video. ‘All I’m doing is holding the fort till the cavalry gets here. After that, we can sod off home.’
‘But—’
‘Or go somewhere “romantic”. You pick. Long as it’s no’ pishing with rain and I can look at hotties in their bikinis all day.’ Roberta scrubbed her face with one of those lovely fluffy hotel towels. Grabbed her leather jacket on the way out. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got two numpties to supervise and a killer to catch.’
While she’d been upstairs getting changed, the Crime Scene Fairies had paid the lobby a visit, festooning it with streamers of not-so-festive bunting. The blue-and-white kind with, ‘POLICE’ on it.
Roberta, Sergeant Moore, and PC McKinnon stood inside the cordon, looking up at Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott in all his half-naked-and-deadness.
She wasn’t the only one who’d taken the opportunity to change – Sergeant Moore no longer looked as if he could do whatever a spider could, going for the kind of casual-trousers-and-a-polo-shirt combo that probably went down great guns at the local golf club.
