Of course he was.
The overflow car park was doing exactly what the name implied. Vast ocean-sized puddles shimmered as rain bounced off the roofs and bonnets of the assembled fancy vehicles.Porsches, Ferraris, Audis, more Range Rovers and Jaguars than you could shake a soggy umbrella at.
The police Land Rover stood out like a tramp at the ballet. The thing was filthy, clarted in mud so thick even the current monsoon couldn’t shift it. Dents and scrapes down both sides. A crack in the windscreen. It wasn’t even one of the new ones; damn thing looked as if it’d been built out of rusty Lego, with a winch on the front and a snorkel exhaust.
And the idiot McKinnon had parked it so far away that Roberta’s shoes were squelchy waterlogged horrors by the time they got there.
Soon as he plipped the locks, she scrambled inside. Where it was every bit as manky as the outside. Only, what was thatsmell? Like a million wet dogs had rolled around in fox shit.
‘Stinksin here. When did you last clean this tip?’
McKinnon clambered in and clunked his door shut. ‘I spent most of yesterday rescuing soggy sheep.’
‘Aye, well I hope “rescuing” isn’t you back-wood bunnets’ way of saying “having sexual relations with”.’
The engine coughed and spluttered into life – momentarily drowned out by another booming roar of thunder as rain pinged off the Land Rover’s roof.
‘Should we not do a risk assessment before we head out? I mean, with the weather and everything?’
She shoogled the water off her brolly and into the filthy footwell. ‘Don’t be so wet. Foot down, Constable Sheep-Shagger.’
Instead, he gazed out through the windscreen. Looking pained as wind rattled the treetops and rain pummelled the overflow car park, beneath a glowering sky the colour of coal. ‘All right, but I want it on record that—’
‘Blah, blah, blah. Less moaning, more driving.’
One last grimace, then he put the Land Rover in gear and splooshed through the puddles and out of the car park.
If anything, the trees lining the road looked even angrier than the ones around the hotel, branches whipping back and forth as the downpour howled at them.
Roberta cranked up the blowers and the scent of burning dust joined the general sheepiness. She plonked her soggy feet on the dashboard. ‘You ever run into this Sir Rodney Bad-Bogey-Snott?’
‘Sir ReginaldBradbury-Scott.’ There was a pause and a frown. ‘He’s a man of... very strong opinions. Or at least, he was.’
‘Ah, you mean he was a dick.’
‘Liked to throw his title about. You know the type: favours for the lads, best friends with the Chief Constable, that kind of thing.’
‘Like our mate, Lord Misogyny-Gitbag the third.’
McKinnon pursed his lips and sighed. ‘Two worms in a rotten apple, that pair.’ The Land Rover wheeched around a bend and through a huge puddle, sending arcs of water splashing into the rhododendron bushes on either side of the road. ‘Course, Sir Reginald really burned his bridges with his “surefire”, “can’t fail” investment thing. Lot of local families got screwed on that one.’
‘Oh aye?’ Roberta flexed her soggy toes in her sodden shoes, sending foot-water squishing out through the lace holes to trickle down the dashboard. ‘What investment thing is this then?’
‘My mum and dad nearly lost their house over it.’ He curled his lip, like he’d got a pube stuck between his teeth. ‘Thought they were going to make a fortune. Aliteralgoldmine, right here in Skirivour Glen. Wasn’t a single household didn’t sink a big chunk of money into it.’ He gave a bitter little laugh. ‘Daft, really. You know that old doodah about “if something looks too good to be true”?’
‘Hmmm...’ Bankrupting the local community wasn’t a bad motive for murder. Which meant they’d have to interview all the inbred yokels out here in banjo country – had to be at leastoneof them with access to the hotel last night and a good reason to kill the swindling dickhead.
She had a wee scratch at Old Faithful. ‘What about sexy stuff?’
‘Kinks and perversions, you mean?’ A shrug. ‘Probably liked to be spanked and wear nappies, but that’s members of parliament for you, isn’t it?’
Lightning ripped across the charcoal sky, strobe-lighting the waterlogged road. The bellow of thunder that followed was loud enough to make the whole Land Rover shake.
McKinnon tightened his grip on the wheel, making his knuckles stand out as a wee nervous laugh squeaked free. ‘That was close!’
Wimp.
‘Come on then: affairs. Was he humping anyone behind their large, beefy, vengeful husband’s back? Bet an arse-grabbing tosser like Sir Reginald Bumwanky-Shite was at it with every woman in the place.’
