‘So, chop it into smaller bits!’
‘What with, your cutting wit?’ He made a show of patting down his stabproof vest. ‘Because I seem to have left my chainsaw in my other suit.’
The only sound was the rain, clattering down on the Land Rover’s roof.
Roberta narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re getting very cheeky for someone at risk of a punch in the nadgers from a superior officer.’
‘Sorry, ma’am.’ The tips of his ears went bright red.
Should think so too.
She pointed off into the woods. ‘There a way around it?’
‘Erm...?’ A pained smile.
Wonderful. Just. Sodding. Wonderful.
Gah...
Didn’t feel this long on the way out.
Rain hurtled down from the bruised sky, bouncing off the ground at her feet and drumming away on her pilfered umbrella, as Roberta slogged her way back along the road. Which, now that she had to walk along the bloody thing, turned out to be little more than a crappy track, full of rough bits, stones, andbastardingpuddles.
Might as well stand in a bucket of lukewarm water, for all the protection her stupid shoes were giving.
And the high-vis raincoat McKinnon had dug out the back of the Land Rover stank of wet sheep. And the wetter it got, the more it stank. AND IT STANK A LOT.
McKinnon slumped along beside her, in a high-vis of his own, but where hers reached down past her knees, his was a proper size. Which meant everything from the waist down was getting drenched. Rain sparked off his peaked cap, great thick drips of it trickling down his neck and into his collar, where it was probably soaking him right through.
Good. Served the bugger right.
Yes, technically, she could be nice and let him share her brolly, but he was all: oh no, I couldn’tpossibly, it’s a death trap waiting to happen in a lightning storm. Whinge, moan, complain.
Idiot.
You were more likely to win the lottery than get struck by lightning... Or was that the other way around? Roberta peered around the edge of her dripping umbrella at the lowering sky. Then ducked back in again.
Sod it, she’d take her chances.
And, ifthatwasn’t bad enough, Sergeant Moore had been right about the temperature. Just gone eight and already the heat was beginning to build. The rain should’ve cooledeverything down, but it just made the air muggy and humid. And having to wear a thick, padded, high-vis horror waterproof wasn’t helping either.
A thin trickle of sweat waltzed its way down her spine and into her pants, more prickling out beneath Old Faithful’s underband.
Ugh...
She gave McKinnon the gift of a good hard glower. ‘This is allyourfault.’
‘But I didn’t—’
‘I don’t knowhowit’s your fault yet, but I’ll work it out. And see when I do...?’
His face fell as that sank in. Bet he wished they’d gone over the edge and into the river, now. Really wasn’t his lucky day, was it?
They lumbered on through the rain.
Mud. Mud all the way up past her knees. About half of it was from sploshing their way along the stupid waterlogged track, the other half following an unfortunate incident involving a particularly slippy bit and landing on her arse.
At least McKinnon had the good sense not to laugh. Otherwise he’d be wearing that bloody peaked cap of his as a suppository. He cleared his throat. ‘So... have you worked out who did it? Who killed Sir Reginald?’
