She pointed at Moore. ‘You: take the shoulders.’ Then at McKinnon. ‘You: take his feet. I’ll get the doors.’
Took a bit, but they eventually got him lifted, the body sagging in the middle like a half-bent paperclip that rocked from side to side as Roberta led the way across the lobby.
Sergeant Moore shifted his grip on the slithery sheets. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Where do you think?’
10
Roberta dumped the last net of carrots onto the stack just outside the walk-in fridge’s door, meaning the big wire shelf they’d occupied was now empty.
PC McKinnon and Sergeant Moore lowered Sir Reginald’s body onto the cleared space, their breaths misting in the cold air. You’d never think McKinnon was the youngest of them, his face all flushed and sweaty from carrying the body down here, steam rising from his arms and shoulders as he puffed and panted. Moore wasn’t even breathing hard.
‘Pfff...’ McKinnon pulled his hat off and wiped a hand across his soggy forehead. ‘Doesn’t... seem... very dignified.’
Sergeant Moore shrugged. ‘Compared to hanging in reception with his willy out? I’d say it’s definitely an improvement.’
‘True.’ McKinnon bent double and grabbed his own knees. ‘Argh... Talk about... a dead weight!’
Roberta wiped her carroty hands on a box of mushrooms. ‘Have you two finished?’
‘See?’ A tut from Moore. ‘That’s the trouble with you new lot, back in my day: you joined the job, you played rugby and shinty against the other police forces. Climbed mountains in your spare time.’
McKinnon brought his shiny face up. ‘I’m in... the chess club.’
‘Chess isn’t asport, Mikey, it’s acry for help from people who can’t get laid.’
‘Hey!’
‘Enough.’ Roberta pointed. ‘I want a padlock on that fridge door, and to hell with anyone who complains they can’t have bacon with their full Scottish...’ Wait a minute. ‘Well, maybe no’ the bacon. Or sausages. Or black pudding.’ She checked her watch again: just gone ten, and no breakfast yet. A rumbling growl sounded deep within her belly, because a DIY sandwich of pilfered leftovers, four hours ago, didn’t count. ‘Anyone else starving?’
PC McKinnon and Sergeant Moore looked at each other.
Too polite to say anything. Must be.
She gave the wee loon a poke. ‘When it’s breakfast time... well, suppose we’d better call it brunchtime, now – you’ll just have to stand guard. Make sure no one gets served a portion of gammon with their eggs.’ They’d need to plan it, though. Couldn’t have the guests running loose in the hotel; who knew what they’d get up to? Have to keep the buggers segregated till they’d all been interviewed. ‘Bring them down in small batches, they’re no’ allowed to talk to each other, and after brunch everyone goes right back to their rooms. No exceptions. Then you patrol the hotel: stop the buggers sneaking out to shag a neighbour or plant evidence.’
Sergeant Moore pulled a face. ‘But—’
‘You’re the one said they’d all need fed and watered, remember? Besides, the Procurator Fiscal’s going to string us up for moving the body anyway, might as well get a decent nosh-up out of it.’
The sound of clattering pots and frying pans echoed through from the kitchen, reverberating around the walk-in fridge, bringing with it the dark mysterious scent of sizzling bacon and other delicious things. Not-so-muffled voices, as orders were shouted and fulfilled.
‘Need two full Scottish with scrambled, and a poached egg on haddock! Brown toast!’
Clang bash. Then a harsh French accent:‘Stovies ’ash, beetroot compote, deux œufs sur le plat, for table six. Service!’
All right for some, getting their faces fed while other poor sods had to keep working.
Bet PC McKinnon was nibbling away on a bacon buttie when he was meant to be standing guard too. He looked the type.
Roberta unwrapped the last corner of sheet from Sir Reginald’s head, the fabric squeaky in her blue-nitrile-gloved fingers.
Sergeant Moore looked down at the dead face and shuddered. ‘Are you sure about this? I mean, moving the body to a secure location’s one thing, but—’
‘It’s a clue. Can’t catch Buffalo Bill without clues, Clarice.’ She made the Hannibal Lecter ‘nice glass of chianti’ sound, but Moore just stared at her.
‘Nah, you’ve lost me there.’
