Sergeant Moore stifled a belch. ‘Sorry. Shouldn’t have eaten that second hash-brown-and-black-pudding-buttie.’ Greedy sod.
Roberta sooked the last remnants of sticky savoury sweetness from her fingers and pointed at the door in front of them. The one marked ‘BUNNAHABHAIN’. ‘Ready when you are.’
The hotel was strangely silent with everyone confined to their rooms. Well, except for whoever was taking their turn eating a silent breakfast in the dining room under the watchful eye of PC McKinnon. Assuming he hadn’t snuck off for fourths, that is.
Moore hesitated, his knuckles six inches from the wood. ‘Can I just bring up the value of interviewing them separately again? Only—’
‘No, unless you want my boot up your bum.’ Wiping her sooked fingers dry on her jeans. ‘Anyway, each couple’s been cooped up together since about six this morning. A fiver gets you twenty they’ve spent the whole time rehearsing their stories.’ She thumped his arm with the back of her hand. ‘Now: arse in gear.’
Moore checked his notebook and knocked – none of that namby-pamby stuff this time, proper hard police-officer belts. ‘Mr Reeves? It’s the police, can you open up, please?’
Roberta settled back against the wall, a wee smile frolicking across her face. Had to admit, life seemed a lot better after a wriggle with the wife and a stack of sticky maple bacon pancakes. Should definitely do that more often.
Still nothing from ‘BUNNAHABHAIN’.
She was about to tell Sergeant Moore to give the door another hammering when it creaked open and a fusty bloke in his late sixties opened it and scowled out at them. Probably going for outraged-but-upstanding-member-of-the-community, but it was a difficult look to carry off when you resembled a half-sooked lollypop that’d been trapped down the back of the sofa for a couple of weeks.
He stuck his nose in the air. Accent so posh you’d need a silver fish knife to cut it. ‘Are we to be permitted to leave our room, or is this a police state now?’
‘Mr Reeves.’ Sergeant Moore gave him a bland smile. ‘We’ll only take a couple minutes of your time, sir.’
A big, I’m-so-important, sigh, and he led them into a bedroom that was almost identical to Roberta and Susan’s. Only tartanier.
A woman sat in a straight-backed wooden chair by the little desk. Luckily, she was every bit as warm and welcoming as her husband had been. As if someone had stuffed sixteen stone of cold malevolence into a fourteen-stone bag.
Roberta settled herself on the end of the bed, bouncing a couple of times to test the springs. ‘On you go, Sergeant.’
He flipped his notebook open and stood there with pen poised. ‘Mr Reeves, I understand you and Sir Reginald weren’t on the best of terms?’
Mr Reeves gave Roberta the kind of look probably reserved for the revolting lower classes. ‘Sir Reginald and I wereverygood friends, we played golf together. We may have had our differences in the past, but that’s all water under the bridge,now. He was a decent chap. The kind of chap that any chap would be jolly lucky to count as a friend.’ Chest out. ‘Won’t hear a bad word said about the man!’
Mrs Reeves nodded. ‘Quite right, Hugo.’
‘Salt of the earth.’
‘I’ll bet he was.’ Roberta stopped bouncing. ‘So, what was this falling out about?’
‘A mere misunderstanding. All forgiven and forgotten,as I said.’
‘Aye, right...’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘And, now he’s dead, you’re going to pretend everything was hunky-dory?’
A smug, smarmy smile pulled that sooked-lollypop face out of shape. ‘If it wasn’t, I’d hardly be attending his daughter’s wedding, now would I?’
Condescending prick.
‘LAGAVULIN’ was just as tartany as ‘BUNNAHABHAIN’. Roberta lounged by the window, leaning against the wall as Sergeant Moore took down the long and boring anecdote Mortimer Beresfordstillhadn’t finished telling.
‘And I know corporate law can be a bit cut-throat at times, but as I always say to your good lady wife, “Susan,” I say, “Susan, it could be worse, at least we’re not merchant bankers!”’ He’d ditched last night’s morning suit in favour of a pair of corduroy trousers in an apoplectic shade of burgundy and a pink shirt. Still had on far too much jewellery, though. He gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry we can’t be more help.’
His wife – what was it, Agatha? Agnes? Abigail? – placed a hand on his shoulder. For some reason, she’d thought it was a good idea to dress in the same clothes as her husband. Like some bizarre before-and-after photograph. ‘And don’t forgetall that money Sir Reginald raised for Romanian orphans, Mortimer.’
His whole face seemed to blossom at that. ‘Oh yes, quite right! Upright chap, Reggie. A real character.’
The only thing to differentiate ‘GLENDRONACH’ from every other bedroom they’d visited so far was the view. This one overlooked the waterlogged car park with its collection of drowning vehicles.
Mr and Mrs Ratchett had probably gone for ‘business casual’, but ended up looking like a pair of yuppies well past their sell-by date. They clearly hadn’t got the memo that the Eighties were over. Or if theyhad, they’d left it in their Filofax.
Mrs Ratchett made a proper pantomime show of thinking about it, tapping her fingertips against her almost non-existent chin. ‘Ithink, what I liked most about Sir Reginald was his... hisgenerosityof spirit, didn’t you, Adrian?’
