Roberta slumped for a moment, then hurled her stick away into the forest. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
All this way, in the rain, fornothing.
She squelched across the hotel lawn, every step sounding like her socks were having extremely dirty sex with her shoes. And would it stop raining? Not a chance in hell.
Sergeant Moore limped beside her, grey hair plastered to his head, glasses all steamed up and covered in raindrops. ‘So, were you really worried about me?’
‘You got any idea how much paperwork they make you fill in for a dead sergeant?’ Roberta pulled a face. ‘No’ to mention all themeetings.’
He thunked a hand down on her shoulder and squeezed. ‘You old softie.’
‘Hoy! Less of the “old”. Bad enough we’ve got some nutter out in the woods playing Rambo, without me kicking your nadgers so hard they pop out your ears.’
‘Ah.’ The hand made a swift retreat. ‘Fair enough. Back to interviewing Tories?’
‘Do we have to?’ Because it was enough to make you weep, it really was.
‘You’re Senior Investigating Officer: up to you.’
‘Ihatebeing the responsible adult.’ She sagged a bit. ‘Fine, we’ll go talk to more Tories. But I’m getting dry socks on first!’
The bridal suite, AKA: ‘ROYALLOCHNAGAR1972’, was so big it made the dodgy wee Russian’s room look like a dog kennel that’d been decorated by someone who just didn’tlovetartan enough. Whoever committed interior design on this placeadoredthe bloody stuff. A four-poster bed was visible through the open bedroom door, the canopy draped in Macdonald. Royal Stewart on the floor. A MacGregor couch and chaise longue, complete with Menzies, Wallace, and McLeod cushions.
To be brutally honest, the overall effect was a bit like standing inside a migraine.
Buchanan curtains framed the bay windows and a view that stretched all the way down a tree-lined avenue, past formal gardens, and out to the heather-wreathed hills. All of it draped in grey and rain and low, low clouds.
The bride and groom posed in front of the window, flanked by those headache-inducing swathes of yellow, orange, red, and green, as if they’d been caught in the middle of a photoshoot. The pair of them in muted greys – probably scared of clashing with the décor.
Douglas Moore put a hand on his new wife’s broad shoulder. ‘It’s been a terrible shock to us all, hasn’t it, darling?’
Tears sparked in the corners of Adriana’s eyes. ‘One canbarely put into words the tragedy of losing one’s father.Completenightmarefest.’
Wonder if she’d kept her own name, taken his, or gone for the full triple-barrel? Bet that’d make ordering a takeaway pizza a right pain in the backside. By the time you’d spelled ‘Adriana Bradbury-Scott-Moore’ for the idiot on the other end of the phone, your twelve-inch meat feast would be cold.
Roberta sank onto the horrible chaise longue, wriggling her shoeless toes in their nice dry socks. And, OK, her jeans were still all soggy, but on the bright side they’d leave a nice damp patch on the ugly furniture. ‘Our sympathies at this difficult time. Can you—’
‘Not to mention the loss to his beloved Conservative Party!’ Douglas gazed off into the middle distance, just the other side of a sparkly chandelier. ‘He was a realcharacter. A true one-nation Tory! To lose a stalwart MP like that and have to run a by-election in the current political climate?’
Adriana bit her lip and looked away. ‘Hardly bears thinking about, yah?’
Sergeant Moore didn’t seem to be writing any of this down. Instead he had this weird, someone’s-just-stuffed-a-live-chicken-up-my-bum-and-I’m-not-enjoying-it look on his face. He cleared his throat, shuffled his bare feet. ‘Dougie, surely there’s more important—’
‘Imayhave to give up my proposed seat and run in poor,dear, Sir Reginald’s constituency instead.’
Adriana put her hand on her husband’s arm. ‘I think Daddy would like that, Douglas.’
A set of tiny wrinkles marred his photoshoot brow. ‘Well, they say Aberdeen South’s looking a bit marginal now, but theimportantthing is that Sir Reginald’s constituents have someone to champion their causes. Fight for their rights.’
She blinked, nodded, and stepped in for an embrace.Gazing up at the floppy-haired sockwank like he was the second sodding coming. ‘We’ll do it in his name.’
He looked deep into her eyes. ‘Inhisname.’
To paraphrase that great wordsmith and renowned raconteur Adriana Bradbury-Scott-Moore: vomitarama!
Out in the corridor, Sergeant Moore eased the door closed, shutting the bride and groom in their horrible tartan love nest. He grimaced and marched off, not making eye contact. ‘Before you say anything: don’t, OK?’
She wandered after him, hands in her pockets. ‘No’ so much as a pause between, “Oh, it’s such a tragedy” and “I’m nabbing his safe Tory seat.”’
