She pushed herself off the door and had a wee shake, sending water spattering off her high-vis. Every step made horrible squishing noises. ‘Feet are like sponges.’
Moore unzipped his soggy jacket and hung it on the rack. ‘On theplusside, at least we’ve not been shot.’
‘Know what? I get the feeling that if our boy Nairnhadkilled Sir Reginald, he’d have wheeched the body back to his weirdy cottage and stuffed it.’ Roberta squelched in place for a couple of steps as she peeled off her waterproof. ‘Never been so damp in my life. Aye, and that includes in the bath.’ Shepulled off her trainers and tipped the water out onto the tartan carpet. ‘Haven’t got a single dry sock to my name!’
Sergeant Moore put their umbrellas away. ‘Actually... Ithinkthere’s something we can do about that.’
14
At least the hotel laundry didn’t have a stupid whisky name.
Wooden shelves wrapped around three sides of the room, stacked high with bed linen, towels, and the rest of that housekeeping malarkey. A couple of massive tumble driers sat against the other wall,whurrrrrrring and rumbling, each one easily large enough to take a family of four – if you didn’t mind squishing the children up a bit – leaving the middle of the room to a bank of industrial-strength washing machines that chugged, sloshed, and whirred as the weird ginger woman in the tartan miniskirt ironed her way through a stack of pillow cases. Doing her best not to look at the half-naked police officers loitering in her place of work.
Roberta wrapped the edge of the sheet around herself again, covering Old Faithful’s straps. Didn’t want Sergeant Moore getting all hot and bothered. That was the trouble with these heterosexual men: no self-control when it came to a flash of sexy flesh.
He didn’t seem very comfortable in his sheet, shifting and fidgeting with it – like anyone was interested in his scabby blue Markie’s pants and hairy knees – as he tried to take notes at the same time.
You know, with the pair of them done up in their DIY togas, and the weird woman in her short skirt, the laundry roomkinda resembled a really badly organised Roman orgy, where no one remembered to bring any booze. Or butt plugs.
Their hostess finished ironing one pillowcase, folded it, and started on another. ‘Oh, Sir Reginald was quite theregularhere.’ A sigh – both wistful and sad. ‘Lovely man. Tipped really well.’ She wiped a wee tear from her eye. ‘All the staff loved him.’
‘Oh aye?’ Roberta leaned back against a washing machine as itwhirrrred into its spin cycle, the whole thing vibrating enough make the floor judder. Like a huge, rectangular, stainless-steel sex toy.
Roberta’s voice came out all wobbly as the machine really got into the throb of things. ‘Then how come he came off as such a prick?’
‘Oh, that was just his way. He was lovely, deep down. A proper gentleman.’ She pointed the iron at them. ‘You know what he was?’
‘If you say “salt of the earth”, “such a card”, or “a real character” I’m going to cram that ironing board right up your laundry chute.’
Her cheeks flushed hot pink, clashing with her freckles and hair. ‘Charming, I’m sure!’
Moore fiddled with his sheet again. ‘What about Albert Nairn?’
‘The gamekeeper?’ She puffed out a breath. ‘Now you’re asking. He’s quite good on washing machines, but hopeless with the rumblers.’ Nodding at the two huge monstrosities as Roberta’s trainers boinged and clonked, churning round and round and round...
‘Did he have a problem with Sir Reginald?’
‘What, like did theyfightor something?’ A laugh. ‘God, can you imagine?’ On to the next pillowcase. ‘Anyway, Old Nairny wouldn’t do anything that’d hurt His Lordship. Totally devoted, so he is. It’s sweet, really.Killinga guest? God knowswhat the TripAdvisor reviews are going to be like afterthisweekend.’ She put on a mock-posh voice. ‘“Lovely food and excellent service, but our stay was somewhat marred by the father-of-the-bride getting crucified in the lobby: three stars.”’
‘Damn it.’ Sergeant Moore fumbled with his notebook and one side of his sheet slipped, exposing a nipple and the tattoo above – a skull and dagger with a woman’s name wrapped around it on a scroll. Only the name had been scored out with a thick red line that looked a lot fresher than the faded blue-grey of the original design. ‘Sorry.’ He hauled the sheet back into place. ‘Nairn’s never threatened Sir Reginald in any way?’
‘Don’t be silly.’
The giant driers wentdingand stopped turning.
Little Miss Miniskirt marched over there and pulled open both doors, letting out the warm fluffy scent of freshly tumbled clothes. ‘There you go, all nice and dry and toasty.’ She dug Roberta’s T-shirt, jeans, socks, and trainers from the drum. ‘Do you want them ironed?’
‘Oh, no. I love it when they’re still warm from the machine.’ Roberta took the lot from her, holding the bundle close. Mmmmm, fuzzy loveliness. ‘Sergeant Moore, you can either face the wall, cover your eyes, or get a knee in the nadgers.’
‘Oh, not this again.’ He turned to face the wall.
Roberta stuck her clothes on top of the ironing board and, as a special treat, gave the weird ginger woman a saucy wink and a good hard flash of Old Faithful. Something sexy for her to think about next time she was doing a big wash and the machines hit the spin cycle.
Never let it be said that Roberta Steel didn’t do her bit for morale.
‘Sorry,again.’Sergeant Moore waved at the weird woman and eased the laundry door closed, shutting her inside. Leaving him and Roberta outside in a bland magnolia corridor with pipes running along the ceiling. He’d ditched the toga for his now-dry clothes, shoes clutched in one hand and full of scrunched-up newspapers. Frowning at Roberta as she wriggled from side to side. ‘Was that really necessary?’
‘Mmmmm...’ Eyes half-closed in bliss as the tumble-drier warmth seeped into her.
