‘Did youhaveto traumatise the poor woman?’
‘I love jeans straight out the tumble drier – all nice and toasty on your bum and bits.’
Cheeky sod pretended to have a wee dry-boak at the image. Then: ‘So, what do you want to do? More interviews, or—’
‘Hoy!’ She thumped him. ‘One of life’s little pleasures that is: toasty bits.’
He retreated out of bashing range and checked his notebook. ‘So far, we’ve done eight couples and four singles, including our weird friend the animal-stuffer. That leaves seventeen guests and nine hotel staff to go.’
Roberta sagged a bit and frowned at him. ‘You’re harshing my mellow again, Sergeant.’
‘We could do another three interviews, and that would make it halfway?’
‘Sod that.’ Roberta had one last toasty wriggle. ‘Been ages since brunch and I’m starving. I don’t get fed soon I’m going to hunt one of your Tories down and eat them.’
Bangs, clangs, and sizzling filled the kitchen, accompanied by great gouts of steam as Gérard de Larosière, AKA: Tony Heppelthwaite, bustled from worktop to stove. Chopping,stirring, tossing – but not in a rude way – as he roasted, boiled and sautéed his big fat fake-French heart out.
Didn’t even look up from his pots as Roberta barged her way in. ‘Hoy,garçon! When’s dinner?’
That faux-Gallic accent was dialled up to full. ‘Deener? DEENER? ’Ow am I supposed to create culinary miracles when yourstupidepolice boy locks my freedge every time he goes on patrol?C’est impossible!’
She gave him a proper hard stare. ‘Union Canal, remember?’
He backed away from the stove, wiping his shiny face on a tea towel, back to broad Brummie again. ‘Giz a chance, eh? Albert only terned up with the main course five minutes ago.’ Gérard pointed across the room with a ladle, towards the vast hairy carcass of a deer. Which not only wasn’t already sizzling in a pan, the damn thing still had hooves, fur, and antlers on it.
‘But I’m hungrynow!’
‘Youse can have it raw, if ye like – venison tartare wit’ capers and shallots – but it’ll be nicer if ye beggar off an’ lerrus do me job.’
‘But... But...’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Hour, hour and a half, tops. Promise.’
‘Gah...’
She spun on her heel and stomped away. Pushing past Sergeant Moore, who was just standing there, blocking the way like some sort of idiot Labrador.
Moore hurried after her. ‘So, we’ve got time for a few more interviews, right?’
Bloody man was obsessed.
‘Fine!’ Roberta threw her hands in the air. ‘If it’ll stop youwangingon about it.’ She stopped dead, turned, and poked him. ‘But if I have to be nice to one more stuck-up, salt-of-the-earth-spouting tosspot, I’m going to explode. No’ figuratively:literally. BANG!Bits of Roberta all over the walls and ceiling.’
He was probably aiming for a cajoling smile, but it came off as patronising wankbaggery. ‘Come on, I’m sure once we get going it won’t be as bad as you—’
‘BANG!’ Another poke. ‘And I’m takingyouwith me!’
‘All right, all right: enough interviewing Tories for one day. How about we try some members of staff instead? That’ll be better, won’t it?’
Probably not.
Kinda hard to concentrate, when her innards were howling like a pack of wolves on a day-trip to the sausage factory, so Roberta didn’t even bother. Just sat there and let Sergeant Moore ask all the questions.
Yes, you could argue that it was highly unprofessional to have a hungry sulk when you should be trying to catch a killer, but they alreadyhada prime suspect. And besides, the hotel staff were all soboring: the gardener with the shaky hands and strong smell of ‘medicinal cigarettes’, who couldn’t have held an opinion of his own if you’d duct-taped it to his hand; the cleaner with a thick Romanian accent, who spent most of the interview insisting she was in the country legally; and last, but by all means least, the spotty youth responsible for valet parking and washing all the guests’ cars. And not one of the buggers had a single useful thing to say about Sir Reginald Bumfaced-Scumbag, Albert Nairn, or any sodding thing.
‘Right, thank you for your time, Mr Hastings.’ Moore put his notebook away and stood. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll see ourselves out.’ Not that it would’ve been difficult – the room was aboutthe size of a phone box, plastered in posters of fast cars and ladies in very skimpy bikinis who for some reason seemed to have embarked on a career in automotive repair, only without any of the normal protective gear. Health and Safety would have a field day.
Hard to tell what the wee lad spent more time masturbating over – the cars or the women.
