No wonder it smelled funky in here.
Bet a blacklight would make the sticky carpet shine like a radioactive Jackson Pollock.
‘Detective Inspector? Hello?’
She blinked and there was Sergeant Moore, waving at her as if he’d been at it a while.
He grimaced. ‘You still with us?’
Roberta pushed herself off the wall she’d been leaning against – because there was no way she was touchinganyof the furniture – and nodded. ‘Right, keep up the good work, Mr...?’
‘Hastings.’ At least his voice had broken, that was something.
‘Mr Hastings, right.’ She followed Moore out of the room, stopping on the threshold to look back inside. Made eye contact with the spotty youth. ‘Try to stop before you go blind, eh?’ Then closed the door before he could do anything more than blush.
Roberta slouched along beside Sergeant Moore, not even bothering to cover her yawn. ‘Wellthatwas a waste of time.’
He rubbed his hands together, sounding pleased with himself. ‘At least we’re halfway through now. Twenty-three down, twenty-three to go.’
‘Food.’
‘We could probably knock a couple more off the list and—’
‘Food! Food! Food! Food!’
He looked at her, sideways and troubled. ‘Are you like this on every murder inquiry?’
Down the stairs at the end of the corridor.
‘Murder inquiries arenothinglike this. No one runs a Major Investigation Team with only three people, especially if one of them’s an idiot who doesn’t know wellington boots are a good idea when it’s raining. You assemble a dirty-big squad full of experts and you delegate the living bejesus out of everything. Control it all from the centre of your web.’ She pushed out through the door at the bottom of the stairs and into the lobby again. ‘And that includes sending someone out for bacon butties, cups of tea, and anything else that takes your fancy.’ Marching across the tartan carpet towards the dining room. ‘What youdon’tdo is struggle on all day with an empty stomach, personally interviewing three-dozen stuck-up buggers, when you could be squirrelled away in a posh hotel room playing Hide-the-Nutella with your wife!’
The dining room was laid out for a full service: all the tables set with white cloths, napkins, silverware, and more glasses than anyone could possibly need during the course of one meal.
Roberta marched past the lot of them and banged into the kitchen. ‘Well?’
Gérard turned a dimpled smile on her, his rosy cheeks all round and sweaty in the steamy kitchen as he struck a pose: feet together, back straight, one finger pointing at the ceiling tiles. ‘Ze great Gérard de Larosière ’as done eet again! I geeve to you ze culinary masterpiece.’ He turned to make a sweeping gesture towards an array of pots, pans, and dishes. ‘Wash your ’ands and prepare for ze experience of a lifetime.Alléz vite!’
‘All right.’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘But this better be worth it, or I’m coming back in here and stuffing you like a Christmas turkey. With your own head.’
The view from the dining room was probably quite impressive, when it wasn’t dinging down at nine o’clock on a Saturday night. The rain rendered everything in depressing shades of greeny-grey, and even though the sun wasn’t supposed to set for another hour and a bit, it was already getting dark out there. Well, even darker.
Susan polished off the last of her soup and smiled across the table. ‘Wasn’t that lovely?’ She was all done up in a nice floral frock, with heels and a matching bag. Unlike Roberta, in her ‘ASK ME ABOUT MY RADICAL LESBIAN FEMINIST AGENDA’ T-shirt and tumbled jeans.
Could probably fit fifty people in here, but the room was deserted except for the two of them, dining by candlelight. A nice bottle of Chenin Blanc chilling in an ice bucket at the side of the table.
‘A toast!’ Susan raised her glass. ‘To romantic getaways.’
Roberta clinked glasses with her, then had a glug of lovely cold wine. ‘Aye, romantic foryou, maybe. Some of us’ve been interrogating Tory tosspots and getting soaked all day.’ But she kept a smile on her face as she spoke, sotechnicallyit didn’t count as a whinge.
‘Well,Ithink it’s lovely.’ Susan reached across the table and took Roberta’s hand, looking up at her through her eyelashes. ‘Maybe after this we should—’
The door to the kitchen thumped open and in barged the wee weird ginger woman, pushing a hostess-trolley kind of thing. ‘All done?’ Cheery smile and cheery voice – no doubtstill in a heightened erogenous state after that flash of Old Faithful. She gathered up their empty bowls. ‘How was your velouté de navet, with a parmesan tuile and smoked truffle-oil emulsion?’
‘You’re no’ fooling anyone. Neep soup’s neep soup, no matter how you dress it up.’
‘Robbie!’ Susan turned a beam in the woman’s direction. ‘It was lovely, Janey, thank you. Who knew turnips could be so scrumptious?’
‘Excellent.’ Wee Weird Janey clinked their empty bowls down on top of the trolley and came back with two plates, placing one in front of each of them with a theatrical flourish. ‘Here we have venison carpaccioavec mousse de navet et sorbet aux racines.’ Kissing her fingertips as a grand finale. ‘Enjoy.’ She backed away from the table, taking her trolley and her weirdness through to the kitchen again.
