15
It wasn’tquiteas dark on the balcony that ran along this side of the lobby. A wan grey-ish light filtered in through the windows, thickening the shadows to solid black. But down below, on the lobby floor, two circles of light had converged in front of the huge metal stag.
Roberta switched her phone’s torch off and crept forwards, ears straining.
‘... did he?’
‘Oh, like you wouldn’t believe!’
Not quite whispering, but not far off it.
She edged her way to the staircase and padded down it on soft careful feet, not making a sound.
‘Then I don’t suppose we’ve got any choice, do we?’
‘Nope.’
Closer, skirting the back end of the statue like a ninja.
Closer. Closer.
‘Still, at least—’
Roberta leapt from the shadows. ‘What-ho, sharny bumholes?’
Swear to God, the pair of them leapt about six foot in the air and screamed like frightened rabbits.
She grinned as PC McKinnon and Sergeant Moore tried to get their breath back, hands clutching their chests, faces going from pale-as-a-sheet to beetroot.
‘Bloody hell.’ Moore stared at her. ‘Frightened thelifeout of me!’
McKinnon nodded. Trying to pretend he hadn’t just pooped himself. ‘Ma’am.’
Well, he wasn’t getting off that lightly.
She poked him in the chest. ‘I’ve got one word to say to you, Constable: wellington sodding boots!’
A puzzled chin-in frown. ‘But that’sthreewords.’
‘So’s “rectal shoe insertion”. Which is what you deserve for letting me tromp through the bastarding monsoon this morning when there were wellington boots in the Land Rover!’
‘Ah... Erm, here:’ he dug into one of the pockets on his stabproof and produced a blue plastic torch. Clicked the button and handed it over. ‘Found them in a utility cupboard. Got one for the Sarge too.’
As peace offerings went, it wasn’t great, but never look a gift torch in the mouth.
She tried it out on the cavernous lobby. The beam wasn’t exactly lighthouse-bright. Better than her phone, though. ‘What happened to the proper lights?’
‘They switched off the generator at ten to save on diesel. Everyone’s meant to be asleep anyway...’
Sergeant Moore leaned back against the statue’s plinth. Arms crossed. ‘Istillsay we should lock them in their rooms. Stop them getting out and up to things.’
‘Aye, but what if there’s a fire, Sarge? Health and Safety would do their nit if we got everyone killed.’
Moore stared at him. ‘“Nut”, you twit. Do theirnut.’
‘What did I say?’
‘You said “do their nit.”’
