‘Oh. Right. OK...’
Sergeant Moore hunkered down beside her. ‘You see anything?’
‘No smoke coming from the chimney. Curtains are drawn... Might be having a long lie? Looks like he’s necked a bottle of Grouse, so it could be Hangover-From-Hell time.’
‘Or Mikey’s right and he’s out.’
She handed the binoculars back. ‘One way to find out.’
At least there’d been no sign of a rifle barrel poking out through a gap in the curtains, ready to pick off any sexy former detective chief inspectors in their borrowed high-vis jackets.
Deep breath, and Roberta stepped out from behind the brambles – rain patter-clicking off her shoulders and riot helmet as she picked her way up the path, keeping her eyes on the woodchip-and-gravel, high-stepping over a couple of fishing-line tripwires. After all, just because the one Sergeant Moore set off yesterday made nothing more deadly than a noise, it didn’t mean Nairn hadn’t hooked one of them up to a bunch of shotgun shells wrapped in roofing nails...
Which was a comforting thought.
And something she really should have consideredbeforeleaving the safety of the bushes.
Could’ve sent McKinnon if there were going to be IEDs.
The wooden porch creaked beneath her wellington boots. Safe at last.
When she turned, there was Sergeant Moore and his halfwit sidekick, tiptoeing their way after her. Doing the same elaborate footwork to get past Nairn’s tripwires, like a cut-price Laurel and Hardy.
She snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and tried the door handle... It turned, nice and easy. Not locked. A gentle push sent it swinging open with a warm sonorous groan.
Oh crap.
She stared in through the open door.
They were too late.
Dead animals still littered the shelves, but Albert Nairn had joined those hanging from the rafters. The rope around his neck went up and around one of the exposed beams, a kitchenchair lying on its side by his feet as he swayed in the draught from the open door.
Roberta shook her head. ‘You silly,sillysod.’
A voice behind her:‘What?’Then Sergeant Moore crept onto the porch and peered over her shoulder, into the cottage. ‘Oh...’
She stepped across the threshold, looking up into that slack face. Eyes part open, the tip of his pale tongue just visible between his lips.
‘Looks like he left a note.’ Moore picked up a sheet of yellowed paper from the kitchen table, reading out loud. ‘“To whom it may concern. I have decided to take my own life, rather than live like a caged animal in one of your gaols.” Spelled the old-fashioned way. “I hereby confess to the killing of Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott. Sometimes it is necessary to cull members of the herd when they become old, ill, or a danger to others. I do not regret my actions.”’ Moore shook his head. ‘Well, I suppose that’sthat, then. Case closed.’
PC McKinnon squeezed in, peering over Moore’s shoulder and pointing at the suicide note. ‘Look, he’s quoted a bit of poetry, but it’s wrong:
“Ours is not to reason why,
Ours is but to do and die.”’
He shook his head. ‘Should be:
“Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.”’
