A nod. ‘“The Charge of the Light Brigade”, Alfred Lord Tennyson, born 1809, died 1892.’ McKinnon shrugged as they stared at him. ‘Did it for my English higher.’
Moore put the note back on the table. ‘We’ll need a forensic graphographer to make sure it’s his handwriting. Maybe take fingerprints.’
‘Aye, well, I think we’re pretty sure it’s genuine. Look.’ Roberta nodded at the mantelpiece. The remains of a fire were cold and grey in the grate, but above it sat Albert Nairn’s very last tableau – a little gallows with a mouse-version of himself hanging from it. Two other figures were gathered around it, looking up at the tiny dead body. Another mouse in a high-vis jacket and a small weasel. The weasel had the same jacket on, but its hair was stuck-on sticky-out badger fur, just like the mini-me he’d given her yesterday.
‘Wow.’ Moore whistled, low and slow. ‘Hedidsay you weren’t a mouse.’
McKinnon’s bottom lip poked out, his face all kicked puppy-dog.
She gave him another thump. ‘What’s crawled up your bum?’
‘Why didn’t he make one ofme?’
‘Because nobody cares and you’re a whinge. Now go see if you can find a sheet or a blanket, or something. We’ll have to cut him down and haul him back to the hotel. Stick him in the fridge too.’ She puffed out a breath. ‘Rate we’re going, the damn thing’s going to be stuffed full of dead bodies by the time Inverness get here.’
The expedition back to the hotel had turned into a rather sad-but-surreal dubstep concert – thewub-wonk,wub-wonk,wub-wonk... of Roberta’s wellies joined by thepatter-patter-patter... of falling rain and repetitivesqueal-creak-click,squeal-creak-click, squeal-creak-click... from the buggy’s rusty wheels.About twice the size of a wheelbarrow, with big fat tyres, liberated from behind Nairn’s cottage by Sergeant Moore.
He laboured away, hauling the thing along the path, with its owner’s earthly remains slumped inside. They’d wrapped him in a couple of itchy MOD-style blankets, in a dysentery-shade of khaki brown – like a miserable burrito – leaving the rope around his throat to keep whatever pathologist they got lumbered with happy.
PC McKinnon marched at the head of their column this time, Nairn’s rifle at parade rest over one shoulder, and the shotgun broken in the crook of his other arm. Very pleased with himself, like Mummy’s Little Soldier.
Stuck at the back, Roberta frowned at the wrapped body. ‘Does this not all seem a bit... convenient to you?’
Moore shrugged. ‘Not very convenient for Albert Nairn.’
Suppose not.
But still...
All those loose ends, neatly tied up. No need to investigate any further, officers, why not sit down and have a nice cup of tea instead? Forget aaaaaaaaall about it.
Moore stopped and she came within an inch of marching into the back of the cart. He was standing there, looking at her.
‘What?’
‘I said, at least we can stop cooping people up in their rooms now.’
‘Oh.’ She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a bit. ‘No.’
‘But Nairn’s dead. He killed Sir Reginald, so—’
‘Everyone stays cooped up till we’ve interviewed the lot of them. This doesn’t stop being a murder inquiry, just because the main suspect’s killed himself.’
‘But—’
‘No. Now get pulling.’
Moore rolled his eyes, turned, picked up the buggy’s handles and hauled it down the track again.
Wub-wonk,wub-wonk,wub-wonk...
Patter-patter, patter-patter,patter-patter,patter-patter...
Squeal-creak-click,squeal-creak-click, squeal-creak-click...
It had a beat, but you couldn’t dance to it.
Sergeant Moore tucked their khaki bundle onto the shelf under Sir Reginald’s. Even in death, the gamekeeper looked like a lower-class version of the toff above him. No crisp white sheet for Albert Nairn, just some manky old army blankets covered in dead animal hair.
