Moore sighed. ‘Still think you’re making a rod for yourself. Nairn’s dead, we don’t have to—’
‘Aye, we sodding well do.’
‘All right, all right.’ Hands up. ‘How about this, then: we get this one done, then go have afternoon tea or something? Little finger sandwiches, that kind of stuff. Bet they’ve got loads of leftover wedding cake.’ He tried for a smile. ‘You’ll like that, won’t you? Cake?’
‘I’m no’ six, you patronising cockspanner! Knock on the bloody door.’
‘Only trying to help.’ He gave the wood a traditional police triple.
‘And theybetterhave cake.’
God this was taking forever. What the hell was the old—
A clunk – like a deadbolt being released – and the door swung open, revealing Lord Oliver William Fitzroy-Galbraith in all his disapproving glory. He’d ditched last night’s paisley-patterned PJs and dressing gown for red corduroy trousers and one of those ugly checked shirts beloved of farmers, peoplepretendingto be farmers, and dickheads. Given that he’d topped the outfit off with a polka-dot cravat, there were no prizes for guessing which onehewas.
Lord Sharny-Bumflaps looked them up and down, curling his lip when he got to Roberta. ‘I assume you’re here to apologise for your terrible behaviour yesterday morning?’
‘Official business.’ She flashed her out-of-date warrant card. ‘We need to talk to you about your old mate Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott. Deceased. And your other old mate, Albert Nairn.Alsodeceased. Bit of a coincidence, eh?’
That made the temperature drop a bit.
‘I see.’
Sergeant Moore nodded towards the private apartments. ‘So, Your Lordship, if you don’t mind, that is?’
‘Hmph...’ He turned. ‘I suppose you’d better follow me.’
They did, into a room that seemed to have escaped whichever tartan-obsessed monster had been allowed to run rampant through the rest of the hotel. But compared to the guests’ rooms, it was all a bit shabby in here. The sofa and armchairs sagged like an old cat’s belly. Faded rugs on the flooralmostmanaging to hide bald patches in the ancientcarpet. Wallpaper that had seen better decades, never mind days. Window frames that needed painting...
Even the view was crap: overlooking what had to be the kitchen roof, extractor-fan outlets dotting it like manky mushrooms. Out across a dip of soggy grass, then nothing but miserable grey rain-battered trees.
And for some reason, Roberta couldn’t help but smile.
‘Schadenfreude’ was a lovely word, wasn’t it?
Sergeant Moore scribbled away in his notebook, sitting in a wingback chair whose stuffing was making a bid for freedom. Writing everything down, as if Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith was saying anything in the least bit useful to their investigation.
Roberta slouched back on the couch, one leg swinging as the interview stretched on into mind-numbing eternity.
‘It’s a terrible shame about Nairn. He was an excellent gamekeeper, led record-breaking shoots every Glorious Twelfth. Don’t know who’ll raise the pheasants now. You see, running a shooting estate takes a lot more work than people realise...’
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
On and on and on.
Look at him, standing there in the middle of the room with his hands clasped behind his back, as if he was still in the military. With his silly military moustache and shiny military shoes. Wanging on about how you couldn’t get decent staff any more, because people just didn’t know their place.
And what was with the name? Lord Oliver William Fitzroy-Galbraith. Why did these posh sods have to hyphenate everything? Did they think it made them sound more important? Oh, your surname doesn’t have a hyphen in it? You must be one of thoselowerclasses one hears about!
Mind you, Susan and Roberta had done the same with the kids: Jasmine and Naomi Wallace-Steel. But that wasdifferent, and not rampant hypocrisyat all. Because they weren’t posh tossers.
Or something.
Ahem...
Anyway, the French had the right idea: march all your aristocrats up to Madame Guillotine and chop their heads off.Thunk. Crowd cheers. Everyone goes home for baguettes, stinky cheese, and a bonk. Sometimes you just had to learn the lessons of history. March ’em up, chop ’em off. And not just the aristos, either – the world would be a much better place if two-thirds of its political class suddenly became ten-inches shorter. Then there were the people who didn’t indicate at roundabouts. Or pronounced Glenmorangie, ‘Glen-mor-ANNE-jee’. And what about—
‘Ibegyour pardon?’
