Page 13 of And the Corpse Wore Tartan
PC McKinnon raised his burning glass. ‘The bride and groom!’
Sandy did the same. ‘The bride and groom!’
Ah, what the hell.
She raised her glass too. ‘Up your bum!’
Then they blew out the flames and knocked back their drinks. A bit like drinking petrol, but there were worse things at half past eight on a Friday night.
‘Waterloo’ belted through the open ballroom doors into the bar. Not a weird string-quartet version, the original ABBA one – pounding out of the DJ’s speakers, accompanied by flickering yellow, blue, and red lights that pulsed in time with the music.
It was time to face facts: PC McKinnon was definitely drunk. You could tell, because his eyes wouldn’t point in the same direction any more and he sort of swayed in his seat more than was appropriate for ABBA. Wobbling away there,on the other side of the table they’d appropriated in the corner of the bar. Definitely drunk.
Probably best drink his whisky for him. You know, for his own good.
‘See, the trouble... the trouble is...’ she plucked McKinnon’s glass from the tabletop, ‘the job’s shhhhhagged.’ For some reason that last word was slipperier than expected.
Sandy nodded. ‘Yup. Shagged. And bug... buggered. Thoroughly shagged and buggered.’
She frowned, then it came to her: ‘Shaggered! That’s what it is:completelyshaggered.’
PC McKinnon didn’t say anything, just tipped over to one side until a stuffed badger was the only thing keeping him upright. Eyes closed, mouth open, a little trail of drool making its way down his chin.
Sandy took a big gulp of Ardbeg. ‘That’s... Police Scotland... for you. We could’ve... could’ve had the best... ofallworlds... but it all had to be done... done theStrathclydeway, didn’t it?’
‘Bastards.’ She was about to follow that up with a story about the detective sergeant, three gross of pilfered condoms and a stripper called Candy, when ‘Waterloo’ faded into ‘Come on Eileen’. Roberta sank McKinnon’s whisky in one. ‘Oooh! I love this song! Fall-in, Sergeant.’ She lurched to her feet, which took two goes, for some reason. ‘We’re going dancing!’
The whole bunch of Tory bastards stared at her with horror on their faces as she hauled her hand back and slapped Sir Reginald I’m-a-Massive-Tosser Bradbury-Scott across his fatsmug face hard enough to make him crash flat on his arse, right in the middle of the dance floor.
Susan stood there, eyes wide, hands doing that speak-no-evil brass-monkey thing, as ‘Back for Good’ by Take That wanged out of the DJ’s speakers.
Was difficult staying upright, what with the dance floor being all uneven and lurching about like a boat in a storm, but Roberta managed. Keeping one leg moving for balance as she pointed at the lardy git sprawled across the floor. ‘Don’... don’ you... dare talk to... to my wife... like that!’
Sir Gets-Slapped-a-Lot glowered up at her, rubbing his cheek. ‘You, madam, are no lady!’
Right – she was having the bastard.
Roberta lunged for him, but Sandy grabbed her and bundled her away before she could get a decent punch in...
They were in the corner, beside that stupid great-big stag statue, in the lobby. No idea how they got here. Just her and Susan. The two of them against the world.
Well, the world and the line of Tory wedding guests who hadn’t booked a room for the night, all boozy and shuffling, heading out through the front doors to the waiting coaches. Banging on about what a splendid day it’d been and what a lovely couple Adriana and Douglas made and wasn’t it a shame about that dreadful woman?
No idea who this woman was, but she sounded like a complete nightmare. Getting drunk and picking fights? Who did that at a wedding?
Susan glared at Roberta, hands on her hips, face creased up with angry wrinkles. ‘I haveneverbeen so humiliated in my life! You swore to me you’d behave!’
The carpet in here was even wobblier than that dance floor. Roberta grabbed the statue’s plinth for balance. ‘C’mon... sss wedding. Juss a little fun, s’all.’
‘You’re a disgrace!’
Ah, she was just saying that. Playing hard to get.
Roberta puckered up. ‘Give’s kiss.’
‘I can’t evenlookat you!’ Susan shoved her away, and the whole trying-to-stay-upright thing went for a bumhole.
One minute everything was the right way up, the next Roberta was lying on her back, on the tartan carpet, arms and legs making sad little circles in the air like an upturned turtle. ‘Help... I’ve... I’ve fallen over... and can’... can’ get up!’
