Mistletoes: A Christmas Mystery – Losers Club (Book 7) by Yvonne Vincent

Author:Yvonne Vincent [Vincent, Yvonne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: WHB
Published: 2023-11-16T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

Sergeant Wilson had once taken on six drunk farmers at Keith Show and locked them, handcuffed and whimpering, in a horsebox. She’d braved Hogmanay policing in Aberdeen, where all hell broke loose on Windmill Brae between the denizens of Charlie Brown’s and Barnie Rubble’s over who had the best cartoon. That had been back when she was a rookie and less well-versed in the diplomatic skills required by your average Bobby. Nowadays, she made a conscious effort to reason with the offender; to defuse the situation before it could escalate.

‘Shut up about the cleaning rota before I remove your extremities, shove them up your backside and turn you into human KerPlunk.’

Sandra Next Door was undaunted by the threat.

‘That housekeeper woman has it all wrong. The inefficiency! I’ll be up half the night now, redoing that rota.’

‘We’ll both be up half the night trying to find Araminta Hubbard at this rate. Where’s the Nigel? Ms Russell said he was down here. How am I supposed to find missing people if stupid housekeepers send me off in the wrong direction?’

They were in the private area of the hotel, the one marked out for staff. The décor was simpler down here, with plain linoleum-covered floors and fewer antlers. The space was functional, although there had clearly been some attention to detail in centuries gone by because the wood panelling from upstairs continued in what was otherwise a very functional corridor. Further down, they came to a series of unmarked doors, and despite their goal being to find the manager in the kitchen, Sergeant Wilson felt it was incumbent upon her to have a wee nosey.

She gave the door to her right an experimental push, enough to catch a glimpse of the room beyond.

‘You can’t go in there!’ exclaimed Sandra Next Door.

‘Why? Because it’s the gents? You never know, the Nigel might be in there with his newspaper, hiding from Ms Russell. She’s a very tearful woman, that housekeeper, and you’re not allowed to slap sense into people these days. Well, you’re not. And the Nigel’s not. But I might be. Cooeeee. Come out, come out wherever you are.’

‘He’s not going to come out now, is he? You sound like a sinister pervert with a bag of sweeties.’

Sandra Next Door leaned across Sergeant Wilson and pushed the door fully open to reveal two empty cubicles, three urinals and a sink. She barely had time to take it in before the smell hit her - that pungent mix of urinal cake and stale pee.

‘Ah,’ said Sergeant Wilson, inhaling deeply. ‘How triggered are you right now? This takes me back to when the Major Investigation Team visited the Vik police office.’

‘Did they foul the toilets?’ asked Sandra Next Door, who was indeed mentally swabbing the place down.

‘No. It’s Fudmuppet’s aftershave.’

‘Fudmuppet. Which one’s he again?’

‘DCI Fudmuppet. Fred Moffat or whatever they call him. Anyway, he’s been given the old heave-ho now and Dunderheid’s in charge. Acting DCI until he gets his promotion.’

‘Dunderheid. Which one’s he again?’

‘Oh,

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