Pure Dead Wicked by Debi Gliori

think you might be needing this. It’s bad news, I’m afraid. . . . I’ll let the police constable fill you in on the details.”
    One of the two policemen stepped forward. “Sir,” he began, flicking through a small black notebook, “are you Luciano Strega-Borgia, resident and owner of the property known as StregaSchloss, situated on the west shore of Lochnagargoyle?”
    Signor Strega-Borgia sat down abruptly on an oversprung armchair. The resultant bounce caused the whisky in his glass to slop out over his knees. “I am,” he confirmed. “Wha . . . ?”
    â€œIt’s about your house, sir.” The constable dropped his eyes to his notebook, unsure of how to continue. “Well . . . urr . . . to cut a long story short, it’s wrecked.”
    â€œWHAAT?” Signor Strega-Borgia bounced back out of his seat.
    â€œDarling.” Signora Strega-Borgia took his arm. “Calm yourself. . . .”
    â€œIt’s the roof, sir,” the policeman continued. “Must have blown off in the night. A patrol car was passing around dawn this morning. Seven-fifty a.m., to be precise. Our officers Macbeth and McDuff noticed that the silhouette of your property appeared to have altered considerably. Upon closer examination, they discovered that the roof timbers were exposed, the slates had vanished, and a quantity of snow had fallen into your attic. We’ve taken the precaution of placing warning signs outside to this effect, and cordoned off the whole area in the interests of public safety. . . .”
    â€œBut, but . . .” Signor Strega-Borgia groped for understanding and failed utterly. “That’s IMPOSSIBLE!” he shrieked.
    â€œDarling, calm down. . . .”
    â€œRoofs don’t just
vanish
!”
    â€œThis one did,” the other policeman muttered.
    â€œBut the slates. Where? Surely they must be . . . ?”
    â€œMy colleagues did wonder about that, sir, but there was no sign of them—no broken slates in the courtyard, nothing at all.”
    Delighted that his business partner had succeeded in destroying the roof at StregaSchloss, Vincent Bella-Vista coughed from a corner of the lounge where he and Vadette had been avidly eavesdropping. “Must’ve been the wind,” he remarked, adding, “Cost a fortune to replace them. Hundreds of thousands. Millions. . . .”
    Signor Strega-Borgia paled. “We don’t
have
millions. Oh, the poor house. After all these years, all those generations of our family living and dying at StregaSchloss. . . .”
    â€œCan we go and salvage some of our possessions?” Signora Strega-Borgia said. “The books? The furniture? Oh, Luciano, whatever are we going to do?”
    â€œI wouldn’t advise it today, madam.” The policeman replaced his notebook in his breast pocket, and frowned. “The property is in a parlous state. Dangerous, in fact—there’s a possibility that the upper floors might collapse. . . . You’ll probably have to put scaffolding across the main timbers to stop the whole thing folding up like a pack of cards.”
    â€œWe’ll get the experts in once the holidays are over,” the other policeman added. “See what, if anything, they can do to save it. But the worst-case scenario is that they have to place a compulsory demolition order on it, and unfortunately, you’d have to pay for that.”
    â€œCost a king’s ransom,” another voice added cheerfully from the door of the lounge. “Allow me to introduce myself, officer. Name’s Pylum-Haight. Hugh Pylum-Haight. My firm was just about to undertake repairs to the roof at StregaSchloss. Could I be of some assistance?”
    â€œIs that your black BMW in the car park, sir?” one of the policemen asked irrelevantly, looking out the window. “The one with pink dots all over the hood? And its lights left on?”
    â€œPink dots?