Skelgill glances at his watch. Again he hesitates. Then he strides into the pub – to emerge only two minutes later. Turning decisively in the direction of St Stephen’s Green, he seems to know where he is going.
*
From his vantage point in the quiet cul-de-sac Skelgill observes a taxi pull up across the street. He takes half a pace backwards, deeper into the shadows. He shivers a little; there might be no snow in Dublin, but the temperature is certainly below freezing. He watches as the passenger pays the driver and disembarks – a female, her head covered by the hood of a crimson coat. Indeed, like Little Red Riding Hood she scampers up the flight of stone slabbed steps – and becomes silhouetted against the great white-painted main door of the Georgian townhouse. She enters with her latchkey and a minute later the tall three-over-six sash window to the right is gently illuminated from within. He can see at an angle into the room: there are bookshelves either side of a chimney breast. Another minute passes and the woman now appears in sight, bearing a tray, which she sets down low. Then she attends to the fire, apparently adding some fuel. Finally she approaches the window and takes a seat facing the street; there must be a desk just below sill level. She begins to write.
Skelgill strolls across the uneven cobbles. He halts at the railings that prevent pedestrians from falling into the area. Now he watches. The image before him is remarkably close to that he has recently admired in the bookshop – except this is the real thing, and the writer has her head bowed in concentration – maybe some new lines that came to her that she just had to get down – or a diary or journal – or an urgent letter perhaps – whichever it is, her concentration is intense. Skelgill seems quite content – the street is free of traffic, and for the time being there are no passers-by to suspect him of being a peeping tom – and when in due course she looks up and makes eye contact he remains inscrutable. Her dark eyes show no sign of alarm – or even surprise – and her introspective expression begins to soften into a welcoming smile. She puts down her pen, and calmly rises.
‘Inspector – you’ll catch your death out there!’
In the twenty seconds it has taken her to reach the door, Skelgill has not moved – but now he pulls himself away from the empty window.
‘Aye – happen I should know better.’
Perdita waits patiently for him to approach; though she has the door wide open, as he enters the carpeted hallway he feels the comfort of central heating. She seems taller in extravagant stilettos and a close-fitting mini-dress in navy lace, beneath a leather bolero – and neither has he seen her looking quite so elegant. She removes the jacket to reveal that the dress is sleeveless, with a choker neck. She drapes it on a chair and puts out a hand.
‘Yours too, Inspector?’
He obliges, and then she leads him into the room on the right where he had observed her movements. Despite the high and ornate ceiling it exudes a cosiness, enhanced by subdued lighting concealed in the wall units, and a flickering fire – which to Skelgill’s eye is surprisingly well set, given her recent arrival. There is the desk at the window, and the bookshelves either side of the fireplace, where various literary collections are interspersed with tasteful ornaments and framed photographs. On the walls to his left and behind him are large abstract seascapes that look like original oil paintings. On the mantelpiece a line of what must be scented nightlights burn, for there is a fragrance that he recognises as sandalwood. Before the hearth is spread a great rug in broad stripes of aquamarine and teal that merge with one another, and ranged around it comfortable-looking sofas loaded with floral cushions in cobalt blue and lemon. All in all, the impression is of a boutique hotel, vibrant and contemporary yet cleverly complementing the classical architecture of the room.
‘Beautiful place, you’ve got.’
‘Thank you, Inspector – it dates from the late eighteenth century.’
She does not seem inclined to take any credit, despite that his reference can only be to the decor. She indicates that he should take a seat upon one of the sofas, close to the fire, beside which there is the tray upon an upholstered footstool. On the tray is a decanter of glowing golden spirit and two rocks glasses charged with ice. Skelgill suddenly looks alarmed.
‘You’re expecting company – I should get on my way.’
The girl bites her full lower lip, perhaps to conceal the semblance a smile.
‘Remember what I told you my Great Uncle Declan said about me, Inspector – well, maybe he was right about my acting on intuition.’ Now she allows the smile to break out. ‘And, in any event, in Dublin I am Rowena, my alter ego.’
Skelgill can only assume she spotted him across the road when her taxi drew up – it seems improbable and yet what other explanation can there be?
‘Aye – happen I can’t knock that – much as my boss would like to ban the word intuition from all police work.’
She giggles playfully and now rather to his surprise sits close beside him and reaches across to pour the drinks.
‘Whiskey okay – the real Irish McCoy?’
‘I guess it’s the only chaser for Guinness.’
‘Ah – so you were out on the town?’
‘Just a stretch of the legs. I thought I’d get my bearings – I’ve –’ Now he hesitates. ‘I’m meeting your family lawyer tomorrow to go through some old papers.’
If he has been hasty to manufacture an excuse for his presence, it does not appear to unsettle her – and she neither questions him on this point, nor seems perturbed that he has gravitated to her home. She raises her glass and he obediently follows suit.
‘Sláinte.’
‘Aye, cheers.’
They both drink. Skelgill takes a substantial mouthful, but Perdita is more circumspect – the whiskey is neat after all – and she watches him with a gentle smile as he tries to mask his reaction to the fiery liquid. It takes him a few moments to recover the use of his vocal cords.
‘You speak Irish?’
She shakes her head, and he notices how alluring is her mass of soft strawberry blonde ringlets, inviting one’s touch.
‘Just a smidgen – as I mentioned, my schooling was in England – and France – and by the time I came back here I figured I was too late to learn the Gaelic. I know that Dublin means Blackpool.’
He frowns in a good-natured way, as though he suspects she might be ribbing him. They take more sips in silence before Perdita settles her glass two-handed upon her lap.
‘You must be thinking we all shipped out in haste.’
Her question could be considered as subtly probing, however, she says it as a statement, an apology almost, and Skelgill shrugs in a way to suggest it is not for him to judge – and perhaps she appreciates this – for she relaxes back into the corner of the settee so that she may better regard him.
‘On my part – you know, I honestly couldn’t face going back there this morning. It is such sad news about dear old Mr Thwaites – coming on top of everything else. And despite not really knowing him – I mean, as an adult, having so rarely visited – he was always very kind to me – right from when I was a tiny child. I guess I got singled out for special treatment, being the wee one. You know – he unfailingly remembered to set out my cutlery left-handed? Sure, he seemed pleased by that.’ She gives a little ironic laugh. ‘Over here you get called a ciotóg – the strange one.’
Skelgill is looking at her with an undisguised intensity – but now he transfers his gaze to her glass, and then to his own; and then they both grin wryly, and clink southpaw.
‘It’s “cuddy-wifted” in Cumberland – and maybe I don’t have to tell you, a cuddy’s a donkey.’
‘We left-handers are supposed to be more creative, Inspector.’
‘Aye – so they say – except I’ve not got a creative bone in my body.’
Perdita frowns disapprovingly, and rises to this challenge on his behalf.
‘Who said creativity resides in the bones, Inspector – surely it’s the realm where the soul wanders
free?’
She takes a decisive gulp of her drink. Skelgill reaches for the decanter and offers a refill and she does not demur.
‘You –’ Whatever he is about to say he checks himself and starts again. ‘I – I saw the shop window display – the promotion for your new book.’
She peers rather coyly from behind the strands of hair that are beginning to stray across her face.
‘Strictly speaking, my new book is over there.’ She gives a casual flick of the hand in the direction of her desk. ‘Such are my publisher’s lead times that I completed Slave to Desire almost a year ago.’
Skelgill drinks and swallows quickly.
‘So does the new one have to be raunchier still?’
Now she laughs, a liquid peal, tossing back her head to reveal the pale unblemished skin of her throat.
‘Oh, my – the marketing department has gone to town, now! And that’s not half of what the photographer wanted me to do.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow.
‘I seem to be the only person who doesn’t read them – I’m beginning to get the gist of what I’m missing.’
Perdita is amused; she kicks off her stiletto heels and pulls her feet up onto the sofa to make herself more comfortable; her legs are bare and the hem of her dress, gathered at the centre, slips higher and draws Skelgill’s gaze. She seems unaware – or unconcerned – but for his part he begins to realise that the delicate and intricately woven fabric is partially see-through, and raises intriguing questions about what – if anything – she could possibly be wearing beneath. She drinks and regards him over the rim of her glass with a beguiling flutter of her eyelashes.
‘It’s no Fifty Shades, I’m afraid, Inspector – my romantic liaisons tend to take place off camera – I think the suggestion that something is possibly going to happen is often far more tantalising than the graphic detail.’ She pauses to watch his reaction. He is now studying his drink, swirling the fast-melting slivers of ice. ‘But when my heroes and heroines are thrown together by turmoil and tribulation I shouldn’t like them to resist temptation.’
Her tone is wistful, and now she drains her glass and leans forwards, touching him upon the shoulder with her right hand – then gracefully she rises and takes a step back.
‘There is something I should like to show you – if you’ll excuse me for a wee second?’
‘Sure.’
Barefooted she glides across the room, closing the door behind her. Skelgill waits for a moment and then he too stands; however, rather than follow her he stalks to the window and looks out – the street is empty; a sheen of ice glistens on the railings. He turns his eyes to the open notebook on the desk. There is a fountain pen beside it; evidently she prefers the traditional method, for lines of flowing longhand fill the pages. It seems she halted mid-sentence, and the top is off the pen. He replaces it, and then notices a familiar business card, that she is using as a bookmark: “Tobias Vellum, Aloysius Vellum & Co.” For a second he frowns – but, then, she is a writer with an interest in books, Vellum a bookseller with a connection to the family, and pushy to boot. Why wouldn’t she have his card?
He crosses to the shelves; there is an eclectic mix of classics – contemporary and traditional, from Highsmith and Updike to Dickens and the Brontës – with a smattering of popular fiction – but it is the photographs that capture his attention. Though books may be their owner’s biographer, for Skelgill, these images offer a far more intriguing insight into the life and character of Perdita – and Rowena – for she appears in a range of guises and situations, from lustrous literary events to casual holiday scenes, and she is revealed in the easy and intimate company of males and females alike – though there is no consistent companion. He steps across the hearth to continue his perusal, the candles gutter at his passing – and now one particular portrait strikes home. Beneath a snowy mountainous backdrop a rosy-cheeked Perdita – younger, perhaps in her university days – stands victorious between two other girls, each of them displaying a medal. They support skis in crooked arms and have sunglasses pushed back upon their bandanas. Behind them is a signboard that marks the name of the piste; it says simply, ‘La Face’. The exclusive resort of Val d’Isère might be alien territory to Skelgill – but no one with his mountain credentials would fail to recognise what is the most celebrated and notorious black run in the entire French Alps. He stares, teeth bared, his mind electrified.
But now a creak of the door handle interposes between his slip-sliding thoughts and their subconscious substrate – instinctively he pulls a book from the shelf, and by the time Perdita enters he appears engrossed in its content. He turns casually – she is waiting in the doorway – and now she laughs, an outrageous note of amusement: for he has inadvertently selected the first volume of the erotic trilogy she referred to just a moment earlier! Skelgill rather sheepishly replaces the book.
‘Inspector – sorry to keep you waiting – but it struck me – ’ She pauses, and crosses one leg in front of the other, and tilts her head a little to the side. ‘You were interested when I told you about the bibles that my Great Uncle Declan gave to each of us for our Christenings – and I said I keep mine always at my bedside.’
‘Aye.’
Skelgill’s “aye” is one that even he does not recognise.
‘I thought perhaps you would find it more edifying to see it in situ.’
18. THE ARCHIVES
Sunday 8am
‘Successful night, Inspector?’
Fergal Mullarkey is waiting on the steps outside his offices, part of a Georgian terrace characteristic of the area. Like Skelgill he is muffled and gloved against the bitter cold, and his beady blue eyes peer out from beneath a bowler hat. His choice of words seems to set Skelgill on his guard – as if he suspects the lawyer of knowing his movements – and the detective hunches his shoulders and casts about uneasily, as though the surroundings might inspire some suitable rejoinder.
‘I headed back after I’d drunk the second pint.’
Fergal Mullarkey gives an unconvincing nod of acknowledgement.
‘I certainly wasn’t expecting your call at this time of the morning.’
‘I’m a bit of an early bird.’
Skelgill’s tone is unapologetic, and perhaps overly taciturn, given that the man is doing him a fairly sizeable favour. But the lawyer is undeterred.
‘To catch the worm – hah-ha!’ He produces his trademark grin. ‘No worries – sure, it suits me to get the job done – in fact, if you’re willing, I’ll give you the code to reset the alarm, and you can let yourself out whenever you’re finished.’
He does not reply: while Fergal Mullarkey wrestles against a series of locks with a great jangling bunch of keys, Skelgill has noticed a brass plate bolted to the grey sandstone wall beside the door. Its inscription reads, “Mullarkey & Shenanigan, Solicitors.”
‘Never fear, Inspector – there have been no Shenanigans here for a very long time.’
He chuckles, albeit it in a rather forced manner, for this must be an incalculably hackneyed quip.
Skelgill follows him inside; the general impression is not dissimilar to the residence of Perdita Regulus-O’More – for, indeed, these offices comprise several conjoined townhouses, commonplace in central districts, a natural evolution as original occupiers gradually flitted to suburbs more suited to a lifestyle with the new-fangled horseless carriage. The décor is businesslike, with plain carpets and neutral walls ornamented with certificates of proficiency. Fergal Mullarkey leads them up a broad staircase to the third storey, and along a corridor to the rear of the property, at the end of which there is a door on either side. To the left a small plaque denotes “Boardroom”, and corresponding on the right is “Meeting Room”; it is into the latter that they go.
The chamber is bright – the walls are bare and reflect the early morning sunlight – and there seems to be a tang of turpentine in the air. Much of the available space is taken up by a large oval table, ringed by chairs, but
Skelgill’s gaze falls upon a coffee maker in one corner, sitting upon a glass-fronted refrigerator in which are visible cartons of milk and packets of chocolate chip cookies.
‘Just make yourself at home, will you, Inspector? Grab a coffee while I pop down to the archive and see what I can unearth.’
Skelgill frowns and clenches his fists at his sides.
‘Can’t I give you a hand?’
Fergal Mullarkey shifts his weight a little uneasily from one leg to the other.
‘To be honest with you, Inspector, I think we would just get under one another’s feet. There is only a narrow gap between the rows of racking, and you wouldn’t really know what you were looking for.’
‘How about carrying it up?’
‘We have a dumbwaiter adapted for the purpose – it is somewhat antediluvian, but it does the job.’ He moves across to the door. ‘Oh – and for reference – the gents’ loo is back the way we came, at the top of the stairs.’
Left to his own devices Skelgill wraps his jacket around a chair and balances his hat and gloves on top. Then he makes a coffee, taking several attempts to get the hang of the unfamiliar device. It requires sachets to be slotted into a concealed flap, and a certain amount of patience, which is a quality that only seems properly to visit Skelgill when he climbs into his boat. He finally succeeds having dissembled the front of the machine and effected a modification to the mechanism with the stem of a teaspoon. He ambles to the window with his steaming mug. The view to the rear is of a low-rise arrangement typical of Georgian town planning, once the stables and grooms’ accommodation, now converted into desirable mews properties and perhaps equally sought-after city centre garages. However, the scene is haphazard, in that various extensions and conversions have been added down the years, and one such appendage is attached to the lawyers’ building. It occupies two storeys, and juts out as a flat roof just below the window. The felt is cracked and has been repaired in places with great daubs of bitumen, and patches of ice reveal where standing water must ordinarily collect. Skelgill casts a critical eye over the sash window, and then gives it a shake; it is loose in its frame – and then he notices that the two-piece brass catch has been removed and is lying together with its screws in the corner of the sill. He realises that the woodwork has a new coat of gloss paint – it is still tacky to the touch (and this accounts for the smell). He lifts the lower sash – it would be easy enough to climb out – or for a burglar to climb in – but what does enter is a rush of cold air about his thighs, and he slams it back down. He glances around the interior of the room; there is a PIR high in the angle above the door – it flickers red as he moves about – so he supposes that even were someone to scale the extension, the alarm system would catch them.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 73
