SLOOT

by Ian MacPherson

  ‘Glass of wine?’

  ‘I’ll have a coffee, thanks,’ said Hayden. ‘Hold the liqueur.’

  Bram nodded in understanding. ‘Scrabster, right?’ He placed the order, two coffees, brought them over and pulled out a chair. ‘Just passed your man on the way in,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. This place is on the up and up.’

  ‘Your man?’ said Hayden. ‘Ah yes. Quilty. Pathologist by the sound of it. Cause of death, that sort of thing. Could be useful.’

  Bram gave him an odd look as he sat down. ‘Are we in work mode here?’ he said. ‘Fair enough. How’s it shaping up?’

  Hayden didn’t want to talk about the novel.

  ‘Eddie,’ he said. ‘I think he may have been murdered. Which means somebody out there must have done it. And if so – who?’

  ‘Work it is,’ said Bram. ‘Good start. Get your reader involved.’

  Hayden settled back. Two old friends with nothing left in common, coffee in front of them, nothing to be done about it; so he filled Bram in on the story so far. The gash on Eddie’s forehead, which Bram already knew about. The cellar. The sawn-through ladder. The guards. The late night incident with the intruder. He was about to mention the answerphone message when a mild-mannered little man at the next table leaned over.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he simpered. ‘Is anyone using the salt?’

  Hayden waved it away impatiently. And here’s the curious thing. The man has asked the question. He’s got his answer. He doesn’t take the salt. Interesting. If Hayden had been narrating this thrilling opus himself, he wouldn’t have included that seemingly insignificant detail. Why? He didn’t notice it. I did. One-nil to third person narration.

  Hayden had been in mid-flow, but the man had upset his rhythm and Bram used the slight pause to interject.

  ‘Brilliant. Write what you know, am I right?’ He nodded gravely. ‘It also means you can set it in Clontarf. Clever.’

  Hayden was about to lead him gently back to the real world, but Bram had other ideas.

  ‘Okay. Now as previously discussed, your great crime writers plot the story backwards. You know who dunnit. You work back. Plant clues. Set up the murder. Then you write it. So, you know your perp –’

  ‘No,’ said Hayden. ‘I don’t know “my perp”.’ He shook his head. ‘If I knew who perped it –’

  ‘Fine,’ said Bram. ‘Keep yourself in the dark. That way you’re as surprised as the reader. Equally valid. We don’t know who dunnit. We don’t know why he dunnit. Works either way.’

  ‘Could be a she,’ said Hayden.

  ‘Blank sheet,’ said Bram. ‘I can live with that.’

  Hayden sighed wearily. ‘This is not a book, Bram. This is real life. Eddie is a real person and someone out there, also presumably real, may have killed him.’

  But Bram didn’t hear the last bit, because he was off again. ‘Your sleuth,’ he said. ‘Let’s call him –’

  ‘Let’s call him Hayden,’ said Hayden.

  Bram nodded. ‘Fine, if it gets you started. You can change it later. He’s a man alone. Bit of an outsider. Addicted to painkillers. Tragic past. Rescued a baby from a bomb in Baghdad. Beirut? Belfast? Lost his left leg and most of his upper torso when the second bomb went off. I don’t think that’s been done.’ Hayden’s heart sank. Confiding in Bram possibly wasn’t such a good idea after all, but there seemed to be no stopping him. ‘Then there’s your talk-to person,’ Bram continued. ‘Also as previously mentioned.’

  ‘I remember him well,’ said Hayden. ‘Someone a bit thick so you can explain stuff to the reader. Let’s call him Bram.’

  ‘The name isn’t important at this stage,’ said Bram. ‘We’ll think of something.’ He rooted through his brain for other pearls of advice. ‘Ah. Final point. The love interest. We’re looking at a series here. Your sleuth has to walk away from the femme fatale. Tough one. Maybe she dunnit. But you take my point. He can’t start book two with a couple of kids and a house in Portmarnock.’ Bram punched the table gently for effect. ‘Dark past yes, mortgage no.’

  Hayden was about to change the subject – prostate cancer, bus timetables, anything – when he remembered the answerphone message.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘you don’t happen to know a woman name of Marina?’

  Bram sat back in his seat. ‘Not intimately,’ he said. ‘Wish I did though. Why?’

  ‘I have to pay her a visit.’

  ‘Do you now?’ said Bram. ‘And why would that be?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ said Hayden, who didn’t want to go back to the Eddie narrative. ‘Business.’

  ‘Business,’ said Bram. ‘Like that, is it?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Hayden.

  Bram sighed. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Fair enough. Marina’s your one with the red coupé. Lives next to your aunts. Moved in about a month ago. Big sign outside advertising her wares. But you’ll know about that already. To be honest, I didn’t think you had a problem in that direction.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Hayden. ‘What direction?’

  ‘Oh now. Says he to me.’ Bram checked his watch. ‘Got to head, compadre. The afternoon shift waits for no man.’

  Just then the swing doors flew open and Quilty returned from his quick puff. No point trying to push Bram further, so Hayden changed tack.

  ‘Before you go,’ he said. ‘I could use a copy of that Eddie shot. You know. The one with the gash.’

  ‘I’ll do better than that,’ said Bram. He whipped his phone out. A few quick hand movements. ‘Job done,’ he said. ‘Check your inbox. Anyway,’ – he punched Hayden playfully on the shoulder – ‘here’s me bus.’

  Hayden waited until he’d gone, then opened the attachment. You could just about make out Eddie’s wound on the small screen. He’d appeal to Quilty’s vanity. He looked the vain sort. A quick perusal, if you would be so kind, and do let me replenish your glass. Ballachulish, is it? He was about to go over when Quilty picked his fedora off the bar and waved it flamboyantly in a half circle. ‘That’s me away,’ he declaimed. ‘Busy day, busy day.’

  He drained his tumbler and swirled dramatically towards the exit. He flung the swing doors open and all but bowed from the waist. ‘Allow me, ladies,’ he announced to the room, and the three aunts scuttled in.

  ‘Why tank you, kind sir.’

  ‘Nice to see there’s some gentlemen left.’

  ‘And if you don’t tink it’s being too forward, you remind all tree of us of the great actor manager Sir Donald Wolfit in his heyday.’

  ‘In Macbet.’

  ‘A vain, vain man, but my God, he could certingly reach the stalls.’

  ‘Positively stentorian.’

  ‘A rare compliment, ladies. I well remember his one-man Othello at Borris-in-Ossory Parish Hall. His Desdemona? Quite, quite heartbreaking, and his lightning removal and reapplication of face paint during the dying scene was a lesson in stagecraft I will assuredly take with me to the grave. Adieu, gentle ladies. Adieu.’

  Quilty waved them in and exited stage left. The three aunts scurried excitedly across the plush carpet.

  ‘There you are, Hayding.’

  ‘We’re down for the cream tea brunch.’

  ‘Bit risqué on the old ticker front at our age, but c’est la mort.’

  This led to a fit of giggles, which suggested possible comic intent. Hayden held seats for them and made the usual flattering noises, but as he left he was struck by a disquieting thought: they didn’t seem surprised to see him. Why? Were they there to check up on his movements? He also noted, although it didn’t seem significant at the time, that the salt was still on the table.

  12

  Hayden stood outside Marina’s house, the garden almost obscured by blowsy blooms. No red coupé in the driveway, meaning no Marina. Hayden glanced at the sign.

>   Marina : Court

  That was as much as he could see; the rest was hidden by rhododendrons. He was about to lean over and brush the hanging branches aside when a scarlet convertible slowed down, though not much, and careered into the driveway. A stunningly attractive woman hopped out and fumbled for her front door key. She shot Hayden a quizzical glance, located the key and opened the porch door. Her mobile rang; she answered it and went inside. Hayden aborted Plan A, braced himself and followed her up the driveway. She turned to close the door and, spotting Hayden, flashed him a bewitching smile. Hayden experienced a certain je ne sais quoi. A quickening of the pulse? A vague stirring in the loins? I’m trying to be subtle about this, but she was even more stunning close up. He steadied himself. This was strictly business.

  She lowered the mobile. ‘You’re a bit early,’ she said, ‘but do come in.’

  Hayden was thrown. That seemed a bit… forward? On the other hand, he was there to confront her. The phone message to Eddie. ‘Or else’? She didn’t look the threatening type, but you never knew.

  ‘Upstairs, first on the right,’ she said, waving him in with her free hand. ‘With you in a tick.’

  Hayden ran that back to see if he’d heard correctly. Upstairs on the right. With you in tick. That was pretty much it. Back on her mobile, she followed him into the hall. ‘Nonsense. It’s incontrovertibly the oldest profession.’ Quick pause. ‘Of course you can quote me on that. Anyway, got to go. Client.’ She pocketed her mobile and closed the front door. ‘Bloody media.’

  Hayden stood motionless at the foot of the stairs, unsure what to do next. This was all getting a bit complicated, and the hallway didn’t help. Traditional layout, unlike Eddie’s, but graced with what appeared to be Frida Kahlo nudes. Subtly erotic and adding, under the circumstances, to Hayden’s mounting unease.

  ‘Thing is,’ he said, ‘I’ve just dropped in for a quick word.’

  Marina sighed. ‘Let’s get one thing straight. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, you’re booked for a double session.’ She flicked through her mobile. ‘Here we are. Bit early as I say, but you’re here now. So up you go.’

  Hayden was about to protest again when he heard the sound of a key in the front door. It opened. Lou Brannigan looked at Hayden. Hayden looked at Lou Brannigan. This, to Hayden at least, was getting increasingly bizarre. Marina cut across the stunned silence before it had even begun.

  ‘Glad you could come, Detective Inspector. Still no sign. I’ll just go and double check. In the meantime,’ she added mischievously, ‘my client here won’t do as he’s told. What is it with some people that they need such persuasion?’ She smiled in what Hayden took to be a seductive manner and disappeared through a door towards the back. Brannigan fingered his trilby sheepishly and avoided eye contact.

  ‘You heard what the lady said,’ he muttered, but his heart wasn’t in it.

  Hayden wasn’t a client. He knew this, but Lou Brannigan didn’t. Cue a farcical scenario of mistaken identity, dropped trousers and the hypocrisy of the Dublin middle classes if we choose to go down that particular route. But that’s the job of the theatre. Besides, the dropped trouser routine doesn’t work so well on the page.

  Hayden was about to blow the whistle on the client bit when Marina’s call interrupted from the back garden. ‘Here puss puss puss puss puss, here pussy pussy. Here puss puss puss puss puss, here pussy.’

  I’m about to make a comedy point here, as examined in exhaustive but not exhausting detail in Professor Stern’s Mirth.4 The term ‘pussy’ has different meanings for different people. It happens to be a staple of low comedy and, as such, has no place in this book. Or does it? Sloot aims for higher things, but context is all. ‘Cat’ would be preferable to ‘pussy’ – it avoids accusations of smut – but ‘cat’ is not a word you use when calling your cat. ‘Pussy’, however, is.

  Point made, the back door closed and Marina re-entered. ‘Not a sign of the poor thing,’ she sighed. ‘What am I to do, Detective Inspector? I mean, it’s not as if it’s the first time this has happened.’ She turned to Hayden. ‘Three cats have disappeared in four weeks. It doesn’t make sense.’

  Lou Brannigan shifted his feet uncomfortably, as though wishing he was somewhere else. His mobile rang in his pocket. He answered it gratefully.

  ‘I’m on it.’ He put the mobile away. ‘Armed robbery in Coolock,’ he said. ‘All the hallmarks of a Pope job.’ He opened the front door. ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘I’m on the pussycat too.’

  ‘Chances are it’s the Popes,’ said Hayden drily.

  Brannigan eyed him closely. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Call it a hunch,’ said Hayden. ‘Male intuition.’

  Brannigan seemed to be working something out in his head. Was this so-called comeejin having a bit of fun at his expense? He filed the idea away for future reference and turned to Marina.

  ‘We’re up to our eyes at the station this week,’ he said.

  ‘And it’s still only Tuesday,’ said Hayden.

  Brannigan added this to the file. Duly noted. He’d have a private word later.

  Marina looked startled. ‘Tuesday? I thought it was Wednesday.’ She turned to Hayden. ‘I thought you were my new referral. So, what are you doing here?’

  Lou Brannigan put his hat on. ‘I’ll leave your client to explain that one,’ he smirked, and left.

  ‘Well?’ said Marina. ‘I’m waiting.’

  Hayden felt suddenly vulnerable. He didn’t want to confront Marina about the answerphone message any more, or anything else for that matter. He just couldn’t tell how she’d take it.

  ‘I…’ he faltered.

  Marina held the front door open, her seductive smile back in place. ‘Sorry to rush you out,’ she said. ‘If today is Tuesday, I have an important client at half past. Oh, and next time,’ she said, ‘phone for an appointment. I’m fully booked up at the moment, but I’m sure I can fit you in soon. Or maybe I could suggest someone else?’

  Thanks for the offer, but no, she couldn’t. Hayden stood on the driveway after she’d closed the door, his head a jumble of thoughts, but this is what they boiled down to: Marina ran ‘the oldest profession’ from her home. Eddie owed her money. Hayden was about to confront her. Lou Brannigan arrived. He was stunned to see Hayden there. So is she, let’s say, an escort? Which would make Brannigan her client? No. He had his own key, so he must be, let’s say, her pimp. Conclusion? She’d phoned Eddie for money due. No response. She’d got Brannigan on the case. Maybe he bumped Eddie off? It certainly seemed plausible.

  But that was only part of the jumble. Hayden, in spite of himself, had felt a powerful attraction to Marina, but she was undoubtedly a –

  ‘Coo-ee!’

  The three aunts stared at him from behind the cotoneaster.

  ‘We seen you going into our highly alluring next-door-neighbour’s palatial abode, Hayding.’

  ‘You could do a lot worse.’

  ‘A lady of independent means, wit her own residence, is not to be sneezed at in these uncerting times.’

  ‘Plus she’ll never be out of work wit her particular skills.’

  ‘Not many people know this, Hayding, but we have it on the highest autority – ’

  ‘– it’s the oldest profession.’

  All three giggled happily.

  ‘Trute be known, Hayding, we dabble a bit ourselves.’

  Hayden screamed inwardly – The horror! The horror! – before striding across the road and up Eddie’s driveway, his thoughts back on Marina. How best to describe them? Smitten but confused is close enough. The Marina : Court sign. Court. Courtesan. French word. Sex as a commodity. The illusion of romance.

  As Hayden reached Eddie’s, a ministerial car pulled onto the grass verge outside Marina’s house and a chauffeur in a peaked cap emerged. He walked around the car, opened the back door
, and a small man with a pronounced nervous condition got out and twitched up her driveway. Marina’s front door opened and she ushered him in. Hayden glowered at them for a moment from the doorway. Then he, too, went inside.

  Verschiebung. Lovely German word meaning displacement, transfer, deferral, and one that describes perfectly how Hayden coped with the Marina problem. Hayden was smitten but in denial. A small man with a twitch was, probably at this very moment, bounding into the ‘treatment room’ to be pleasured by Marina. Was ever Verschiebung more needed?

  As soon as he was safely inside Eddie’s house, Hayden slipped the opera glasses into his pocket and grabbed a chair. He went out to the garden, strode assertively to the back wall, placed the chair against it, stepped up and, assertiveness departed, peeked tentatively over. This was Frankie Pope’s house. Luckily for Hayden, though, there was no-one in sight. He took the opera glasses out and trained them on the house, adjusting them till they focused on the red brick. He moved them slowly along till he reached the living room window. The painting was still on the mantelpiece. He concentrated hard, but no – even with the opera glasses, he couldn’t make out any detail. Perhaps it was Verschiebung again, as his insistence on displacing any thoughts he might have involving Marina seemed to send him too far in the opposite direction, but he became uncharacteristically fearless. All thoughts of Dobermen, stocky thugs, twitching clients and Marina were banished as he clambered over the wall and moved swiftly across the manicured lawn, past a solitary oak, until he reached the imposing house. The window ledge stood at about seven feet from ground level, so he had to hoist himself up by his fingertips.

  Urrrrrrrnnnnnnngh. He kept this to himself as he tensed every muscle and strained every sinew, until his eyes were on a level with the window sill. One last silent grunt and he was there. He peered in and… what a room! Magnificent, spacious, high-ceilinged and, more to the point, empty, which allowed him to study the painting on the mantelpiece at his leisure. A woman. Tall. Arresting. Reminiscent of someone, but he couldn’t think who. He was sure he’d seen her somewhere before. She was positioned beside a tall, expansive fireplace in a long, flowing dress, one hand on the mantelpiece. Hayden recognised the mantelpiece as the same one the painting was sitting on. Very nineteenth century. Odd, though. She occupied the position normally reserved for the Victorian lord of the manor. Also incongruous was the glass of brandy in her free hand, her broad shoulders, and the nine-inch Cuban cigar smouldering between her lips. He’d just worked out who she reminded him of – the imposing woman from the funeral! – when he heard voices coming around the side of the house, growing louder by the second.