The old man hawks again, and spits with renewed venom.
‘Away then, woman!’
Skelgill is still crouched beside the armchair. He stands up and ostentatiously stretches his spine, and then addresses Mrs Gilhooley.
‘That’s your fire going, love – I’ll get your other sacks.’
The old man completely ignores him. It seems their confederacy is to remain clandestine – unless it has already slipped his mind. Skelgill is obliged to shut the door against the cold, but he lingers on the step – however, the recalcitrant couple seem only to be trading vicious insults. He heaves the second, and then the third sack, propping them either side of the door. Then he trudges back to his shooting brake and drives away.
The trackway that had defeated DS Jones’s efforts to reach the cottage by car is treacherous, but Skelgill has been more cavalier and now he retraces the undulating course, slipping and sliding and employing the basic principle of the rollercoaster, not to stop on an upslope. When he reaches the junction with the lane, he halts and checks his phone. There is a signal, and he consults his contacts and taps on “Jim H”. The answer comes almost immediately.
‘Daniel – how are our waxwings faring?’
The professor’s voice is a little muted, as though he has Skelgill on loudspeaker.
‘They were at Buttermere until Tuesday, at least.’
‘Ah – they are sweeping southwards. The twitchers’ grapevine is full of new reports across the Midlands.’
Skelgill pauses for a diplomatic second or two – but he is eager to get down to business.
‘Jim – this Crummock Hall affair – do you know of any connection with a family called Gilhooley?’
‘Gilhooley? And O’More?’ The professor can be imagined tapping together the tips of his fingers. ‘They sound as though they may share a common provenance.’
‘Aye – happen there was some ancient dispute over property.’
‘Then it might have its roots in Ireland, Daniel – I have an old friend, a history don at Trinity – I can drop him an email – how urgent is this?’
Skelgill has extracted his road atlas from the pocket behind the passenger seat, and is presently tracing a route that takes his index finger into North Wales.
‘Just whenever you’ve got a minute, Jim.’
‘I am online at this moment, Daniel.’
‘Aye, well – if it’s no bother – in fact, you couldn’t just look up something for me?’
‘Certainly – what is it?’
‘Crossing times – for the fast ferry from Holyhead to Dublin.’
17. DUBLIN BY NIGHT
Saturday 8.30pm
Skelgill circles the Edward VII post box in the manner of one who suspects his eyes may be deceiving him – a trick of the streetlight neon, perhaps, that makes the familiar red appear – well, green. He glances about warily – as though he might be looking for the candid camera concealed to capture yet another gullible English tourist. When he turns back a leprechaun will be perched on the top.
‘It really is green, Inspector.’
Now he swings about – a grinning Fergal Mullarkey has a hand upon his shoulder.
‘We Irish might hold high political ideals – but we’re a pragmatic bunch. No point in throwing out the baby with the bathwater.’
Skelgill is nodding rather vacantly.
‘First time in Dublin, Inspector?’
That Skelgill has barely set foot outside his lodgings before being accosted in this fashion – in a city of well over a million inhabitants – seems to be an illusion that comfortably eclipses the emerald pillar box. However, a few seconds’ reflection enables him to qualify the ostensibly unlikely odds. After all, he has chosen his accommodation – a modest hotel on St Stephen’s Green – for their close proximity to the addresses in his notebook. Perhaps Fergal Mullarkey, upon his return to the country, has made a visit to his offices – or maybe he lives nearby?
And yet there is something curious in the tenor of his greeting, which lacks the note of surprise that the ‘coincidence’ might merit. It is more like he has come across Skelgill in a corridor of Crummock Hall engrossed by a stuffed otter. And Skelgill falls in with this mode of inappropriate familiarity. The entire cameo is suggestive of a certain amount of mutual suspicion, of cards being kept close to one’s chest.
‘Just as well I saw that before I’ve been to the pub.’
‘Ah – you’re heading for Temple Bar, Inspector?’
Skelgill manufactures a wry smile.
‘I figured there was a decent clue in the name.’
Fergal Mullarkey chuckles.
‘Perhaps I may chaperone you?’ He checks his wristwatch. ‘I have a – an appointment – at The Morrison at 9 p.m. – it’s literally the other side of the Liffey from Temple Bar. I can steer you away from the rather less salubrious quarter – unless of course you are looking for a lively night?’
‘Just a quiet pint.’
‘In that case it would be a pleasure – walk this way, now.’
The lawyer sets a brisk pace – no problem to Skelgill – and seems content to point out various landmarks along the way, largely connected with the Easter Rising, and precluding the need for any more searching conversation. Five minutes have passed when Skelgill falls momentarily behind – they have entered a secluded backstreet square, and a parked Triumph motorcycle draws his attention. When he looks up he sees that Fergal Mullarkey is unaware that he lags, and is already on the next side of the square. Skelgill begins to cross diagonally, passing close by a young woman who waits on the corner of the central island, beneath the orange glow of a streetlamp. She wears a close-fitting corset top and a tight short skirt, and sheer nylons and high heels – she looks dressed for clubbing and must be freezing. She engages him with penetrating blue eyes, heavily mascaraed, and he breaks stride as he inhales her musky fragrance. But Fergal Mullarkey halts – and the abrupt ceasing of his footsteps alerts Skelgill. The girl allows a hint of a smile to play at the corners of her scarlet lips. He nods a little self-consciously and hustles on to where the lawyer awaits.
‘Queer place to stand for a taxi – you’d think the main road would be a better bet.’
Fergal Mullarkey glances sharply at Skelgill, as if suspecting him of being disingenuous.
‘I don’t believe it’s a taxi she’s looking for, Inspector.’
Skelgill is about to reply – then it must strike him that he has been slow on the uptake. As they walk on he glances briefly over his shoulder – the girl, a shadow now, might be watching as she lights up a cigarette. He opts for silence.
‘You’ll be running the gauntlet if you come home this way home, Inspector.’ The Irishman produces a salacious wink. ‘Nearly there, now – just after this next corner.’
And sure enough they round into a narrow street to be greeted by a pub sign immediately on their side of the terrace. Fergal Mullarkey shoulders the door upon a busy hubbub that reaches out to embrace them and does not diminish as they enter. He seems to be known, for he catches the barman’s eye and makes a two-fingered gesture which is met with a curt nod, and he leads Skelgill beyond the servery to a section of stalls where they find a free table.
‘When in Rome, Inspector?’
‘Come again?’
‘I’ve ordered you a Guinness.’
Skelgill scowls.
‘I’m a real ale man, myself – but I shan’t offend the locals.’
Fergal Mullarkey looks like he is offended, but responds in a conciliatory tone.
‘I don’t believe we pasteurise it over here – so you might be pleasantly surprised.’
Skelgill glances about uneasily. The room is warm and he busies himself with shedding his jacket. Fergal Mullarkey, however, gives no indication that he intends to remove his smart Crombie overcoat. There ensue a few moments of stilted silence, until the lawyer speaks again.
‘I imagine this is too much of a happenstance to suppose you’re on a weekend
city-break, Inspector?’
Skelgill looks away and rubs the end of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. It is an uncharacteristic gesture and it might be deduced he is concocting an explanation.
‘Aye – there was something I needed to follow up.’ He says this in a way to suggest Fergal Mullarkey is not that ‘something’. Now his gaze returns to his companion. ‘But – while I’m over here – there is a matter your firm could help me with.’
‘We are at your service, Inspector.’
Perhaps curiously, Fergal Mullarkey does not ask what. Could there just be a hint of strain in his eyes that belies his casual helpfulness? Skelgill is obliged to explain.
‘It might be a wild-goose chase – but you mentioned you’ve been the solicitors for the O’Mores since the year dot?’ (Fergal Mullarkey is nodding cautiously.) ‘If you’ve still got old records of property transactions – I wouldn’t mind having a look through them. Especially dating from around the time they moved to Cumbria – Cumberland as it was then.’
Now the lawyer seems to relax, though he taps the top of his bald head doubtfully, and in his reply he sounds a note of pessimism.
‘That would be three hundred years ago.’
‘Too far back?’
‘Yes – well, no – that is, whatever is extant, we’ll have it, alright. That’s not the trouble.’
At this juncture the bartender arrives bearing their drinks. Skelgill casts a sceptical eye, but he is thirsty and there’s no denying that the black stuff looks appetising. He takes an exploratory sip. Fergal Mullarkey does not touch his. Skelgill smacks his lips approvingly and moves in for a more substantial gulp; it produces a knowing smile from the lawyer.
‘The difficulty is more for the person who has to read through the material – we’re talking handwritten scrolls and parchments – it’s not like you can tap a word into the search box and – click – there you have it.’ He folds his hands and rests them neatly upon the table. ‘I can let you in tomorrow if you would like – you’ll get far more peace on a Sunday – you know what a rowdy bunch lawyers can be.’ He has a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘Unless you’ve other plans, that is?’
Skelgill looks like he is not expecting such cooperation.
‘What about you – have you not got anything better to do?’
‘I do have commitments – I’m an elder of the church for one thing – but I reside close to the office, Inspector.’ He looks like he expects Skelgill to know this. ‘I can let you in and leave you to it – if you’ve no objection. You still have my mobile number?’
Skelgill has his nose buried in his pint, and nods his gratitude. Then he raises a finger to indicate he has thought of something.
‘The photograph I sent you – did you have any joy with that?’
Now Fergal Mullarkey looks perplexed.
‘I have not been in the office since Thursday morning – was it by mail?’
Skelgill shakes his head – he seems taken by the Guinness and is squeezing in another mouthful between sentences.
‘I texted it – from Crummock Hall – on Tuesday it would have been – I meant to ask you after the funeral.’
Fergal Mullarkey’s clownlike countenance exhibits a decidedly blank expression, reminiscent of Pierrot. He reaches into a coat pocket for his handset, though he merely gazes at the screen rather than interrogate it further.
‘Are you sure it transmitted, Inspector? I’ve been having a devil of a job getting messages in and out of that place. The walls are so thick – never mind the mountains.’
Skelgill nods and locates his own phone. He thumbs through his recent activity. He is about to turn the handset to show it to the lawyer – but then he seems to have second thoughts.
‘Aye – you’re probably right – only way to get a decent signal thereabouts is to climb the fell.’
Fergal Mullarkey nods sympathetically – though he does not ask what the photograph concerns. And now Skelgill seems content to let it pass. Fergal Mullarkey looks again at his phone and gives a sudden start.
‘Jeepers – I shall be late – my apologies, but I must fly, Inspector.’
As the lawyer rises from his seat, Skelgill leans forwards and stretches out a protesting palm.
‘Your pint?’
The beer is untouched. Fergal Mullarkey makes a resigned face.
‘Would you be my guest?’
Skelgill sinks back into his chair. His own glass is considerably more than half empty. He shrugs phlegmatically.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
*
Having consumed the second pint more steadily, Skelgill dons his jacket and heads out into the night. Unheeding of Fergal Mullarkey’s words of caution he casually retraces his steps into the dimly lit square – but when he looks about he finds it bereft of life, just a few parked cars and the echo of traffic from a neighbouring street. The motorbike is gone, the girl, too. He dawdles now, and opens the maps application on his mobile – and then almost immediately picks up the pace as he gets his bearings. He decides upon a zigzagging course back towards St Stephen’s Green – and it is not long before he finds himself emerging upon the bustling pedestrian thoroughfare of Grafton Street, bright with dazzling Christmas lights and thronged with merry revellers, mainly younger than he. This is not his natural habitat, and yet he seems content to stay on the route, despite the occasional jostling from the exuberant crowd. He pauses to look at the overhead decorations – there are the illuminated words Nollaig Shona Duit – and he is wondering what they mean when a raucous English voice rudely hijacks his thoughts.
‘When’s Shona gonna do it, eh Paddy?’
The speaker roars with laughter – and Skelgill is not sure if it is being assumed that he is “Paddy.” A gang of twenty-something stags, seven or eight strong, sporting white England soccer shirts and steeped in alcohol if not Irish tradition is spilling from a bar, perhaps having been ejected. They bellow and screech with coarse London accents and break into what is obviously a practised chant of “Shona, Shona, show us your tits!” repeatedly sung to a popular football rhythm. Skelgill can see the signs of disapproval – and apprehension – from those citizens unfortunate enough to be in the gang’s immediate proximity, though understandably no one wants to provoke them. They argue about which direction to head, and then begin to move away from Skelgill, several of them swaying drunkenly and hanging around their mates’ necks. Now they strike up an offensive sectarian chant, one that succinctly combines religion and politics – and this seems to be a step too far for some of the locals – for there is the beginning of a skirmish. This is just what they want. Skelgill hears the breaking of glass and – while a minor fracas occupies the main cohort – he notices that one thug (something of a tattooed bruiser with a pony tail and the nickname ‘Horse’ appliqued on his shirt) has a young Irish man, considerably smaller, pinned against a shop front about twenty yards away and is waving a broken bottle in his face. The lad’s girlfriend shrieks with terror. But before Skelgill can react a cry suddenly goes up and there is the chatter of police radios and an approaching siren – and the stag party scatters into side streets and alleys. The remaining thug discards his broken bottle but head-butts his quarry for good measure – and then splits in Skelgill’s direction. He gallops more or less straight at Skelgill – as if he means to barge him out of the way – but Skelgill at the last possible moment steps adroitly to one side and trips the snorting brute, who flies headlong on the pavement – extracting a cry of anger from him and astonished gasps from onlookers. His horrible curses make it plain he has revenge on his mind – but Skelgill is upon him in a flash, jamming a knee into his kidneys and wrenching an arm up his back that has him squealing like a stuck pig.
‘That’s your holiday over, sunshine.’
Through his agony, the thug reacts to Skelgill’s accent.
‘You’re English – you traitor!’
While the unedited version of this accusation includes several odious exp
letives – it is the word “traitor” that makes Skelgill see red, and with his free hand he takes a grip of the pony tail and raises the thug’s head and then smashes it down into the concrete – producing a rumble of approval from the watching crowd, and several men now move in to assist. But there is a pattering of footsteps and pell-mell come two panting Gardaí – they drop down beside Skelgill and are ready with handcuffs. Skelgill backs off, reaching into his hip pocket for his warrant card – for it seems he will have some explaining to do.
‘I saw him, officers.’ As the hooligan is dragged to his feet, spitting blood and teeth and displaying a broken nose, a middle-aged Irishman has intervened. He points distastefully at the bloodied football shirt. ‘He threatened a boy with a broken bottle – then he ran and tripped and hit his face on the ground. He’s drunk as a skunk.’ He turns and gestures to Skelgill. ‘This gentleman went to detain him. I saw it all. If you need my name for a witness.’
‘Sure, I saw it, too – the fellow went flying, nose first it was. Self-inflicted.’
‘Aye, face-planted – so he did, officers. Drunken disgrace.’
There are more people stepping forward, pointing disparagingly at the thug and regaling the police with complaints about the behaviour of he and his cowardly gang. Before Skelgill knows it he has been separated from the Gardaí by his newfound allies – he gets the idea (and he thinks probably so do the Gardaí); he brushes his hands and straightens his jacket, and wanders off casually along the street. He feels a couple of appreciative pats on the shoulder as he goes.
After about a hundred yards he pauses outside a pub – it would be understandable that he might welcome a stiffener following the violent incident – but as he wavers he finds himself drawn to a neighbouring retail outlet. Perhaps it is something in his peripheral vision, a subliminal impression – because, uncannily, before him, as large as life, is Perdita. He starts – and realises that he is looking at a full-size cardboard cutout: for it is a bookstore, and the entire window display is dedicated to the launch of her new novel. “Slave to Desire – The Raunchiest Rowena Devlin Yet!” It is a provocative headline – and he has to admit that in her alluring cat-eye make-up and revealing outfit her PR team have created a persona to rival the provocative title.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 72