Murder at Dead Crags

by Bruce Beckham

  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 expletives – 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.

  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 brea
k 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.’