Mud Pie

by Emma Lee Bole

  Chapter Fifteen

  Himself

  “Phone for you, Lannie,” said Rhoda. “I’ll mind the grill.”

  “They’re rare,” I said emphatically, knowing it was pointless. Rhoda didn’t believe in rare steak.

  But I was anxious to get to the phone, for I thought it would be Charlotte, whom I had spoken to only once since the murder, and then too briefly. Like Rhoda, she had been shocked almost into muteness. We had hardly known what to say to each other. Hugh, I gathered, was even more shocked than Charlotte: dazed, she said, with disbelief. And still hungover, poor Hugh.

  But the voice on the phone was neither Hugh’s nor Charlotte’s but Niall’s, speaking in a grating whisper as if he was trying not to be overheard.

  “Lannie. I need a big favour.”

  “What is it, Niall?”

  “Lannie, I need you to get into Joseph’s flat.”

  “Whose?” I knew perfectly well.

  “KK,” said Niall heavily.

  “What for? And why can’t you get into his flat?”

  “Ssh! You’re not at the bar, are you? Who’s listening?”

  I looked at Brendan, pulling a pint a full two yards away. “Everybody,” I said.

  “Well, don’t go repeating everything I say. I need you to get into his flat to check if something’s there. I can’t do it, I don’t have a key any more, and if I call round he’ll suspect I’ve got ulterior motives, what with us not really being on the best of terms right now. But you can invite yourself in.”

  “Can I? How?”

  “He said he’d been asking you about his baking. Now I don’t understand that at all, that’s woman’s territory and I think Joseph’s making a fool of himself over it, but it gives you a perfect in. Will you do it? Nod if you will. I mean, say yes.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Lannie, this is important. Remember, I got you the job at the club. I’m calling in the favour now. It’s to do with Becki. What time do you finish tonight?”

  “11.30.”

  “That’s too late, I can’t meet you then, AnneMarie will be asking questions. I’ll be in touch, I’ll call round, that’s it, at Frank’s house in the morning. You are still living there, aren’t you, or have you moved out yet? That is one strange fella, but I suppose you know your own business. Half-past nine suit?”

  “I’ll be out.”

  “Ssh! Nine o’clock, then. Why can’t you get a fecking mobile?”

  “So I don’t get bothered by calls I don’t want,” I said, chilly.

  “Look, I’ve got to go. Don’t tell Brendan. And–” His voice altered. “So I’ll call round tomorrow morning, about nine o’clock, and give you an estimate. That suit you all right, Mrs Smith? Thank you very much.” The phone clunked down.

  “Bugger,” I said.

  Without looking up from his pint, Brendan enquired, “Niall got a bee in his bonnet, has he?”

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to, Lannie. He’s a great one for calling in favours, is Himself.”

  “Bugger,” I said, again.