Mr. Flood's Last Resort(32)

But maybe Sam isn’t traumatized; maybe he’s ashamed, as I would be if I let an ancient scarecrow of a man run me out of town.

Sam turns to me, his face kind, serious. “You’re really going to risk stirring up that old man, and the consequences that might bring, by playing detective in a fictional crime case?”

Put this way it doesn’t sound like such a good idea.

Renata glowers. “This isn’t fictional and we’re not playing.”

Sam looks suitably impressed.

St. Valentine sniggers.

“We are going to get to the bottom of this, Sam Hebden,” she says. “All we need is a plan.”

*

WE FOCUS on the flipchart Renata has set up in the living room. In the middle of a blank page she has written MARY FLOOD in red capital letters and drawn a black cloud around it.

She has also drawn two zigzag arrows coming out of the cloud like lightning bolts, only in green. One lightning bolt points to the word ACCIDENT and the other to the word MURDER.

Beneath all of this Renata has written the words MISSING SCHOOLGIRL MAGGIE DUNNE in luminous pink with no cloud but with a wavy line under it.

Renata scratches under her wig with a marker pen. “My firm belief is that Mary Flood knew something about this case.” She taps MAGGIE DUNNE with her knuckle. “This girl was never found, dead or alive.”

“How can you know that?” I ask.

“Lillian looked it up. She used the computer in Petersham library.”

“Of course, you told Lillian.” I glance over at Sam. “Renata’s sister loves a murder mystery.”

Sam frowns. Renata looks shifty.

“Just come out with it, Renata,” I say.

“We think that Mary found out about her husband’s part in Maggie’s disappearance and down the stairs she went.”

St. Valentine leans forwards. “This just gets better.”

Renata’s pirate eyes are lit.

“What else, Renata?”

“It’s a mansion, Maud, set in extensive grounds. A labyrinth—you’ve said so yourself. There would be plenty of places to hide a missing girl”—she pauses—“living or dead. Just think about it: cellar, basement, attic, rooms galore, and a whole range of outhouses. Take your pick.”

“There is no schoolgirl hidden up in that house,” says Sam with surprising firmness.

Renata turns to him. “And you’ve been through every inch of that house, Sam?”

Sam swirls his drink dubiously; from its acetone bouquet I can tell it’s Józef’s finest. “Of course not, but this is some conclusion to jump to.”

“I haven’t jumped to a conclusion.” Renata looks aggrieved. “Mary Flood is giving us clear evidence. A girl went missing; the Floods had previously visited her village. There’s a connection between these two events.”

St. Valentine throws up his hands. “This one will have the whole thing solved!”

Renata bites her lip. “Of course, we might be too late.”

St. Valentine nods enthusiastically. “You will be of course.”

“The best we can hope for is that Flood hasn’t killed her; he may have just kept her imprisoned all these years.” Renata adjusts her wig, pulling down the edges against an imaginary spell of blustery weather. Something contentious is coming. “As a sex slave, you know, that kind of thing.”

St. Valentine grins.

Sam lets out a groan of despair.

“It happens all the time,” says Renata defensively.

“Even in nice parts of West London?”

“Maud, this is serious.” Renata’s face is grave, her voice low and urgent. “If there’s even a slight chance Maggie Dunne is still alive we have to find her.”

St. Valentine starts to clap. “Bravo! That’s the spirit. Good man yourself!”

I glare at him.

He shrugs.

Renata looks at me with sudden horror. “What if anything happened to the old man? Maggie could starve, or die of thirst.”

Sam gets up and pours himself another krupnik. He waves the bottle at me. I shake my head; alcohol poisoning won’t make this any easier.

Renata turns over a page to a fresh sheet of paper and writes WHO IS CATHAL FLOOD???

Then she paces up and down the floor like a real detective.

“We now have three tasks.” She pauses in front of the flipchart. “One: we find the missing girl. Two: we discover if Mrs. Flood’s death really was an accident. Three: we hand Mr. Flood over to the police.”

“Or four: we leave this well alone.” Sam downs his drink in one and wipes the tears from his eyes.

St. Valentine looks at Sam admiringly. He sidles nearer and pokes an old, dry, spatulate finger through the glass in Sam’s hand. Then St. Valentine retracts his finger and licks it. He pulls a face.

I daren’t ask. But I do. “So what next?”

“We search the house,” says Renata firmly.

Sam glances over at me. There’s real concern in his lovely eyes. “You mean Maud searches the house.”

“Of course,” Renata replies. “And we find a medium. You know, a really good one. Get a direct line to Mary Flood, find out what she’s trying to tell us.”

Sam bites his lip.