Mr. Flood's Last Resort(39)

CHAPTER 14




I help Renata fill the vol-au-vents. From time to time we study Sam through the serving hatch. He is on his knees fixing Renata’s video recorder; he has the television unit pulled out and is swearing softly. St. Valentine is standing behind him making encouraging remarks he can’t hear.

Today Renata told Sam a story about a boy from Rotherhithe. A boy who loved to feel, from a very early age, the swish of nylons, the delightful pinch of a bra strap, and the silky bliss of a slip. A boy who found solace in makeup and the thrill of accessorizing freely. Who enjoyed moving his hands, swinging his hips, and talking in a widely modulating pitch. It was a story about a boy who, through many trials and tribulations, grew up to become an originative, yet tastefully understated, woman.

I glance at Renata’s sparkle-dazzled cheekbones as she adjusts her headscarf. Tonight she’s relaxing in a pair of cork wedges and a kaleidoscopic viscose kaftan. Sam is an old friend now, so she has dispensed with the wigs.

“And Sam’s response to your story?” I ask, shoveling an unidentifiable filling into its pastry home.

“He told me that he was aged five when he first set eyes on his big sister’s swimsuit. Red polka dot, with a frilled skirt and a halter neck.” Renata smiles. “He said it was a garment of incomparable cuteness and if he could have got hold of it he would have put it on there and then and never taken it off again.”

“Good answer.”

“He was very close to his sister growing up.”

“He said that?”

“It’s obvious. It’s why he’s so in touch with his yin.”

We watch Sam crawl round the television set. St. Valentine points at Sam’s backside then gives me the thumbs-up.

I raise my eyebrows and snip the spring onions.

*

I TELL them about Mary Flood’s portrait in the hallway, the white bedroom, and the gowns in the dressing room. I don’t tell them about the sound of the song sung in the hallway, half a phrase: high and pure, sad and wistful. Or about the letters written in the dust. Or about how I ran from the room like a gobdaw.

Over by the sideboard Renata is mixing a Staten Island Ferry and frowning.

St. Valentine, however, looks to be enjoying himself immensely. He is stretched out on the hearthrug, his halo flaring from time to time with smoky orange light.

Renata tastes her drink with a flinty eye on me. “And that’s all that happened?”

I stop biting my nails and shrug.

“No sign of Maggie Dunne?”

I shake my head.

St. Valentine scratches his chin thoughtfully. “She’ll have been dispatched long ago.” His eyes wander to the bookcase where Renata’s crime novels roost in their shabby jackets. “You’ll never find that wee girl. He’ll have her hidden away in some dark corner.”

Renata spears a pineapple garnish. “So, can we draw any conclusions from Mary Flood’s clothes?”

St. Valentine starts up. “She’s likely scattered through the house, poor kid. Feet in the basement, arse in the bedroom, scalp in the attic.”

I throw him a look of unmitigated disgust. He winks back.

“They weren’t the kinds of things I expected Mary Flood to own. I mean, they weren’t everyday.”

“She liked to dress up, all power to her elbow.” Renata adds more rum and sits down with her glass. I wonder if she’s a little drunk. “Well, eyes peeled.”

“A delicacy.” St. Valentine grins.

“More clues will appear.” Renata purses her lips. “Mary won’t let us down.”

“Enough with the pleasantries,” mutters St. Valentine. “Tell ’em about the bribe.”

*

“I’M NOT surprised,” says Sam. “Gabriel Flood is a piece of work.”

“You’ve met him?” Renata asks.

“I threw him off the property. Flood Senior told me he was an impostor.” Sam’s face is grim. “Gabriel Flood caused a lot of trouble for me at the agency.”

“Then I think you ought to go along with Gabriel’s plan, Maud.” Renata wavers. “Or at least make him think you are likely to.”

“I agree,” says Sam. “Don’t make an enemy of him.”

I decide not to answer.

St. Valentine, sitting cross-legged, picking his remaining teeth, pipes up. “You should have taken his money, Twinkle. Didn’t I tell you to pocket it?” He points at me with his toothpick. “What’s he even looking for?”

“You have to wonder what he’s after, from the house,” I volunteer.

Renata looks thoughtful. “Mr. Flood’s insurance policy, that’s what he wants. The old man said the son couldn’t touch him, that he had something on him.”

“I don’t trust Gabriel. I haven’t heard a true word from him yet.”

Renata turns to Sam. “Maud can always spot a liar, even a very good one. That’s why we had to stop playing poker.”

“Is that so?” Sam smiles.

“Even with this.” Renata waves her hand in front of her face. “Inscrutable.”

Sam laughs. “So you won’t let Gabriel into the house, Maud, fair enough. But if you took the old man out for the day maybe we could look around.”