Mr. Flood's Last Resort(77)

Renata, in a floral apron and headscarf like a housewife in a 1970s sitcom, gives me a resigned smile. She always has a shrunken, well-rinsed quality after Lillian has been round, like something delicate put on a boil wash with the dog’s towel.

Renata sets about making coffee. “Is Sam joining us, to go through the itinerary?”

I sit down at the kitchen table. “I haven’t invited him.”

Renata glances at me. “He’s going to Dorset with you?”

“No, he’s not.”

Renata raises an eyebrow and sets the coffeepot on the stove.

How can I tell her that I don’t trust the man I keep sleeping with? And, what’s worse, I don’t want to find out why.

“I’d rather go alone,” I say.

“You know best,” she says brightly, and wipes her hands on her apron.

I look at the pad: a plan has most definitely come together.

Trip to Dorset for the Purposes of Investigation

DAY ONE:

AM: LANGTON CHENEY

Check into B&B (Castle View, Renscombe Road, double en suite).

Visit Holly Lodge residential home, for reasons we’ve yet to invent, to ask about Marguerite Flood and Maggie Dunne.

Question the villagers of Langton Cheney.

PM: DORCHESTER

Meet with Frank Gaunt, retired police constable who was in charge of investigating Maggie’s disappearance and who thinks you are coming to buy a whippet.

DAY TWO:

AM: WAREHAM

Attend Mass at Our Lady of Lourdes Roman Catholic Church.

Interrogate congregation over tea and biscuits.

I look up from the pad. “What’s with the whippet?”

“When I phoned the station they told me that Frank Gaunt had retired and is only interested in breeding whippets.” Renata shrugs. “I told them that was exactly what I wanted to ask him about, so they gave me his number.”

“That’s one way to do it.”

“He has a fawn bitch; you can bring it back if it’s nice.”

I stare at her. “You have a dog phobia.”

“It’s more a dislike of rabies.” Renata tears the sheet off the pad and hands it to me. “Hydrophobia makes life very difficult—drinking, showering, that sort of thing. It’s best to take precautions.” She narrows her eyes. “On that note, pack your pepper spray for dinner tonight with Mr. Flood. I’m still not convinced it’s a good idea.”

I glance at her; perhaps she’s getting soft. “This could be my last chance to speak to him. We could have the case solved tonight.”

“Well, try not to provoke him at least.” She frowns. “This will also be his last chance to do away with you.”

*

I HAVE a casserole, an iced birthday cake, a bottle of Józef’s finest, and a gaudy cravat that belonged to the late Bernie Sparks. I pull them behind me in Lillian’s shopping trolley. In the front pocket, where the bus pass ought to go, there’s a fully charged mobile phone, a rape alarm, and a pepper spray. As I get off the bus I wonder if I ought to just keep walking. Forging onwards, over roads and motorways, hills and fields, to the edge of the land where I could sail away to sea. Bobbing along on the shopping trolley.

The casserole would last me a few days, until I sighted land again. Somewhere hot, with lizards and outsized fruit. I could get a job in a bar and carouse every night with the locals. I’d be brown and thin from all those days at sea, and men would plague me like mosquitoes. I would keep the shopping trolley though, battered and sun bleached, to remind me that whenever things get too much I could pack up and sail away again.

*

CATHAL GREETS me at the door with a raffish grin and a bow, like an unsavory butler. His white hair is neatly brushed and he is sporting his funeral suit, with a red-spotted handkerchief in the pocket. He wears no tie or socks and has his slippers on.

“I’ve set this new agency one to work today. I had him running up and down, roaring at him. Wait until you see what I’ve done.” He points at the shopping trolley. “What’s in there?”

“A bit of dinner.”

“I’ve put the paté and crackers out, but.”

“We’ll have a bit of everything, will we?”

He shrugs, then he’s off back down the stairs into the garden, bouncing the trolley behind him. I follow him through the bushes into a kind of twisted wonderland.

In the clearing, in front of the caravan, a table is laid for a party. He must have plundered all the remaining flowers in the garden, for dozens of vases and teapots and jam jars are crammed with them. There are rusty storm lanterns, their candles burning with a slow-dancing flame behind glass, and an old oil lamp, its wick quick-burning and brilliant.

The caravan has been decorated with fairy lights: colorful strings of bulbs that dip and ride along the roof. The door is still padlocked, but now two large dead potted plants stand on either side with tinsel wound round them.

“It’s lovely,” I say.

Cathal nods, his eyes bright.

On a platter at the center of the table there are lines of crackers decorated with twists of cucumber. A nearby tray of paté is attracting cats.

Cathal gives a shout and they flee. “Feckers, all.” He inspects the paté. “I’ll give it a wee scrape and it’ll be grand.”