THERE WAS NO sign of the threatened snow on Thursday morning when I opened my curtains, but the light was still that pale, eerie grey. I live in Malin, a pretty village a few miles from Glendara accessed by a ten-arched eighteenth-century bridge. The bridge crosses the Ballyboe River as it makes its way to the sea, and leads to a triangular green at the center of the village, which my cottage overlooks. I watched through the window as three fat robins hopped along one of the benches searching for food. I suspected most of their hopes were pinned on the bakery van delivering to the grocery across the green, if they could avoid their breakfast being swiped by the gulls wheeling and diving above them. The ground would be hard. This morning condensation on the inside of the window indicated another bitterly cold day.
I showered and dressed in a charcoal-grey trouser suit and boots and headed downstairs. Guinness, my enormous black tomcat, was waiting patiently on the step when I opened the back door, and he wove a figure-of-eight through my legs as I walked back to the kitchen. While I fed him and made coffee, I wondered what had kept Molloy so busy the night before. I hadn’t seen him since the weekend, which wasn’t unusual, but there had been something about his demeanor that made me uneasy. I realized, of course, that I might never know. Molloy shared only what he wanted to – we had that trait in common. But there was no time to worry about that now. Since we’d been closed to the public the day before and I’d be in Dublin tomorrow, the office would be busy with back-to-back appointments all day. I left the house at ten to nine.
The waiting room was full when I arrived. I stuck my head in briefly and took in some expected faces and a few surprises, the coughs and splutters of a December waiting room offering me no enticement to hang around. At reception, Leah was on the phone but handed me the first file before I headed upstairs. My first appointment was with the Greys, the couple whose purchase I was traveling to Dublin to close. I sorted through the file and put the documents in order before buzzing Leah to send them up.
Ian and Abby Grey were an attractive-looking couple, still slim and fit in their late fifties. She was petite, with a small pointed face, brown eyes, and a pixie cut of grey-blonde hair, while he reminded me of a middle-aged Paul Newman, complete with chin cleft and smooth jaw. Minus the famous blue eyes – Ian’s, like his wife’s, were brown.
“Greysbridge is quite a place if the photographs are anything to go by,” I said as I passed them the last of the mortgage documents, marking with an X where they needed to sign. It occurred to me that they were taking on quite a project at this stage of their lives. Their mortgage was small in relation to the purchase price of the house, but it was still a huge undertaking.
“Isn’t it?” Abby smiled.
Her accent, like her husband’s, was Anglo-Irish. When I’d first met them, I’d wondered if it came from time spent in England or otherwise, but it hadn’t come up and I didn’t have the nerve to ask. People can be funny about these things.
“It will be so lovely to have it back in the family again,” she said. “You should come up and see it.”
“Back in the family?” I said, surprised. “When you mentioned applying for permission to use it as a small hotel, I just assumed it was a business venture.”
Abby’s eyes widened suddenly and flickered towards her husband, as if she was afraid she had said too much.
He didn’t seem especially perturbed. “No, it’s true, we do intend running it as a hotel. We’ve put everything we have into it, so it will have to provide us with some kind of a living. We’re thinking family occasions, small weddings, that sort of thing, although we’ll try and avoid the corporate side of things – we’d like to make it more personal.” He replaced the cap on his fountain pen. “But Abby’s right. The house was owned by my grandfather, although it hasn’t been in the family for a couple of generations.” He winced. “Lost it in rather insalubrious circumstances, I’m afraid. Cards, I believe. Not the family’s finest hour.”
I shook my head. “Funny, it never occurred to me there was a family connection, despite the name. Still, you must be proud you’ve managed to buy it back.”
He looked at his wife and smiled. “I think we are, aren’t we?”
She nodded eagerly. “Oh yes. It’s such a fine house. It’s been allowed to deteriorate rather, so it will be good to bring it back to life. Especially now that our son has agreed to help us run it for a bit.”
Ian placed his hand briefly on his wife’s knee and she smiled up at him. I witnessed their signatures. “I didn’t know you had a son.”
“He’s at school in Dublin but he’s going to come up as soon as we move in. Take a year or two off before he starts college.” Abby reached for her bag. “Is that it?”
“Not quite,” I said. “There are a few extra declarations that I can’t witness.” I took some printed sheets from the file to which Leah had attached yellow Post-its. “These need to be sworn in front of a commissioner for oaths. So, if you don’t mind, I’m going to send you down to Hal McKinney.”
Ian looked amused. “The undertaker? That sounds ominous.”
I smiled. “Hal’s a commissioner for oaths as well as being an undertaker and a mechanic.” I handed him the sheets. “Leah will give you an envelope for these downstairs. He’s expecting you – just sign them and drop them back when they’re done. You won’t need to come back up to me.” I stood. “And that’s it. I’ll give you a call tomorrow from Dublin to let you know how it’s gone, and whether you can pick up the keys.”
Abby crossed her fingers and raised them in a salute.
Leah buzzed just as the door closed behind the Greys.
“Your next appointment has popped out to take a call, but Stan MacLochlainn wants to know if you can see him in the meantime,” she asked. “He says it will only take five minutes.” She made no attempt to conceal her skepticism, despite Stan’s obvious proximity; I could hear his voice.
The last thing I needed today was an extra client, but I knew Stan. He would wait until I saw him even if it took all day, and insist on chatting to Leah in the meantime. I decided to rescue her.
“Okay,” I sighed. “But tell him I haven’t got long.”
Within seconds, Stan materialized in the doorway of my office, a vision in purple and pinstripe: aubergine hair styled in a quiff, diamond studs in his nose, and ears and a black striped waistcoat with a crocus boutonnière. Despite indications to the contrary, Stan wasn’t gay, although I suspected he took firm advantage of any misapprehension about his sexual preferences. He was also a bloody good hairdresser, or so I’d been told. By him.
He was pink and breathless, forehead glistening with perspiration. “You have to do something,” he announced. “I know the guards are completely useless, but they might listen to you.”
“I have to do something about what?” I asked.
He came the rest of the way into the room and flopped onto the seat vacated by Abby Grey, leaving the door wide open. “The noise from the Oak. It’s driving me insane.”
I sighed. “It’s a pub, Stan. You knew that when you moved in. It’s why the rent was so low. Of course, there’s going to be noise.” Stan’s hairdressing salon, Illusions Hair Design, was two doors away from the Oak, and the flat he lived in was above the pub itself. I’d acted for Tony Craig, the owner of the Oak, when he’d rented the flat to Stan a year before. Tony also owned the building Stan’s salon was in, but he’d been reluctant to rent the flat out because of the noise from the pub. But Stan had convinced him he was fine with it, so Tony had reduced the rent to take account and a clause to that effect had been inserted into the lease.
Stan looked at me now, exasperated. “It’s not during opening hours that I have a problem with it. I’m used to that. I’m a night owl. I’m talking about six o’clock in the morning. What the hell is that all about?”
“Six o’clock in the morning?” I repeated.
He picked up a legal pad from my desk and began to fan himself with it. “Aye. Two mornings this week, yesterday and this morning again, I’ve been woken by a dull thumping noise that sounds as if someone is dragging bodies about. What the hell is it? Dracula climbing back into his coffin before daylight comes?”
I tried not to smile. Stan didn’t seem to be in the mood.
“It’s driving me demented,” he said. “I’d wear earplugs but then I wouldn’t hear the alarm. There shouldn’t even be anyone in there at six o’clock in the morning, you know.”
“Is it coming from the pub itself?” I asked.
Stan shook his head. “I can’t tell. The first time it happened, I went down – in my dressing gown; God knows who might have seen me – climbed in through the yard at the back and banged on the door. I thought it might be coming from the cellar, but I couldn’t see anything. The lights didn’t even seem to be on. The noise stopped, but as soon as I left, it started up again.”
I paused. “Have you thought maybe it might have been a – ”
Stan was there before me. “Lock-in?” He shook his head. “Nah. I’d know if it was a lock-in. I’d hear voices. And music. There were no voices. Just banging against walls and scraping floors.” He gave me a lopsided look. “Anyway, who has a lock-in on a Tuesday night?”
I sat back in my chair. “What do you want me to do?”
He put the pad back down. “I don’t know; write a solicitor’s letter, issue proceedings for noise pollution? You tell me.” He waved his hand dismissively, a large amethyst ring glinting in the artificial light. “Whatever you solicitors normally do in this situation.”
“Stan, you know I act for Tony, so I can’t write a solicitor’s letter to him or issue legal proceedings against him.”
Stan shook his head. “I don’t want to go to anyone else. That other boy who dealt with the lease charged me a bloody fortune and all he did was read the thing. You did all the drafting.”
I decided not to go into the importance of independent legal advice again. I’d already done that when I’d persuaded him he needed a separate solicitor for the lease.
“I could have a word with Tony if you like? See what’s causing it,” I suggested. “But if I don’t get anywhere, you’ll have to go to someone else if you want to take it further.”
Stan sighed. “Aye, fair enough. Anything to make that bloody noise stop. I’m so knackered that I’m going to cut someone’s throat instead of their hair by mistake. There’s going to be a Sweeney Todd situation in Glendara and it will all be Tony Craig’s fault.”
Now I grinned. “Have you tried speaking to him yourself?”
“I can’t find him, can I? I’ve been trying him these last few days but I keep getting a foreign ringtone.”
When Stan had left, I tried Tony’s mobile but was greeted with the long bleep that indicated the phone was in another jurisdiction, so I left a message. It was then that I realized I hadn’t seen Tony myself for a few days. Carole had been in the Oak every day this week.
By the time I left the office it was nearly 8 p.m. My flight to Dublin left at 7:30 the next morning, so I took my briefcase and papers with me, calling in to the supermarket to get some milk before driving home. When I emerged, I was surprised to see a light on in Phyllis Kettle’s bookshop across the square. After a brief hesitation, I crossed the street.
I pushed open the door, bell tinkling in that old-fashioned way Phyllis has never seen fit to change. The scent of cinnamon and oranges filled the shop, electric icicles hung from the shelves and people stood about chatting in the warm light, sipping from cups of mulled wine and diving into plates of mini mince pies. The bookseller glanced at me from the cash register over a pair of half-moon spectacles, mid sale, a queue in front of her. Now I saw why she was still open. There were eight shopping days till Christmas and Phyllis was nothing if not a businesswoman. I waved at her and she smiled, and I made my way towards the back of the shop.
There is a small recess under the winding staircase that leads to Phyllis’s flat, of which I am particularly fond. It has a basket chair and an old-fashioned reading lamp and room to accommodate only one person. Not only is it almost completely cut off from the rest of the shop, but it is on these shelves that I have found some absolute gems, and it is to here that I always gravitate. Unless someone has made it there before me. Today I was lucky.
I was reaching for an old P. G. Wodehouse hardback when something brushed against my legs. I looked down to see a black-and-white Border collie gazing mournfully up at me.
“Hi, Fred. What are you doing here?”
Fred spent most of his time at Phyllis’s feet behind the counter; I wondered what had caused him to leave her side. I rubbed his silky head. Despite my tiredness and the realization that I should be at home packing for the morning, I sank back into the old basket chair and took my time flicking through a stack of books on the ground beside me, while Fred rested his chin on my knee. After a while, I felt myself drifting off. A loud sigh from Fred brought me back and I roused myself. I needed to get home if I was to have any sleep before my flight. Taking a book on gardening for my mother and the P. G. Wodehouse for my father, I made my way to the cash register with the dog in my wake. The shop had cleared, empty plates and cups were scattered here and there around the shelves, and Phyllis looked shattered.
“Did you decide to have a party?” I asked.
The bookseller smiled. “A wee bit of bribery never does any harm.” She leaned down to scratch behind Fred’s ears. “Poor old soul. He’s feeling neglected, still hasn’t forgiven me for leaving him for three weeks. Tony took good care of you, though, didn’t he?” she said, running her fingers along the dog’s nose as he gazed adoringly up at her. “He was bloody fat when I got back – got all the leftovers from the pub.”
Phyllis had just returned from Borneo, which was where I suspected the rather spectacular outfit she was wearing – a royal-blue ankle-length dress with large red print – had come from. Phyllis isn’t a small woman, but no one could describe her dress sense as cautious.
She straightened herself with a groan. “Do you want me to wrap these?”
“Yes please, Phyllis. Separately if you would. They’re for my parents.”
“Going home for Christmas?” She eyed me curiously as she rooted out scissors and Sellotape.
“Doesn’t look like it, no. I thought I would be, but my parents are off to Iceland.”
Her face lit up. “Oh, great choice. Reykjavik is wonderful. And the hot springs are amazing.” Her eyes narrowed. “You weren’t tempted to go with them?”
I shook my head.
Her lip curled in amusement. “Something more enticing in Glendara, by any chance?”
And in that one question, I realized that all my suspicions were correct. Molloy and I weren’t fooling anyone, at least not Phyllis.
I changed the subject, not quite ready for one of Phyllis’s interrogations. “Is Tony away himself, by the way?”
She frowned. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“You said he took care of Fred while you were on holidays, but I haven’t seen him around for a while. It’s always Carole in the pub these days.”
Phyllis grinned. “That can’t be good for business. I’m sure he’ll turn up. What kind of a publican would leave his pub at Christmas?”
“True.”
She finished wrapping the books, then I handed her a note and she opened the cash register. While she was searching for change, she broke off suddenly and looked up.
“If you’re going to be here, do you fancy coming to mine for Christmas dinner? I’ve decided to have a few people over. First time I’ll have been in Glendara for Christmas for a while – I usually like to be gone this time of year, but I can’t leave poor old Fred again.”
When I hesitated, she grinned mischievously. “Only if you’re going to be on your own, of course. I’d hate to see you pulling the wishbone by yourself …”