The Abbey View bar sat on the main road into Melrose, opposite the rugby ground. It was an unpretentious place, the kind of pub that had its own kind of elegance about the fittings and the furniture, but from which you’d probably get barred for describing any of it as ‘an aesthetic’. Parlabane found it comfortingly old-fashioned, and he was in need of a bit of comfort right then.
It was lunchtime by the time he had driven down from Edinburgh. He didn’t have much of an appetite but he knew he ought to eat. He hadn’t slept in about thirty hours, and if he added hypoglycaemia to the mix he would be too cranky to engage anyone in fruitful conversation. He ordered a burger and a pint of a local brew called Dark Horse.
‘Is Gordon Holman around?’
The barmaid was an attractive woman in her forties with a plummy accent that made Parlabane picture her in a riding helmet and jodhpurs.
She glanced at the clock.
‘He’s usually in about half past one.’
‘How long has he had the place, do you know?’
She looked up, calculating, then seemed surprised at her own answer.
‘Must be six years. I’d have thought less, but it’s six years sure enough. Where does the time go?’
Six years. That was about right.
Parlabane took his pint across to a table by the window. From the pub’s stereo, he heard the military cadence and tinkling piano that comprised the first bars of a song by Augustines, entitled ‘Headlong Into the Abyss’.
No kidding.
He had been venturing deeper down the rabbit-hole with every step, and it kept getting darker and more labyrinthine. Since learning Peter definitely hadn’t been married before, he was now convinced that it had been Cecily Greysham-Ellis who was in his flat that night, and that Sir Hamish had been alluding to Liz Miller after all when Diana overheard him on the phone. His scorn at an unsuitable fiancée might be about to prove ironic in a very costly way.
He recalled what Lucy said when they first talked about Cecily.
Just because you come from money doesn’t mean you’re not a gold-digger. In fact, wouldn’t appearing to be uninterested in money be the perfect cover for a gold-digger?
If his fiancée turned out to have a double identity, Sir Hamish might be in for a nasty surprise: or worse, because if Cecily was also Courtney, then it was possible she was going to end up with not only the insurance payout, but the family inheritance too. For that to happen, Peter wouldn’t be the only Elphinstone to meet with a tragic demise shortly after getting married.
To get to the bottom of this, and quite possibly to save the life of its ennobled head, Parlabane needed to find out more about this vastly wealthy but utterly dysfunctional family. Finding Lucy’s ex-husband seemed the obvious place to start. He just couldn’t bring himself to ask Lucy about this herself, because he’d have to tell her why, and he wasn’t ready to do that yet.
Parlabane clocked Gordon Holman for the man he was searching for the second he came through the door, even before he made his way behind the bar. He looked about Parlabane’s age, something of the veteran rock fan about him. He was wearing biker-style boots, black jeans and a Mogwai T-shirt. He guessed it was Holman’s iPod feeding the hi-fi.
Parlabane approached the bar, bringing his empty plate as a helpful gesture.
‘Gordon Holman?’
‘Aye?’
An uncertain smile indicated curiosity rather than suspicion.
‘My name is Jack Parlabane. I’m a journalist. I need to talk to you about Lucy Elphinstone.’
Holman took a slight step back from the bar, stiffening.
‘That’s not something I’m prepared to discuss.’
‘It would be off the record, I only—’
‘On or off the record, I’m not prepared to talk about that area of my life. Now, can I help you with anything else? A refill.’
He was keeping his tone polite, but the politeness itself sounded like a warning to back off. Parlabane had never been good at heeding such warnings.
‘Did you see what happened to Peter Elphinstone?’
‘Sure. Now they’re saying his wife bumped him off.’
‘I think she’s being set up. I’m trying to stop an innocent woman from going to jail. If there’s anything you know . . .’
‘I’ve told you twice already. I won’t tell you again.’
Parlabane did a quick calculation.
‘You bought this place six years ago, right? You got hush money, didn’t you?’
Holman’s expression turned grim and he put down the glass he had been drying.
‘I want you out of here right now. If you don’t leave at once, I’m calling the police.’
That was as much of an answer as Parlabane was going to get: even admitting a confidentiality agreement existed would put the guy in violation of it. He raised his hands and backed out of the door.
Parlabane went for a slow walk around Melrose Abbey and then sought out the tranquillity of Harmony Garden across the road, finding a quiet spot to sit for a while despite the cold. He wanted space to think, and after downing a pint he had to kill some time before he could get behind the wheel again, especially running on so little sleep. Maybe all he needed was some proper kip, and after that he’d be able to see whatever he was missing.
Lucy’s ex wasn’t going to allow him an easy route into the murky depths of the Elphinstone family history; or rather, it was more likely Sir Hamish’s deep pockets were barring the doors. But maybe he should be taking the more direct route. After all, it was Cecily who had blocked off Parlabane’s access to her intended; and not, he suspected, in order to protect him.
He felt a vibration against his chest and pulled out his phone. It was a text from Buzzkill.
Necronimous just showed up in Calastria.
Parlabane spent a bleary moment reminding himself what Buzzkill was referring to, then endured a further, vertiginous few seconds as he came to realise what this meant. He was grateful he was sitting down.
‘You have got to be kidding me,’ he said aloud, staring incredulously at the handset.
Necronimous was Peter Elphinstone’s in-game character, a unique online identity to whom only he had the login details.
The fucker was still alive.