Parlabane sat in the reception area inside New Register House, sipping a large coffee to fend off the fatigue that was starting to catch up with him after his overnight endeavours. He had stopped off briefly at the flat to freshen up, then headed straight out so that he’d be here as soon as the place opened.
He was thinking about Sarah. It was unavoidable. Like so many locations in this city, he knew this one would always bring her to mind, even if he merely saw the address written down. She had once told him that physicians got patients to say the words ‘West Register Street’ when they were checking for speech disorders.
He was waiting for one of the staff to come back with information: an old contact of his who had worked there for decades. Archie Cairnduff had proven both a useful and easy person to cultivate as an ally. He was a man who liked to talk, perhaps because he spent the rest of his time among the silence of records and documents. He liked a dram too, and Parlabane had bought him a few over the years next door at the Café Royal, back in the days when the Saltire newspaper offices were a short walk away on North Bridge.
New Register House hosted the national register of births, marriages and deaths. Parlabane had gone there in search of confirmation that Peter Elphinstone had once been married, however briefly, to Courtney Jean Lang. As he sat on a plastic chair, looking at the closed door beyond which Archie was searching, he thought of how his own marriage was recorded in this building somewhere, and wondered whether in here at least it still survived, waiting for the fatal update that would wipe it out.
He now understood that marriage itself could have its own birth and death. Dead marriages. Dead souls.
Parlabane allowed himself a wry smile. In the unfinished Gogol book of that name, the title referred to dead peasants. KEI, it turned out, was alternatively referred to as ‘dead peasant insurance’.
It reminded him that what he had discovered overnight meant even though Sarah was always going to creep into his thoughts from time to time, right now he had reason to look forward with hope, rather than only back with regret.
Lucy.
He could make this work, he was sure. He wasn’t going to tell her until he had harder proof, but it would surely change things between them were Parlabane to be the one who delivered some kind of justice for herself and her brother. Much as he hated the term, he realised that what Lucy was looking for from this horrible mess was closure: she came to him with the suspicion that Peter had been the victim of something callous and underhand, and Parlabane would finally be able to offer her vindication, as well as binding answers. What comfort she might take from that remained to be seen, though it had to be better than the hollow void of not knowing, the state she was in when he first encountered her.
As these thoughts passed through his mind, it suddenly struck Parlabane to wonder why Lucy never said that Peter had been married before. In all those concerned conversations about what a vulnerable person he was, and how problematic some of his relationships had been, she had never mentioned that Diana was not his first wife.
Had he got this wrong after all? Maybe there had been no marriage, and Peter’s relationship with Lang had been a secret from everybody. But if that was the case, it would be a hell of a coincidence if his sister happened to recruit her as a silent partner in his ostensibly grand venture.
Lucy told Parlabane that she had procured the investors in MTE. That made sense with regard to Finnegan, whom she had previously worked with, but she admitted she knew almost nothing about Courtney Jean Lang. They had never met, in fact: Lucy had got in touch via a friend of a friend.
For some reason Cecily flashed into his mind, that out-of-focus possibility he couldn’t quite comprehend. Their families were close since they were children: the three of them went back decades. He recalled Lucy suggesting there was something going on behind the scenes between Cecily and Peter.
Courtney Jean Lang had blog posts and a Facebook page but there were no pictures of this woman on her profiles.
Courtney. Cecily.
Could it be? Jager had mentioned she wore Blackberry and Bay, the scent he had smelled on his business card, the same scent Peter had given his wife as a Christmas present. But Cecily was marrying Sir Hamish. He still couldn’t see how it fitted.
‘Jack, this is mission control, come in.’
Parlabane snapped back to earth, wondering how many times Archie had already tried to get his attention. He climbed to his feet and approached the reception desk. From Archie’s expression he could already tell he’d come up negative.
‘It was definitely Peter Elphinstone you wanted to know about?’
‘Yes. How come?’
‘Because it was his sister who had a short-lived marriage. Petronella Lucille. Married six years ago and annulled shortly after by mutual consent.’
‘Annulled? Why?’
Archie shook his head and gave him a strained look.
‘I’m not permitted to say.’
‘What if you accidentally left the document lying around while you were answering the phone and I just happened to catch a glimpse?’
‘Seriously, Jack, no. You can’t ask me this.’
Parlabane shrugged. He understood, and he wasn’t going to ask Archie to cross a line for him, even if he thought there was a chance he’d say yes.
‘Can you tell me who the guy was, at least?’
Archie smiled.
‘That much I can do.’