down the successful. He’s done well for himself, so we’ll be pleased at first. And then we’ll think he must be a rank, rotten bastard to have gotten that far. And then we’ll look for evidence to prove it.
‘Let’s just wait and see what he’s like when we meet him.’ I look at my muffin, feeling strangely full. ‘You want this?’
‘Aye, magic.’ He grabs it from my hand.
We are shown into his office. Everything looks and smells brand new. It is all red cedar lined with chrome. There is no clutter, everything is designed to give the illusion of space. It makes me think of the mask we wear to hide our true selves from each other. This man even extends his mask to his surroundings. There is nothing here to indicate the type of individual seated behind the desk.
He doesn’t look away from his seventeen-inch flat computer screen. With a hand that wields a silver pen, he simply motions for us to sit down. I take the opportunity to get a better look around the office. No, nothing of the man himself in here. Except… I notice a photograph by the door. A woman in her late twenties and a girl of nine or ten, I would guess. The staging of the subjects is bland. They are both wearing shirts of exactly the same colour of purple. I wonder what arse thought of that. I wonder what happened to the son. According to Gary he’s a little older. Perhaps he doesn’t like the new man of the house. Perhaps the new man of the house doesn’t want him around his new women-folk.
It is clearly not the best place to view the photograph, if you were looking at it from the desk. The potted plant obscures it. But as people left the room they would get a good view, and be reminded that the office’s occupant was a good guy: a family man.
‘Eileen. Where’s that report?’ he shouts over the screen. The door behind us opens enough to see a head of brown, permed hair.
‘It’s just about ready, Mr Irving.’ She sounds as if she is about to burst into tears.
‘I want it five minutes ago. Please?’ He glares at the door. Only then does he move his eyes to address us. He smiles, as if he’d learned it from a book. Placing his pen on the desk, he smooths down his fringe between his index finger and his middle finger.
‘You can’t get the staff,’ he laughs. And then has the decency to look discomfited when we don’t join in. Women would be attracted to this man, I thought. Despite themselves. He is a cliché of good looks; blond hair and blue eyes. Except the blond hair is receding and the eyes warn of remoteness.
He leans forward on his elbows, ‘How can I help you?’ We introduce ourselves. The smile recedes from his face as if it would never return when he realises that we are not prospective customers.
‘We’re here to investigate the murder of Patrick Connelly,’ I reply. He leans back on his high-backed leather chair and looks up at the ceiling as if flipping through a mental index of acquaintances.
‘Sorry,’ he purses his lips after a pause long enough to indicate he’d given this his full consideration. ‘That’s not a name I’m familiar with. Was he a client of mine?’
‘He was a caretaker cum odd-job man at Bethlehem House, here in Aberdeen, while you were staying there.’
His eyebrows all but meet on the bridge of his nose as he continues the charade of reviewing the name. ‘But that was years ago. How am I supposed to remember that? I was only a bairn.’
‘He abused your twin sister, Mr Irving. Perhaps that will clear the cobwebs from your memory,’ I say.
‘Right,’ he picks up his pen and retracts the nib with a loud click. ‘I… of course I remember that. But I didn’t remember the evil bastard’s name.’ Click. ‘So how can I help you?’ Thoughts fly across his face. Like an actor reviewing his performance, he quickly dons a variety of expressions and then just as quickly throws them off. Puzzlement, denial, anger. And several others I have trouble naming. Click. ‘You
‘Let’s just wait and see what he’s like when we meet him.’ I look at my muffin, feeling strangely full. ‘You want this?’
‘Aye, magic.’ He grabs it from my hand.
We are shown into his office. Everything looks and smells brand new. It is all red cedar lined with chrome. There is no clutter, everything is designed to give the illusion of space. It makes me think of the mask we wear to hide our true selves from each other. This man even extends his mask to his surroundings. There is nothing here to indicate the type of individual seated behind the desk.
He doesn’t look away from his seventeen-inch flat computer screen. With a hand that wields a silver pen, he simply motions for us to sit down. I take the opportunity to get a better look around the office. No, nothing of the man himself in here. Except… I notice a photograph by the door. A woman in her late twenties and a girl of nine or ten, I would guess. The staging of the subjects is bland. They are both wearing shirts of exactly the same colour of purple. I wonder what arse thought of that. I wonder what happened to the son. According to Gary he’s a little older. Perhaps he doesn’t like the new man of the house. Perhaps the new man of the house doesn’t want him around his new women-folk.
It is clearly not the best place to view the photograph, if you were looking at it from the desk. The potted plant obscures it. But as people left the room they would get a good view, and be reminded that the office’s occupant was a good guy: a family man.
‘Eileen. Where’s that report?’ he shouts over the screen. The door behind us opens enough to see a head of brown, permed hair.
‘It’s just about ready, Mr Irving.’ She sounds as if she is about to burst into tears.
‘I want it five minutes ago. Please?’ He glares at the door. Only then does he move his eyes to address us. He smiles, as if he’d learned it from a book. Placing his pen on the desk, he smooths down his fringe between his index finger and his middle finger.
‘You can’t get the staff,’ he laughs. And then has the decency to look discomfited when we don’t join in. Women would be attracted to this man, I thought. Despite themselves. He is a cliché of good looks; blond hair and blue eyes. Except the blond hair is receding and the eyes warn of remoteness.
He leans forward on his elbows, ‘How can I help you?’ We introduce ourselves. The smile recedes from his face as if it would never return when he realises that we are not prospective customers.
‘We’re here to investigate the murder of Patrick Connelly,’ I reply. He leans back on his high-backed leather chair and looks up at the ceiling as if flipping through a mental index of acquaintances.
‘Sorry,’ he purses his lips after a pause long enough to indicate he’d given this his full consideration. ‘That’s not a name I’m familiar with. Was he a client of mine?’
‘He was a caretaker cum odd-job man at Bethlehem House, here in Aberdeen, while you were staying there.’
His eyebrows all but meet on the bridge of his nose as he continues the charade of reviewing the name. ‘But that was years ago. How am I supposed to remember that? I was only a bairn.’
‘He abused your twin sister, Mr Irving. Perhaps that will clear the cobwebs from your memory,’ I say.
‘Right,’ he picks up his pen and retracts the nib with a loud click. ‘I… of course I remember that. But I didn’t remember the evil bastard’s name.’ Click. ‘So how can I help you?’ Thoughts fly across his face. Like an actor reviewing his performance, he quickly dons a variety of expressions and then just as quickly throws them off. Puzzlement, denial, anger. And several others I have trouble naming. Click. ‘You
Similar Books
