Over the High Side by Nicolas Freeling Page A

trees. But somehow it was very Irish as well as Bexhill-backwoods, and subtly mixed with the flavour of curates and daffodils was a raffish scent, as of Mooney’s pub, Boland’s bread, McCabe the Licensed Victualler and Ryan’s Funeral Parlours. He was delighted to find a symbol, crystallizing it all: a letterbox of florid cast iron, set in a stone wall; a magic casement opening on the foam. It was painted to be sure bright green, but had a crown. He had studied English pillarboxes, columns that stoutly support the monarchy, andknew that V.R. meant Victoria Regina. He was cheered by this, and no longer so downcast about missing Admiral Nelson who had presided so long over Dublin, until – belatedly – removed by fervent nationalists with dynamite: Inspector Flynn had explained Irish politics over a glass of stout.
    â€˜A great mistake. Sure the good people up in Belfast will come roaring down to blow up Daniel O’Connell but I don’t mind that at all. Nelson now was a great help to the police: he held up his hand, so he did, and all the trams stopped right in front of him. Civic-spirited, so he was, and gave the street an air: sure without him it’s just a slum.’
    Mrs Edward Flanagan lived behind some ratty privet, a child’s bicycle, and a door-knocker the worse for sea air. The door had been amateurishly done up with royal blue paint that had not been thinned properly. She opened the door herself and he knew her at once.
    â€˜Mrs. Flanagan?’
    â€˜Yes, what do you want?’ How long has she lived in Ireland? – her accent is still strong.
    â€˜Commissaire Van der Valk: Netherlands Police,’ he said in Dutch, and watched it hit her. She showed no fear, but a great deal of surprise.
    â€˜What on earth are you doing here?’ She spoke Dutch too, automatically, probably without realizing.
    â€˜I will be glad to explain.’
    â€˜Yes. Sorry – you’d better come in. Such a surprise. As though you told me I’d won the sweep or something. Netherlands Police,’ incredulously and this time there was a note of fear. But it doesn’t mean anything, he thought. Police is a dread word in the ears of anybody Dutch, be they of the most irreproachable virtue. They shift uneasily inside their clothes, wondering what regulation they can have broken. He followed a brown corduroy behind and a solid Dutch upper half in a sage-green pullover needing a darn at one elbow. This is Stasie.
    â€˜I hope you’ll excuse me. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Everything is very untidy.’
    He had heard that too often enough in Holland. In a tone of grovelling but reproachful apology and meaning there is athread from the sewing-box on a cushion, and a flower-pot out of mathematical alignment with the corners of the windowsill. But here it was different. The words were said carelessly, not in the least as though she meant them. And the room was untidy; very untidy indeed. But he did not have time to look at it because he was concentrating upon the woman and she took all the concentration he had. Beautiful? – oh come. Very very pretty? – he supposed so; he’d no idea really. Like the picture? – yes, and unlike.
    He couldn’t be bothered with any of this, because of the gust of seduction. Great wafts of sex. Massive gushing cascade of luscious femininity. He sat down gingerly in a small fat armchair with upholstery worn threadbare on the arms, crossed his legs with care, and put his glasses on from self-defence. If he had brought a briefcase he would have been rummaging in it in next to no time. One saw the shabby sweater and the sloppy trousers – and one simply saw her naked. Remarkable.
    â€˜I am the commissaire of the district in which your father, Mevrouw, was found dead. This has turned out a delicate, even disturbing affair. It was thought best to come and talk with you and your sisters, informally.’ But he was not