mildly, ‘just routine enquiries.’
“I won’t say anything more without a solicitor present.’
Ruth expects Nelson to argue (something along the lines that only guilty men need solicitors) but instead he stands up, hitting his head on a dream-catcher. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Malone. Just one thing. Can I have a sample of your handwriting?’
‘My handwriting?’
‘Yes. For our enquiries.’
Cathbad looks as if he is about to refuse but then he slowly gets up and goes to a filing cabinet which is sitting incongruously in a corner of the caravan. He unlocks a drawer and pulls out a sheet of paper. Ruth wonders why a man living in a caravan full of dream-catchers would also have a locked filing cabinet.
Nelson looks down at the writing and, just for a second, his face darkens. Ruth sees his jaw muscles clench and wonders what’s coming. But instead Nelson smoothes out the paper and says in a bland, social voice, ‘Thank you very much, Mr Malone. Good day.’
‘Goodbye,’ says Ruth weakly. Cathbad ignores her.
Ruth and Nelson scrunch away over the shingle. The fishermen are still sitting on the harbour wall. The tide is coming in, bringing with it a heady, briny smell and a host of seagulls, calling and crying overhead.
‘Well?’ says Nelson at last, ‘what do you think?’
“I can’t believe he works at the university.’
‘Why not? It’s full of weirdos, that place.’
Ruth can’t tell if he is joking or not. ‘It’s just … if Erik knew, he didn’t tell me.’
Nelson looks at her. ‘Are you close then, you and this Erik bloke?’
‘Yes,’ says Ruth, rather defiantly.
‘He’s coming to England soon, isn’t he?’
‘Next week.’
‘I’ll look forward to meeting him.’
Ruth smiles. ‘He said the same about you.’
Nelson grunts sceptically. They have almost reached their cars, which are still on dry land although the water is lapping round some unfortunate vehicles parked lower down.
‘It’ll play havoc with their suspension,’ says Nelson.
‘What about his writing?’ asks Ruth. In reply, Nelson hands her the piece of paper. It seems to be a poem entitled ‘In praise of James Agar’.
‘Who’s James Agar?’ she asks.
‘Bastard who killed a policeman.’
‘Oh.’ She begins to see why Cathbad chose this particular piece of paper. She glances down the lines. The handwriting is extravagant, full of swirls and loops. It is nothing like the writing in the Lucy Downey letters.
‘It’s not the same,’ she says.
‘Doesn’t mean he’s off the hook.’
‘Do you suspect him then?’
Nelson pauses, one hand on his car door. ‘I’m not ruling him out,’ he says at last. ‘He’s a slippery character. He was in the area at the time and he knows all about that mystic stuff. He’s clever too, and he’s got something to hide. Why was that cabinet locked? I’m going to come back with a search warrant.’
‘Will you get one?’
‘Probably not. He was right when he said I had nothing on him. That’s why I say he’s clever.’
Not quite knowing why she says it, Ruth volunteers, ‘Erik says he has magic powers.’
This time Nelson laughs out loud. ‘Magic powers!
Nothing magic about him that a kick up the arse won’t cure.’ He gets into his car but pauses before putting the key in the ignition. ‘Mind you,’ he says, ‘he did get one thing right. I am a Scorpio.’
CHAPTER 9
As Ruth turns into New Road she sees a familiar red sports car parked in front of her house. Shona often explains that her car is a penis substitute and, like the real thing, is often unreliable. Ruth hasn’t seen Shona since before Christmas and wonders what new dramas she will have to report. She quite enjoys Shona’s love life - second hand, she wouldn’t want to live it herself, just as she wouldn’t drive a scarlet Mazda. Fat chance of either, she thinks, as she parks behind Shona’s car - number plate: FAB 1.
Shona, huddled up in a sheepskin coat, is
“I won’t say anything more without a solicitor present.’
Ruth expects Nelson to argue (something along the lines that only guilty men need solicitors) but instead he stands up, hitting his head on a dream-catcher. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Malone. Just one thing. Can I have a sample of your handwriting?’
‘My handwriting?’
‘Yes. For our enquiries.’
Cathbad looks as if he is about to refuse but then he slowly gets up and goes to a filing cabinet which is sitting incongruously in a corner of the caravan. He unlocks a drawer and pulls out a sheet of paper. Ruth wonders why a man living in a caravan full of dream-catchers would also have a locked filing cabinet.
Nelson looks down at the writing and, just for a second, his face darkens. Ruth sees his jaw muscles clench and wonders what’s coming. But instead Nelson smoothes out the paper and says in a bland, social voice, ‘Thank you very much, Mr Malone. Good day.’
‘Goodbye,’ says Ruth weakly. Cathbad ignores her.
Ruth and Nelson scrunch away over the shingle. The fishermen are still sitting on the harbour wall. The tide is coming in, bringing with it a heady, briny smell and a host of seagulls, calling and crying overhead.
‘Well?’ says Nelson at last, ‘what do you think?’
“I can’t believe he works at the university.’
‘Why not? It’s full of weirdos, that place.’
Ruth can’t tell if he is joking or not. ‘It’s just … if Erik knew, he didn’t tell me.’
Nelson looks at her. ‘Are you close then, you and this Erik bloke?’
‘Yes,’ says Ruth, rather defiantly.
‘He’s coming to England soon, isn’t he?’
‘Next week.’
‘I’ll look forward to meeting him.’
Ruth smiles. ‘He said the same about you.’
Nelson grunts sceptically. They have almost reached their cars, which are still on dry land although the water is lapping round some unfortunate vehicles parked lower down.
‘It’ll play havoc with their suspension,’ says Nelson.
‘What about his writing?’ asks Ruth. In reply, Nelson hands her the piece of paper. It seems to be a poem entitled ‘In praise of James Agar’.
‘Who’s James Agar?’ she asks.
‘Bastard who killed a policeman.’
‘Oh.’ She begins to see why Cathbad chose this particular piece of paper. She glances down the lines. The handwriting is extravagant, full of swirls and loops. It is nothing like the writing in the Lucy Downey letters.
‘It’s not the same,’ she says.
‘Doesn’t mean he’s off the hook.’
‘Do you suspect him then?’
Nelson pauses, one hand on his car door. ‘I’m not ruling him out,’ he says at last. ‘He’s a slippery character. He was in the area at the time and he knows all about that mystic stuff. He’s clever too, and he’s got something to hide. Why was that cabinet locked? I’m going to come back with a search warrant.’
‘Will you get one?’
‘Probably not. He was right when he said I had nothing on him. That’s why I say he’s clever.’
Not quite knowing why she says it, Ruth volunteers, ‘Erik says he has magic powers.’
This time Nelson laughs out loud. ‘Magic powers!
Nothing magic about him that a kick up the arse won’t cure.’ He gets into his car but pauses before putting the key in the ignition. ‘Mind you,’ he says, ‘he did get one thing right. I am a Scorpio.’
CHAPTER 9
As Ruth turns into New Road she sees a familiar red sports car parked in front of her house. Shona often explains that her car is a penis substitute and, like the real thing, is often unreliable. Ruth hasn’t seen Shona since before Christmas and wonders what new dramas she will have to report. She quite enjoys Shona’s love life - second hand, she wouldn’t want to live it herself, just as she wouldn’t drive a scarlet Mazda. Fat chance of either, she thinks, as she parks behind Shona’s car - number plate: FAB 1.
Shona, huddled up in a sheepskin coat, is
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