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along to Handel s Fireworks Music and crunching barley sugars
with real ferocity. To her questions, he had decided that he was
a widower and a civil servant. Wrong answers both: she was a
widow (her wedding ring had tricked him) and a civil servant
too, executive officer, Inland Revenue. He wondered now why
he had not played the old card of pleading homosexuality. Per-
haps he still could. What he could not do was retrieve the past
excruciating hour of tales about the tax collector s office. His
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Ian Rankin
head throbbed like a gashed thumb. When, oh when, was he
supposed to slip away?
Mr. Scott, have you asked him about the baggage?
Not yet, Mrs. Nightingale.
No, silly, call me Millicent.
Millicent.
Well, go ahead and ask.
The courier, however, saved him some small embarrassment
by answering the unspoken question.
We ll go and collect it now, shall we?
We ll go and collect it now, Mr. Scott, repeated Mrs.
Nightingale, putting her arm through his. Miles wondered if the
courier were in on the deception. Everything that had seemed
so well planned in London now seemed tenuous and half baked.
He might yet end up on a tour of Ireland. Seven days and nights
with Mrs. Nightingale.
Outside, baggage collected, they boarded a minibus. The
country around them was darkening, as though the wattage of
the bulb were fading. On their way out of the airport, Miles
noted a checkpoint where every second car was being stopped
and searched. Speed bumps bumped the minibus out onto a main
road. There were no signs visibly welcoming them to Northern
Ireland, but pasted onto a road sign was a Union Jack poster
with the legend ULSTER SAYS NO printed in large black letters.
Miles closed his eyes, hoping to feign sleep. Mrs. Nightingale, a
little later, placed her hand on his.
The hotel was unpromising. His room was a single (giving Mrs.
Nightingale a whole range of options), the bar was dowdy and
full of nonresidents, and the view from his window was of a flat
rooftop where the matted carcass of a cat lay as though it had
died of boredom. It might have been London. In fact, it was
much quieter than London, for not even the wailing of a police
siren could be heard.
There was a knock at his door. Not Mrs. Nightingale, for he
doubted very much whether she would have bothered to knock.
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Watchman
Come in.
It was the courier.
Mr. Scott, sir. You ll be leaving us first thing in the morn-
ing, so get an early night if you can. Someone will be here with a
car for you. They ll come to the door, so make sure you re alone,
eh? The courier gave an exaggerated wink. He was the sort of
despairingly jolly fellow so beloved of holiday-package groups.
He did not look like a member of the services.
Do me a favor, will you?
Yes, Mr. Scott?
Try and keep Mrs. Nightingale out of my hair.
The courier smiled and nodded. Understood, he said, and
was gone.
Miles settled back on the creaking bed and flipped through a
magazine which, having noticed that every traveler was carrying
some sort of reading matter, he had bought at Heathrow. It was
filled with book reviews. Not a word on Coleoptera, though. He
supposed that he could try the bar again, but was afraid of what
he might find there. He recalled Mrs. Nightingale s clammy
hand on his, and he shuddered.
There was no telephone in the bedroom, but there was a bat-
tered pay phone at the end of the hall. He would call Sheila. He
slipped out of the room in his stocking feet and padded through
the deserted corridor. He had only the one ten-pence piece,
but that would be sufficient to reassure himself that Sheila was
all right . . . Did he mean all right, or did he mean chaste? He
wasn t sure. He dialed his home number, but there was no reply.
Well, she could be anywhere, he supposed. He dialed his own
number, the one for his study telephone. Still no answer. Finally,
he decided to call Billy Monmouth, just, so he assured himself,
to hear a friendly voice. This time the call was answered. Miles
pushed home the coin. It stayed in, but nothing connected.
Blast this thing. He slapped the front of the apparatus.
Damn and blast it. The telephone went dead. He had lost his
only coin.
Mr. Scott!
Mrs. Nightingale.
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Ian Rankin
Millicent, Mr. Scott. You must call me Millicent. Who were
you phoning?
Trying to reach my son.
You didn t tell me you had a son, Mr. Scott!
Oh?
Let s go down to the bar and you can tell me all about
him.
She was already tugging at his arm.
I don t have any shoes on, Millicent.
She looked down at his feet, then laughed.
In that case, she said, we ll just go along to your room
and you can put your shoes on. I ve been dying to see your room
anyway. Come on.
In the small, smoky lounge bar, the hotel guests were being
treated to jokes and songs by a local, who, unshaven, his cap
askew on his sweat-beaded head, seemed irrepressible. Miles
noticed, however, that the man s eyes remained as sharp as a
fox s. He was working hard and methodically to win the free
drinks which were his right, and he wasn t about to let any of the
pale-faced guests escape. He swayed before them like a snake
before its prey, seeming to entertain when in fact it was already
digesting its victims.
Everybody laughed, of course, but it was a laughter colored
by fear. They could all see that this was a potentially danger-
ous man, and they would gaze at the barman when they could,
pleading with their eyes: make him stop.
Miles sipped his lager. Ordinarily, he would have drunk
Guinness, but he did not wish to appear patronizing.
Go on, Declan, tell them the one about . . .
Yes, Declan needed his prompters, needed the whispered re-
minders from the wings.
Remember, Declan, that time when you . . .
In truth, several of the party could not make out one word
of Declan s stories, and their smiles were the most enthusiastic
of all. Mrs. Nightingale was one of these. Her laugh was a garish
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Watchman
parody of fun. Well, at least she s quiet, thought Miles, thankful
for the smallest of mercies.
It was not quite dawn when, a light sleeper at the best of times,
Miles heard a key turn in the lock, his door open, and saw two
shadowy figures enter the room. By then, he was already out of
bed, keen to appear efficient. Packed and ready to go, gentle-
men, he whispered. The men seemed satisfied. Miles was al-
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