Cop Out by Claire McNab

Author:Claire McNab [McNab, Claire]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781931513296
Publisher: Bella Books
Published: 2015-06-18T00:00:00+00:00

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Katoomba, where the Darcys lived, adjoined Leura, both towns sitting on the lip of the sandstone cliffs, facing south over the huge wild expanses of the Jamison and Kedumba Valleys. Megan collected Carol at nine o’clock and then drove the red Mercedes sports car with insolent impetuosity, accelerating too fast, braking too hard, cornering with squealing tires. If she hoped to goad her passenger into complaint she was disappointed. Carol, hiding a smile, faced the short trip with equanimity and gravely thanked her when they jolted to a halt in front of a house that looked both alien and pretentious.

Carol remembered having seen photographs of the Darcy home in magazines. The architect who designed it clearly had had more desire to excite comment than to create a dwelling at home in the mountain landscape. The building basked in floodlighting, showing its extravagance of flat gray walls set at disconcerting angles, its tinted glass and swooping cantilevered roofs. Well above ground level a series of exaggerated bay windows jutted out pugnaciously.

Megan had been watching Carol’s face as she surveyed the house. “Absolute monstrosity, isn’t it?”

Carol could only agree. “Unusual,” she said diplomatically.

“All Grandfather’s idea, of course,” said Megan as she led the way up a series of shallow steps to a front door largely composed of irregular pieces of brightly colored glass. “Gran nearly had a fit, but it was all fait accompli before she knew what was happening.” She waved her hand vaguely off into the darkness. “Over there’s the old house…it wasn’t sold. I live in it now, when I’m not in Sydney.”

Keith Darcy met Carol gravely, took her hand for a moment. “Carol, I appreciate you taking the time to see me.” He nodded a dismissal to Megan, who quickly walked away towards the back of the house.

He was wearing what Carol categorized as formal casual wear—tailored slacks, leather slip-on shoes, a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows and a carefully arranged paisley cravat. With his weather-beaten skin, short graying hair and mustache, he looked like a gentleman farmer, lacking only a shotgun in the crook of his arm to complete the picture.

Carol, herself wanting to create a relaxed impression, had been careful to dress informally in tailored dark blue pants, short boots and a cerulean sweater.

He led the way through the air-conditioned vastness of the house, their feet clattering on the polished wooden floors. He was obviously proud of his home, stopping several times to point out some architectural feature for her appreciation. Finally they reached his study, a room intended to replicate the atmosphere of an exclusive British men’s club. Everything was in dull dark tones, from the maroon leather furniture to the dark paneled walls. The chairs looked fat, shiny and uncomfortable and the dark green-shaded lamps cast pallid circles of light on their thickly padded arms.

“I’d like this to be just an informal chat,” he said as he ushered her into the cool embrace of one of the overweight chairs.

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