The Undiscovered Deaths of Grace McGill by C.S. Robertson

Author:C.S. Robertson [Robertson, C.S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781529367683
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Published: 2022-01-20T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

P

utting on make-up is alien to me. I do own some, but rarely have a reason to use it. I wear a mask to clean the homes of dead people and my cat loves me or doesn’t depending on his mood, not on whether I wear lip gloss. This evening is different. Dorothy Harrower said the three of them got dolled up before they headed into town for the night. That’s why I’m warily applying lipstick, powder, and paint, and trying not to end up looking like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

When it’s done, I can barely recognise myself in the mirror. Maybe that’s the point.

According to The Buteman, Valerie, Marion and Dorothy went to the Royal Hotel on Albert Place for dinner, no doubt feeling all grown up in their summer dresses and lippy. The paper says the hotel confirmed the girls had a booking for 7 p.m. and that they believe the group left by 8.30.

Eating in the Royal isn’t an option for me. The hotel closed years ago, and the building now sits semi-derelict facing the seafront on Albert Place. As it’s no longer in the itinerary, I’ve decided to skip food and go to their next stop, the Taverna Bar, in search of gossip.

The Taverna is where the three girls went after dinner and where they split. I’m just getting ahead of schedule.

The bar sits on the corner of West Princes Street and Guildford Square, a door on each side, its walls painted blood red with a thick black stripe along the top, looking like the funnels on a steamer. Deep breath and I go in.

My only hope on the rare occasions I go into a pub is that no one notices me, that I can hide in the crowd or the corner and observe unobserved. When I pull back the door of the Taverna and walk inside, every pair of eyes in the place turns to look at me.

There are a few smiles and heads raised in greeting. A couple of people say hi as I go to the bar, and the barman greets me cheerfully. This is hell.

I need to be Lorraine Chalmers, girl-reporter, and she needs to up her game for us both to get through this. I order a Diet Coke, stand at the bar looking around. Inside I’m squirming.

I still can’t quite bring myself to just go talk to someone, so I take a seat near the window and hope they come to me. It takes some cola sipping and airily looking around, but it happens. The woman at the table next to me turns and asks if I’m all right. I tell her that I am.

‘Are you on your own, hen? Come sit with us if you want.’

There’s four of them, all women, all in their fifties or sixties, happy, chatting loudly over a table littered with glasses they’re drinking from; along with refills waiting to be had.

I think, No way. That’s my idea of a nightmare.

Lorraine says, ‘Oh thanks, but I wouldn’t want to bother you all.

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