Gilded Edge, The by Danny Miller Read Free Book Online Page A

not with the urgency of chasing down his sister because she was the main suspect.
    Vince considered the visibly shaken young man before him. He was about five foot nine and rail thin, all his features small and slender apart from his eyes, which were now large and startled. In fact, on further consideration, he had one of the narrowest faces Vince had ever seen; it looked as if it might snap in two if anyone punched it, though Dominic Saxmore-Blaine didn’t look the type to get involved in that kind of rough and tumble. His hair was a stand-out feature, however: a sumptuous shade of chestnut brown with a shine that looked like a mirror finish; public-school floppy with one of those swooping fringes that constantly needed a vigorous half-head rotation, or a continuous raking with the hand, to keep it out of his eyes. Its impressive impracticality annoyed Vince; just looking at it made him want to reach for a pair of shears. But maybe that was the haircut’s main purpose, its aesthetic flamboyance being a lesson in loucheness. The floppy foppishness of it matched the rest of his garb, for he was wearing a suit of deepest blue velvet, a waistcoat of mustard-yellow silk with gold braid blazingly checking through it, and a bow tie of flushed red taffeta. He’d obviously been out for the night, and still had the acrid tang of stale booze and oozing spirits wafting about him; which he was even now topping up with a generously poured single malt and a quick burst of soda. He drank deeply, then said, ‘Poor, poor Isabel. She’ll be devastated, absolutely devastated.’
    ‘Where exactly is your sister, Mr Saxmore-Blaine?’ asked Vince.
    ‘She’s been away staying with some friends.’
    ‘For how long?’
    ‘I don’t really know . . .’
    Vince, for the benefit of Saxmore-Blaine, creased his brow as if in confusion and threw a consorting look over to Mac, who was seated in a boxy-looking armchair. Mac played along with him, and batted back an equally confused glance that appeared more than a little tinged with disbelief.
    Saxmore-Blaine picked up on this exchange, and was quick to continue: ‘She was abroad, you see, for a few weeks, and then she came back . . . I think.’ He put his whisky down on the side table, then put his head in his hands, sinking long fingers into the lustrously thick veil of his fringe. Then he scraped the whole lot back from his face to reveal red-rimmed eyes glistening with tears.
    ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I have to go out now. As I said, I’m meeting my father for lunch.’
    Mac and Vince made no effort to move or indicate bringing the conversation to a close. Vince glanced down at his watch and saw it was just gone 1 p.m. Then he scoped the room: obviously not as luxurious and grand as Beresford’s place, not fifteen minutes’ walk away, but a nice set-up none the less. And it looked like the furniture and décor were chosen by Isabel herself, and not inherited off some aunt who had read Jane Austen on its first publication.
    There were some big floor cushions scattered around, covered in panels of bright-coloured silk, while lots of Aztec and Mexican-style throws covered the furniture. On the floor lay Moroccan and Indian rugs with naps so deep you could hide out in them. Around the room were other knick-knacks and ornaments from those countries too, like the large bronze figure of the elephant-headed Indian god Ganesh sitting heavily on the mantelpiece. Running up one of the walls was a range of fine pencil drawings of ballet dancers, and a large bookcase was bulging with paperback and reference books on dance, fashion, travel and the arts. There was a modern glass and chromium-tubed desk against a wall, with a blue Underwood 5 typewriter resting on it alongside a well-thumbed OED, a frazzled-looking Roget’s Thesaurus, and stacks of text-covered typing paper. Next to the desk was a long magazine rack packed with glossies. On almost every available flat surface stood framed photos