Free Anglo-Irish Murders by Ruth Dudley Edwards Page B

the worst. They talk multi-lingual balls.’
    As the Sailor’s Hornpipe began, Amiss retreated into a corner. ‘Hello?’
    ‘I’m on my way,’ cried an excited Pooley.
    ‘Great. Hang on a minute.’ Amiss left the bar and found a quiet corner.
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘It’s completely off the record as far as work’s concerned. I’m supposed to be taking time off to visit a sick relative.’
    ‘What’s your cover? What I suggested to Jim?’
    ‘No. Don’t like the civil servant idea. Can I get away with being the employee of a mysterious American millionaire who wants to set up a similar conference which would involve flying all your participants to the US?’
    ‘Ellis, you’re a genius. Apart from anything else, that should put the shits on their best behaviour. There’s nothing they like better than trips to America where they can bewail their terrible lot in great luxury to tumultuous applause. Are you happy to keep your name?’
    ‘Surname, yes. First name, maybe better not. I wouldn’t like it on the record. Use my second name. Even though I hate it, it’s one lie fewer.’
    ‘What is it then? Stop being so coy.’
    ‘Rollo.’
    ‘Ellis, why did your parents do that to you?’
    ‘It’s to do with ancestors,’ said Pooley stiffly. ‘There are penalties attached to being born into the aristocracy, you know. Anyway, I can’t hang about any longer. I’ve finished packing and am off to the airport. Should be at Knock at ten.’
    ‘I won’t be able to meet you, but I’ll send a taxi.’ Amiss paused and looked cautiously around him. ‘Ellis—I mean Rollo—you do realise that this might be dangerous? Especially if somebody really wants to knock off Brits.’
    ‘Of course I do,’ said Pooley impatiently. ‘That’s half the attraction. If you spent as long as I’ve spent in the last few months trawling through financial records you’d offer yourself for active service in Afghanistan. See you.’
    Amiss punched in some numbers. ‘My friend Rollo Pooley is on his way. What do you think, Inspector? Who should know his true identity?’
    ‘Not one single fecker except ourselves, if you ask me.’
    ‘Lady Troutbeck has to know since she knows the bloke well.’
    ‘Fair enough. But is there any reason to tell anyone else?’
    ‘I’d be a bit unhappy not telling Simon Gibson. He’s become a good friend and a very useful source of information since he knows everyone.’
    ‘One thing I’ve learnt in a long career is that every person you tell anything to will pass it on to at least one more. As the fella said, “A secret shared is a secret blown.” Mr Gibson may be decent and trustworthy as they come but you can’t be certain that he’s one hundred percent discreet.’
    Amiss shrugged. ‘I suppose you’re right. It’s just that I feel I’m rather letting him down by hiding anything from him. But now that you mention it, discretion isn’t what he’s best known for.’
    ‘Thanks for that. Anyone else you have to tell?’
    ‘No one else. And incidentally, you needn’t worry about Lady Troutbeck. She may be tactless and insensitive, but when she wants to be, she’s as tight with information as an anal-retentive.’

Chapter Seven
    Two minutes into Dr Gerry McGuinness’ lecture Amiss thought things couldn’t get worse. Three minutes later he realised that yes, indeed, they could. And what was more, they had. By now he had given up trying to extract any meaning and just let the words sweep over him. ‘Syntactical hierarchy…resemblance and analogy…metonomy and the rhetorical treatise…temporalist discourse…audacity of the metaphor…elucidation of the enigma…seismatic patterns…utilitarian reality…referential poeticity…enigmatic signifiers…co-existentialism…revenge of rhyme on the reasoning paradigm…totalitising effect…intertextuality…condensing and contextualising the elliptical.’
    He tried to allay his boredom by studying the audience. Gardiner Steeples and