Free Dandy Gilver and a Bothersome Number of Corpses by Catriona McPherson Page A

of shining cream-coloured linoleum, a high counter made out of glass and more of the green-painted wood. A sign above the door said
Aldo’s Fish Bar
in red writing, with little flags decorating the corners.
    ‘You dined off fried fish last night?’ I asked Alec.
    ‘And fried chips,’ he said.
    ‘And then two tongue sandwiches and milky coffee at supper time,’ I said. ‘You should have the figure of Henry VIII by rights.’
    ‘Come in and meet Joe,’ Alec said, and disappeared into the darkened doorway.
    I followed, leaving behind the scent of seaweed and yesterday’s catch and stepping into a rich, grease-laden, savoury fog so thick one could feel it settle on one’s skin. It must, I thought to myself looking around, be impregnated into the very walls, for there was no food in evidence, nor was there any sign of its being on its way or traces of it left over from the night before. The glass counter shone like the windows of an excellent housekeeper, as though vinegar and brown paper had only just been applied, and the metal grilles beneath the counter, where one assumed the hot food waited to be sold, glittered like the radiator of a beloved and expensive motorcar.
    Alec had disappeared behind the counter, passing the empty frying vessels and disappearing through a door into the back premises.
    ‘
Buongiorno
, my friend! Good morning. Good to see you.
Avanti
!
Benvenuto
! Come in!’
    The voice was as rich and warm as the thick scents that filled the room and must surely have been by far the most exotic sound ever to have boomed out around Portpatrick harbour. Feeling suddenly shy, I peeped around the doorway. On a stool in the middle of a tiny scullery, peeling potatoes into a tub the size of a dustbin clamped between his knees, was a black-haired, cherry-cheeked man, broad-shouldered and thickened with middle age, dressed in a collarless shirt, cambric trousers like a fisherman and a butcher’s striped apron.
    ‘You sound pretty chipper,’ I heard Alec say to him. ‘Is she back then?’
    ‘Cheep-ah?’ said Joe. He wiped his face with a forearm as though he had been sweating, even this early on such a fresh spring day; and then, holding his knife like a fairground thrower, he flicked it into the barrel of peeled potatoes. It entered one of them with a whistling sound and a small splash of water.
    ‘Happy,’ said Alec. ‘You sound happy. Has your wife come home?’
    ‘No, no, no, no, no,’ said Joe. ‘Not a sight, not a sound.
Niente
. I am happy because you are here to help me. Now I have a friend.’ He beamed at Alec, and since the beaming entailed an expansive sweeping glance around the room, at last he spotted me and shot to his feet, wiping his face again and tearing off the blue cotton cook’s cap he had been wearing.
    ‘
Scusi, signorina
,’ he said. ‘How I can help you? The cafe she is closed, but how I can help you? Only say. Giuseppe Aldo is your servant.’
    ‘How do you do?’ I said and then immediately blushed to hear such primness responding to his torrent of chivalry.
    ‘Mrs Gilver is a friend of mine,’ said Alec. ‘My business partner, actually. Also a detective, don’t you know.’
    ‘A lady detective . . .’ said Joe, or Giuseppe as he seemed to be. He sat back down again at his stool, motioning me into one of the three wooden chairs set around the little table in the scullery. Once there he gazed at me, letting out a long low whistle. ‘Okay-dokey, so you breakfass? You hungry? Hah?’
    ‘I could manage a little something,’ said Alec, ignoring my look. He had eaten a heartier breakfast than someone who had had two dinners might have been expected to, and not a half-hour before.
    ‘I make you
caffé
and
zeppole
,’ said Joe. ‘Mos’ delectable food you ever have in your life before. Coming up!’ He stood and took the two paces needed over to a cooking stove set under the window. There he pulled a heavy, high-sided pot onto the ring and lit the gas with a