The Dying of the Light. Derek Landy
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say, if asked, which you have, that out of all the accents in all the world, Irish is my favourite, what with me being a Boston boy.”
Gant claps his hands. “Irish! Yes! Oh, those beautiful lilts and those soft t’s, every word an event unto itself. I knew an Irishman once – he could charm the birds out of a bush, as the saying goes, and it was all down to that accent. What do you think of the Irish accent, Danny?”
Danny works very hard to keep his expression neutral. “Don’t have much of an opinion on it.”
“You don’t?” says Gant. “Well, my boy, in that case, you need to listen to an Irish person speak in order to form one. What are we without our opinions, after all? When was the last time you heard an Irish person speak?”
Gant looks at him, all smiles, while Jeremiah’s eyebrows are raised in a gently quizzical manner.
“Guess it was the last time I saw a Liam Neeson movie,” Danny says.
Gant waves his hand dismissively. “Movies hardly count. Real life, now that is the only experience worth having. When was the last time you heard an Irish person speak in real life?”
“Years ago,” Danny says. “Probably when I was in LA. Don’t really remember.”
Gant’s smile fades a little. “I see.”
“No Irish around here?” Jeremiah asks.
Danny shakes his head.
“No Irish girls?” Jeremiah says. “Irish women? You sure?”
“Meek Ridge doesn’t have a whole lot to offer,” says Danny. “We don’t get many people moving in. We usually get people moving out.”
“And you say,” presses Gant, “no Irish?”
“Nope.”
“Well … that is odd.”
“You were expecting some?” asks Danny.
“Expecting one,” says Gant. “Friend of mine. Niece, actually. Dark hair. Tall. Pretty. Kind of girl you’d remember.”
“What’s her name?”
Gant smiles again. “Thank you for your time, Danny, but I must be going. Jeremiah, might I offer you a lift?”
“That would be most kind,” says Jeremiah, trailing after the old man as he walks from the store.
They leave, and the bell tinkles, and silence rushes in.
“Should have got you a bib,” Skulduggery muttered, leaning out past her to take another look through the café window at the Dublin Art Gallery. The face he wore was good-looking and clean shaven. Out there, through the window, Dublin City was in full night-time mode, with people spilling out of one bar and piling into the next. Nobody was paying attention to the sleek, gleaming art gallery and its tastefully minimalist garden protected by a high wrought-iron fence. The fence was new.
“I probably shouldn’t have got an ice cream,” Stephanie said after a moment. “Technically, it’s still winter. Why is this place even selling ice-cream cones in winter?”
“Because there are people like you who will buy them presumably.”
The café was warm and quiet. A bored girl sat behind the till, reading a magazine. It was nearly closing time. Stephanie got up, dumped the ice cream in the bin, and used a napkin to dab her T-shirt. She’d also got some on her jacket, but she didn’t mind that. One wipe and it came right off.
She headed back to the table, but stopped, looking out through the glass partition in the door. “You’re about to get a ticket,” she said.
Immediately, Skulduggery was on his feet, putting his hat on and stalking outside. Grinning, Stephanie followed him over to the man standing by the Bentley.
The traffic warden looked up. “This your car?”
“It is,” said Skulduggery.
The traffic warden nodded. “Very nice, very nice. But you can’t park here, day or night.”
“I wasn’t aware of that.”
“There’s a sign right over there.”
“I didn’t think it applied to me.”
“Why wouldn’t it have applied to you?”
Skulduggery tilted his head. “Because I’m special.”
“Don’t care how special you think you are, you’re parked in a no parking area and as such you’re—”
“We’re here on official police business.”
The traffic warden narrowed his eyes. “You’re Garda? I’m going to need to see some identification.”
“We’re undercover,” said Skulduggery. “This is a very important undercover operation which you are endangering just by talking to us.” He opened his jacket. “Look, I have a gun. I am Detective Inspector Me. This is my partner, Detective Her.”
The traffic warden frowned. “Her?”
“Me,” said Stephanie.
“Him?”
“Not me,” said Skulduggery. “Her.”
“Me,” said Stephanie.
“You?” said the traffic warden.
“Yes,” said Stephanie.
“I’m sorry, who are you?”
Stephanie looked at him. “I’m Her, he’s Me. Got it? Good. You better get out of here before you blow our cover. They’ve got snipers.”
The traffic warden swung round, scanning rooftops. “Snipers?”
“Don’t look!” Stephanie whispered. “You want to get us killed? Get out of here! Run, but don’t make it look like you’re running!”
Eyes bulging, the traffic warden hurried away, alternating between speed-walking and panicked jogging.
“Nicely done,” said Skulduggery.
“Thank you,” said Stephanie. “So can we break in yet?”
Skulduggery checked the time on his pocket watch. “Since you’re so eager … I don’t see why not. Come along.”
They walked to the iron fence and looked around, made sure no one was looking.
“Keep watch,” Skulduggery said, and lifted off the ground.
Stephanie stuffed her hands in her pockets, tried her best to look casual. She had the reassuring weight of the Sceptre in her backpack to ease her anxiety about what they were about to do. It helped. A lot.
A minute later, a gust of wind took her off her feet. She passed over the fence, landed on the grass beside Skulduggery.
“I’ve disabled the cameras and the external motion sensors,” Skulduggery said as she followed him across the garden area to the gallery wall, where the shadows merged.
“So how are we getting in?” Stephanie asked. Last time it had been through a skylight.
“We’re taking a leaf out of Billy-Ray Sanguine’s book,” Skulduggery said as he placed both hands flat against the