Quintin Jardine - For The Death Of Me

‘I had a postcard from Singapore three months ago,’ she said. ‘Thankfully, Theresa is everything a daughter should be. She calls me every weekend without fail, and we see each other twice every year. It’s a pity she’s so far away.’

‘Where is she, Mrs Raymond?’ I asked.

‘New Jersey,’ she replied. ‘She has a chair in philosophy at Princeton University. I go there every Thanksgiving; it’s a lovely place, not like you expect America to be.’

I left it at that: if I’d pressed her for a phone number she’d have twigged that I hadn’t just called her to tell her the bad news about Trevor.

I was at a loose end, for the first time in a couple of weeks, but fortunately, before I could get up to any mischief, Ross came back from his meeting and announced that he was taking me for an early lunch. I was expecting the Doric Tavern, or the New York Steam Packet, but I must be a good client for he forked out for Oloroso, on the roof of the building at the corner of Castle Street and George Street.

We were able to eat outside: good, in that the weather was kind enough to allow it, but bad, in that it means the mobile-phone reception is full strength. It was like a pop concert up there; however good the food was, it was beginning to get on my tits, till Ricky’s cell played a tune that sounded suspiciously like the chorus of ‘The Ball o’ Kirriemuir’. He laid down a forkful of distressed spinach or some such, and answered its summons.

‘Indeed,’ he said, then nodded and muttered for about half a minute, until he looked at me. ‘Yes, he’s here.’ He passed the phone across. ‘Ollie Coffey.’

‘Oz,’ said my former colleague. ‘I’ve got some more on the fugitive lady.’

That got my attention. I hadn’t really expected him to come up with anything, for he’s pretty low down in the food chain of the intelligence community. ‘Do tell,’ I invited.

‘She caught a plane from Ho Chi Minh to Tokyo, about two hours after she called her brother on Wednesday. There, she boarded another flight to Los Angeles, which got her in yesterday morning local time, yesterday evening BST. The only problem is she doesn’t appear to have got off. Madeleine January boarded the flight at Narita Airport, but she didn’t fill in a US landing card or Customs declaration.’

‘So she’s got two passports.’

‘She must have. Given time, the US immigration service will be able to come up with the name under which she was admitted, but LAX is a hell of a big airport and they don’t have a lot of time on their hands.’

‘She’s gone anyway. That’s eighteen hours ago.’

‘Yes, but,’ DCI Coffey had the air of a man who was desperately pleased with himself, ‘about half an hour ago, her brother’s cell-phone rang. The detective constable on whose desk it was sat at the time showed remarkable initiative. He answered it, told the female caller that Trevor was in the bog and that he’d left his phone. He told her to call back in ten minutes, then hung up before she had a chance to ask who the hell he was. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Right, so we then take the phone to Trevor’s cell. By this time, he’s worked out that his brief had better have something to offer the judge in mitigation, and also, I think, that we’re the good guys. So he plays along. He tells her that everything’s kosher and he’s still in England, and he keeps her on the line so that we can pinpoint the origin of the call. . the fatal weakness of cell-phones, as you probably know. It was made from the Shoreham Hotel, number thirty-three West Fifty-fifth Street, New York City.’

‘Yes!’ I hissed. ‘Ollie, that selection panel was right: they did pick the right guy for the accelerated promotion course. Thanks, mate, the fucking Milky Bars are on me. Plus, you are now owed a big-time favour by a High Court judge, which you can put in the bank for future use. Cheers, mate.’

I closed the phone and tossed it back across the table to Ricky, then fished my own from my pocket. Ten minutes later my Nice flight was cancelled and I was on the two-ten British Airways shuttle to Heathrow, connecting to JFK. I’d brought enough bloody luggage for two nights, maximum, and I was going to New York: happily I also had all my credit cards and fifty thousand in readies, which for some blessed reason I’d brought with me, possibly because Susie’s parting words, not entirely in jest, had been ‘Don’t come back until you’ve found this woman and got her out of our bloody lives!’

It was tight, but Ricky got me to the airport in time; I was the last person to board the flight and got the usual friendly glares from my fellow passengers, but I ignored them all. I called Dylan’s mobile from the devil’s playground that is Heathrow on the move between terminals.

When he answered, I could hear more background noise. ‘Benny, where are you this time?’

‘The Carnegie Deli, having a late breakfast.’

‘I thought you lived in the Village.’

‘I do, but I’m with the friend I told you about. She’s staying in the Algonquin.’

‘You got a spare room?’

‘No, that’s why she’s in the Algonquin.’

My favourite New York hotel. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘book me in there too, for tonight, maybe tomorrow as well. Meet me in the Blue Bar at seven thirty.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Of course I’m fucking serious. See you later.’

When I called Susie from the departure gate a few minutes later the idea that I might be kidding never crossed her mind. ‘You’re taking me at my word, aren’t you?’ she said.

‘I always do, love, I always do. But I promise you now: when I get home this time, we’re going away. Maybe Los Angeles, maybe Spain, but wherever it is, we’re not going to tell anybody, not even family, where the hell we’re at.’

The New York flight gave me plenty of thinking time, if I’d been able to take advantage of it, but to be honest my brain was numb. All I could focus on was number thirty-three West Fifty-fifth Street, and whether Maddy January was still there. Eventually, as a distraction, I tried to watch Star Wars III: Revenge of the Sith, or Taking the Pith, as a perceptive critic christened it. Ten minutes of that and I was asleep.

The immigration queue at JFK can be a real bugger, even when you have a permanent visa like me, but when you travel upstairs in a jumbo, you’re first off the plane so I got through quickly. I rated a ‘Have a nice day, Mr Blackstone,’ from the desk officer. She didn’t even ask me about the fifty grand declared on my landing card: she probably thought it was just walk-about money for a movie star. (To some I know, it is.)

There were the usual guys outside touting limos, but they can take you anywhere, and very often anywhere other than the place you want to go, then charge you a few hundred dollars for the privilege. I chose an ordinary Yellow Cab, and the driver had me at number fifty-nine West Forty-fourth in just over half an hour.

Mike had booked me a suite, more than I needed for a short stay, but it was pretty classy so I didn’t mind. I dumped my stuff, shaved, and rode the lift down to the Blue Bar. There was a table with a spare Budweiser; Dylan was there, and so was his friend.

‘Hi,’ she said, her cheeks turning a nice shade of pink beneath the Mediterranean tan she’d acquired.

‘Primavera.’ I chuckled as I picked up the beer and took a long swig. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

‘I was bored up in Perthshire.’ She pouted. ‘I’ve been here since Tuesday. Our Benny got a hell of a shock when I called him.’

‘I’d a notion it was you when he mentioned the Algonquin.’ When we were together, Prim and I had a couple of holidays in New York, and we’d stayed there. ‘How did you get into the country?’ I asked her. ‘They’re a bit fussy about admitting convicted felons.’