Quintin Jardine - Alarm Call

‘Good question. I’d probably still have left.’

‘But only probably. So you agree that the times weren’t all bad then?’

I looked at her. Most of the anger had left me now; what was left was focused on Johnson. ‘That’s why you took me to San Francisco and Westwood, isn’t it?’ I asked.

‘Of course it is. And,’ she added, heavily, ‘I didn’t even have to suggest the Campton Place. You did that all by yourself, which told me a hell of a lot.’

When I thought about it, I had to admit that it told me the same. I’d been lying to myself back then: it had been good at times.

‘Prim,’ I asked her. ‘Please tell me where I can find this guy. I’m not giving you any money; you have to know that by now.’

‘I know,’ she conceded. ‘But that’s not important any more. Fucking your career and your marriage good and proper will be more than enough for me.’

‘You can forget wrecking my marriage. That’s secure.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

I grinned and played her my pocket PC recording. ‘Susie’s heard that. She’s on her way here, right now.’

She glared at me, in the purest frustration. ‘And what about your career?’ she shot back.

‘If I have to defend it by having you thrown in jail and obtaining world-wide court injunctions to suppress those shots I’ll do it.’

‘Well, you’re going to have to,’ she hissed, ‘for Nicky’s out of my control.’

‘And what about Tom?’ I asked her. ‘Who’s controlling him?’

She took me completely by surprise, as she’d done a week and more before, by flushing and starting to cry. ‘You leave Tom out of this,’ she said. ‘He’s being well looked after, and he’s safe.’

‘Until when? Until he becomes a bargaining chip?’

‘That won’t happen!’

‘Are you so sure? Your sleaze-ball friend Nicky’s on the run from the police now. All he’s got to look forward to is spending the next thirty years having his arsehole cored in some maximum-security jail. You think he won’t use your kid as a free ride out of the country? Are you really sure of that, in what passes for your heart of hearts?’ Suddenly I was angry with her again, even angrier than I’d been before, and I couldn’t quite work out why.

‘Are you sure?’ I yelled at her. I grabbed her by the arms, picked her off the couch and shook her like a doll. ‘Are you sure?’

Her face twisted, contorted into something that looked like real pain. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘Right, to hell with Nicky. I’ll deal with him when I’ve got the time. Tell me where I can find Tom.’

She fought for composure, then looked up at me, fearfully. ‘I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know.’ I thought she was lying to me until she said, ‘You’ll have to ask John Wallinger.’

In my surprise, I loosened my grip. She twisted free of me and ran sobbing into the bedroom.

‘Oz, I truly do not understand what you’re saying to me.’

I hadn’t gone in swinging when I’d phoned the lieutenant, but I was ready to if it came to it. I repeated Prim’s words, exactly. ‘That’s what she said,’ I insisted, ‘and for once in her life I don’t think she was lying.’

‘Then I can’t think what she means.’

The certainty in his voice was as great as hers had been; I was puzzled. I scratched around for anything else to tell him, and then I came up with something to ask. ‘Does the name Nicky Johnson mean anything to you?’

There was a pregnant silence, which eventually gave birth to one softly uttered word. ‘Fuck.’ It wasn’t what I’d expected from an upright God-fearing Midwesterner.

‘It has to be Marcie,’ he murmured.

‘Who’s Marcie?’

‘My sister.’

It’s funny how you can overlook little things at first, then see how they fall perfectly into place. In mystery novels, they call them clues. When Mark Kravitz had told me about the obituary of John the First, he had said that Paul was the oldest of three children.

‘Her name’s Marcela,’ he went on. ‘If Paul was the black sheep of our family, I suppose you could call her the black ewe. She was just as much of a nonconformist as him, so they always bonded. She didn’t have any talent of her own, so she basked in his. When he left, she went with him, and she’s drifted around California ever since.’

‘So you’ve kept in touch with her?’

‘I’ve made it my business always to know where she is.’

‘What do you talk about?’

‘Her life, what she’s doing, anything but Paul. . I’ve always made it clear that he was a forbidden subject. Given what I know now, she really did take me at my word.’

‘Where does Johnson come in?’

‘She’s been living with him, on and off, for years. They met through Paul, and they developed this thing; half the time she hates him, but she can’t let him go.’

‘Have you ever met him?’

‘Hell, no. I haven’t seen Marcie since Dad died, far less got to know her lovers. What’s he done, this guy?’

‘He’s the man who’s been impersonating Paul. When the passport agency runs down his application, they’ll find his photograph on file.’

‘I should have worked that out for myself,’ he muttered into the phone. ‘Some detective, huh? Where is he now?’

‘On the run from Las Vegas Metro Police, on a date-rape charge, and from me, for other things. I think he’s gone to your sister. I think that’s where Tom is too, with her. I need you to help me find her.’

‘I should give any information I have to Metro. You know that, don’t you, Oz?’

‘Yes. All I’m asking is that we run him to ground before you do that.’

I expected him to hesitate, but he didn’t. ‘Date rape?’ he murmured. ‘Get a flight to San Francisco, and hire a car. Meet me at the information desk in the main terminal, five o’clock tonight.’

I delivered Prim back into the care of the Gradis, then booked myself on to an afternoon America West flight to San Francisco … I thought about using Troy Hawkins again but that would have been pushing it. . and another S-type from Hertz, with a navigation system, of course. I’d no idea where I was being taken, so I expected it to come in handy.

I went down to the arcade and bought myself a light bag. I packed enough for a one-night stay, told Everett where I was going and set off for McCarron. The flight was delayed by almost an hour, but that still left me enough time to pick up the car, park it and be at the information desk in the domestic terminal for five.

John Wallinger the Second was flustered when he arrived, towing a medium-sized case behind him. I’d no idea how he’d travelled from Santa Fe, but it must have been tortuous.

As we retrieved the Jag from the park and drove out of the airport, John gave me an address. ‘Fourteen-ten Cabrillo Highway South, Half Moon Bay.’

I entered it into the system’s data bank and let it take over; I had no idea where I was going, or even in which direction. I just did as I was told, taking Interstate 280 until it was time to turn on to Highway 92 West, a twisty road that reminded me of Scotland in parts. We weren’t on it for long, though, only about eight miles, before I was ordered to take a left turn on to Cabrillo Highway.

We almost drove past the place we were after; I’ll swear the system shouted at me to stop. I pulled up at the side of the road and looked at it. There was a big sign outside that read ‘Cameron’s Pub and Inn’, and had a Union Jack emblazoned across it. Just in case anyone didn’t get the message, there was a red telephone box in the front, and a couple of genuine old-fashioned London double-decker buses parked outside.