Peter May - The Fourth Sacrifice

‘You thought I was the waiter?’ And his face lit up with amusement, dark warm eyes twinkling at her.

‘Oh, my God.’ Margaret couldn’t bring herself to look at him. ‘I am so sorry.’ But when she did sneak a glance, it was clear he had not taken offence.

‘I’m afraid I’m a self-inflicted guest, just like you.’ He had dimples either side of a wide smile, strong eyebrows below shiny auburn hair swept back from his temples. He was older than Margaret had first supposed, she saw now. Mid, perhaps even late, thirties. There was just the hint of grey streaked through his hair. ‘The waiter was looking for you down the other end of the room. He said you were with Sophie, so I took the drink off him and figured if I could find Sophie I’d find you. And I did.’

Margaret was still overcome with the embarrassment of her faux pas . ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again, at a loss for anything else to say.

‘Don’t be. It’s my own fault really. I was so keen to meet the woman who wanted to …’ he paused for effect, ‘… run the rule over my ass, that I completely forgot to introduce myself.’

Margaret felt her face flush with embarrassment.

He held out his hand. ‘Michael Zimmerman.’

It was one of those few times in her life when Margaret was at a complete loss for words. She shook his hand, feeling like a total idiot. How could he possibly know about her conversation with Sophie? How could she possibly mistake him for a waiter? She didn’t know which was more embarrassing. And those smiling eyes of his continued to hold her relentlessly in their gaze. She might have sunk without trace, but recovered just in time. ‘Actually, the only way I’d measure anything of yours would be on an autopsy table.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘Sophie told me. We both deal in death, you and I.’

‘Do we?’

‘You cut them up, I dig them up.’

Margaret fixed him with a steely glare. ‘And I’ve been set up, haven’t I? Sophie hadn’t even appeared when I ordered my drink. Who is she anyway, your little sister?’

‘Close,’ Michael said. ‘She went to school with my little sister. Had a crush on me since she was three and I was fifteen.’ He lifted a glass of red wine from the table and took a sip. ‘She thought you needed cheering up.’

‘Oh, did she?’ Margaret wasn’t sure she liked being an object of pity.

‘Hey, don’t be hard on her. She’s a good kid. Smart, too.’ He took another sip of wine. ‘She just couldn’t believe you didn’t know who I was.’

‘And neither, presumably, could you. Must be a bit of a blow to the celebrity ego to find that not everyone in the world knows who you are.’

‘Hey …’ Michael grinned. ‘Now don’t start getting chippy on me. I said I would only participate in this childish prank if you turned out to be drop-dead gorgeous.’

In spite of herself, Margaret couldn’t resist a smile. ‘Oh, did you?’

‘So I watched for you coming in, and …’

‘And …?’

‘Well, I just figured anybody that ugly sure as hell needs cheering up.’

Margaret laughed, and was surprised to find herself attracted to him. Which was disturbing. Was she really drawn to the same stereotypical male that appealed to the readership of Cosmopolitan ? The thought filled her with horror. But then, she consoled herself, the readership of Cosmopolitan had never met him in the flesh. It wasn’t the image she found attractive, but the man. And she had no preconceived perception of him as a media personality. She’d thought he was a waiter, for God’s sake! Anyway, it was a long time since she had indulged in a little harmless flirting. ‘I should have realised,’ she said. ‘A real waiter would have had more class.’

‘I’m sure he would,’ Michael said. ‘It’s what my critics accuse me of. A lack of class. You know, the kind of snobbish élitism that would normally consign a documentary on archaeology to some obscure cable channel watched by a handful of people.’

‘Ouch,’ said Margaret. ‘Did I touch a nasty contusion just beneath the skin?’

‘No,’ Michael grinned. ‘A great big open wound. I just got mauled by the TV critic of the New York Times , who thinks I reduce history to the level of soap opera.’

‘And do you?’

‘Well, yes, actually I probably do,’ Michael nodded. ‘But, you know, what that guy missed is that good soap opera is just good storytelling, and history is bursting with good stories to be told. I mean, you’re a forensic pathologist, right?’ Margaret nodded. ‘So nobody knows better than you. Every crime has its story, motivated by any number of things — greed, lust, jealousy … And it’s your job to peel away the layers that obscure that story, to piece together, bit by bit, the trail of evidence that will lead eventually to the truth.’

Margaret laughed. ‘You make it sound almost exciting. I can assure you, most of the time it’s pretty dull.’

He had become quite intense, focused, as if holding something in his mind’s eye that required absolute concentration to describe. ‘Of course it is. It’s a painful, painstaking process that requires endless patience and a clear vision of where it’s leading. But the truth is never dull — that extraordinary mix of human passion and frailty, maybe darkness, that leads to the commission of the crime. Do you see what I mean?’

Margaret shook her head. She had no idea where he was leading her. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘It’s what I do,’ he said. ‘The same thing as you. It’s what archaeology is all about. Peeling back the layers — usually of time — to uncover the evidence, all the little clues left us by history, that will lead eventually to the truth. And how extraordinary that truth can be. How compelling and emotive, and filled with the same human passion and frailty and darkness that motivates the crimes that you investigate. Why shouldn’t I bring those stories to people? They’re good stories. A good story is always worth telling. And if you tell it well you’ll get an audience.’ He stopped suddenly, as if surprised by his own outburst and uncertain as to where it had led him.

Margaret shrugged. ‘So … the TV critic of the New York Times can stick it up his ass?’

There was just a moment before Michael burst out laughing, an uninhibited, infectious laugh. ‘Now why didn’t I think of that? I could have saved myself a lot of hot air.’

But in that ‘hot air’, Margaret had caught, perhaps, a glimpse of what it was that had made him so successful on the small screen: the passion and personality that compelled you to listen, to hear his story, an intensity that in life, she thought, could become wearing. Although in Michael’s case, she considered, his sense of humour might just be a mitigating factor. That, and a great ass.

He drained his glass and lifted another, nodding towards the terrace. ‘You want to step outside? It’s getting a bit airless in here.’

They followed the dark marble tiles out from the dining room through the French windows on to the terrace. It was immediately cooler, a light breeze stirring the hanging fronds of the willow that in daytime would provide much needed shade from the sun.

‘Two moons out tonight,’ Michael said, and Margaret immediately looked up, but could see nothing through the dark haze of pollution and cloud. He smiled at her consternation and nodded towards the quintet playing intently, lost in their own world, at the far side of the terrace. He leaned towards her, confidentially. ‘The two guitar-like instruments with the circular sound boxes — they’re called ruans , or sometimes “moon guitars”. You can see why.’ And Margaret could, particularly out here on the terrace, the pale wood of the perfectly round sound boxes flashing in the reflected light of discreet overhead lamps, for all the world like two moons dancing in time to the music. She liked the analogy. There was something pleasing about it. She finished her vodka.