Stephen Gallagher - The Boat House

"There's someone to see you," the technical operator called through over the talkback system as she pushed her chair back to stand, gathering together her yellow bulletin flimsies with their handwritten amendments. The TO was only about three strides and two sheets of glass away from her, but the talkback gave his voice the quality of a long distance call.

"Who?" she said, and she saw him shrug. Beyond him she could see the afternoon DJ in his studio, a couple more strides and another set of double glazing farther on, hunched over his microphone like a harassed co-pilot.

The TO said, "He talked to you on the phone and you told him to come in. That's what he says. anyway. Amanda put him in the newsroom."

Isobel stepped out into the corridor, quiet except for the ever present low murmur of the station's output as it played over unobtrusive speakers. Dave, the afternoon DJ, was talking over the intro of a record that he was saying had been a big hit in Europe. Dave talked right on and over the start of the lyric, and then made it worse by trying to pretend that his mistake was intentional.

Isobel winced. Here on Sheep-shagger Radio, Dave was about as polished as they got.

She passed the sales office and made the turn toward the newsroom. There was no one in the office, the entire sales team having discovered important appointments that gave them excuses to sneak off home and start the weekend early. There was only one person in the newsroom, and he quickly got to his feet as she entered.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know we already spoke, but what was your name?"

"Please, call me Pavel," he said.

Pavel.

She remembered the call, now; remembered it as soon as she heard his accent. Something about an emergency appeal to a missing person. The fact of it was, Amanda should never have brought him in here at all; she should have kept him in Reception, as per company policy. The man had all the markings of a weirdo. His clothes, dated and drab, appeared to have been slept in. He'd had a bad shave and his hair looked as if it was growing back after having been cut too short. And here were dark rings under his eyes, which burned as if with a fever.

But he'd sounded sincere enough. And he seemed sincere enough now, his piece of paper held ready in his hands, and so with the safety of the newsdesk between them she reached across and took it.

She read it through. She tried not to smile at the wording, and then she handed it back.

"The name's all we'd need," she said. "We can handle the other part ourselves."

"You do this kind of message?"

"Sometimes, when we can fit it in. But we usually work it into the show format somewhere, rather than make it a part of the news. Did you try the BBC? They do emergencies on Radio Four, and it's national."

He nodded. "Nothing came back," he said. "But this is more for young people. I may have more luck."

"If she's in the area," Isobel said.

And Pavel inclined his head, conceding the point.

"So, who is it that's ill? Someone in the family?"

"No. It's her."

Isobel's eyes widened. Her antennae quivered. "Something contagious?"

Pavel smiled, weary but still polite. "No," he said. "This is for her own safety, as much as anything else. But please don't say so on the air."

"Of course," Isobel said, and scribbled a quick memo on the back of some out-of-date wire agency material while the name was still fresh in her mind. A schoolteacher from Eastern Europe, believed to be touring in the area. From what Pavel had said earlier he was working his way around the country, from station to station, leaving exactly the same message at each.

"If anything turns up," she said, "I'll arrange for word to be left on the front desk. That's really all I can do."

"Thank you," he said. "I'll call once every morning."

He probably would, too. He probably had a list of numbers that he called every day, adding to it as he moved around. She wondered if he slept rough, or in his car; he looked as if he might.

At the one way door that led back into the station's tiny foyer and reception area, she stepped aside for him and said, "I hope you find her."

He smiled weakly.

"So do I," he said.

And after he'd gone, and Isobel had returned to the newsroom to file all the dead stories and check the agency printers for the next hour's updates ready to hand over to Jim, the late shift newsreader, it briefly crossed her mind that maybe, just maybe , a rising star of journalism with her eye on the national media might have asked a couple of more searching questions. Might have dug a little for the human interest; might even have probed around to see if there was any backstory worth the follow up.

But the thought didn't stay with her for long.

Instead, she was wondering what kind of remedy Kate Adie used whenever she got a head blocker, and whether she'd ever had to read over livestock prices to what was probably a total early morning audience of three men and a dog.

Their brief talk slipped painlessly from her mind.

While Pavel set out for the next town on his list.

Diane's employer and his immediate circle arrived on the Friday evening.

The circle consisted of Bob Ivie and Tony Marinello — the Old Indespensibles, as Dizzy Liston called them — and four examples of the species that Diane had quickly come to recognise as Dizzy's Women. These were well bred, impeccably turned out, and as dim and empty-headed as pumpkin lanterns. After one drink, their voices could be heard over half a mile away. Fortunately, Jed was going to be sleeping at Mrs Neary's that night; they couldn't have made more noise exploring the hall if they'd found it to be haunted.

The preparations for the party were set to move into top gear on the Saturday morning; Diane would have little more to do than to stand aside and watch the professionals at work. The lights had already arrived that afternoon, the disco would be set up from ten o'clock tomorrow, and a small group of hostesses and security people would be due to arrive some time around three.

The best place for Jed during all of this, she'd decided, would be with his minder; she'd worked out a special weekend rate with Mrs Neary some time ago and had been working on her conscience ever since. It felt too much as if she was shunting him off for her own convenience, even though she knew that it was the only sane and sensible thing to do. She'd explained that he'd be staying away for the two nights, which he'd never done before; she only hoped she'd explained it well enough. Just before seven she left Jed to pick out some toys and books to be taking with him — and it's got to be a portable amount, she warned — and went to check that she wouldn't be needed for a while.

Liston and company were out on the lawn behind the house, where an old fashioned wrought iron table and some matching chairs had been set for them in the evening sunlight. There were the long shadows of wine bottles and glasses across the table, some of the bottles already empty.

"Mineral water for the invalid," she heard someone say as they handed Dizzy a glass, and she saw Dizzy give a wry smile.

"I suppose that's me," he said.

He was in his late thirties, and he had the look of a well worn schoolboy. His face was young, but the mileage showing on it was high. Nevertheless, for all that he'd been around there was definitely something that was attractive and appealing about him; only his eyes gave him away, because they could turn cold and introspective while those around him were whooping it up. Dizzy knew the exact value of the people he kept, which was why he'd given the estate management job to Diane and not to one of his regular hangers on.

"Your lawn's a bit overgrown, Dizzy," one of Dizzy's Women said, looking critically at the grass around her feet.