Ian Rankin - Westwind

He kept few friends, but those he did keep, when entertained for the first time at his home, could not help but comment on its size, and on the superb works of art he had collected over the years. He would smile, and then move the conversation along to literary gossip or some commentary on current affairs. For Mr Vitalis loved conversation.

Today, however, the few regulars who called at the Palladio for an afternoon’s tea and chatter found the usual pavement stall locked up inside the shop, and the shop itself deserted, with a neatly written note sellotaped to the inside of the glass door: Apologies, friends, but Palladio closes early today. Business as usual tomorrow.

They’d never heard the like: Mr Vitalis shutting up shop early? Perhaps there was a woman behind it. After all, he was a man of the world. They were sure there would be some story in it, and surer still that Mr Vitalis would be telling the story tomorrow afternoon over tea.

Not many would have looked for Mr Vitalis in the back of a black cab, for he was known to abhor the things, always choosing to travel by Tube or bus or foot.

‘I’m a social animal at heart, you see,’ he would explain.

And while he was considered something of an aesthete, his tastes could not be said to be expensive in most areas, so some might have been more surprised still to see the taxi drop him outside a Park Lane hotel called the Achilles, where, having paid the driver, he talked animatedly for several minutes with the uniformed doorman. He then entered the hotel lobby, while the doorman stared evenly at the traffic roaring past the entrance.

Mr Vitalis looked as though such hotels were part of his everyday existence, walking up to the reception desk with a polite smile on his face and his eyes as dark as the shiniest black olives.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘I’m expecting a friend. I wonder, has he arrived yet? His name is Mr Devereux, an American.’

The clerk checked the register, then remembered.

‘Oh yes, sir,’ he said. ‘No, Mr Devereux hasn’t arrived yet. We have some mail waiting for him. That’s why I recall the name.’

Mr Vitalis looked surprised.

‘But I am right, am I not? I mean, he is due today?’

The clerk flipped over a page of the register. ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘We have Mr Devereux’s name in for tomorrow.’

‘Ah.’ Mr Vitalis nodded. ‘I must have a crossed line then. Well, tomorrow it is. Thank you.’

And with that he turned and walked back through the lobby, pushing his way out of the main door, which he held open courteously for an elderly lady and the fruits of her shopping trip. On the hotel steps, he paused again to exchange some words with the doorman. Not many words this time, but they seemed to leave their impression, for the doorman’s cheeks were crimson with shame as Mr Vitalis walked towards the taxi rank, where he opened the door of a waiting cab, heaved himself in and slammed it shut behind him.

Hepton had been thinking about it all the way back to the base. So much so that when he glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw no sign of any car following him, he merely shrugged and kept on driving.

They were surprised to see him at the gate.

‘Thought you’d got a couple of days’ leave,’ one guard said.

‘Can’t keep away,’ Hepton replied, starting the car forward as the barrier rose to let him into the compound.

He parked, then went straight to Fagin’s office, a small whitewashed room next to the female toilets on the second level. There was always a faint aroma of urine and disinfectant in the room, which nobody mentioned and everyone put down to its location. But Fagin seemed happy there; some might have said disturbingly so.

Fagin, too, was surprised to see him, but admitted as much only by the raising of his thin eyebrows when Hepton walked in through the door.

‘Sit down, Martin, please.’ Hepton sat. ‘Have you seen Paul?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how is he?’

Hepton looked around the room before answering. There were photographs of satellites, spaceships and aircraft covering the walls, and three pinboards filled with postcards and other memorabilia. Then he looked towards Fagin.

‘He’s fine,’ he said.

‘Good,’ said Fagin, returning the look. ‘So what can I do for you?’

That was the question, thought Hepton: what could Fagin do for him? What was it Paul Vincent had said...?

‘Actually,’ he began, ‘it’s about Paul. He looks so fit, he reminded me it’s a while since I’ve had a break. I mean a proper break. I was wondering if I could be spared for a week or two.’

Fagin seemed to consider this. ‘Well...’

‘I know I’m not due any additional leave right now,’ Hepton continued. He was waiting for a shake of the head. Fagin hated to see people go off on holiday. Work was what he lived for, and he didn’t see why others shouldn’t be the same. So Hepton waited. He knew he wasn’t owed any holiday time, and Fagin knew it, too. Besides which, there was a strict routine to be obeyed, which meant giving four weeks’ notice of intended vacations.

Fagin’s face wrinkled.

‘I’m not sure we can spare you just at the moment, Martin. I take it you’d want your leave to start immediately?’

‘If possible, yes.’

Fagin was shaking his head, but slowly. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said again.

‘Nick Christopher could stand in for me,’ Hepton said, thinking fast. ‘He knows the set-up on my console as well as I know it myself. And Curtees could take over from him.’

‘I’ll have to think about it, Martin. I’ll try to give you an answer one way or the other as soon as I can, but no promises.’

‘Well, thanks anyway.’ Hepton made to rise, but paused. ‘Oh, one more thing, sir.’

‘Yes, Martin?’

‘Have you discovered what went wrong with Zephyr? ’

‘Not yet. I’m just thankful we didn’t lose her altogether.’

‘Yes, so you keep saying.’ Hepton rose from the chair. ‘It couldn’t have anything to do with whatever else was up there, could it?’

Fagin smiled quizzically. ‘How do you mean, Martin?’

Hepton shook his head. ‘No, maybe not. I just thought that whatever it was that was up there interfering with Zephyr ’s airspace might have caused the satellite to malfunction temporarily.’

‘There wasn’t anything else up there.’ Fagin seemed bemused. ‘What made you think there was?’

‘Oh, just Paul’s data. Have you checked it yet?’

‘I told you, the disk—’

‘Oh yes, the disk malfunctioned too, didn’t it?’ Hepton shook his head. ‘Well, these things happen, don’t they, sir?’ he commented archly.

‘Yes, they do, Martin,’ said Fagin coolly, watching as Hepton walked to the door and made his exit.

Hepton descended the metal stairs to the ground-floor level and walked along the corridor towards where two telephone booths were situated. As usual, one of these had a notice taped to it saying OUT OF ORDER , to which some wag had prefixed the single word BANG . But the other telephone was working. Hepton dialled directory enquiries. His call was answered immediately.

‘Hello,’ he began. ‘I’d like the number of a hospital in Grimsby. It may be the only hospital, I’m not sure.’

A few moments later, he had several numbers in the back of his diary. He drew lines beneath them all with his pen, thanked the operator and rang off. Then, finding more change in his pocket, he dialled the first number.

‘Hello,’ he repeated, when the call was finally answered. ‘Could you put me through to Dr McGill, please?’

It took the receptionist a little time. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last, ‘there’s no Dr McGill working here.’