Ken Follett - the Third Twin (1996)

Lisa highlighted the listing and pressed F2. There was a rapid series of beeps from the computer’s modem. Jeannie picked up the phone.

She heard seven rings, then a sleepy voice answered: “Yes?”

“This is Detective Susan Farber of the Amherst Police Department,” she said. She half expected him to say, “The hell it is,” but he made no response, and she went on briskly: “We’re sorry to call you in the middle of the night, but it’s an urgent police matter. Am I speaking to Henry Irwin King?”

“Yes—what’s happened?”

It sounded like the voice of a middle-aged man, but Jeannie persisted just to be sure. “This is just a routine inquiry.”

That was a mistake. “Routine?” he said tetchily. “At this time of night?”

Improvising hastily, she said: “We’re investigating a serious crime and we need to eliminate you as a suspect, sir. Could you tell me your date and place of birth?”

“I was born in Greenfield, Massachusetts, on the fourth of May, 1945. Okay?”

“You don’t have a son of the same name, do you?”

“No, I have three daughters. Can I go back to sleep now?”

“We don’t need to trouble you any further. Thank you for cooperating with the police, and have a good night’s rest.” She hung up and looked triumphantly at Lisa. “See? He talked to me. He didn’t like it, but he talked.”

Lisa laughed. “Dr. Ferrami, you have a talent to deceive.”

Jeannie grinned. “All it takes is chutzpah. Let’s do the Henry I. Kings. I’ll call the first two, you take the last two.”

Only one of them could use the automatic dialing feature. Jeannie found a scratch pad and a ballpoint and scribbled the two numbers, then she picked up a phone and dialed manually. A male voice answered and she went into her spiel. “This is Detective Susan Farber of the Boston city police—”

“What the fuck are you doing calling me at this time of night?” the man burst out. “Do you know who I am?”

“I assume you’re Henry King—”

“Assume you just lost your fucking job, you dumb cunt,” he raged. “Susan who did you say?”

“I just need to check on your date of birth, Mr. King—”

“Let me speak to your lieutenant right away.”

“Mr. King—”

“Do as I say!”

“Goddamn gorilla,” Jeannie said, and she hung up. She felt quite shaky. “I hope it’s not going to be a night of conversations like that.”

Lisa had already hung up. “Mine was Jamaican, and had the accent to prove it,” she said. “I gather yours was unpleasant.”

“Very.”

“We could stop now, and continue in the morning.”

Jeannie was not going to be defeated by one rude man. “Hell, no,” she said. “I can take a little verbal abuse.”

“Whatever you say.”

“He sounded a lot older than twenty-two, so we can forget him. Let’s try the other two.”

Bracing herself, she dialed again.

Her third Henry King had not yet gone to bed; there was music in the background and other voices in the room. “Yeah, who’s this?” he said.

He sounded about the right age, and Jeannie felt hopeful. She did her impersonation of a cop again, but he was suspicious. “How do I know you’re the police?”

He sounded just like Steve, and Jeannie’s heart missed a beat. This could be one of the clones. But how should she deal with his suspicions? She decided to brazen it out. “Would you like to call me back here at police headquarters?” she offered recklessly.

There was a pause. “No, forget it,” he said.

Jeannie breathed again.

“I’m Henry King,” he said. “They call me Hank. What do you want?”

“Could I first check your date and place of birth?”

“I was born in Fort Devens exactly twenty-two years ago.

It’s my birthday, as a matter of fact. Well, it was yesterday, Saturday.”

It was him! Jeannie had found one clone already. Next she had to establish whether he was in Baltimore last Sunday. She tried to keep the excitement out of her voice as she said: “Could you tell me when you last traveled outside the state?”

“Let me see, that was August. I went to New York.”

Jeannie’s instincts said he was telling the truth, but she continued to question him. “What were you doing last Sunday?”

“I was working.”

“What work do you do?”

“Well, I’m a graduate student at MIT, but I have a Sunday job tending bar at the Blue Note Cafe in Cambridge.”

Jeannie scribbled a note. “And that’s where you were last Sunday?”

“Yep. Served at least a hundred people.”

“Thank you, Mr. King.” If this was true, he was not the one who had raped Lisa. “Would you just give me that phone number so I can confirm your alibi?”

“I don’t recall the number, but it’s in the book. What am I supposed to have done?”

“We’re investigating a case of arson.”

“I’m glad I have an alibi.”

She found it unnerving to hear Steve’s voice and know she was listening to a stranger. She wished she could see Henry King, to check the visual resemblance. Reluctantly she drew the conversation to a close. “Thank you again, sir. Good night.” She hung up and blew out her cheeks, drained by the effort of deception. “Whew!”

Lisa had been listening. “You found him?”

“Yes, he was born in Fort Devens and he’s twenty-two today. He’s the Henry King we’re looking for, sure enough.”

“Good work!”

“But he seems to have an alibi. He says he was working at a bar in Cambridge.” She looked at her scratch pad. “The Blue Note.”

“Shall we check it out?” Lisa’s hunting instinct had been aroused and she was keen.

Jeannie nodded. “It’s late, but I guess a bar should still be open, especially on a Saturday night. Can you get the number from your CD-ROM?”

“We only have residential numbers. Business listings are another set of disks.”

Jeannie called information, got the number, and dialed it. The phone was answered right away.

“This is Detective Susan Farber of the Boston police. Let me speak to the manager, please.”

“This is the manager, what’s wrong?” The man had a Hispanic accent and he sounded worried.

“Do you have an employee named Henry King?”

“Hank, yeah, what he do now?”

It sounded as if Henry King had been in trouble with the law before. “Maybe nothing. When did you last see him?’

“Today, I mean yesterday, Saturday, he was working the day shift.”

“And before that?”

“Lemme see, last Sunday, he worked the four-to-midnight.”

“Would you swear to that if necessary, sir?”

“Sure, why not? Whoever got killed, Hank didn’t do it.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, sir.”

“Hey, no problem.” The manager seemed relieved that was all she wanted. If I were a real cop, Jeannie thought, I’d guess he had a guilty conscience. “Call me any time.” He hung up.

Jeannie said disappointedly: “Alibi stands up.”

“Don’t be downhearted,” Lisa said. “We’ve done very well to eliminate him so quickly—especially as it’s such a common name. Let’s try Per Ericson. There won’t be so many of them.”

The Pentagon list said Per Ericson had been born in Fort Rucker, but twenty-two years later there were no Per Ericsons in Alabama. Lisa tried

P * Erics?on

in case it should be spelled with a double s, then she tried

P*Erics$n

to include the spellings “Ericsen” and “Ericsan,” but the computer found nothing.

“Try Philadelphia,” Jeannie suggested. “That’s where he attacked me.”

There were three in Philadelphia. The first turned out to be a Peder, the second was a frail elderly voice on an answering machine, and the third was a woman, Petra. Jeannie and Lisa began to work their way through all the P. Ericsons in the United States, thirty-three listings.