chapter five

cross-reference

It was these very storm doors that I pounded on with the palm of my hand, having lost faith in the doorbell, early the next afternoon.

When there was still no answer, I extracted the scrap of paper once more from the breast pocket of my shirt to verify that I had the correct address. Once more, I became conscious of a distinct feeling that I was being watched. What now? Glancing at my watch, I cursed and hailed a taxi to return me to the office. I figured I’d better start editing some letters whilst I pondered my next move.

By the time I reached the office a new line of enquiry had occurred to me so that, rather than starting to edit the letters, I approached Kirsty Baird’s desk instead. Kirsty Baird, you will recall, is the buxom blonde cultural commentator who happens to double up as the paper’s literary editor, and she furnished me with Niamh Toe’s mobile number — which meant that I was unable to deduce her place of residence from her area code — with an unsubtle wink of a mascaraed eye.

There was no reply so I left a mumbled message on the book reviewer’s recall service, stressing the importance of her returning my call whilst striving not to sound overly anxious.

As I waited on tenterhooks for my phone to ring, I started to select the letters I would edit for the next morning’s page with one eye on the clock and the other on the bevelled glass partition, behind which I could see the distorted bulk of John Kerr, the paper’s editor, puffing away in his smoke-filled aquarium. I was wondering whether to confess to the predicament in which I found myself, his likely reaction to such a confession and its probable impact on my career prospects.

Was this not a situation that I alone had created and should accept sole responsibility for? Would not a confession equate to a pathetic attempt to shift the burden of responsibility from my own shoulders on to those of a superior? Or was a full and frank confession not my last chance of admitting my error before plunging into a labyrinth of lies from which there would be no guaranteed return?

I opted to ponder these questions further rather than act rashly, attempting, but failing, to concentrate on the letters at hand.

Half an hour later I followed Baird into the kitchen, under the pretext of rinsing my teacup, in order to interrogate her about Niamh Toe. Baird proved to be as scatty as I had suspected. It transpired that she had never actually met Toe and only ever communicated with her via her mobile. I returned to my desk no more than a minute after I’d departed it to discover that a caller had left me a voicemail. I knew before I heard her voice that it was Toe. Her message was succinct.

‘Returning your call,’ she drawled, sounding as if she was chewing gum. ‘I’m on my way out and won’t be contactable for the rest of the day. Call me now or tomorrow after twelve.’

I re-dialled her number immediately and when the ringing tone was replaced by a recording of her voice inviting me to leave a message I cursed aloud.

‘Tomorrow’s too late!’ I blurted after the tone. ‘This is urgent. Please call back.’ Twenty-nine seconds later (not thirty — I counted them) my phone managed to emit a split second of a ring before I yanked the receiver from its rest.

‘What’s so urgent that it can’t wait till tomorrow?’ she asked, disinterestedly.

‘I can’t explain over the phone — ’

‘You’d better try.’

‘I can’t — it’s a delicate matter — ’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Ian Thome,’ I said. ‘I need to speak to you about Ian Thome.’

‘Who’s Ian Thome?’

‘He wrote a letter in my paper in response to your review of a book called Original Harm by Tom Haine.’

‘And?’

‘And I really need to speak to you about it — today.’

There was a hesitation and then a sigh of exasperation.

‘I’m on my way to the Mitchell Library. Meet me in the general reference section in half an hour. I’ll give you five minutes.’

I arrived ten minutes early, scanned the room, but found no obvious candidates who corresponded to the voice of Niamh Toe. I endured the eternity of the next ten minutes glancing at the door, my watch and an encyclopaedia that lay open before me and within which I was attempting to appear engrossed. For the umpteenth time that day, I began to feel that I was being watched.

Two minutes later than the time allotted for our assignation, a striking girl entered. She had flawless Cadbury-coloured skin; bee-stung lips and swaying hips that she swayed straight past me and out the other door without making eye contact. Could that have been her? Should I follow her? I listened to her retreating footsteps grow faint until I substituted my doubt-filled inertia for action.

‘Excuse me!’ I called, my voice reverberating along the chequered tiled corridor. She stopped and glanced back to find me running towards her.

‘You don’t happen to be Niamh Toe, do you?’ I enquired, fighting for breath.

‘No,’ she said, already turning away, consigning me to history with a flick of a corkscrew-curled fringe.

I stood for a moment, rooted by her rhythm, then turned heel and returned to the reference section.

On re-entering the room, I ignored the inquisitive glance from an unfamiliar librarian and, instead, carried out a rapid reconnaissance which confirmed that no new browsers had entered. Then, over in the far corner, I noticed that the entrance doors were swinging. Someone had just exited. I sprinted over, pushed them open, and scanned an empty corridor for someone who might look a likely candidate for Niamh Toe. Disconsolate, I returned to mope around until I’d convinced myself it was hopeless to wait any longer.

On my return, the librarian glanced at me again. I met her glance with a glare.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

‘Not unless your name’s Niamh Toe,’ I said.

She gave me a look and smiled (to herself — not to me).

‘You wanted to ask me something about Ian Thome,’ she said.

‘That’s right,’ I confirmed, flustered but attempting (and failing miserably) to disguise it. ‘Have you read his letter in response to your review?’

‘No.’

‘Can I show it to you?’ I asked, already retrieving it from my shirt pocket.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve been told it’s scathing.’

‘So was your review,’ I said. She shrugged.

We’d reached an impasse. I seized the opportunity to assess her.

She wore no make-up. She had no need to. That said, I was intimidated more by her manner than her beauty. Though terse, I suspected that she was shielding a fragile ego. I knew all about that. She appeared incapable of penning the other letter folded in my pocket.

‘Words can occasionally incite a chain reaction of excitable — even extreme — responses,’ I said, alluding to the threatening letter to gauge her reaction (there wasn’t one).

‘Haine’s book incited a strongly-worded critique from you; your critique incited a vehement defence of Haine from Ian Thome; Thome’s letter incited an extreme response from somebody else — ’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know yet — but I need to find out very quickly.’

‘Why?’

I hesitated, glanced at my watch, realised that I had no time to act coy, and summarised my predicament — without revealing the precise nature of the kidnapper’s demands.

‘Am I a suspect?’ she asked.

‘Of course not,’ I said.

‘Why not?’

I was starting to find her directness unsettling.

‘Have you ever heard of Craig Liddell?’ She ignored this blatant diversionary tactic.

‘Why am I not a suspect?’

‘Because,’ I stumbled, ‘you don’t look capable of such a thing.’

‘Looks can be deceiving,’ she said. ‘What does a kidnapper look like?’

‘I don’t know — not like you. Should you be a suspect?’

‘Who’s Craig Liddell?’ she asked, and I told her, not realising till later that she’d deployed my own diversionary tactic against me.

I explained that the letter writer was agitated about Original Harm and antagonistic towards its author while her book review revealed her to be a woman of conviction and wondered aloud whether she was aware of any individual or organisation whose views mirrored those expressed within the letter.

‘Have you even read Original Harm?’ she asked.