David Bliss is pacing at Vancouver’s downtown police station. He’s anxious for members of the press to settle, and the conference to begin, when Peter Bryan gets through to him on Phillips’s cell phone with news of Maurice Joliffe’s escapade. It’s still morning on the Pacific coast, and still raining, but it’s six in the evening in soggy London, where the Friday rush hour is winding down and the snarl-up in Kensington High Road is gradually being straightened out.
Despite the continuing rain, a crowd of rubber-neckers hang around as a tow truck hooks up the last of the smashed vehicles; while accident investigators take measurements and insurance adjusters scour the area searching for loopholes amongst the wreckage.
Constable Wendy Martin is in the emergency room at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. She will recuperate, once the bullet has been removed from her thigh; however, the fate of Joliffe’s vintage bicycle is less certain. The mangled machine will probably end up as a curio in the force museum, though for now it sits in the evidence room at Kensington police station, together with the gun and the bag of stolen money.
Maurice Joliffe is also something of a curio, and a parade of amused officers take it in turn to gawk at the hapless, patched-up villain while he sits in the interview room, not knowing whether to chuckle or cry, as he waits for the legal-aid lawyer.
“Good news, Dave,” says Bryan, as Bliss prepares to support Trina’s anxiety-drained husband at the press conference. “We may have a breakthrough in the suicide cases.”
“Oh. That’s good,” says Bliss absently, without admitting that since Daphne’s disappearance he has given little thought to the situation that had triggered the imbroglio.
“Yeah, some old geezer on a bike just pulled off a blagging at a bank in Kensington, then he plugged one of the uniformed grunts on his way out.”
“Okay, Peter, but that’s armed robbery and assault on police,” replies Bliss tetchily. “What the hell has that got to do with a bunch of crumblies topping themselves?”
“I’ve no idea,” says Bryan, “but the robbery squad just called and they reckoned we’d be interested. Anyway, I’m going to interview him. I’ll call you back.”
Bliss has a perplexed look as he hands the phone back to his Mountie friend, but the hubbub is dying down in the room — the press conference is about to get under way — and he switches his focus back to Trina’s husband, who is being paraded in front of the cameras by a uniformed superintendent. Rick Button has the fearful look of a shell-shocked prisoner, and every flash of a camera makes him jump as he edges his way to his seat at the table.
“Take your time,” advises the superintendent as the wall of reporters seem to crowd in on Button, and the sleep-deprived man suddenly takes in the scene as if he has been caught in his bathtub by a party of visiting nuns.
“Umm… umm…” he stutters, his eyes darting back and forth, looking for somewhere to run.
“Just send a message to Trina,” suggests Bliss gently in Rick Button’s ear, as he lays a hand on the distraught man’s shoulder. “Let her know we’ve not given up.”
Button wipes his eyes with the flat of his hand, forces himself higher in the chair and focuses into the middle-distance, like a drunkard trying to see through the fog of inebriation. “I… I want whoever is holding my wife… to let her go,” he stumbles through his tears, and Bliss watches with growing irritation as media hangers-on and camera crews wander around in the background, nattering about baseball and laughing at corny jokes, in a world that is, for them, a playground of normality.
“Sir, why do you suspect that someone is holding the women?” queries a reporter, seizing on Rick’s faltering diction to slip in an early question.
“I… I don’t… know what to think anymore…” mumbles Button and, as the distressed man’s voice gradually becomes incoherent, Bliss snatches the microphone from under his nose.
“Look, there are two women missing,” declares Bliss firmly, once he has introduced himself. “Two women who happen to mean a great deal to their friends and families — and to me personally. And while I realize it may be inconvenient for a certain government to acknowledge what’s happened to them, it is time to let them go home.”
The immediate hush is palpable as another reporter begins to ask the obvious. “Are you suggesting —” she begins, but Bliss chimes in, “Yes. We have every reason to believe they are being held against their will by the American authorities.”
“Where?”
“At a clandestine government establishment south of the border,” continues Bliss with such forthrightness that there is a collective intake of breath.
The chatting stops. Cameramen rush to finely refocus their lenses. Sound men check their audio levels. And in the so-called monastery, John Dawson smacks his head into his hands and mutters, “Oh, shit.”
“Fuck!” spits Bumface, alongside Dawson, as Bliss continues, straight to the camera. “… And I want to warn those people who are holding them, whoever they are: I’ve made it my mission to expose your activities to the world.”
“What activities?” is one question drowned out by a cacophony of scandal hungry pressmen.
“Those are mighty fighting words, Chief Inspector,” booms a baritone voice above the hullabaloo, and the burly Canadian reporter holds the floor as he continues. “Sounds like you’re declaring war on someone.”
“Well, I’m not the first David to take on a Goliath,” concedes Bliss. “But if that’s the way they want to play it…”
“Shuddup, you jerk,” mumbles Dawson at his television set. “You’ve got no idea what you’re dealing with.”
“All I can say is that I suggest you look no further than the U.S. government if I have a nasty accident…” Bliss continues, but leaves the sentence hanging as a Seattle Times reporter challenges him.
“That’s taking it a bit far, isn’t it, sir?”
“Well, they’ve tried spiked belts and machine guns to keep me out so far,” carries on Bliss, leaving Dawson mumbling, “Jesus Christ! Will somebody please shut him up.” But Bliss is on a roll. “Unless they release the women immediately, I will take whatever action I deem appropriate to rescue them.”
“Are you seriously suggesting that the government of the United States of America is responsible for abducting them?” asks an incredulous television newsman, and Bliss stares open-faced at the bank of cameras to reply: “And you, sir, are seriously suggesting that America doesn’t have a history of kidnapping and holding people against their will?”
A titter of accord rings around the room, but in Washington state, John Dawson is not laughing as he downs a couple of painkillers for his burgeoning headache and turns to Bumface.
“You’d better shut down the funding operation immediately. Get the phones out and tell the guys to take a hike.”
“They’ll want cash.”
“Give it to ‘em. Just remind ‘em that they’re looking at ten to fifteen apiece if they ever blab.”
“Okay, John.”
“And tell Buzzer not to do any more collections.”
“He’d better pick up what’s there already.”
“You’re right. Just today, and I guess tomorrow. But that’s it.”
“Sure,” says Bumface, then he looks to the wall of surveillance screens. “What about all of them?” he says, pointing to the numerous patients in various states of recovery following surgery.
“Hey, it’s a charitable hospital if anyone comes asking. Of course we have sick people here.”
“And what about the new cases?”
“How many?”
“There’s a couple due in Vancouver today, and a load more next Wednesday or Thursday.”
“Make sure Buzzer picks up the two today, and freeze the rest till we sort this mess out,” orders Dawson, then he taps the TV screen where the press conference is winding down, saying, “You’d better pray that no one upstairs has seen this.”
However, prayers may be too late, and the shrill ringing of a telephone signals to Dawson that his hopes are about to be shattered.
Mike Phillips’s phone has also been ringing, and he turns to Bliss with a pained expression as the press conference breaks up.
“Dave. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’ve just been yanked off the case.”
“Why?”
“Somebody has put the bite on the brass in Ottawa.”
“And we can guess from whence that shark comes,” says Bliss, his mind set on the south.
“Word has it that they’re also squeezing the Canadian immigration department to throw you out of the country.”
“Well, I obviously struck a chord with someone,” Bliss laughs sardonically. “Though I’ll be totally stumped if they persuade the British government not to let me go back home.”
“You can come and live wiz me in France,” suggests Daisy, taking his hand, and Bliss brightens at the notion.
“I’m surprised you still want me,” he says, conscious that after four nights in North America they have got no closer than a goodnight kiss, but the tightness of her grip demonstrates her determination to hang on whatever the circumstances.
Some prenuptial honeymoon this is turning out to be, he thinks, then he stops, peers into her nigrescent Mediterranean eyes, feels the warmth of the Provençal sun still radiating from her olive skin, and challenges the seriousness of his intentions. But with Daphne’s disappearance weighing so heavily on his mind, he lets the moment go and turns to Phillips.
“They’re not going to stop me, Mike. I don’t know what the hell their game is, but I will find out — one way or another.”
“Unofficially, Dave,” says Phillips, quickly checking over his shoulder, “I’ll do whatever it takes to help. Christ, this is personal for me, too — and if they don’t like it they can stuff their job.”
“You don’t mean that, Mike.”
“Not really. But now that I’m married to a millionaire, I can always dream of quitting — though God knows if I could take the boredom.”
“That’s what bothers me,” admits Bliss, still deliberating over his plans to leave the force to write. “Anyway, I’d appreciate your help. By the way, what about that white fishmonger’s van?”
Phillips shakes his head. “Sorry, Dave. Anybody would think it was a state secret.”
“Can’t help you, Inspector. It’s not registered,” the Seattle officer had claimed when Phillips had phoned, and despite the Mountie’s insistence that he had personally seen the vehicle on a customs surveillance tape at the border, the officer had stuck to his story. Two hours, and a dozen calls, later, Phillips had got no further, though no one had been willing to explain how a falsely registered vehicle had been permitted to cross and recross the border.
However, deep in a CIA basement room three thousand miles away, at the organization’s headquarters in Langley, Virginia, Phillips’s enquiry has caused something of a stir and has set in motion a storm that is gathering strength as it sweeps back across the country to a certain pseudo-religious establishment in the state of Washington.
“Mr. Dawson?” queries a voice with an accent honed on the east coast near Harvard or Yale, if not actually within their august precincts.
“Umm, yes, sir,” replies Dawson diffidently.
“I guess you’ve been watching the news channels this morning?”
“No, sir,” tries Dawson, but the caller doesn’t buy it and drops his accent in favour of Brooklyn or the Bronx.
“Don’t lie to me, f’kin asshole. You’re supposed to be head of security out there. So tell me, what the friggin’ ding-dong is going on?”
There goes my pension, thinks Dawson, but it’s likely lost whichever way he jumps, so he opts for a stalling tactic. “I’m aware of certain allegations,” he admits cagily, “and I’m carrying out a full investigation, sir.”
“Okay. Good man,” says the caller, repolishing his tone. “So, why the hell didn’t you say so before?”
“Sorry, sir, but there was a junior officer in the room. He’s gone now.”
“Oh. Right. Well, get back to me P.D.Q. I’ve got the president’s press secretary on my heinie. I need answers.”
“Will do, sir,” says Dawson slumping back into his chair, then he throws the telephone at Bumface, yelling, “Get working, Steve! Get this damn place cleaned up.”
“So. Where do we go from here?” asks Rick Button once the press have their scoop, and Bliss and Phillips look in unison at the flagging man and join forces to say, “Bed.”
But Button is still fighting. “No. Not until I’ve got my Trina back,” he insists, and Bliss has a lump in his throat as he lays a comforting arm around the man’s shoulder.
“Why not let Daisy take you home and leave it to us for a few hours?” he suggests. “I promise we’re doing everything we possibly can, and we’ll call you the minute we have any news.”
“No…” starts Button again, but Daisy steps in, gripping his hand and saying, “Come. I take you,” with such authority that he meekly allows her to lead him towards Trina’s car.
Phillips and his English counterpart watch the broken man shuffle disconsolately away, and the Canadian officer waits until Rick Button is out of earshot before turning to Bliss. “I’d love to be able to assure him she’ll show up,” he says, his tone devoid of optimism. “Although in truth I suppose it’s only been two full days since they were last seen.”
“It seems like forever,” sighs Bliss, equally pessimistically. “Anyway, we both know that the first twenty-four hours are the most crucial. Which reminds me,” he carries on, checking his watch, “I suppose I should phone Peter and see what’s happening in London. He was jumping up and down about a bank job earlier on, though God knows what it has to do with the suicides.”
Peter Bryan is still unsure of any connection himself when Bliss calls, and is chagrined with the robbery squad for fouling up his Friday evening.
“I don’t think the blagging gang knows what to do with him,” he tells Bliss candidly, and briefly explains the comical circumstances of Joliffe’s villainous escapade before saying, “Apparently, all the witnesses have gone soft. Even the girl he robbed reckoned she would take him home as a substitute granddad if she had a chance.”
“Oh, that’ll bring out the Kleenex in the jury box all right,” says Bliss, and Bryan agrees.
“Quite. He’s got as much chance of doing time as O.J. Simpson.”
“And his connection with the suicides is?” questions Bliss with mounting impatience.
“Tenuous at best, Dave,” says Bryan, explaining that he had only been consulted because the octogenarian raider had apparently been quite prepared to blow his own brains out if he hadn’t been allowed out of the bank with the money. However, since his arrival at Kensington police station, and following a brief interview with a legal-aid lawyer, Maurice Joliffe has completely clammed up.
“Anyway,” asks Peter Bryan, temporarily washing his hands of Joliffe, “did Edwards get hold of you?”
“Oh — yes,” says Bliss. “I’m disappointed, though. I was expecting him to suspend me.”
“He can’t,” laughs Bryan. “If he suspends you, he can’t order you home.”
“And he needs to order me home because…?”
“Because the Americans are treading heavily on the Home Secretary’s nutmegs.”
“Really?”
“Oh, boy. You’ve done it properly this time. In fact, they say the British Ambassador in Washington has been summoned to the State Department for a few words of advice on international police relations. Apparently you and your big gob have pooped in their soup — again.”
“Again?” questions Bliss.
“Well, they seem to think that your dig at their hypocritical stance on sex, booze, gambling and drugs at the conference wasn’t exactly cricket.”
“Hah. I expected that, Peter,” chuckles Bliss. “Though do I sound as though I care? Anyway, if our boys weren’t such Nellies they’d be giving the White House shit for kidnapping the women.”
“They absolutely insist that they didn’t.”
“It’s most likely some government boot camp,” carries on Bliss with his ears closed. “They’re probably training counter-terrorists so they can lob a 747 into the middle of Mecca during the Hajj to get revenge for 9/11.”
“What makes you think it’s official?”
“How else would they know that I’d been thrown out of the country before?”
“And they knew?”
“The bigmouth at the gate did.”
Dawson may have been belligerent when he dealt with Bliss at the monastery’s gate, but now that he senses that the wheels are coming off his wagon, he is in a quandary.
“What the hell are we gonna do with them?” he pleads, as he and Bumface watch Daphne and Trina on the surveillance monitors.
Daphne sits, motionless, on the edge of her bed, focusing all her energy on a way to escape her predicament, while Trina, in a separate room, sleeps off the sedative that was shot into her after she’d snapped following her recapture.
Daphne also has her eyes closed, but she is mentally alert and is carefully thinking her way through her well-thumbed collection of novels by Conan Doyle, Christie, Carr and a host of other mystery writers, searching for scenarios involving escapes from sealed rooms. But every plot she conjures up requires some form of outside assistance, or a prepared room — other than those relying on implausible devices like tame rodents and hocus-pocus, which she dismisses without consideration.
The snooping eye of the surveillance camera creates the greatest obstacle to every escape scheme. It’s an impediment that obviously didn’t exist in the era of the classics, and she dismisses idea after idea until she is finally left with only one viable scenario: feigned death.
The camera is also a source of concern for Dawson, whose escalating anxiety is reaching screaming point.
“You realize we’re gonna get a visit, don’t you?” he says, once Bumface has made a couple of calls. “And we’re finished, man. I’m telling you — we’re finished with a capital fuckin’ F. The moment someone finds the women, we’re screwed — and what about Allan? What’s he gonna say?”
“Nothing,” says Bumface. “He ain’t gonna say nothing. His ass is on the line as much as ours. And stop worrying about the damn women. There’s two hundred freakin’ people here. How are they gonna find a couple of dames unless they check every room?”
Dawson stabs meaningfully at the monitors. “All they’ve gotta do is come in here and look at this, for chrissakes.”
“Okay,” says Bumface, “I can fix that,” and a few minutes later Daphne’s eyes pop open in surprise. Something in her environment has just changed. The feeling is ethereal and she can’t grasp its root, though she has the sensation that a weight has been lifted, and her gaze instinctively goes to the surveillance camera.
In Vancouver, Bliss is seeking inspiration in a large coffee in the police station cafeteria when Phillips sidles up to him. “Good news, Dave. The white van’s back.”
“How do you know?”
“I have my sources,” he says, as if it’s some well-preserved secret, and then he relents. “The customs officer — the one at the border who checked the videotape with me — he spotted it coming back about ten minutes ago. Apparently it comes over most days.”
“Okay. So where do we go from here?”
“Well, let’s have a little chat with the driver, shall we?” says Phillips as he phones his control room to say that he’s taking the rest of the day off. “My wife’s not feeling too good,” he explains, and Bliss teasingly “tuttuts” before asking, “So how do we find him?”
“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” replies Phillips. “I guess there’s a good chance he’ll be buying stock from the trawler fleet at the fisherman’s wharf. Let’s go see.”
Mike Phillips’s supposition is correct — although this morning there is no fleet, just a solitary vessel heading shoreward from the fishing grounds. However, the flock of raucous herring gulls hovering expectantly over the Vancouver quayside will eventually be forced to scavenge lunch at the city’s garbage dump — the cargo in the hold of Victor Kelly’s trawler won’t be of any interest to them.
In London, there is an equally raucous gathering in the foyer of Kensington police station when Peter Bryan arrives to interview Maurice Joliffe. Fuelled by the young bank clerk’s speculation that the bicycle bandit appeared to be in his late eighties, or possibly even nineties, a crush of reporters is badgering the press officer for information and demanding an opportunity to question the elderly man.
Joliffe is still in the interview room — unaware of the hubbub in the lobby, unaware that he is already being pejoratively labelled “The Grandfather” and that news organizations from around the world are badgering their London correspondents for information and pictures. In truth, considering the gravity of the charges, he should be locked up in the remand wing of Wandsworth jail, but no one wants to risk turning him into a folk hero. Even Wendy Martin, in her hospital bed, can’t help feeling compassion for the distressed senior who had tried so hard to help her to her feet after the shooting.
“I’m ever so sorry, luv,” the little old man had repeated several times, close to tears. “I must’ve forgotten to put the safety on.”
If Peter Bryan had been doubtful of a link between Joliffe and the rash of elderly suicides when he first heard of the case, by the time he has been briefed by the robbery squad commander he is convinced. He’s also convinced that the robbery squad have lumbered him with the ancient marauder because they realize there is little mileage in prosecuting someone who’ll probably get more public sympathy than a pill-popping pop star or a drunken footballer. Maurice Joliffe appears equally aware of the dilemma, pleading, “You ain’t gonna send me to jail at my age, are ya?” as soon as Peter Bryan switches on the video recorder and begins the interview.
“Well,” replies Bryan, trying to sound convincing, “armed robbery with a prohibited weapon is a very serious charge.”
“Yeah, but I told the girl straight that I wouldn’t hurt her, and I never pointed the gun at her — or the others.”
“But you shot the police woman.”
“No, I did not,” protests Joliffe. “It were an accident. The bloomin’ gun fell out’a my pocket. I told her I was sorry — but it were an accident, honest.”
“Well,” admits Bryan, “it doesn’t look as though you’ve got any previous form —”
“Dang right I haven’t,” cuts in Joliffe adamantly. “I ain’t never been in trouble before in my life.”
The competing thoughts in Joliffe’s mind contort his wan parchment face with such passion that Bryan finds himself wondering if there is another person inside struggling to escape.
“Take your time,” advises Bryan gently, concerned that the tension will cause a stroke or heart attack as the old man’s eyes and jaws quiver in nervous motion.
“What’ll happen if I tells you the truth?” asks Joliffe eventually, as he gets a grip on his situation.
“Well, it’s your first conviction,” admits Bryan, “and considering your age and the fact that no one was killed, you might get probation, although I can’t promise anything.”
The whirl of indecision continues to haunt Joliffe’s face, and Peter Bryan sits back to take the pressure off the elderly man. But Joliffe has been in turmoil for nearly a week, and he fidgets in indecision for a minute before making up his mind to confess.
“All my life, I’ve wanted to leave something for the kiddies,” he begins to explain. “An’ not just enough for me funeral. I always had jobs — worked damned hard to put a crust on the table. But there wuz never enough to put any by. Then I ends up on old-age pension and it hardly pays the bloomin’ rent.”
“Well, ten grand wouldn’t make a lot of difference,” suggests Bryan.
However, the ten thousand pounds Joliffe had demanded when he robbed the bank was only a fraction of his actual goal. Still, he’s reluctant to acknowledge his true motive without some degree of assurance, and he looks to Bryan for confirmation. “They ain’t gonna send me to jail, are they?”
Bryan opens his hands wide and disclaims responsibility as he answers, “Maybe not. You might just get a fine.”
“Oh, that don’t matter,” laughs Joliffe. “I can afford it now.”
“You’re not thinking of using the ten thousand quid you nicked from the bank, are you?” enquires Bryan hastily.
“No — ‘course not,” says Joliffe. “I’m a millionaire. Why would I do that?”
“A millionaire?” questions the detective, surveying the beat-up old man and beginning to wonder if the Mental Health Act might be more appropriate than the Theft Act.
“Oh, yeah,” continues Joliffe, finally deciding to come clean, and he has a triumphant note in his voice as he announces: “O’course, I’ll only get five million now instead of the ten. Hah — what’s five million when you’ve struck it rich?”
Peter Bryan eyes the old man sceptically, wondering if it’s the right time to summon the psychiatrist, but he opts for a final question. “What five million?” he asks. “You only tried to steal ten thousand. You’d have to do a couple of hundred banks to get that much.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Joliffe drops his guard and his face lights up as he explains: “It were late last Monday night when I got the call. It were gone ten. I was just watching the news — thinkin’ about turning in — and I thought, ‘Who the ‘ell can that be at this time?’ Well, it was some Yank — at least he sounded like a Yank, though I suppose he was a Canadian. Well, you won’t believe this, but you are lookin’ at the bloke who won the Canadian National Lottery. All ten million of it.”
“What?”
“Yeah. It’s true. I’ve won the lot. After strugglin’ through life, saving a bit here and a bit there, going without to leave a little nest egg, there I am — a rich man.”
“Then why on earth are you robbing banks?” asks Bryan incredulously.
“Red tape,” explains Joliffe succinctly. “See, the way it works is that I have to pay… what did he call it?… a ‘clearance bond’ or something before I can get my winnings sent over from Canada. That’s why I told the girl at the bank that I’d pay it back next week with interest. I weren’t lying — honest.”
Peter Bryan spends a few seconds digesting the information. Something smells, but the officer isn’t sure if it’s the sweaty old man in front of him or the tale he’s telling.
“Why didn’t you just explain that to the bank manager and ask for a loan?” asks the detective.
“I couldn’t,” says the old man as he pulls Bryan closer with a bony finger and whispers him into a conspiracy. “You see, it’s not strictly kosher.” Then, with a wary eye on the video camera, Joliffe continues to elucidate, “Because I ain’t a Canadian citizen there’s some problem with the taxes. And if they found out who I was, well, the bloomin’ taxman over there would snap up half the bloomin’ winnings.”
“You do realize that you must never tell anyone that you’ve won this,” the late-night caller had warned, once he had explained the taxation situation in detail, and Maurice had quickly agreed. “No, o’course I won’t. Cross me bloomin’ heart.”
“You see,” continues Joliffe to Bryan, “I promised I wouldn’t say anything ‘cos he was worried we might both end up in jail fer diddlin’ the taxes. But the bloomin’ guvverment’s had enough out of me over the years and I was buggered if I was gonna give ‘em five million dollars — that’s… well, that’s a lot of dough. He didn’t want me to take the risk. ‘Not just for five million,’ he said. ‘Five million?’ I said. ‘You gotta be joking, my son. If I won it, I should have it. It’s mine, ain’t it?’ ‘Oh, you’ve won it all right,’ he said. ‘There ain’t no doubt about it.’”
“Five million dollars?” breathes Bryan.
“No. Five million wuz the tax. I’d won ten all told, but I didn’t wann’a risk getting him into trouble, did I?” Joliffe continues in explanation to Peter Bryan. “I mean — he sounded such a nice young man. And I could hear the others in the background. They wuz all so happy for me — clappin’ and shoutin’, they wuz.”
It might have taken more than eighty years, but the little man who’d grown up in the slums around London’s dockyards had finally won something, and he pauses while his face warms at the memory of the cheers and the applause.
“‘Well done, Maurice,’ they wuz shouting down the phone. ‘You’re a rich man, Maurice,’” he continues with a laugh, adding, “I guess I’ll just have to make do with the five million. I expect it’ll see me out all right.”
Alarm bells have been ringing in Peter Bryan’s mind for a few minutes — from the moment that the old man’s eyes lit up to announce that he was a millionaire — and the detective questions, “So — when did you buy the ticket, Maurice?”
“That’s the strangest thing,” replies Joliffe with a laugh. “I didn’t remember buying it at all — but they got all my information right, so I must have done.”
“And what information was that exactly?” asks Bryan, now knowing that the day that had begun badly for Joliffe was about to get worse — much worse.
“Name, address and phone number…” he starts, then something in the tone of Bryan’s question alerts him to a problem. “What?” he asks, looking up at the detective and finding Peter Bryan sadly shaking his head.
“Maurice — is that the information that’s listed in the phone book?”
“I suppose so. Why?”