On account of a little turbulence out in the Gulf of Mexico, it was a bit breezy in Palm Beach as the police car made its way slowly along a private driveway lined with the tall trees which gave the resort its name.
The two uniformed officers watched the palms swaying rhythmically and wondered if the weather forecasters were right when they said that this was a storm which would pass right by.
At the end of the drive there was a complex of Spanish-style bungalows, comfortable holiday homes, each tucked away amid its own gardens. Outside one, the officers got out. After they had rung the bell a couple of times, the door was opened by a man of medium height, in his sixties, with silvery hair.
He looked at them warily. ‘Police? What can I do for you two gentlemen?’
One of the officers tipped his cap. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir. I don’t know if you’re aware – but somebody got assaulted near here last night. A – eh – senior gentleman, like yourself. His house was broken into, some stuff taken. At the Stella Maris estate just along the road. You know it?’
‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘I do. That’s terrible news. Is he all right?’
‘A bit shaken up is all. A few bruises. But it could have been a lot worse.’
His companion spoke. ‘We’re doing a check of the neighbourhood to see if anyone heard or saw anything suspicious.’
The man thought and then shook his head. ‘No, nothing. I can’t think of anything at all.’
‘You were at home last night?’
‘Yep, haven’t moved from here for a couple of weeks. Enjoying the weather. Although—’ He looked beyond his visitors towards the wind in the trees. ‘Right now, I’m not so sure.’
‘Well, just be careful,’ the first policeman said.
‘Oh, we got a good alarm system here.’ He smiled. ‘All kinds of bells and whistles. I’ll make sure it’s switched on before I turn in tonight.’
‘And if you see anything, you’ll let us know?’
‘You can count on it. Grateful to you boys for stopping by.’
He stood at the door while they got into their car, then waved as they drove off.
When they were out of his vision, they pulled in again. The officer in the passenger seat reached into the glove compartment and took a photograph from it.
The person in the picture had not posed for the shot and would not have been aware that it was being taken. It was not by any means perfect. It had been taken through a window, with a long lens, but it was the most up-to-date photograph they had and it was good enough.
They looked at it for the few seconds it took them to agree and then the driver put the car into gear.
His partner got on the radio. ‘We’re on our way back.’
‘And?’ A squawk at the other end.
‘And nothing. It’s not him.’
Across the Atlantic, it was the early afternoon and Gallagher was out of booze.
From his window, he saw that the weather had decided to regress and that the tide was on the turn. Along the Sandymount strand, rain whipped by a ruthless wind drummed on the backs of walkers scurrying home with their heads down.
He had been dozing in the chair and he was half-sober again. That would not do.
The off-licence would be open.
He left the apartment and hurried down the stairs, not bothering with a coat or remembering to shut the door behind him.
At the Dave office in South William Street, Paul was late trying to make contact with Gigolo. Other things had intervened.
It was getting near the deadline for the magazine’s next issue, which meant that Max had gone into a fever of activity while he tried to make up for lost time. He had also given Paul instructions on how he wanted the web page updated and that had to come first.
But he had finished now. Paul looked around. Max was in his office on the phone. He raised the search facility on the screen then went to the chat menu. He had just entered the usual room when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Listen, you,’ Max said.
Paul stiffened under his grasp.
God, what did he want?
Max took his hand away and moved in front of him. He was a short, burly fellow with yellow hair. With his arms folded, he sat on the edge of the desk, almost obscuring the monitor, and glowered.
Paul felt sure the guilt was written all over his face. He tried to smile. ‘Hi, Max,’ he said, as chirpily as he could.
Max looked at him and shook his head.
Paul glanced furtively to the screen behind him. He could see the names of everyone currently in the chat room.
Gigolo was there.
He might have been waiting for a while. He would see that Paul had arrived at last. He would wonder why he had not said anything.
‘I don’t know what you’re up to,’ Max said. ‘I can’t figure it out.’
Paul felt weak. He looked up at him. ‘I don’t – what do you—’ he began.
I mean, you come in here practically every fucking day, working away on that web page, and you don’t get a fucking penny for it. What’s more, you never even ask.’
‘I well – it’s okay – I—’
‘It’s not okay,’ Max said. ‘So from now on, I’m kind of putting you on the payroll. It won’t be much but it’ll be something. It’ll mean you’re no longer working for nothing. But don’t tell the taxman about it.’
He put his hand in his pocket and took out some notes. Paul felt relief beginning to spread over him.
‘Here you go.’ He stood up and squeezed Paul’s shoulder again. ‘Thanks for all your help.’
‘Gee, Max, thanks. That’s great.’
Max moved away and Paul breathed again. He shoved the money into his pocket without looking at it and began to type.
Hi, Gigolo. Sorry. Had to talk to somebody first. Shall we go private?
Gigolo said nothing. The screen showed that he had departed.
‘Gigolo leaves,’ it said.
In a moment, when he arrived in the private room, he saw that Gigolo was already there. He typed another message.
That’s better. So – any news for me?
He waited but there was no response. He tried again.
Have we a problem? Are you giving me the cold shoulder? Silence.
What was all this? Of course, it was entirely possible that Gigolo had been distracted, just as he had been. Then at last—
SORRY ABOUT THE INTERRUPTION. HAD TO ANWSER THE DAMN DOOR. THE REST OF THE WORLD INSISTS ON INTRUDING SOMETIMES.
Paul froze. His heart missed a beat.
All of a sudden, he knew what was wrong and what it was that had nagged at the back of his mind about their last conversation.
He stared intently at the screen to make sure he had not made a mistake.
No, there it was.
The word ANSWER, misspelt, was like a warning signal.
He thought for a second. Then he typed.
Mebbe we should just forget about this. Drop whole thing.
Gigolo came back.
NO, I’LL GET THERE OK.
Are you sure?
NO PROBLEM. TOMORROW.
Paul racked his brains quickly.
B sure you cover tracks well. Remember old friend Osiris? Getting caught hacking into government research place in Seattle?
DON’T WORRY. THAT WON’T HAPPEN TO GIGOLO.
There was a hesitation.
SIX PM NEW YORK TIME IS GOOD FOR ME. YOU?
I’ll try. Uh-oh. Sorry. Duty calls.
Have to break off.
He left the room and logged out.
He looked at the screen with its undulating saver pattern. Suddenly he felt a lot safer away from that thing.
Something very strange and probably very bad was happening.
Tom. He had to tell him.
He picked up the phone and dialled Gallagher’s number but found that it was unobtainable. He tried again. Same thing. Then he tried the operator who told him it sounded as if there was a fault on the line.
Damn.
He walked to the window and saw the rain. The street outside was a mess. Several buildings in it were being renovated and cement mixers and piles of sand blocked the pavement at various intervals. Streams of muddy brown rainwater rushed towards the gutters.
He would have to get to Sandymount, find Tom and talk to him, but it would take him ages by bus. A taxi was the answer but he did not have enough money.
Oh yes, he had.
He dug into his pocket and pulled out the cash Max had given him. He counted it. Twenty-five pounds.
Max was right. It was not much but it was something.
Because the rain had brought a sudden rush of business, the taxi took nearly half an hour to arrive and almost the same length of time again to get to Sandymount.
He paid the driver, ran up the steps to the front door and pressed Gallagher’s buzzer. There was no response. He went down the list and selected another button, a flat at the top.
A woman answered. ‘Yes? Who is it?’
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. I’m a friend of Mr Gallagher in flat two. I’m supposed to meet him here but he’s not answering his bell and his phone appears to be out of order. Could you let me in so that I can try his door?’
‘Who did you say you were looking for?’ the woman asked cautiously.
‘Mr Gallagher in flat two.’
‘And who are you?’
‘My name’s Paul Forrest,’ he said. The name would mean nothing to her but it would make him less anonymous.
After a pause, the front door clicked open. By the time he got up the stairs to Gallagher’s apartment, a grey-haired woman was leaning over the banisters, looking down with a suspicious frown.
He smiled at her reassuringly. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Much appreciated. I’m sorry to have to disturb you like that.’
‘I don’t really like letting people in like this, you know. You never know what sort of criminals are hanging around. Was that you outside in the taxi just now?’
‘Yes, it was,’ Paul said.
The fact that he had arrived in a cab seemed to mollify her. Burglars and murderers would not travel around like that, presumably. She retreated back up the stairs.
‘As I was saying, it’s not a very good idea to open the door to complete strangers.’ She was still muttering to herself as she went back into her own flat, closed the door and locked it.
‘Thank you,’ he called after her, then turned to knock on Gallagher’s door.
It was ajar.
He tensed and began to wonder what he would find inside.
He knocked softly as he pushed it right open and went in.
‘Tom?’ he called into the silence, hearing the nervous quaver in his own voice.
There was no reaction. The flat was empty and stinking of stale drink.
He moved through each room. In the living-room he found the phone and saw that it had been unplugged. There was a pile of notes on the table. He saw Gilbert Leslie’s name scribbled on them. The bedroom was a mess, the air heavy. In the kitchen, dishes were unwashed and on the work surface there was an abandoned plate of scrambled egg. He touched it with his finger. Cold.
He went back into the living-room and saw the empty bottles at the chair over by the window.
Where was Tom?
He looked out of the window. The rain had not eased; in fact it seemed to have got worse. It had come down over the sea like a shutter and it pounded the surface of the coast road. Cars sloshed past, their windscreen wipers at full speed, and they doused the pavement with water from deep puddles.
He was about to turn away again when he thought he saw something.
There was a figure further down the road, just at the limit of visibility.
He peered. Oblivious to the downpour, someone was sitting on a wall at the edge of the sea. It looked like a man.
Was it possible?
He hurried out of the flat and down the stairs and at the front door he flicked the snib on the lock so that it would not snap shut behind him. He began to run, his sneakers slapping the wet ground, the rain finding another easy human target.
As he got nearer the figure on the wall he saw that it was a man dressed only in shirt and jeans. He was certain now.
‘Tom!’ Paul called.
There was no response.
‘Tom!’ he called again and stopped running.
The figure turned. Gallagher was drenched to the skin. There was a vodka bottle in his hand.
Paul was shocked by his appearance. His hair was plastered tight by the rain and his unshaven face was grey and gaunt. For a few seconds Gallagher looked at Paul as if he were a stranger. Then he turned away again and took a drink.
Paul stood a few feet from him, unsure about going any further or what to do. He was afraid that in this state Gallagher might fall into the sea.
Or was that what was in his mind?
‘Tom,’ he called once more. ‘I need your help.’
There was no answer.
‘Tom, please,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve found Gilbert Leslie.’