54

Willie Drumm waited outside the shopping mall. He drank coffee from a cardboard cup and checked his watch every so often. He was a patient man by nature, but this situation was beginning to test him. The message on his desk had read, ‘Meet Amanda Scholes, Metrocenter, 11 a.m.’ It had been received by a young cop called Lazarus, whom Drumm barely knew. Lazarus had gone off-duty, so Drumm hadn’t been able to question him about the message. Had it come directly from Amanda? How had she sounded? Did she say anything else?

It was eleven-twenty now. He wondered how much longer he should give her. She’d always been a stickler for punctuality, at least when he’d worked with her. Her resignation had created a void in his life. He’d enjoyed the regular leisure hours they’d spent drinking, chatting, talking cases, crimes, the state of the nation.

He wandered up and down, scanning the parking-lot. It was packed with cars, people hurrying out of the sun and inside the mall as if this was the last shopping day in the history of the universe.

He realized he was hungry. Inside, you could get pizza, kebabs, stir-fry, anything you liked except it was all indigestible. He didn’t want to go in and grab a sandwich because he didn’t want to run the risk of missing Amanda when she showed up. He didn’t like these consumer malls anyway. He preferred corner grocery stores and small family operations, when you could find them these days.

He strolled up and down. He’d give Amanda five more minutes then he’d call in and check his messages. She might have cancelled. He tapped the face of his watch.

This wasn’t his day so far. He’d gone to the Carlton only to find that Anthony Dansk had checked out fifteen minutes before. No forwarding address, and now here he was waiting for Amanda.

She’d said she was on her way to visit Rhees, and that he should telephone her at the hospital after he’d seen Dansk. Maybe her plans had changed for some reason – hence the message, maybe she’d been delayed somewhere. He took the mobile phone from his pocket. He couldn’t stand these things, they made him feel like a late-blooming yuppie. He didn’t like electronic doodahs. Computers and modems and e-mail and all the rest of it were beyond him. Another world altogether.

Drumm punched the buttons and got himself connected to Betty Friedman.

‘Finally,’ she said.

‘Why? You been looking for me?’

‘Your friend Amanda called. Says it’s urgent you get back to her.’

Drumm had an odd little feeling: somebody walking on his grave.

‘She’s at the Valley of the Sun Memorial. Got a pen, I hope?’

‘I got a pen.’ Drumm went through the pockets of his jacket and found a toothmarked stub of pencil attached to a frayed loop on his notebook.

Betty Friedman read him the number and the extension. He wrote it down.

‘When did she phone?’ he asked.

‘About half an hour ago.’

‘She sound OK?’

‘Odd you should ask. She doesn’t know anything about this meeting with you. It was news to her.’

‘She didn’t know about our appointment?’

‘Nope.’

‘That’s weird.’ More than weird, he thought. He had a prickling sensation in his bad leg.

‘Call her. You’re supposed to be in the business of clearing up mysteries, right?’

Drumm hung up. He dialled the number of the hospital. It was a while before anyone answered. You wouldn’t want to be in the throes of cardiac arrest, gasping your last. Eventually an operator came on the line and Drumm asked for the extension number. It rang unanswered.

The operator broke in and said, ‘That number doesn’t reply.’

Drumm hung up and called Betty Friedman back. ‘You sure you gave me the correct extension?’

‘I told you what Amanda Scholes told me, Willie. Extension three eight nine eight. You probably wrote it down wrong.’

Drumm checked his notebook. No, he’d written 3898 exactly the way Friedman had given it to him. He dialled the hospital again – the switchboard took a long time to pick up this time too – and repeated the number. There was still no answer. Baffled and irritated, he called Betty Friedman yet again.

‘I’m still getting no response from that number,’ he said.

‘Maybe the room’s empty. She might have checked Rhees out.’

‘He didn’t look like a guy who was going anywhere when I saw him yesterday. I ought to get over to the hospital.’

‘Willie, a moment’s logical thought, huh?’

Drumm said, ‘You’re gonna tell me what to do. I can hear it coming, Betty.’

‘A suggestion is all. She’s bound to call here sooner or later, so it makes sense for you to come back to the office instead of wandering around a hospital she may have already left. At least you’ll be here to take the call, right?’

‘I hate sensible,’ Drumm said.

‘Men always do. See you.’

Drumm hung up the phone. Funny about that message. If Amanda didn’t know about it, where the hell had it originated? But this whole business was funny, beginning with Dansk. Dead witnesses. A protection program that didn’t protect. A mother worrying about her kid.

He tucked the phone away, scanned the parking-lot and tried to remember where he’d left his car.