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51
Samuel
It is 6 a.m. and the train is full of the dead-eyed people who head home from work at this ungodly hour and the people who head out to work at this ungodly hour and I am among their number today. But my eyes are not dead. My veins flow with adrenaline, with purpose. I am feeling propulsive.
At my desk I switch on my computer and I sip the bad black coffee for which I have a strange fondness. There is no more news about the whereabouts of Marie Caron and Phineas Thomson in Chicago. I have a contact on the force in Chicago, from a case on which we partnered with them a few years back. As a favour to me he has said that he can bring Phineas and Marie in for remote questioning, once Interpol have their precise location. I write to him and update him on the situation. Then I spend sometime immersed in my ongoing search for Justin Redding, the tambourine-playing man who is too soft to kill someone. I have asked for database searches of every music college in the country, and nothing has come back. I have asked for searches of hospital and GP records and again, nothing has been returned to me. It seems that Justin Redding (a) is dead, (b) is a recluse or (c) has, like everyone else in this case, changed his name. Maybe Redding was his stage name. And if that is so, then I cannot see how we are ever going to be able to track him down. I had hoped that the news reports about Birdie’s death might have rattled some cages, dislodged some memories, opened up some doors into dusty corners. But nothing. Nobody. Silence. Who was this man who lived for a while in Cheyne Walk over twenty-five years ago with a young woman who is now dead?
Next, I turn my mind to Libby’s mother’s dog. How can I learn the truth about this? I search for Libby’s mother on Facebook. Her name is Alyssa Rutherford Jones. She is easy to find and also, happily, has an open page. I scroll through her many, many photographs. Her life is very bright. She wears bright clothes and drinks bright drinks and eats in bright restaurants and sits among bright cushions under bright blue skies. She has a partner who looks very young and wears a white shirt most of the time and has had too much tooth whitening. Libby’s mother lives a nice life in Spain. But one thing Libby’s mother does not do is enjoy the company of a dog. In particular, she does not enjoy the company of the small brown and white dog that Libby looks after. I feel that this is as much as I need to do here, that my suspicions have been borne out. I now have a greater confidence in the path that I am pursuing.
This leaves the last item from last night’s shower: D. Thomson.
I come back once again to the journalist, Miller Roe. He found a missing person with the initials DT but it proved a dead end. I wonder if the man that he found ever went by the name of Thomson. I decide that I have had enough of waiting for Miller Roe to make an appearance. It is time to drag him from his hiding place. I make a call and ask for his phone to be located. An hour later we have it. And it comes as only a very slight surprise to me to discover that Miller Roe is currently somewhere in the very close vicinity of Dido Rhodes’s house.
I wait until 8 a.m., to be polite, and then I call Libby.
‘Good morning, Miss Jones, I hope I have not disturbed you?’
‘No,’ she says, sounding tired. ‘I’m awake. It’s fine.’
‘Good. I am glad. I want to ask you, are you still staying at your friend Dido’s house?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m still here.’
‘Ah. OK. I know we are seeing you later on today, Miss Jones, for which I am very grateful. But I have cause to believe that you have a guest? Currently? A Mr Miller Roe?’
Oh, the silence is so long and very sharp. I wait for it to end.
‘Miller …?’
‘Yes. Miller Roe. He is an investigative journalist. He worked on the article we discussed, the one that was in theGuardianfour years ago. And I have been searching for him high and low. I have sent him messages and emails and he has replied to none of them. I have been to his house and his neighbour told me he has not been home for days. That he mainly stays with his girlfriend. And now it transpires that in fact he is very close to you. Which makes mewonder if maybeyouare in fact that girlfriend. So, please, Miss Jones, if he is there, could you put me on the line to him? I would be most grateful.’
There is another terrible silence. I picture it filled with Libby Jones’s beseeching eyes, Miller Roe’s stern shake of the head.
‘No. He’s not here,’ she says at last.
‘Well, his phone is definitely in very close proximity to you. So maybe he left it behind?’
‘No. I mean – I don’t know.’
I leave more silence, hoping that Libby Jones will come to her senses and realise the futility of her stance and then, sure enough, a moment later I hear the phone pass across to somebody else and there is a man’s voice on the line.
‘DI Owusu? This is Miller Roe.’
‘Ah. Mr Roe. At last. It is a joy to hear your voice.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘So much, Mr Miller. So much. I am looking forward to the pleasure of Miss Jones’s company here at the station later on today and I would be very grateful if you could join her. Do you think that would possible?’
‘What is this about?’ Miller Roe sounds gruff and agitated.
‘Oh, I’m sure Miss Jones has told you what it is about. But in a nutshell, it is about the Mysterious Case of Serenity Lamb and the Rabbit’s Foot. I have some theories that pertain to your newspaper article and a sincere hope to unblock some of the dead ends you bumped into along the way.’
I hear Miller Roe exhale loudly. ‘Fine. Yeah. Sure. What time do you want us?’
‘Oh. Thank you. What time could you be here?’
‘Three p.m.?’
‘Yes. That would be perfect. Thank you, Mr Roe. I look forward to it.’
I realise as I put the phone down that now Miss Jones and Mr Roe have more than half the day to decide on new ways to lie to me.
But that is fine. I will be ready for them.
