‘Just a moment.’
At the next-door computer terminal, a thick-set teenager wearing headphones is busy shooting up a gang of armed drugs smugglers, pounding on his mouse to reload. His forehead sweats as blood decorates the screen. I have to sit through thirty seconds of synthesized Mozart before Leah picks up. Her voice is clipped and machine- efficient.
‘Mr Eastwood. What can I do for you today?’
I move away from the banks of computers and find a quieter spot at the back of the room.
‘Yes, I wonder if you would be kind enough to assist me with a small problem.’ Outside of New York City and Los Angeles, Americans can still be charmed by Limeys who sound like David Niven. ‘I’m trying to discover whether a person of my acquaintance was married in the District of Columbia at some point between 1991 and the present day.’
‘May I ask the nature of your enquiry, sir?’
‘I’m a genealogist.’
Judging by the surprised tone of her voice, Leah doesn’t get too many of those phoning her up. ‘I see,’ she says. ‘And you just want to know if they were married?’
‘Not exactly. I’m fairly sure about that side of things, but there’s a geographical discrepancy in my records between Maryland and DC. I’m also unsure of the date. It’s a question of trying to verify the location and tracking down the actual licence.’
‘For a family tree?’
‘Precisely.’
A tiny pause. She sounds relaxed, so I’m not at all worried.
‘What was the groom’s surname, sir?’
‘His name was Church. A Mr Julian Church.’
‘And the bride?’
Nicole’s surname was always going to be the sticking point. Before making the call I decided to make something up.
‘The bride’s maiden name was Harper, Nicole Harper.’ And there’s a long silence, almost as if Leah has a note beside her telephone instructing her to contact a supervisor immediately if nosey Englishmen start asking questions about Julian Church. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Sure, I’m still here.’ She laughs. ‘I have a Julian Church marrying a Nicole Law in March of 1995.’
‘You do?’
‘Could that be the one?’
For the sake of credibility I persevere with the lie. ‘No. I’m looking for a Nicole Harper. But the coincidence does seem odd. You’re sure there isn’t another listing?’
Leah takes her time. She really wants to help me out on this one.
‘I’m sorry, sir…’
‘Mr Church was British. Perhaps that might help.’
And at this, her voice leaps an octave. ‘But that’s what it says here. Julian Anthony Charles Church, British national, married Nicole Donovan Law, US citizen, March 18th 1995. That’s gotta be him.’
‘Sadly not,’ I reply, stooping to write ‘Donovan Law 1995’ on a scrap of paper. ‘The marriage must have taken place in Maryland. But thank you for your assistance.’
‘Well, you’re welcome, Mr Eastwood. I’m just sorry I couldn’t be more help.’
12. Pillow Talk
Saul leaves at eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, travelling on the AVE to Cordoba where he plans to visit the Mezquita and pick up a hire car en route for Cadiz. I suggest he spend three nights in Seville and another two in Ronda, in the hope that it might be at least a fortnight before he returns.
‘You can even go to Morocco by ferry,’ I tell him, his cab pulling away on Princesa. ‘Spend a few days in Fez, man. I’ve heard it’s really nice.’
There is a lot to do. I spend the rest of Sunday and most of Monday morning writing up the Endiom report and sending it via email to Julian. Work feels irrelevant in the current situation, but Julian is a perfectionist and will doubtless want several alterations before committing the document to the printers. Finally, at four in the afternoon – 10 a.m. in Colombia – I call the US embassy in Bogota. I am sitting in the kitchen of my flat, a cup of tea on the table beside a notepad and two ballpoint pens, in case one of them runs out.
‘This is the American embassy of Colombia.’ Another automated system. ‘ Press one for English, dos para Espanol.’
I press ‘1’ and connect to a sleepy-sounding receptionist with a local accent who asks how she can direct my call.
‘I’m trying to track down a friend of mine from the United States. I think she works at the embassy.’
‘What was the name, sir?’
‘Well, it used to be Nicole Law, but I’m fairly sure she got married.’
There is a listless recognition. ‘Oh sure. I know Nicki.’ I feel a skip and thump of excitement. ‘But she no longer works here. I can connect you to somebody who might be able to assist. Would you hold the line please, sir?’
‘Of course.’
Obtaining confidential information by telephone is usually fairly straightforward. There is the great advantage that one cannot be seen by the person at the other end of the line; it is necessary only to lie with the voice. On Friday, speaking to Washington, I attempted to convey the sense of a slightly dotty Brit adrift in unanswered questions. It’s the same on this occasion; I am easygoing and polite, and persistently grateful to the staff for taking the time to help me out.
There’s a ten-second delay before a sound comes on the line, like a metal chain falling on concrete. Then a confident-sounding American male picks up the phone.
‘Hi, this is Dave Creighton. I understand you’re lookin’ for Nicki?’
I’ve already worked out my plan of attack. ‘That’s right.’
‘And it’s a personal call?’
‘Yes. We’re old friends.’
Dave makes a noise at the back of his throat. ‘Well, you’re kind of in the right area.’
‘I am? Oh that’s fantastic.’
‘Nicki actually hasn’t worked here in a while. She’s running a day-care centre out at the Granahorrar for expat families. You want me to dig you out the number?’
‘That would be wonderful. A day-care centre?’
‘Yeah. Lotta kids here. Lotta busy people.’
‘Well, Nicki always loved children.’
Dave agrees wholeheartedly with this sentiment and taps something into a keyboard, keeping the conversation lively as he does so out of sheer American politeness.
‘So you and Nicki are old college buddies?’
‘Not really. I always wanted to go to university in the States, but we actually met in London a few years ago and became friends that way. Now I’ve got the opportunity to come to South America with my wife and son and we wanted to look Nicki up for a spot of lunch. Is she still with her husband?’
‘Felipe? Sure.’ Dave sounds surprised. ‘You know him?’
‘Felipe? I thought she married an English banker?’
‘Oh no. No.’ Laughter now. He’s buying the strategy. ‘You really haven’t seen her in a while, huh? That was a long time ago. It’s Felipe now.’
‘She’s no longer Nicole Church?’
I want to find out if the new surname is Rodriguez, which would tally with the email address on the embassy website.
