'Michael, remember what you were saying about Sarah and Jonathan going to the middle of nowhere?'
'Uh-huh.'
'Can you remember exactly where it was? I need it for the report.'
He took a quick swallow.
'Yes. Falls Lake.' He broke into a terrible Southern accent.
'North Carolina, y'all.'
'Do you have an address, or the contact number? You did say that you had a number, remember? You used it to call her.'
He laughed.
'Sarah took it off file when old Jonny boy got his comeuppance.'
I had reached another dead end.
Then he added, 'But I think I can remember most of the number; it was almost the same as my mother's old one. Tell you what, give me five and I'll ring you back, OK?'
'Give it three rings, put down, then ring again. I wouldn't want to pick it up and find I'm talking to her mother or anything like that.
OK?'
'Ooh, just like James Bond.' He giggled.
'No problem, Nick. Talk soon, byeee.'
I flicked through the book again. Falls Lake did exist, but it covered a vast area. What a dickhead! Why hadn't I asked him for more detail when he told me the story? Just as well I wasn't in the security cell.
Something was smelling bad. I jumped up and ran into the kitchen. The water had boiled away and I pulled a pan of very hot and smelly black noodles from the stove.
I couldn't be assed to clean it up, just put the pot to one side and turned the cooker off. The phone rang. I walked back into the room, counting. It stopped after three. Good news, I hoped. I let the new call ring twice before picking it up.
'Hellooo, Michael here.' I could hear Gary singing to himself in the background.
'Hello, mate, any luck?'
'The last four digits are exactly the same as my mother's old number in Mill Hill. Isn't that freaky?'
I really didn't have an answer for that. I contained my eagerness.
'Oh, and what was it?'
'Double four six eight.'
'Thanks, mate. You sure that's all you know?'
'
'Fraid so, Nick. I was just given the contact number. Sorry.'
'No problem. I'll let you get on with your evening.'
'OK. I'm here if you need me. Byeee.'
I looked at my watch. It was about half-past nine--according to my body clock, 2:30 a.m.--and I was starting to feel knackered. In the absence of any noodles, it was soon going to be time to RV with Ronald McDonald, but first I had a phone call to make.
I rang a London number. A very clear female voice answered immediately.
'PIN number, please?' The tone was so precise she sounded like the speaking clock.
'Two four four two, Charlie Charlie
'Please wait.' The line went dead; five seconds later the voice was back.
'Charlie-Charlie. Details, please.'
I gave her the same details as Metal Mickey had given me and asked for the address. I could hear the clinking of keys as she entered the details.
She checked with me: 'To confirm. North Carolina, address that ends with call number 4468, perhaps in the vicinity of Falls Lake. It should take approximately thirty minutes. Reference fifty-six, fifty-six. Goodbye.'
Charlie-Charlie stands for 'casual contact.' The people in London can work from even the smallest amount of information, and you can inquire via the phone for speed, or ask for a written report, which would give more detail but take longer.
A phone number or car license plate can lead to you finding out almost everything there is on record about the contact, from the name of his doctor to the last time and place he used his credit card, and what it was he bought. A Charlie-Charlie was about the only perk of the job; I'd used it a few times when trying to find out about women I wanted to take out. No one ever asks what you want the information for, and it makes life easier if you know in advance what sort of social life they have, whether they're married, divorced with kids, or have a monthly champagne bill the size of an average mortgage.
All I needed this time was an address. These sorts of requests were routine, and wouldn't mean I had gone against Lynn's need-to-know policy.
I walked downstairs. I couldn't see Wayne anywhere. I got to the car, took the parking ticket off the windshield and threw it in the back. I was committed west, toward Georgetown on the one-way system. That was fine, and in fact McDonald's was right. Within five minutes I passed the big yellow arches; the only problem was that I couldn't park up anywhere.
I decided to cruise on M until I found an easier place to stop.
Dead on thirty minutes later I called London. The speaking clock was back.
'Reference please.'
'Reference thirty-two, fourteen.'
There was a gap as the line went dead. She was checking the reference number I'd just given her. All I had to do was subtract my PIN from her reference number. It's a quick and easy confirmation system for low-level inquiries.
She came back on line.
'I have three addresses. One .. .'
The first two locations were nowhere near Falls Lake. One was in Charlotte, another in Columbia. The next one sounded warmer.
'The Lodge, Little Lick Creek, Falls Lake. This is now a disconnected line. Do you want the zip codes and user names on any of these?'
'No, no that's fine. Thank you, that's all.' I hung up. I didn't care who the disconnected line used to belong to. It wouldn't help me one bit.
As I drove, I couldn't get Falls Lake out of my head. I passed a Barnes & Noble bookshop, its neon window sign telling me it was open and selling coffee until 11 p.m. I drove on.
A 7-Eleven came to my rescue with a sandwich and coffee. I turned the car around and passed the Barnes & Noble again while filling my face. I couldn't resist it; I parked up, ditched the coffee and finished off the chicken sandwich as I fed another meter.
I went straight to the reference section and pulled out a small-scale atlas of North Carolina. I found Falls Lake and Little Lick Creek. It sounded like a commune for oral-sex fans.
North Carolina was only a short flight away. I could get down there maybe tonight, and if it turned out to be a fuckup I'd be back by tomorrow night. I got out my phone and started to make some inquiries.
I drove back to the apartment with a ticket for the 0700 from Dulles. I would still check out her bedroom and kitchen, though, just in case.
I took the exit off Airport Boulevard, following the signs for Interstate 40.
According to the map, if I kept on this highway heading east I would hit the Cliff Benson Beltline, which would take me north through Raleigh and on to the lake.
The weather was a lot warmer here than in D.C. and the clouds were dark and brooding, almost tropical. It had been raining quite heavily by the look of the large puddles that lined the road, and the sandy soil was dark with moisture.
The whole area was going through a massive rebuild. The airport itself had been having a makeover, and a new highway, not yet on the map, was under construction. On each side of me as I drove east, yellow bulldozers were going ape shit flattening everything in sight to make way for the steel skeletons of yet more buildings. From reading the local information magazine on the flight, I knew that the area was fast becoming 'science city U.S.A.,'
