with a hunchback and a small round head stuck on to the hunch like a pea on a lump of dough. A man with a finger in more pies than Jack Horner. He was holding my card gingerly between his two index fingers, and contemplating it as if it had just scurried out from under his fridge. Then he tore it into two bits, dropped them at his feet, and looked at me myopically through a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles. He blinked. 'I appreciate your candour, Mr Knight. Most of the peepers who come sniffing round my business usually have a card that says they've come to read the meter.'
I smiled at him.
'Unfortunately that's the only thing about you I appreciate. Would you care to give me the message you claim to have.'
'No.' It was just one tiny syllable but it produced a synchronised gasp from everyone in the room. Jubal stared at me inquisitorially.
'I hope you've got something good up your sleeve, snooper ... for your sake.'
'I'm not willing to give you the message, but I might exchange it ... For information.'
'What sort?'
'I'm looking for a man called Morgan.'
'And?'
'Dean Morgan. This is the bit where you say you haven't heard of him.' Just to spite me he said nothing, so I filled in the silence. 'He went missing as people often do in Aberystwyth. And, as people often do, someone asked me to find him.'
'I'm struggling to see the connection to me. It's going to be very painful for you if you don't have one.'
'He was last seen at one of your parties.'
Jubal removed his spectacles and polished them on the girl's leopard-skin coat. 'Is that it?' he spluttered, his gorge rising. 'He came to one of my parties? You bust your way into a private gathering, drop some old tart's name at the door as a calling card and that's all you've got?'
'Who says she's a tart?'
'They're the only sort of girls I associate with.' He slapped the knee of the blonde. 'Ain't that right, Toots?'
The girl dragged her gaze away from the ceiling and treated him to a smile that came and went faster than a flash from the lighthouse. 'Sure, honey.' Then she pressed her head against his chest and cooed. Jubal spoke across the top of her head.
'She wants to be in one of my pictures; they all do.'
'It's probably more fun than watching them.'
He flinched slightly and said, 'Tell me what you really want, peeper, is it money? And please dispense with the witty dialogue, it's tiresome.'
I didn't know what I was doing there, really; just looking to see if the Dean's name induced any reaction. So far it hadn't produced even a flicker. So I said, 'I've come to ask why your boys threw Dean Morgan in the sea.'
He addressed the rugby-shirt crew. 'Have any of you boys thrown a man called Dean Morgan into the sea recently?'
They exchanged questioning looks among themselves and then said in unison, 'Not us, Boss.'
'Looks like there's been a mistake,' said Jubal.
'Your boys are probably confused. His name's not actually Dean, that's his title. He teaches at the college in Lampeter. He was found last night floating face-down in the harbour.'
'How tragic, I hear the tides can be very strong.'
'They must have been, they broke his neck.'
There was a slight heightening of tension, and an air of mild surprise at the news of his death, which was understandable because I had just made it up. The people in the room turned their attention to Jubal. All except the girl, who was rubbing her cheek against his chest and making a long drawn-out 'Mmmmm' sound. Jubal laughed. Not the hammed-up stage-laugh of someone trying to conceal something. But the carefree laugh of someone who knows you've thrown in your wild card and you couldn't have been further from the truth if you tried.
'Well, shamus, he seems to have made an excellent recovery from his broken neck. He telephoned me five minutes ago.'
I thought for a second about an appropriate expression. He could have been lying and probably was. But then again so was I and he knew it; just as I knew that he was, and he knew that I knew that he was, and I knew that he knew that I was. I put on the bright wide grin of an idiot.
Jubal said, 'Tell me, peeper, do you really have a message from Judy?'
'Of course.'
'Why would she give it to you?'
'She's a friend of mine.'
'Is that right! A close friend?'
'Oh so-so.'
'This is really interesting. What does she look like?'
I hesitated, caught in the headlights of an oncoming train.
Jubal laughed. 'Go on describe her.'
'Er ... well, you know ...'
'Come, come, shamus! It shouldn't be too difficult, I'll give you a clue: tonight she's wearing a leopard-skin coat ...'
The girl turned and gave me a sickly-sweet smile. And then everyone in the room except me laughed. As the tears slid down his reddening face, Jubal waved a hand at me and said to one of the tough guys. 'Throw this trash into the sea.'
That was the signal for them to take out their blackjacks, put a hood over my face, and play a tune on my head.
When I regained consciousness I was lying at the base of Constitution Hill, a cold tongue of sea-water licking my face like a faithful dog. Dawn was breaking through thick woolly cloud and my head was throbbing. They had dumped me just above the high-water mark which meant that, all things considered, they must have liked me.
Chapter 2
The battered, green Crossville bus pulled up with a sigh of brakes and disgorged an old man in a cheap suit. He put two suitcases down on the floor and then squinted at the morning sun glittering on the sea. From the bus shelter, a mother and a little girl eyed him suspiciously. The man took a breath and said, 'Smell that, Seсor Rodrigo?'
A voice answered from the suitcase, 'Back in Aberystwyth. Same old smell.'
The man looked down at the case. 'Yes, the same old smell.'
'We said we'd never come back.'
'We always say we'll never come back.'
'But here we are again.'
The woman grabbed her little girl by the arm and dragged her briskly up the Prom, casting doubtful looks behind as they went. The old man watched them go for a while, his face lined with the wistful sadness that is the lot of the lifelong outcast. Then he bent down, the whole world on his shoulders, and picked up the cases. They were covered in faded stickers and the most faded of all said, 'The Amazing Mr Marmalade'.
'Need any help?' I offered.
He shook his head. 'Been carrying them for forty years.'
'I could take the small one.'
He jerked slightly. 'Yeah, I know, and throw Seсor Rodrigo in the sea.' He strode off, crossed the road, and entered the Seaman's Mission.
I remained standing there for a while and then walked up the rest of the Prom to the wooden jetty by the harbour. The autumn wind was warm and blustery and held in it the promise of a season about to change. At the end of the jetty, I turned, and contemplated the vista of the town steaming in the morning sun as if still damp from its soaking three years ago.
Looking back, it was surprising how well the old place had stood up to the great flood. The waters had passed over Aberystwyth like a giant car-wash and picked it cleaner than an alley-cat does the bones of a kipper.
