I looked out through the arches of the covered walkway behind the dining room, and into the garden. A pair of bulbuls was drinking at the fountain. I’d always thought Yassine a good judge of women. I wondered if Steve had spent the night alone, and knew I wouldn’t ask her.
I sat in the garden and smoked a pipe, wondering which direction to head in, or who to telephone next. Steve must have come up behind me very quietly. She bent, and put her arms about me. I could feel her breasts against my shoulders through my shirt. She kissed me beneath my right ear – Grace had done that once – and said, ‘It might be quite nice to be your Old lady one day.’
‘Quite nice? Only that?’
She nuzzled me. There’s little point to sexual desire when they’re in that sort of mood.
‘Quite nice. Don’t get greedy – I’ll think about it while you’re away.’
They’re bloody psychic, but I suppose you knew that already.
Jessie came out to us. Barefoot. It made her seem even younger.
‘A kid just ran in with a message for you, Charlie, and then ran away again. The boss said he was a Greek kid, but I don’t know how he tells the difference.’
‘What was the message?’
‘He said you should go to church more often.’
I suddenly remembered what Collins had said, and click, click, click. I’ve told you before; you get these messages all of the time, but often you’re listening to the wrong stations.
I called Collins’s office from the phone on the bar. They said he was somewhere else and gave me another number. A woman answered the telephone. I thought I knew her voice, but couldn’t place it. Another Brit anyway.
‘How did you get this number?’ Cool. Distant.
‘I’m not going to say. Tell him it’s Charlie Bassett. He knows me.’
She put the phone down, and although I could hear murmurings in the room they didn’t coalesce into sounds I could interpret.
Eventually Collins’s voice asked, ‘Yes?’ He sounded wary. I supposed that he was working somewhere. Probably turning over some poor sod’s quarter.
‘It’s Charlie. I need some information.’
‘Only if I can.’
‘I need to contact Tony Warboys, but he moves about all the time, and I don’t have a number for him.’
‘Wait one.’
More shadowy murmurings. What was he doing? Checking his address book? Thinking about it? Consulting?
Eventually he came back and said, ‘Give me the number you’re at, and don’t go away. Wait for a call.’
I read out the number on the circle of round paper on the telephone cradle. He asked, ‘Is that Yassine’s place?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. Wait there until he calls you.’ He put the phone down.
Ten minutes later Warboys had not called, and I began to get impatient. Then I remembered that Collins wasn’t the only one with a line on him. I called Watson. Fiona answered the phone, and said he was away.
‘I know he’s away. He must have left you a contact number.’
‘Only for emergencies.’
‘This is one – my glass is getting empty. Give it to me now, love . . . please.’ She gave me another telephone number I didn’t recognize. I asked her, ‘Where is he?’
‘I can’t tell you that, Charlie.’
I didn’t push it. As long as I could speak to him I didn’t need to know where he was.
It all turned into déjà vu. I dialled the number, and again a woman answered. The first thing she asked was, ‘How did you get this number?’
‘I can’t tell you that. Tell Mr Watson a Liquorice Allsort wants to talk to him, and put him on.’
‘A Liquorice Allsort?’
‘Yeah, you know – one of those sweets that come in boxes.’
‘Is that cockney rhyming slang?’
‘It might be. Please tell him . . .’
I heard her lay the receiver down. Murmurings. Maybe laughter in the background. My imagination added clinking glasses. If it was Watson then he had to be in a bar. His voice came over loud and clear.
‘Hello, Charlie. Have you made some progress?’
‘Not really, sir. I need Tony Warboys’s telephone number, and I thought you probably had it.’ I thought I’d better give him the sir; I wanted something from him after all. He was quiet for so long I thought I’d lost the line. I did the Duke and ‘Caravan’, and got as far as the chorus. Then he just barked at me.
‘What are you bothering me for? You just asked somebody else for it.’
Silence. My jaw probably dropped.
‘How did you know that?’
‘Because someone was listening, of course, dear boy. Wake up, Charlie! Finish your beer and be patient, just like the man told you.’ And he hung up. Watson always loved being one up on me, and I bloody hated it. I’d have to get him back before the end of this tour.
I held my hand up to the bar boy, and he reached for another bottle of beer. I could get used to this stuff. No wonder returning squaddies were known to smuggle it back home in their kit. I had to wait for an hour; sat in the garden and took my book out again. The Pequod had just been hailed by another whaling ship looking for a lost boy: and the great white whale was in a foul temper. I could understand that. I’d met a few great white whales myself . . . even worked for them.
I didn’t mince words when Warboys called.
‘I want to see your tame priest. A safe meeting.’
‘He may not want to see you. Is this about the offer you sent him away with?’
‘No. It’s about something else altogether.’
‘He still may not want to see you.’
‘Use your charm.’
‘What’s in it for me?’
‘I’m not sure, but I suspect it will save you a lot of work in the long run.’ Then I added, just to dot the
