Blood Hunt

“How did you sleep?” she asked without looking up.

“Fine,” he lied. “You?”

As she was folding a page, she glanced up at him. “Soundly, thanks.”

He poured them both coffee. “I’ve found out what OPs are.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been doing some more reading.”

“You were up early. So, what are they?”

“Organophosphorus treatments.”

“And what are those when they’re at home?”

“Pesticides, I think. Marco and others think the Spanish cooking oil thing was all to do with pesticides.”

She drank greedily from her mug and exhaled. “So what now?”

He shrugged.

“Are you going to talk to Marco?”

Reeve shook his head. “He’s got nothing to do with it. He’s just a catalyst. Jim wasn’t researching the Spanish incident, he was looking at BSE.”

“Bovine spongiform thingy.”

“Encephalopathy.”

“How did he make the leap from cooking oil to BSE?”

“He remembered something he’d heard.”

So I phoned Joshua Vincent, and told him he probably wouldn’t know me. He said I was correct in that assumption. I explained that some time ago the paper had received a press release from his organization, the National Farmers’ Union, concerning BSE. He told me he wasn’t working for the NFU anymore. He sounded bitter when he said it. I asked him what had happened.

“They sacked me,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because of what I said about BSE.”

And I began to sniff my story. Now if only I can persuade Giles to fund me…

“So what are you doing today?” Fliss asked. She’d had a shower, dried her hair, and was dressed.

“Trying to find Joshua Vincent.”

“And if you can’t?”

Reeve shrugged again; he didn’t want to consider failure, though really it should be considered. With any plan, there should be a fallback position.

“You could talk to Giles Gulliver,” she suggested, dabbing crumbs of toast from her plate.

“That’s an idea.”

“And then?”

“Depends what I learn.”

She sucked at the crumbs. “Don’t expect too much from Giles, or anyone like him.”

“What do you mean?”

She grabbed the newspaper and opened it to a full-page ad-vertisement, placed by Co-World Chemicals. “Don’t bother read-ing it,” she said. “It’ll put you back to sleep. It’s just one of those feel-good ads big corporations make up when they want to spend some money.”

Reeve glanced at the ad. “Or when their consciences are bothering them?”

Fliss wrinkled her nose. “Grow up. Those people don’t have consciences. They’ve had them surgically removed to make room for the cash-flow implants.” She tapped the paper. “But as long as Co-World and companies like them are throwing money at advertising departments, publishers will love them, and the publishers will see to it that their editors never print anything that might upset Sugar Daddy. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

She shrugged. “Will you be here this evening?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll have to see how it goes.”

“Well, I’ll probably be late. There’s a second Giannini’s opening in Covent Garden and I’m invited.”

“Giannini’s?”

“The designer.”

“Hold the front page,” he said. She scowled and he held up his hands. “Just a joke.”

“I want to know what you find, no matter what. Even if it’s only a phone call from Scotland, let me know.”

“Sure, it’s the least I can do.”

She left the kitchen and returned again wearing a coat and carrying a briefcase. She made show of adjusting the belt on the coat. “Just one thing, Gordon.”

“What’s that?”

“What are you going to do about the flat?”

He smiled at her. “It’s yours for as long as you want it.”

Finally she looked at him. “Really?” He nodded. “Thanks.”

Maybe he’d found his fallback position. If he didn’t get any further with Jim’s story, he could always track down her ex-boyfriend and make a mess of the rest of his life. She came over and pecked him on the cheek.

Which was payment enough in itself.

He found a telephone number for the NFU, but nobody could give him a forwarding address for Joshua Vincent. A woman who had tried to be helpful eventually passed him on to someone who had more questions than answers, wanting to know who he was and what his connection was with Mr. Vincent.

Reeve put down the telephone.

Maybe Vincent lived in London, but there were several Vincent J’s listed in the phone book. It would take a while to talk to them all. He went to Jim’s notes again. They were a hodgepodge of the detailed and the rambling, of journalistic instinct and alcoholic excess. There were jottings on the backs of some sheets. He hadn’t paid them much attention, but laid them out now on the living-room floor. Doodles, circles, and cubes mostly, and a cow’s warped face with a pair of horns. But there were names and what looked like times, too, and some telephone numbers. There were no names beside the numbers. He tried the first one and got a woman’s answering machine. The second just rang and rang. The third turned out to be a bookmaker’s in Finsbury Park. The fourth was a central London pub, the one Fliss and her journalist colleagues used.

The fifth was another answering machine: “Josh here. Leave your message and I’ll get back.”

An evasive message. Reeve severed the connection and wondered what to say. Eventually he dialed again.

“Josh here. Leave your message and I’ll get back.”

He waited for the tone.

“My name’s Gordon Reeve, and I’m trying to locate Joshua Vincent. I got this number from my brother’s notes. My brother’s name was James Reeve; I think Mr. Vincent knew him. I use the past tense because my brother is dead. I think he was working on a story at the time. I’m hoping you can help me. I’d like to find out why he died.”

He gave the flat’s telephone number and put down the receiver. Then he sat down and stared at the telephone for fifteen minutes. He made more coffee and watched it for another fifteen minutes. If Vincent was home and had listened to the message straightaway, even if he wanted to check James Reeve had a brother, he would have been back by now.

So Reeve telephoned Fliss’s paper, spoke to Giles Gulliver’s assistant, and was put through to the editor at last.

“Good God,” Gulliver said. “I can’t believe it. Is this some sort of joke?”

“No joke, Mr. Gulliver. Jim’s dead.”

“But how? When?”

Reeve started to tell him, but Gulliver interrupted. “No, wait-let’s meet. Is that possible, Mr. Reeve?”

“It’s possible.”

“Just let me check my diary.” Reeve was put on hold for the time it took him to count to sixty. “Sorry about that. We could have a drink at midday. I’ve a lunch appointment at one, so it would make sense to meet at the