Part 8 (1/2)

'Did he say why?'

'He didn't know why. Just, there's been this information clampdown. His very words. Leaks, he said, would be plugged. He was worried for his pension.' Joe's shoulders rose and fell. 'Don't expect to read this in the papers.'

A thought struck her. 'How much do I owe you, Joe?'

'I gave you two days,' he said. 'I spread it over a week, that's all.'

'Are you sure?'

'None of it matters. I went looking for a child, I found a father. You couldn't call it a result.'

'It's odd, though.'

'Life is odd. You should know this, you don't grow old and disappointed. You owe me one hundred and fifty pounds, since you ask. I would offer a discount for failure, but union rules forbid it.'

She wrote him a cheque. 'What will you do next?'

'I thought I'd have a look at the exhibition. This French photographer, are you interested? It's free before one.'

'I meant about Dinah.'

He took the cheque, folded it, slipped it inside his wallet. 'Sarah. You don't mind? Of course not, you're calling me Joe. Sarah, like I said, these are muddy waters. A soldier comes back from the dead, even if his visit proves brief. We are not talking about police matters here. We are talking national security. Military Intelligence. Private investigators, they don't like. Sometimes they throw the book at them.'

'Joe '

'Have you seen the book, Sarah? It's very big and it's very heavy. I promise you, if I wasn't a coward, I'd help.'

'You're giving up.'

'If you want to put it that way, yes. You won't shame me into this, Sarah. You want to know what else my policeman friend told me? Ex-friend. The word is, that house did not blow up by accident.'

'The papers said '

'The papers lied.'

'You know that for a fact?'

He raised his eyes to heaven. 'Facts. A policeman wanted to give me my money back, Sarah. We are beyond facts here. We are in an age of miracles and wonders.'

'But what about the child?'

'Trust me. She'll turn up. It was a hospital she was in, they won't have sold her into slavery.'

He wasn't about to budge, Sarah could see that. Still, it wouldn't hurt to insert a wedge. 'Supposing I found out '

'How would you do that?'

'I don't know. I'm supposing. Supposing I thought I knew where she was, would you help me look? If I asked?'

He picked up his coffee spoon and held it lengthwise between index fingers. He seemed to be measuring something with it. 'You understand what I said? That explosion was no accident. In English, a bomb was involved. It's a dangerous business.'

'I don't care about that. I want to find Dinah.'

'Why?'

Why? Because the child was a survivor: now, more than ever. Before, Sarah had imagined Dinah to have come through an Act of G.o.d unscathed. Now, it seemed she had lived through an Act of Man. For that, if for no other reason, she deserved to have someone care about what happened next.

'Sarah?'

'Joe. It matters, that's all.'

He considered. 'You need help, it doesn't involve policemen or spies or soldiers, okay, I'll be there. But this is only because I like you, Sarah.'

'And because you don't think it'll happen.'

'That too.' He put the spoon down and reached into his jacket pocket. 'This doesn't interest you. But it's what he looked like, Thomas Singleton. I took it from a newspaper, an old one. The story about the helicopter crash.'

She unfolded a picture: two men, uniformed, but relaxed and smiling; both about her age, maybe a little older. The one on the left was squinting in the sun. The other, Thomas Singleton, held a cupped cigarette at chest level.

Joe said. 'His friend there was in the chopper with him.'

'What's his name?'

'Michael something. Michael Downey, I think.' He scratched his chin. 'You know, come to think of it, maybe he's still alive too.'

'Oh, I'd put money on it.'

'Why's that?'

'Because he's the man who was waiting for me in the car park,' Sarah said.

She finished stripping the ivy from the shed, and piled it in a garden refuse sack. For all her musing she was no nearer finding Dinah Singleton, apart from having established that she wasn't in the garden. Back inside, Mark was absorbed in cricket, and didn't look up as she walked past. Sundays were their one guaranteed day together. Looked like they'd blown this one.

The fight proper, though, didn't start until the evening. Usually Mark was ready for bed by ten, never failing to make some comment about having to be up early. Meaning lucky old her, who didn't. Tonight he was in no hurry, pouring another gla.s.s of wine as the clock struck. 'We've been invited away next weekend,' he said.

'Really? Who by?'

'The Inchons.'

He'd deliberately turned away before dropping this bombsh.e.l.l.

'You have to be kidding.'

'Uh-uh.'

'Well, forget it. We're not going.'

'Yes we are.'

'You might be. He's not my client.'