Single Obsession

by Des Ekin

  The little Gran Turismo started instantly, her two-stroke engine sounding louder than it should in the echoing confines of the garage. As the motor warmed up, Hunter swung on the heavy suede jacket and zipped it up. He had no crash-helmet, but what the hell. He was in so much trouble with the law already, a motoring offence wouldn’t make much difference.

  The door of the garage opened into a narrow private entry to the back of the houses. As Hunter rode carefully down it towards an alleyway that led to the main road, he was conscious of a strange feeling that he hadn’t experienced for a few days. He couldn’t quite put his finger on this feeling; it was only later, when he looked back on it, that he realised there had been no vans parked there, no motorists reading papers in cars, no pedestrians absently checking their Lotto tickets at the corner. For the first time in days, he wasn’t being watched. And the feeling that he was experiencing, as he opened the Vespa’s throttle and flew down the open road with the icy wind in his hair, was the feeling of freedom.

  CLAIRE opened the A4 envelope and handed the photocopies of Mags Jackson’s statement across to Dr Charles Merlyn.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have asked if it weren’t so important.’

  ‘Well, it is rather inconvenient,’ Merlyn pointed out. He was a small, thin man with a piping, peevish voice. ‘I never work on Sundays. Never. In fact, I should be playing a round of golf at this very moment. I agreed only because your mother asked me as a personal favour.’

  ‘I won’t take up much of your time,’ Claire promised. ‘There are only two words. A signature.’

  ‘Oh, dear. A photocopy.’ Merlyn shook his head regretfully. ‘I’m afraid that makes the task much more difficult. Variance of pressure, as you presumably know, is one of the criteria we use to analyse handwriting. Still, leave it with me and I’ll do my best. Shall we say, next Friday?’

  ‘I was rather hoping you could give me a reading now.’

  ‘Give you a reading?’ Merlyn was offended. ‘My dear, this is not a Tarot session. Graphology is an exact science. When I read a person’s character from handwriting, I do it with the aid of precise measurements. Spacing, slant, movement, pastosity, zones, margins, speed. Connective forms, alignment to baseline. They’re all essential to a proper study. And they all take time.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything at all?’

  Merlyn lifted his glasses over his forehead and peered at the signature. ‘Only what you presumably know already,’ he said, ‘that it’s the writing of a woman in her twenties or thirties. It also reveals a great deal of stress and tension. Possibly illness.’ He replaced his glasses. ‘And that, I’m afraid, is all I can tell you for the moment.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Claire couldn’t hide her disappointment. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Very well.’ He showed her to the door. ‘I shall do my very best. And please give my regards to Professor Hermitage. I’ve always been a great admirer of your mother’s work.’

  ‘I will.’ Claire waved goodbye as she walked down the path to the gate.

  As she started her Fiat Brava, she looked up to find Merlyn standing on the footpath beside her. She wound down the window.

  ‘By the way,’ he called out over the noise of the engine. ‘You do know she’s an American, don’t you?’

  ‘SHE’S an American?’ repeated Mark Tobey.

  ‘Seems so,’ said Hunter. ‘Merlyn was convinced of it.’

  Mark shook his head. ‘Come on. You couldn’t possibly tell what nationality she is from her signature.’

  They were walking along the seafront at Sandycove, near Mark’s cottage. The early-afternoon sun was warm and bright, but the air was bitterly cold as they passed under the shadow of the stone fortress tower on the headland.

  ‘Claire says it’s nothing to do with handwriting analysis, more to do with systems of education.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Mark sidestepped to avoid a Japanese tourist who was taking photos of his coach party outside James Joyce’s Martello tower.

  ‘It all went above my head, I’m afraid,’ said Hunter. ‘Something about the way American children are taught to do joined-up writing, as opposed to the way children are taught on this side of the Atlantic. Our pupils are taught Italic script, their kids are taught the Palmer Method. Something like that. Claire said he seemed to know what he was talking about. Anyway, he said the circles are a dead giveaway.’

  ‘Listen, Hunter, I’m sure you find this absolutely fascinating.’ Mark seemed more than usually agitated. He kept twitching nervously, throwing his arms around, hugging himself or scratching his head. ‘But even if you’re right, how does that actually help us? We’ve merely succeeded in reducing the short-list to around a hundred million female Americans.’

  They walked past the rocky outcrop of the Forty Foot, towards Bullock Harbour.

  ‘Well, let’s examine the situation,’ said Hunter. ‘We know now that the woman who came to our office wasn’t really Mags Jackson. We know she’s a fake. For some reason, she set us up.’

  Mark shrugged and said nothing. In the face of overwhelming evidence, he had finally been forced to abandon his conspiracy theory that the woman at Ardee Terrace had been a Government plant. A few discreet inquiries had also revealed that the librarian had been on holiday in Tenerife for the previous fortnight. The fraudulent Mags had obviously been aware of that fact and had taken full advantage of it.

  ‘And although we don’t know for sure,’ Hunter was saying, ‘we can speculate that a set-up as sophisticated as this would have involved members of the local police – perhaps even your own highly placed source.’

  Mark kicked at a pebble under his feet and remained stubbornly silent. Hunter could tell he was having trouble coming to terms with this.

  ‘The obvious question is: why? Why were we set up?’ Hunter went on. ‘As I see it, the only way we’ll ever know is if we track down the fake Mags Jackson, expose her real identity, and pray that we get some answers. It’s a huge challenge, I know. But we have to do it before nine o’clock on Tuesday.’

  ‘Tuesday?’ Mark snorted in contempt. ‘Oh, come on, Hunter. Forget Valentia and his melodramatic deadline. Look at the bigger picture. What do you care what happens to Addison’s bank balance? I bet he’s got a cosy little retirement fund stashed away somewhere. Simon’ll never starve.’

  ‘Okay, so Addison’s cash problems aren’t exactly high on my priority list,’ Hunter conceded. ‘It’s not just the money. But if he pays that two million on Tuesday, Street Talk will fold and all my colleagues will be out of a job. That’s what I care about.’

  ‘That’s true, but what difference will a few extra hours make? Even a few extra days or weeks? Whenever we get the evidence, Addison can always ask for his money back.’

  ‘No, he can’t. It’s a voluntary donation to charity, remember? Payable by bank draft with no conditions attached. It would take an awful lot of goodwill on the Camp Valentia charity’s part to hand it back, and after all the stick they’ve taken from the press over the years, I can’t see that ever happening.’

  Mark accepted that point with a silent grimace.

  ‘We have to face up to reality here,’ Hunter said. ‘If Simon Addison hands over that bank draft, more than fifty people will be out of work – and I’ll be responsible.’

  ‘They can always apply for other jobs.’

  ‘Not all of them. Look at people like Michael Murphy – he’s only five years away from retirement, and I persuaded him to leave a safe job at the Mercury to join us. And he’s not the only one who’ll never work again.’

  He paused to let the point sink in. If Addison backed down on Tuesday, Hunter’s own reputation would be in tatters. Even if he managed somehow to vindicate himself at a later stage, he’d be known as the Jonah who sank entire magazines. He’d never get another editorial job in his life. There was Zeicker’s warning to think about – Valentia might press criminal charges against him,
personally. He could end up in jail.

  And Emma was in deep trouble as well …

  There was no doubt about it – he was fighting with his back to the wall. That was the harsh reality, and there was only one way out. He had to get evidence, solid evidence, and he had to get it by Tuesday night … or else he would be destroyed.

  ‘OKAY,’ said Mark Tobey reluctantly. ‘We’ve got just over two days. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you to take copies of her photo and show them to as many people as you can. See if anyone recognises her.’

  ‘Long shot, Hunter. Very long shot.’

  They walked over the rocks to a tiny stone jetty.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Mark said suddenly. ‘We know that Valentia made a quick fortune during his years in the USA. I’m willing to bet that he didn’t manage that without making a few enemies along the way. This woman could have been one of them. If you’re right that she’s an American, this could be a case of his past catching up with him.’

  He lifted a flat stone and skimmed it across the waves.

  ‘Yes, that thought had crossed my mind, too,’ Hunter said. ‘But it would take weeks to investigate that angle. We’d need to hire private investigators in every state he’s ever lived in. There just isn’t time.’

  ‘There is another way, Hunter.’ Mark dusted off his hands. ‘I could do with a vacation. I’ve been working very hard lately. And I’ve always wanted to see the Deep South.’

  Hunter stared at him. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

  ‘I could catch a direct flight to Atlanta this afternoon,’ Mark said. ‘Get a connection from there to Mississippi, where Valentia owned the radio station. I’ll spend all day tomorrow showing this woman’s photo to everyone I can. I’ll get around as many people as I can humanly manage in the time available. If I strike gold, we could solve this whole problem at a stroke.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Hunter said. ‘But why not start by making a few phone calls? You could always e-mail the photos if you get lucky.’

  ‘I’ll do that anyway. But we can’t assume that everyone will be cooperative. I’ve a feeling that this will be something of a foot-in-the-door job.’ Mark sighed. ‘I thought I’d left all that behind me years ago. Still, needs must …’ He lifted another stone and tried to skim it. This time it hit a rock and sank without trace. ‘If I’m wrong … well, at least I’ll feel better than if I’d stayed around here scratching my arse.’

  Hunter had to admit he had a point.

  ‘There’s only one problem, Mark,’ he said. ‘I’m flat broke. I can hardly afford a bus fare, let alone pay for a return flight to America.’

  Mark waved the objection aside. ‘I’ve got a few bob salted away for a rainy day. And they don’t come much rainier than this.’

  ‘Keep a note of your expenses,’ Hunter said. ‘I’ll repay every penny. Maybe not right away, but I promise I’ll repay them.’

  Mark clapped his back awkwardly. ‘No, Hunter. This one’s on me. You’ve helped me out often enough. It’s the least I can do.’

  It had grown much colder. The sun had disappeared behind a threatening black cloud.

  ‘There’s something else I wanted to say to you, Hunter,’ said Mark. He turned around suddenly to face him. ‘This isn’t going to be easy, but it has to be said.’

  From across the Bay, beyond Howth Head, there came an ominous rumble of thunder.

  ‘There’s one possibility you’re not taking into account,’ Mark said evenly, maintaining direct eye contact. ‘And I can understand why you’re blanking it out. But I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t grab you by the hair and shove it under your nose. It doesn’t give me any pleasure to do it. I hope you understand that.’

  ‘I don’t understand anything yet.’

  ‘You say you’ve been set up,’ said Mark. ‘You’ve listed all the people who could be involved in this set-up. You’ve mentioned the fake Mags Jackson and you’ve mentioned my police sources. But you haven’t mentioned the person who brought the story to your attention in the first place.’

  Hunter felt a dark anger welling up inside him, but he kept it tightly under control. ‘Emma Macaulay brought the story to my attention,’ he said with dangerous calm. ‘You know that, Mark.’

  Mark’s eyes didn’t waver. ‘I’m suggesting the possibility that Emma’s held a grudge against you since the day you married Jill,’ he said. ‘She turned down your marriage proposal, but she still wanted to keep you dangling on a string. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know how women think. But when you married someone else, it must have been an enormous blow to her ego. A huge slap in the face.’

  Hunter said nothing. He simply stared at Mark, forcing him to go on.

  ‘Just think about it for a moment, Hunter,’ Mark urged. ‘She’s been suspended from her post as clinic director, and we all know that the suspension was ordered by Valentia. But what you haven’t considered is the possibility that her suspension was ordered before this story erupted, not afterwards. It wasn’t as a result of the story. It was the cause of it.’

  Hunter’s head reeled. ‘I can’t …’

  Mark’s voice remained calm and persuasive. ‘Just speculate on the possibility, Hunter. Just consider this scenario: Emma loses the rag and genuinely assaults a patient at her clinic. Maybe her legendary patience finally runs out or something. You can understand how it could happen, dealing with that sort of street-scum, day in, day out. Valentia orders her to be suspended, maybe four, five weeks ago. How do you think she reacts?’

  His eyes bored into Hunter’s, challenging him to admit the truth. But it wasn’t necessary. Hunter already knew how Emma had reacted to losing her clinic. She’d reacted like a mother bear facing an attack on her lair.

  ‘I’ll tell you how she reacts,’ Mark pressed on. ‘She reacts with sheer fury. She wants revenge. But she also wants to get her clinic back. So she moves to discredit Valentia. Make him lose his seat. Destroy him. She hires some desperate junkie woman – God knows there are enough of them in her little black book – and gets her to spin a yarn to you. And if you end up looking like a prize fool in the process, well, that’s just a little extra bonus, isn’t it? Hell hath no fury, and all that.’

  Hunter glared into Mark’s probing eyes. He felt his hands clench into tight fists. He experienced an overwhelming urge to land a punch in the middle of the man’s face.

  Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving Mark standing alone on the stone jetty with the frothing waves seething around the soles of his fine leather shoes.

  ‘It’s just a theory, Hunter,’ Mark called after him. ‘Just a theory, that’s all.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘HUNTER, sweetie. How are you, darling?’

  Hunter smiled as he pumped more coins into the phone. He could just picture her sitting at the desk, large, blond and constantly flustered. Her desktop would be in chaos as usual, piles of notebooks and letters and folders tottering in uneasy heaps, threatening at any moment to engulf her computer keyboard in a disaster of biblical proportions. Above her would be a printed sign saying: ‘A clean desk is a sign of a sick mind.’ On the floor would be one or two tiny, empty champagne bottles – she filched them by the handbagful from first-class air flights and uncorked them at random, morning, afternoon or night. On her screen would be the first few paragraphs of her column for the Monday edition of the Evening Report.

  Naomi Scott might have been one of the most feared columnists in town, but to her friends she was as warmhearted as an open fire and as generous as a perpetual Christmas.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Hunter lied. ‘Well, I suppose, as fine as you can be after you’ve lost your job. I suppose you’ve heard.’

  ‘Of course I’ve heard, chicken,’ said Naomi. ‘What else would you expect from Simon Addison? The only time you can depend on Simon to stand by you is when he’s scattering ashes on your coffin.’

  ‘Well, yes. It’s fai
r to say he hasn’t exactly been a bulwark of support.’

  ‘Don’t take it personally, honeybun. He’d do the same to anyone. There are two people in this world I mistrust totally, and both of them are Simon Addison.’

  The public phone sounded a frantic time warning.

  ‘Tell me about the girl,’ said Hunter, feeding more coins into the box.

  ‘Of course, pumpkin. I just had to give you a call last night and let you know, because everyone in town is convinced you’ve cracked up and gone to Lula-land and imagined the whole thing. Now that’s a rumour I definitely want to dispel, because if you imagined it, sweetie, then I imagined it too. You may have been conned something rotten; you may just have been a teensy-weensy bit irresponsible; but you definitely weren’t hallucinating.’

  Her phone gave a single beep. ‘Oh, incoming call,’ sighed Naomi dramatically. ‘Have to put you on hold, darling.’ The line clicked and Hunter spent the next three minutes pumping more coins into the slot while listening to a loop-tape of a radio advert for the newspaper. By the time the advert began for the seventh time, he was ready to climb up the walls of the kiosk; but just then, luckily, Naomi returned.

  ‘Must fly, poopsie. Duty calls. Interview with Whatsis-name, the hunky Austrian actor with the pectorals and the amazing accent. I’ll be back. No, I won’t. Why don’t you meet me at six-thirty in the Bick Iron and I’ll tell you simply everything.’

  MARTIN met him outside the advertising-agency studio. ‘Didn’t recognise you there, Hunter,’ he said. ‘You’ve really come down in the world, ain’t you? Bloody motor-scooter.’

  ‘It’s not just any motor-scooter,’ Hunter said as he locked the gleaming machine to a lamppost. ‘It’s a classic Vespa Gran Turismo from 1963.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have afforded something a bit newer?’

  Hunter stared at him, looking for signs of sarcasm. Then he realised that the cameraman was absolutely serious.