Vivien divided her time between longing for the captain’s telephone to ring and fear that her own cellphone would ring, bringing bad news from the clinic where Greta was being treated. Russell sat down in an armchair, and had put his legs up on the little table in front of him and stared into space, demonstrating a power of abstraction she wouldn’t have thought him capable of. The captain continued reading reports, but Vivien was prepared to bet that he had not absorbed a single word on those pages. The silence became like a spider’s web none of them wanted to escape. Words would only have led to other conjectures and other hopes, whereas what they needed now was something concrete, a message from reality.
By the time the phone on the desk rang, the light beyond the windows was stamping the approach of dusk on the walls. The captain lifted the receiver to his ear.
‘Bellew.’
The captain’s impassive expression didn’t give anything away to Russell and Vivien.
‘Wait.’
He had taken a pen and paper and Vivien saw him quickly write something.
‘Terrific work, boys. Congratulations.’
The receiver was not yet back in its place when the captain raised his head and held out what he had just written. Vivien took it gingerly, like an object that had just been pulled out of a fire.
‘We have a name. From Samaritan Faith Hospital in Brooklyn. A couple of nurses remember the guy well. They say he really was a monster, disfigured all over his body. He died just over six months ago.’
Vivien lowered her eyes to the piece of paper. On it were the words
Wendell Johnson – Hornell NY 7 June 1948.
140 Broadway Brooklyn
in the captain’s rapid, sloping handwriting.
Vivien found it incredible that a shadow they had been chasing in vain had suddenly become a human being with a name and address and date of birth. But what was equally incredible was the number of victims linked to that name and how many others would eventually have to be added to the list.
As she read, Bellew was already going into action. He was already talking to the switchboard.
‘Get me the police in Hornell, New York State.’
As he waited to be put through, he put the call on speakerphone, so that they could all listen. A professional voice came out of the small speaker.
‘Hornell police headquarters. How can I help you?’
‘This is Captain Alan Bellew of the 13th Precinct in Manhattan. Who am I speaking to?’
‘Officer Drew, sir.’
‘I need to speak with your chief. As soon as possible.’
‘One moment, sir.’
Bellew was put on hold. A jingle played briefly, followed after a few moments by a deep voice sounding much more mature than the previous one.
‘Captain Caldwell.’
‘I’m Captain Alan Bellew of the NYPD.’
At the other end there was a brief silence.
‘Good evening, captain. What can I do for you?’
‘I need information on a man named Wendell Johnson. All I know is that he was born in Hornell on 7 June 1948. Do have anything on him in your files?’
‘Just a moment.’
Only the noise of fingers moving rapidly over a keyboard. Then Captain Caldwell’s voice returned.
‘Here he is. Wendell Bruce Johnson. The only prior I have is an arrest for driving while intoxicated, in May 1968. There’s nothing else on him.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Give me another moment, please.’
Again the noise of fingers on keys and then again the voice. Vivien imagined a corpulent man trying to come to terms with a technology he didn’t quite understand, a man whose main objective in life was to hand out as many fines as possible to justify his salary to the city council.
‘There was someone taken in with him, for resisting arrest. A man named Lester Johnson.’
‘His father or his brother?’
‘From the date of birth, it has to be the brother. There’s only a year between them.’
‘Do you know if this Lester is still living in Hornell?’
‘Unfortunately, I’m not from around here. In fact I’ve only just started in the job. I don’t yet know many people. If you give me another few seconds I’ll check.’
‘That would be very helpful.’
Vivien saw on Bellew’s face the temptation to explain that all those seconds added up to days and months. And they were having difficulty finding hours in a situation like this.
In spite of everything, Captain Caldwell replied calmly and politely, ‘There’s no Wendell Johnson in the phone book. But there is a Lester Johnson, at 88 Fulton Street.’
‘Good. I’m sending you a couple of people in a helicopter. Can you provide a place where they can land?’
‘There’s Hornell Municipal Airport.’
‘Perfect. They’ll be arriving as soon as possible. After that, I’m going to need your help.’
‘Whatever you need.’
‘If you could go to meet them personally that would be great. In addition it’s vital that this conversation remain confidential. Very confidential – have I made myself clear?’
‘Loud and clear.’
‘I’ll speak to you soon then.’
The captain hung up and looked at Vivien and Russell.
‘As I think you heard, you need to take a little trip. In the meantime I’ll send a team to search this Johnson guy’s address in Brooklyn. It’s a formality, because I don’t think we’ll find anything, but in a case like this you never know.’
Within fifteen minutes Bellew had requested and obtained the use of a helicopter equipped for night flights. Vivien and Russell were driven at high speed to a soccer field on 15th Street, on the banks of the East River. The helicopter arrived soon afterwards, a graceless, overgrown insect that moved agilely in the sky. No sooner did they get on than the earth spun away from them and the city became a sequence of houses and towers down below until it had disappeared behind them. The plunge into darkness happened in slow motion, with only an ever thinner blade of light on the horizon to recall that the sun still existed.
The pilot brought the helicopter down smoothly next to a long, narrow building lit by a string of lampposts. On an open space to their left, a number of small tourist aeroplanes were parked. Cessnas, Pipers, Socatas and other models that Vivien didn’t know. As she opened the door, a police car that had been waiting next to the building came towards them.