And by four in the morning even the clubbers have called it a day, and an unnatural calm has fallen over the city.
In his flat overlooking Jesmond Dene, Mayson Calvert, soothed by Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor and by the pulse of his own thoughts, is bathed in the glow of his laptop computer. He is working on a theory, one that he has worked on for several hours, one that has involved a great deal of research on the internet, trawling through sites so obscure and specialist that they would not even register on a popular search engine.
And now, after chasing up several blind alleyways, he has found the answer. Or at least he has found an answer. What it means is not clear at all, but Mayson knows that in his experience, answers are merely the catalyst to more questions.
But he has time. It is 4.15 a.m. and everybody is asleep.
By the time they are ready to begin the day, he may well have worked out what it all means.
SIXTEEN
The buzzing of Vos’s phone is insistent. He opens his eyes and is confronted by the sight of an empty whisky bottle and a full ashtray next to his chair on the balcony. He cannot remember coming to bed but is cheered by the fact that he obviously did. After a night’s excess, any evidence of good sense is a triumph.
He reaches for the phone on the night stand. The number on the display is Seagram’s. The time is 7 a.m.
‘Bernice,’ he says.
‘Morning, boss. Didn’t wake you, did I?’
He detects the mischief in her voice. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘Put the kettle on and I’ll tell you.’
Vos gets out of bed and goes out to the balcony. Seagram is standing on the pavement opposite, grinning up at him. One hand presses her phone to her ear, the other is waving a bacon sandwich.
‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ he says, pulling on a dressing gown.
‘Couldn’t sleep?’ he says. He waves her through to the kitchen. ‘Or have you found Jimmy Rafferty?’
‘We did a tour of the usual suspects last night,’ Seagram says. She places something on the counter and sheds her coat onto the back of a stool. ‘Of course nobody had heard of him, but we let it be known in the strongest possible terms that we were very keen to speak to him.’
Vos fills the kettle. ‘So what’s up?’
‘Mayson Calvert called me just before six. I was passing, so I thought I’d give you the heads up before he started blinding you with science in the office.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘He says he’s worked out what the dust particles are.’
He regards her blearily. ‘Dust particles?’
‘On the rope. On Okan Gul’s clothing. In Jimmy Rafferty’s car.’
‘Tea or coffee?’ Vos says, opening the cupboard.
‘Compressed wood pellets,’ Seagram says. ‘They’re a type of man-made fuel made from compacted sawdust. They’re very popular now that gas and electric prices have gone through the roof, apparently. Oh, and coffee please. Do you have decaf?’
‘You must be fucking joking.’
‘About the coffee or the wood pellets?’
‘Both,’ Vos says, shovelling granules into two mugs. He sees the object on the counter. ‘What’s this?’
‘It was on the doorstep,’ Seagram says. ‘You must have dropped it when you were trying to get your key in the lock last night. Anyway, Mayson was terribly excited, although I think he was more excited about beating George Watson to the punch.’
‘On the doorstep?’ Vos says. He picks the object up. It is a wristwatch with a cheap rubberized strap with the words BOCA RATON printed on it. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘This is Alex’s. His mum gave it to him last time she was over.’
‘Thought it must be,’ Seagram says. ‘He must have dropped it . . .’
Vos takes the stairs two at a time. He opens Alex’s bedroom door. His son’s bed has not been slept in.
‘Everything all right, boss?’ Seagram shouts up the stairs. ‘The kettle’s boiled.’
‘Did you see anyone hanging around outside, Bernice?’
‘No. Why?’
In the bedroom, Vos grabs his mobile and dials Alex’s number, but it is switched off. He returns into his son’s room. His movement is calm and unhurried, but his mind is racing. What the fuck is Chris’s surname? Swedish-sounding. Johanssen? Jorgenssen? He scans the room for a contacts book or a directory or something where Alex might have kept a list of numbers. Don’t be fucking stupid. Kids keep all their numbers in their phones these days.
‘You sure you’re all right, boss?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
And Alex is fine too. He’s crashed at Chris’s. He dropped his watch as he was leaving the house last night.
Except Alex would never do anything like that. He’s far too precise.
Precise. Where has he heard that word recently?
He rips open Alex’s desk drawer. Right up against the corner at the back, almost hidden among the piles of paperclips and thumb tacks, is an old Nokia handset. Alex’s first phone, only a couple of years old but already centuries out of date to any technologically savvy teenager. Vos grabs the phone and goes downstairs.
‘The batteries have gone on this,’ he says, handing the phone to Seagram. ‘How the hell do I get it working to open the contacts book?’
Seagram looks mystified. ‘Have you got a power adaptor?’
‘Probably. Somewhere. Let’s just assume that I don’t.’
‘I’ve got a Nokia phone. Maybe I can switch the SIM cards.’
She forces the back off Alex’s phone, picks out the SIM and places it in the slot at the back of her own phone. She activates the Power button, waits for it to spring to life and then goes to her contacts book.
‘There you go,’ she says, smiling uncertainly. There’s a look on the boss’s face that seems close to panic.
‘Look up Chris Jorgenssen. Or Johanssen. Or something Scandinavian.’
Seagram scrolls down the list of names. ‘Jesperssen?’
‘That’s it.’
Vos grabs the handset and presses the Call button. Presently someone answers with a grunt.
‘Chris, this is Theo Vos. Alex’s dad.’
‘Uh, oh yeah. Hi, Mr V.’
‘Is Alex there?’
‘Alex? Uh, no.’
‘You mean he’s left?’
‘Uh, no. He’s not at home?’
In the pit of his stomach, Vos feels tremors of unease growing steadily. ‘You mean he didn’t stay at yours?’
‘No.’
‘What about the other guys?’
‘They stayed here.’
Vos takes a breath. ‘Listen to me carefully, Chris: what happened to Alex last night?’
‘I dunno. We were in this, er—’
‘Look, I know you were out drinking. Just tell me what happened.’
‘We kind of lost him.’
‘You kind of lost him?’
‘Yeah. He was a bit pissed and I think he went to the toilet and then I think he must have just left. We looked for him, but he’d gone.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Half ten, something like that.’
‘Which pub were you in?’
‘The Ship.’
‘And you didn’t see him after that? He didn’t call or leave a message?’
‘No. What’s going on, Mr V? Is Alex all right?’
‘Chris, I want you to think very carefully. Was Alex wearing his watch last night?’
‘His watch?’
‘His watch from Florida. Orange strap with BOCA RATON written on it.’
There’s a pause and then another grunt. ‘Yeah. Now you mention it. There was this girl he was talking to in the pub who took a bit of a shine to it. Took a bit of a shine to him, actually.’