Alarm Call

Chapter 30

Liam and I searched her room before we put her back in it. We found a cell-phone, which I confiscated; I checked it, but after she had used it, as I was certain she had, constantly, to keep her partner in touch with what was happening, she’d deleted all the numbers she’d dialled. We also found a small clear glass bottle, which I was fairly sure had held the GHB. I pocketed that to send to the lab.

But we found nothing else, no hint of the identity of the mystery man, only her passport, some papers from Fairmile and Company, the books I’d bought her and some boarding stubs from our flights.

When she was safely tucked up in bed or at least lying on it in a monumental huff I went back out to play my only card.

I retrieved Roscoe Brown’s home number from my list and called it, feeling so grateful that when I’d suspected him of being the spy in my camp, I hadn’t gone blazing into him.

‘My hero!’ he exclaimed, as he answered. ‘What the hell was that action in San Francisco? Did you bribe the guy? Your price has gone up another three million after that, and nobody’s arguing.’

‘It may go down to zero very soon, if I drop a ball I’m carrying.’ I explained the problem to him and heard him deflate.

‘I need to ask you about one of your clients, Roscoe. I know you keep us all confidential, but this is important to both of us. It’s a guy by the name of Paul Patrick Walls, in reality Paul Wallinger.’

‘Who?’ Roscoe asked; not a good sign. I repeated both names.

‘Ah, him. Oz, he’s been gone for years. He got silly with Miles Grayson a few years back, and he paid the price, as does everyone who bad-mouths Miles. I only kept his name on my list to fatten it out. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t know what he’s doing.’

‘I do. He’s in a permanent vegetative state in a clinic in New Mexico. But that’s beside the point. When he was on your list, can you recall any particular buddy he had, anyone he was close to?’

I’ll swear the sound I could hear on the phone was Roscoe scratching his shiny black head. ‘PP Walls,’ he muttered. ‘PP Walls.’ He lapsed into silence. ‘Yes, there was one client he was close with. They looked alike so that led to their bonding in a way. PP did some doubling for this guy, when he was reasonably big. The Nickster, Nicky Johnson.’

Nicky Fucking Johnson. Prim’s old lover. Why wasn’t I surprised?

‘Where is he now, Roscoe?’

‘Dramatically speaking, my friend, he is in the shitter, for the same reason PP was. But, hell, you know all about that. However, the Nickster has a second string he falls back on. He’s a pretty talented singer and pianist, and since his movie career went bad, he’s been doing those gigs. Not as Nicky Johnson, though; he still has vain hopes of a movie come-back. When he plays the clubs he uses his real name.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Didn’t it appear on your divorce papers?’ Roscoe really does know everything.

‘No, that was a quickie job; no names, no fuss. So what’s he called?’

‘Nichols, Johnny Nichols.’

I laughed out loud. Johnny Nichols. Jack Nicholson. So he hadn’t been taking the piss in Minneapolis after all, just playing around with his own name.

‘Do you know where he is, Roscoe?’ I asked, a little urgently.

‘Sure I do. I got him a club gig last week, starting yesterday. He’s playing Le Bistro Theatre, in the Riviera, Las Vegas. Does that help you?’

I felt a huge smile engulf my face. ‘Oh, it helps. Does it ever help! Tonight Mr Nichols is going to get the biggest ovation of his life.’