Aftershock

Fifty-one

‘Margaret,’ said Bet, severely, frowning across the supper-table, ‘you have to ease up. I don’t know what it is you’re up to just now, but whatever it is, it’s taking over your life. You were on that computer for three hours, almost non-stop, apart from changing Steph. You barely spoke to me all the way through that sensational meal I conjured up out of nothing, and now you say you have to go back to it.’

‘I won’t be long,’ Maggie pleaded. ‘It’s some research I’m doing, that’s all, work-related; I’m keeping my hand in, so I’ll be ready when it’s time to go back.’

Her sister sighed. ‘You haven’t changed a damn bit, you know. You were always a workaholic. Do I have to remind you that you’re recovering from a life-threatening illness, not to mention the birth of a child?’

‘No, you do not! Chemotherapy is not like a dose of antibiotics. But, as my boss is fond of saying, your birth certificate doesn’t come with warranties or guarantees in small print on the back. Nothing is certain. The consultant could be wrong. The disease could recur. That’s why I have to do this thing now.’

‘Does it have to do with Stevie?’ Bet asked suddenly, taking Maggie by surprise.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I can’t see you getting so obsessive about anything else.’

‘Okay, you’re right.’

‘I know I am. You always did get defensive when I’m right. Go on, then, get back to it if you must, but please, just another half-hour. It’s a lovely evening, and I’d really like to spend some of it sitting in the garden with my sister, my niece, and a nice glass of Aussie Chardonnay.’

Maggie smiled. ‘That doesn’t sound like a bad proposition,’ she conceded. ‘Okay, half an hour it is. Let me help you tidy up first, though.’

She rose and started to clear the table, but Bet waved her away. ‘No! I’ll do it. Away you go and get it over with. Half an hour and the clock’s ticking now.’

She left the kitchen and returned to the computer; she had left it switched on and the screensaver was running. Stevie’s face filled the monitor. She had taken the photograph on his digital camera the day after they were married, on their brief winter honeymoon in Morocco. She smiled at him, then whispered, ‘See you later, love,’ as she clicked the mouse and the image disappeared, replaced by the folder of Fishheads press releases.

Bet had been right: she had spent too long at the task. She was tired, frustrated and had nowhere else to go. She was reduced to doing the same thing over and over again, looking for something that, in all probability, was not there.

She went back into the folder and opened the penultimate press release; it was only a week old and told the story of Ifan Richards’s visit to the eastern United States, during which he had had meetings in Atlanta, Georgia, in Charlotte, North Carolina, and in Columbia, South Carolina. She opened the accompanying photograph and studied it for the fourth or fifth time: Richards, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, flanked by the president and vice-president of the Columbia Chamber of Commerce. She peered at his image, trying to read the logo on his shirt, guessing that it was the Fishheads corporate image, but frustrated by its size.

‘Wait a minute,’ she murmured. ‘Brainwave.’

She went through each release in turn; where there was an attached illustration she copied it into her ‘My Pictures’ folder, in a new sub-folder, christened ‘fish’. When she was finished she ran all the photographs full-size as a slide show.

The executives of Fishheads were not men for formal dress. Even Godric Hawker, the new CEO, eschewed a tie. Ifan Richards wore either polos or, as in the case of the Las Vegas shot with Dražen Boras, T-shirts. Maggie froze the image of the two men, in front of the Wynn Resort, and studied it. They wore identical garments, each with a logo. It was blurred, but to her eye it seemed similar to the one in the South Carolina photograph. She ended the slide show, then double-clicked on the thumbnail file to open it in the picture viewer, where she would be able to enlarge it.

She hit the ‘zoom’ icon once, twice, again and again. Fourth time lucky: the lettering resolved itself into ‘Margaritaville, Las Vegas’.

She closed the image, opened the Columbia picture in the viewer and repeated the process. The insignia on Richards’s shirt read ‘Margaritaville, Myrtle Beach’.

Something clicked at the back of her mind. She picked up the file that Mario had sent her, the one that he and Bob Skinner had put together to establish Dražen Boras as Stevie’s killer. There was a photograph, taken from a CCTV camera, of the jacket he had been wearing when he had arrived in Edinburgh, at the Leith Police office. It had been enlarged already, for the print: across the back of the garment were emblazoned the words ‘Margaritaville, Jamaica’.

She tore through the slide show again, checking for more instances, and struck gold. In the enlarged version of the Cape Town shot, Richards was seen to wear a pale blue polo, all the way from ‘Margaritaville, Key West’.

‘Whatever the hell Margaritaville is,’ Maggie murmured, ‘these boys are big fans.’