Alarm Call

Chapter 15

I pulled a grave face and made the right noises at the time, but in truth, I thought that McLaren’s warning was over-dramatic, and I didn’t take it very seriously. I had done research into Paul Wallinger that he hadn’t, and I did not have him marked down as a heavy hitter.

It was good to have him on-side; I had known that Prim’s money would be hard to catch up with, maybe impossible for us on our own. The banks would be unlikely to talk to individuals. . frankly I’d be very pissed off if mine did. . but with a police officer asking the questions they might be more inclined to co-operate.

When I went back inside, Audrey was waiting for me; she’d found a flight to Minneapolis next day, from Glasgow via Amsterdam, and she wanted me to okay it. I shivered when she told me that; I hadn’t been to Schiphol since the day Mike Dylan was shot. Nonetheless I said it was fine, and left her to go firm on the booking. I was taking a hell of a chance: I didn’t know for sure that Mother Wallinger was still in either of the twin cities of Minneapolis-St Paul, or that she was anywhere else on Earth for that matter, but we had to begin somewhere.

Conrad took us to the airport next morning; Susie volunteered, of course, but I managed to talk her out of it. It was tough enough saying goodbye to the kids, and I didn’t fancy a public emotional farewell at the departure gate, especially as I was flying out with my ex-wife. Instead, we said our serious farewells the night before, and well into the morning.

When we left Prim was carrying a very important document, a notarised copy of the interim interdict that she’d been granted the day before in the Sheriff Court in Edinburgh, ordering Tom’s return to the UK pending a full custody hearing. When we found the boy, Harvey’s instructions were to engage a local lawyer and have him petition a judge for it to be enforced. By that time, he hoped that we would have grounds for the local police to arrest Paul Wallinger.

I was bleary-eyed when I got to the KLM desk to pick up our travel documents, so when I saw that we were booked as Mr and Mrs Blackstone, I was taken more than a bit by surprise. Then I remembered that Audrey would have had to give them the name on Prim’s passport, and that was the one she’d borrowed from me for a while.

Someone else may claim to be the world’s favourite airline, but they’re not mine. I like flying with KLM or Northwest, and usually I do so out of choice. There were no horrors waiting for me in Schiphol Airport; the place is constantly changing, and so I doubt that I could have found the spot where Dylan went down, even if I’d been trying.

We had two and a half hours between flights, which we spent in the comfort of the VIP Lounge. I’d expected to be unnoticed in Amsterdam, but I caught a couple of people looking in our direction. I hoped that none of them were tabloid journalists, although if they had been they’d have had nothing to latch on to. Prim and I barely spoke during the wait, apart from when she asked me if I wanted a drink. I was too busy reading Everett’s script, trying to use the time to get into the part that I’d be acting in only a week.

I read it part of the way across the Atlantic too, until the text started to swim before me, and I knew that it was time to rest my eyes. As I stretched out on the club-class seat, I saw that Primavera was watching a movie on her monitor. What the hell was it but Red Leather. When it finished, she was smiling. ‘You were damn good in that, you know,’ she said. The flight attendant must have thought so too: he gave me a special smile as he passed me my meal tray, and filled my wine glass.

Never having been to Minneapolis before, and having been geographically disadvantaged all my life, I was surprised when we were routed over Canada and the Great Lakes. The long overland approach reminded me yet again that North America is a hell of a big place.

They say that MSP International is one of the busiest airports in the world, but it was quiet when we landed. I’ve been fast-tracked through Immigration before, but not there; still, we were first off the plane and that helped. When we got to the desk and handed over our passports and forms, the officer asked us the standard question: ‘Purpose of your visit to the United States?’

I hadn’t thought about that one, but I knew that ‘searching for a child-snatching con-man’ was not an appropriate response. So instead I told her that I was making a movie in Las Vegas and had decided to spend some time in Minneapolis first. ‘Mall of America,’ Prim added helpfully. That did the trick, for the woman smiled, stamped our passports and clipped a green entry card into each one. She even asked for my autograph. ‘We don’t get too many movie stars through here,’ she confided.

‘What’s the Mall of America?’ I whispered to Prim as we walked away.

‘Shops, shops and more shops.’

My body felt like it was after midnight, but the airport clocks and the daylight outside insisted that it was early evening, just before seven when I lifted the last of our luggage off the carousel, and we walked through the gate that led into Minnesota. The only thing I knew about the place at that moment was that they had once elected Jesse ‘The Body’ Ventura, a wrestler, as governor. The guy didn’t do a bad job, sparking a rumour that Everett Davis was going to run for governor of New York. (He might, but not yet.)

The second thing I found out about the state is that they do a very nice line in airport limos; ours was driven by a guy called Charles, and it was a very plush Mercedes, not one of those awful white stretch jobs, which embarrass the hell out of me whenever one turns up to collect me. I asked the chauffeur if he could take us into Minneapolis by the scenic route, but he smiled and said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t have one.’

The posher of the twin cities turned out to be a place with mainly low-rise suburbs, but with a high-rise office and condo community in its heart. We could see the skyscrapers looming up as we approached.

We were cruising along a wide boulevard when Prim grabbed my arm. ‘Can we stop there?’ she called out to the driver. She was pointing at a wood-fronted building emblazoned with the legends ‘Uncle Hugo’s Science Fiction Bookstore’ and ‘Uncle Edgar’s Mystery Bookstore’, cosily side by side. ‘I’ve got nothing to read,’ she explained. Charles nodded, and probably committed a couple of traffic violations by crossing three lanes to park right at the front door.

She jumped out and I followed. Inside, the two shops were actually one; together they occupied quite a big space and it was piled high with stock. Prim headed for the mystery section and started browsing; I picked up a couple of titles myself and looked at them. I was thinking about buying an Elmore Leonard when I was aware of a slim man standing at my side, bespectacled, with a small moustache.

‘How do you do, sir?’ he greeted me, extending a hand, formally. ‘My name’s Jeff, and it’s a great honour to have you here.’

‘Thanks very much,’ I told him. ‘It’s my honour that you recognise me.’

‘A lot of people in America will recognise you, Mr Blackstone. We sell a lot of the Skinner books here, and I’ve admired your work in the movies that have been made of them.’

‘That’s very kind of you. Has your shop been here long?’

He smiled. ‘Thirty years. . at least, Uncle Hugo has. Uncle Edgar joined him six years later.’

I loved the place. ‘You’ll be the only specialist in town, I suppose.’

‘Oh, no, we have Pat and Gary at Once Upon a Crime, too. Minneapolis is quite a centre for the arts, you know.’ He paused. ‘What brings you here, Mr Blackstone, if I may ask? Are you making a personal appearance somewhere?’

‘Mall of America,’ I said.

He laughed. ‘You too?’

I shrugged and jerked a thumb in Prim’s direction, as if in explanation. I chose the Elmore Leonard, plus a Sheila O’Flanagan, a Jasper Fforde, and a signed hardback of the most recent Skinner book, and handed Jeff a credit card. ‘Whatever she wants, put it on that too; might as well get used to it.’

As we stood there waiting for Prim to make her selection, I scratched my head. ‘It’s funny, you know. Although I never thought of Minneapolis as a cradle of the arts, I did once run across an actor from here, a guy maybe in the same age ballpark as you.’

‘Can you remember his name?’

‘Yeah, it was Walls, like the ice cream; Paul Patrick Walls.’

‘I don’t think I’m familiar with him,’ said the shopkeeper.

‘That wasn’t his real name, though,’ I added, as casually as I could. ‘It began with Walls, or Wall, but it was longer.’

Jeff’s eyes widened in recognition. ‘Of course! Paul Wallinger, Martha’s son.’

‘You know him? Hell, there’s a coincidence.’

‘Oh, I don’t know him, but Martha’s a customer of ours. She comes in every so often. She bought a book once and mentioned that her son Paul had been in the television adaptation.’

I chuckled. ‘Hey, fancy that. Maybe I should look her up when I’m in town. She does live in Minneapolis, yes?’

‘Yes indeed. She used to live in St Paul, but she moved across the Mississippi after her husband died. I might even have an address for her. If you hold on I’ll check my mailing list.’

I held on, Jeff checked, and came back a couple of minutes later, with an address, written on the back of one of his business cards. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Pleased to have been of help.’ I took it from him and slipped it into my wallet, behind my photographic driving licence, just as Prim rejoined us, carrying a Caroline Graham, a Pauline McLynn and a medieval mystery by Michael Jecks. I paid for our picks, signed his visitor’s book, and we went back to the limo.

It only took us another ten minutes to reach the Merchant’s Hotel; as soon as Charles drew up at the entrance the bellboys were all over us like a rash. Our luggage was commandeered, even the bag with our books in it, and we were ushered into Reception, where the bad news broke.

‘Mr and Mrs Blackstone,’ the checkin manager gushed, ‘how great that you’re joining us. If you’ll just sign here and let me have a print of your credit card, we’ll show you to your room.’

The singular hit me at once. ‘Room? My secretary asked for two rooms; I was standing beside her when she made the booking, so I’m in no doubt about that.’

The gush dried up, to be replaced by consternation. ‘But …’ I could see him decide that some blame-shifting was in order. He disappeared into a room behind the desk, and shortly after we could hear raised voices. When he reappeared he was slightly flushed.

‘I have to offer our sincerest apologies,’ he said. ‘There seems to have been a misunderstanding by our booking clerk. She thought that your assistant asked for a premium room with two double beds, and that’s what we’ve allocated. I am terribly sorry, but we don’t have another room available.’

‘We better find another hotel, in that case: we’re travelling together, but we’re divorced.’

The manager winced. ‘Mr Blackstone, we would be happy to relocate you ourselves, but there’s a major event at our convention centre this week. I happen to know that all the quality hotels are full. We could maybe find you a room somewhere, but I doubt if you’d like it.’

I looked at Prim; she looked at me. ‘I’m knackered,’ she said. I had to admit to myself that I felt much the same.

‘Please be assured,’ the manager murmured, clearly trying to be as helpful as he could, ‘of our absolute discretion.’

I sighed. ‘Okay, we’ll take it, but please be assured of my total vengeance if word of this leaks out anywhere.’ He smiled with obvious relief and showed us to our room himself, even refusing a tip.

The superior room was actually a kind of open-plan suite, with a partitioned dressing room, and a sitting area boasting among other things a narrow couch on which a person smaller than I am might sleep quite comfortably. When I pointed at it, Prim pointed at the two double beds, and said that she would take the one nearer the bathroom.

‘Will I have them fix a screen?’ I asked.

‘It’s all right,’ she replied. ‘I’ve seen you sleep before. It’s not very exciting.’

‘I didn’t bring any pyjamas with me.’

‘It’s still not very exciting.’ She pointed at the enormous plasma TV screen mounted on the wall of the sitting area. ‘Why don’t you see if that works, while I take a shower?’ She sniffed at her right armpit in a pure Prim way, then pulled the face that had always made me chuckle. ‘God, yes!’ she exclaimed.

In a supple movement, she slipped the baggy T-shirt in which she had travelled over her head, smiling at my reaction. ‘Think of me as a fellow actor you’re rooming with on location,’ she suggested.

‘I don’t room with fellow actors.’

‘Then think of me as a brother Boy Scout.’

‘Difficult,’ I murmured.

She frowned. ‘In that case, think back to when we were in LA, just before I went off with Nicky. I didn’t get you too excited then, even if we did go through the motions a few times.’

I had to admit that she was right: back then we were still playing the parts of husband and wife, but with no sign of enthusiasm. I recalled the last time we’d had sex, three, no, nearer four years earlier. I’d been thinking of Susie all the way through; I didn’t want to guess who she’d been thinking of.

‘Ah, go on, then; I’ll sort us out something to eat. How about a room-service steak?’

‘Can we go out somewhere? Nothing dressy-up fancy, though, just somewhere we can see what this city’s like.’

‘Okay, I’ll ask Reception what they recommend. You go and make yourself less smelly.’

When I called down, our new friend at Reception told me that all we had to do was walk across Sixth Street to a bar diner called Gluek’s. The place was a hundred years old, he said, although it had been restored after a fire fifteen years earlier. When I said that sounded fine, he undertook to book us a table.

I was honking too, so while Prim sorted out what to wear to a Minneapolis diner, I grabbed a towelling dressing-gown from the wardrobe and had a quick shower myself. Twenty minutes later we were ready to go, looking like a couple of cowboys in blue jeans.

Gluek’s turned out to be the sort of American bar I really love. The place wasn’t full, so the reservation had been unnecessary, but it was lively and there was a jazz band playing on a stage at the far end of the long room, close enough to our booth for us to appreciate it and far enough away for us to be able to hear each other. The draught beer selection was amazing, and the menu was solid, inviting down-home stuff. We learned that old man Gluek had been a Bavarian brewer who came to the Midwest a hundred and fifty years ago and set up in business there. They still make his original Pilsner, so we started with a couple of tall glasses of the stuff, ice-cold. I hadn’t realised I was thirsty until then.

I wasn’t worried about Prim’s drinking any more. She’d sworn off the hard stuff, and I was used to seeing her with a beer in her hand, so it didn’t bother me.

The way I deal with jet-lag is by pretending that it doesn’t exist. My watch said nine twenty and so I tried to force my body to agree with it, by ordering Reuben Balls … no, I don’t know who Reuben is. . as a starter, followed by Minnesota walleye pike, oven-broiled with white wine butter and almonds and served with French fries and a selection of steamed vegetables. Prim, being smaller, decided to be more conservative. She started with Syd’s Artichoke Dip, followed by a Silver Ranch Bison Burger, with Provolone cheese, marinated mushrooms and buffalo sauce.

Once I had packed that lot away … Prim had to quit on the last of the marinated mushrooms. . and had a fresh Gluek Pilsner in my hand, I had moved into a slightly surreal world, in which my normal existence seemed to have been suspended, and I was just another guy in just another city on a night out with someone I liked, no questions asked, no lies told. I don’t know if anyone in there recognised me, but if they did, they had the manners not to intrude. The band was good too; a third beer and I was truly mellow. I got so in synch with local time that when next I looked at my watch it was half an hour after midnight, and the place was beginning to empty.

I grinned at Prim. ‘Time to retire, honey-pie?’ I said, in a light southern accent that I’d learned for a movie a couple of years back.

‘Are you pissed?’ she asked.

‘Not as far as I know. Just call me chilled out.’

She smiled back at me. ‘Me too.’

The air was hot and heavy as we crossed Sixth and walked the short distance back to the hotel. The manager had gone, and the night staff were in place. We took the lift up to the twentieth floor and, after a certain amount of fiddling with the key card, managed to open our door. I went to turn on the light then stopped. That high up, you tend not to draw the curtains; Minneapolis isn’t that memorable a place, but the view of its downtown skyscrapers, illuminated, their glass walls reflecting each one on to the next, was quite spectacular.

‘We’ve come a long way,’ I said, for no reason in particular.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Prim, as she kicked off her shoes.

‘Since we met. Go back to the beginning, what? eight years ago; ask any bookie to give odds that at this precise moment we’d be standing here, looking at this view, in these circumstances, and he’d have given seven figures to one against.’

‘But you know what? I’d have taken the bet.’ She smiled up at me. ‘The one thing I knew for certain when we met, Oz, was that we were never going to be ordinary. If I’d known the background about you and Jan, I’d probably have crossed the street to get away from you, but I didn’t and the die was cast.’

‘Do you wish you had?’

‘Crossed the street?’ She gave me a strange smile. ‘No, not for a second. Okay, it didn’t work out between us, but we had what we had and we can still stand here as friends, you looking out for me when I need you. I feel very fortunate to be in that position, and I’m grateful to whatever guiding light brought it about.’

‘You’re not going to offer to show me how grateful, are you?’ I don’t know what made me ask that.

‘No more than you’re going to ask me. If you wanted me to shag you, I would, even if it meant a hell of a lot less to you than it did to me. But you don’t, and that’s just as well, for somehow Tom changed everything. We’re sexual history, Oz, and I can live with that.’ She began to unbutton her shirt. ‘Now I’m going to bed. If you want to close your eyes or turn your back, that’s up to you.’

I picked up a couple of bottles of water from the mini-bar. When I turned to hand her one, she was stepping out of her jeans. If that was the acid test, I passed it. I wasn’t bothered; I’m an actor so I get to see plenty of beautiful women in their underwear or less, but the only one who makes me twitch is my wife.

I handed her the Evian. ‘Thanks,’ she said, then peeled off the rest and got into bed.

I did the same, but first, I went to my bag, took out the photo of Susie and the kids that I carry with me everywhere I go, and placed it so that when I woke up next morning, it was the first thing I would see.