Perfect People

66

‘I didn’t want to worry you – but on top of everything else, I had a strange phone call this afternoon,’ Naomi said hesitantly. ‘Probably nothing.’

John chewed his mouthful of cod; as with almost everything she touched in the kitchen, Naomi had cooked it to perfection. Trying to keep one ear tuned to the television news, he replied, ‘What kind of strange? By the way, this is delicious.’

‘Thanks, it’s a new recipe I’m trying out. You don’t think the mushroom sauce is too rich?’

‘No, it’s delicious. Who was it that called?’

‘Someone from the States, asking if this was the Klaesson household – and if I was Naomi Klaesson. A man. Then he hung up,’ she said.

John looked at her; she had his full attention now. ‘When was this?’

‘About three o’clock his afternoon.’

‘He didn’t give a name?’

‘No.’

John’s eyes went to the window; unease, like silt in a disturbed pond, rose inside him. ‘Three? Do you have any idea where he was calling from?’

‘I checked the caller ID. It just said international. Why?’

He was calculating in his head. East coast time. Central time. Pacific time.

Yesterday, in the office, he’d received a similar call. A young man with an American accent had asked if he was speaking with Dr John Klaesson. When he’d replied that he was, the line had gone dead. He’d had a colleague with him in the office at the time and although it had bothered him a little, with the distractions of work he hadn’t given it any more thought.

Now, suddenly, it was bothering him a lot.

His call had come at 2.45 in the afternoon. West coast time, that would have been 6.45 in the morning. East coast time, more probably 9.45. New York, perhaps? Anywhere. A reporter trying to following up on the Dettore story? Perhaps. Hopefully it was no more than that.

Except a reporter would have called back.

He toyed with the fish, cutting off another piece, pushing it around in the sauce, wondering whether to tell Naomi. He decided that after her distressing time at the playgroup this was not the moment to tell her about the phone call. Nor was it the moment to tell her about his most recent chess game against Gus Santiano. Instead he asked, ‘How much has Phoebe grown in the past year?’

‘Two and a half inches,’ she said.

‘Which is the same as Luke, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how many periods has she had?’

‘One.’

‘The pills seem to be working,’ he said.

‘So far.’

‘Yes. So far. Which means they might go on working. OK? And if they go on working, she’ll keep growing normally. Right?’

A reluctant nod.

‘Let’s be optimistic.’

After the meal John went back into his den. He’d never bothered setting up a password for his laptop before, but now he went into the control panels to create one.

When he had finished, he returned to the chess program, made his opening move for the next game with Gus Santiano and sent it. Then he settled down to work.

At a few minutes past midnight he shut his computer down, then went into the kitchen and listened to the baby monitor. The only sounds were the rhythmic breathing of sleep. He crept upstairs and tiptoed along the corridor to Luke and Phoebe’s room, opened the door and peered in.

He could see them both, in the weak glow of the Bob the Builder night light, fast asleep. He blew them each a kiss, closed the door and went to his bedroom. Naomi was asleep, with the bedside lamp on and a book open on the duvet. She stirred as he entered.

‘Wassertime?’ she asked sleepily.

‘Just after midnight.’

‘I was dreaming – you and I were being chased by Luke and Phoebe; they were in a car and we were on bicycles; they kept telling us they didn’t want to hurt us because they loved us, but if we didn’t pedal faster they would have to run us over.’

He leaned over and kissed her. ‘Sounds like a classic anxiety dream.’

‘It was spooky. I kept telling them, You’re our children, you’re meant to love us, you’re not supposed to run us over.’

‘ And what did they say?’

‘They just giggled.’

‘Go back to sleep,’ he said softly. Then he removed his clothes, put on his dressing gown, went through into the bathroom and brushed his teeth.

But when he came back into the bedroom, instead of getting into bed, he took his torch from the drawer in his bedside table, switched off Naomi’s lamp and made his way, as silently as he possibly could, back downstairs and into his study.

There, just by the light of his torch, he unfolded the sleeping bag he’d taken out earlier from the linen cupboard, climbed into it and curled up on the tiny sofa.

At five in the morning, after a few hours of very fitful sleep, and suffering painful cramp, he abandoned his vigil and went up to bed.