As we retrieved the Jag from the park and drove out of the airport, John gave me an address. ‘Fourteen-ten Cabrillo Highway South, Half Moon Bay.’
I entered it into the system’s data bank and let it take over; I had no idea where I was going, or even in which direction. I just did as I was told, taking Interstate 280 until it was time to turn on to Highway 92 West, a twisty road that reminded me of Scotland in parts. We weren’t on it for long, though, only about eight miles, before I was ordered to take a left turn on to Cabrillo Highway.
We almost drove past the place we were after; I’ll swear the system shouted at me to stop. I pulled up at the side of the road and looked at it. There was a big sign outside that read ‘Cameron’s Pub and Inn’, and had a Union Jack emblazoned across it. Just in case anyone didn’t get the message, there was a red telephone box in the front, and a couple of genuine old-fashioned London double-decker buses parked outside.
‘You sure?’ I asked John.
‘This is what Marcie said last time I spoke to her. If she’d moved on she’d have told me.’
I cruised into the car park and we jumped out. If Johnson was looking for us we’d be easy to spot out there, so we got ourselves under cover, sharpish. There was a shop just inside the door; even at a glance I noticed that it sold mainly British products. The pub itself had God knew how many beers on tap, around twenty I reckoned.
There were a few early-evening customers in and a couple of people behind the bar but one of them was the boss, for sure. He was a massive bloke and had that air about him. He clocked us as from out of town straight away; not too difficult since John still wore his Minneapolis suit and I had on another Paul Smith shirt that was definitely not from around those parts.
‘Gentlemen,’ he greeted us. ‘I’m Cameron Palmer; welcome to our pub. What can I get you?’
‘Probably a pint, eventually, but first we’re looking for someone.’
He didn’t back off at all. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Who would that be?’
‘My sister,’ John told him. ‘I believe she’s staying here. Her name’s. .’
‘Marcie?’
‘That’s right, Marcie Wallinger.’ He dug out his detective badge and showed it to Cameron.
‘Sure, Marcie’s a guest. She and little Tom are in one of our B and B rooms. . that’s bed and beverage.’ He laughed. ‘We don’t do breakfast, I’m afraid. Let me take you along there.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but before you do, can you tell us, is there a guy with her?’
He frowned. ‘Not as far as I know, but I can’t be sure. My wife and I have been away for a few days. We only got back last night.’ He called along to the barman. ‘You happen to know if Marcie’s got a fella with her?’ The guy gave him a ‘don’t ask me’ shrug.
We let Cameron lead the way to a small wing at the side of the pub and restaurant. I walked behind him up to a door with ‘3’ printed on it. ‘This one has a private shower and bathroom,’ he announced. ‘It’s best for Marcie with the little boy.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I’ll leave you to say hello then,’ he said, rapping the door with a ham-sized hand, before turning and walking away.
As I waited, I heard a sound from inside; this wasn’t the sort of place that needed spyholes, so there wasn’t one. The door opened with a slight creak.
I looked past the woman who held it ajar. He was there inside: Nicky Johnson, ne John Nichols, standing in front of the bed, as if frozen. I’d only met the guy once, but my mind’s eye put a beard, Ray-Bans and a wee blue hat on him, and I knew I’d seen him a couple of times after that.
My residual paranoia from San Francisco made it occur to me afterwards that if he’d had a gun I would have been in trouble; I think the odds against being shot twice in a week and surviving are quite long.
He didn’t have a gun, though. He stared back at me, he saw the look in my eyes and he knew that he was a dead man. So he did what the Nicky Johnsons of this world are always liable to do: he weighed up the fight-or-flight options for a micro-second, then dived through the open window. . … and landed in the arms of big John Wallinger, who’d positioned himself there to guard against precisely that circumstance. I smiled as the sound of a fugitive being vigorously restrained floated back into the pleasant room.
‘Hi, Marcie,’ I said, gently. ‘I’m Oz.’
She nodded. ‘I know who you are.’
‘That’s your brother John outside,’ I told her, ‘beating the crap out of your boyfriend. I’m afraid he’s wanted in Las Vegas for a fairly nasty rape, involving narcotics. He’s going back there too; there’s extradition between here and Nevada, as I’m sure you’ll know. I’m sorry we’re not meeting under happier circumstances.’
‘Me too,’ she replied, sadly. ‘I could guess there was trouble, the way he turned up in the middle of the night.’
I looked around the room. I could see a kid’s bed but no kid. ‘Where’s Tom?’ I asked.
She was about to answer, but at that moment, a door on the right swung open and a child ran in from a sunny porch to the side of the main room. But this boy wasn’t a year old: he was big and sturdy and looked to be at least three.
‘Hello,’ he greeted me, looking up at me with the uncomplicated innocence of childhood, through blue eyes, set in a fresh face, beneath a mop of dark hair. ‘Who’re you?’
I looked down at him, and as I did, I experienced what I swear to you was, still is, and always will be, the most unexpected and, somehow, terrifying moment of my life.
I looked down at him: in that little figure, I saw someone I recognised from photographs taken way back in my past, around thirty-five years back, in fact. In an instant, I knew everything: there was no thought process involved, I just knew everything. I waited until I had mastered my shock, and until my heart rate had returned to something like normal, then I knelt down beside him.
‘Tom,’ I answered, trying to keep my voice steady, ‘my name’s Oz. Has your mother ever told you about me, and who I am?’
He beamed. ‘Sure,’ he replied, in an accent that had much of Marcie’s Midwest twang about it. ‘You’re my dad.’
Chapter 34
John called the California Highway Patrol to advise them that he’d apprehended and detained a felon on the run from Las Vegas, and I called Lieutenant Oakley to give her the good news.
Then I called Dawn; I’d expected her to be in Australia with Miles, but they had arrived back in America that morning. She was stunned when I told her about her nephew; Prim had given her no hint of his existence, and neither, as it turned out, had her parents. Apparently, when I’d dropped Prim at Semple House ten days earlier, she’d said, ‘Hello’, ‘Thanks for lunch’, ‘Lovely to see you, must go now,’ and not much more. They’d been totally puzzled by the visit.
Dawn told me something else too. On the previous Wednesday, Elanore’s condition had begun to deteriorate more rapidly. ‘The consultant’s told Dad that it’s a matter of weeks now. He’s been trying to get in touch with Prim, but he couldn’t.’
‘Tell him that he has now.’
‘You know where she is?’
‘Yes, and I’ll make sure that she gets in touch with David.’
‘Thanks, Oz,’ she said, relief in her voice. ‘You know, you’re the only person who’s ever really been able to control my sister. If only she hadn’t been such a Goddamned idiot, you two might still be together, and that little boy might have had conventional parents, like everyone else.’
I almost laughed at her. For all her fame Dawn’s retained a gentle view of life; she thinks her world’s conventional, and on top of that, she thought I could control Prim. If she only knew; the truth is that the two of us have never really been fully in control of ourselves.
By the time the state troopers arrived to take possession of Johnson and his effects, I had found his camera, wiped clean the chip with my candid-camera shots, and erased beyond recovery the entire contents of his computer’s hard drive. I had also found a pen drive on which he’d made a back-up. I got rid of that by a less technical method: I smashed it into tiny pieces under the heel of my Panama Jack sandal. My son watched me, fascinated. Eventually I let him help, which he did enthusiastically. When I judged that the fragments were small enough, I swept them up and tossed them out of the window, after their former owner.