On the other side will be a window. The sky outside this window will always be dark and the windowpanes smeared with frost.
Who will live in this place between door and window? A mummer with a heavy heart and blind eyes turning, turning.
I must meditate upon my name.
CHAPTER TWO
He looked wealthy. You couldn't put your finger on what it was exactly, but the aura of money was unmistakable. He was dressed conservatively in a dark blue suit with a crisp white shirt and a pale blue tie with tiny yellow flowers. His shoes were black brogues. But it wasn't really the clothes-even though the cut of the suit was impeccable-that gave you the idea that this was a man of material substance. It was something else altogether. Blue blood and money. A potent combination, as distinctive as a smell.
The well-born, truly rich are used to having their own way. They are seldom opposed or contradicted, usually protected against their own bad manners or errors in judgment. And everyone laughs at their jokes. This happy state of affairs-happy for the beneficiaries, not for their flunkies, of course-imparts an indefinable quality that can best be described as oblivious self-confidence. The man sitting in the booth farthest away from the entrance to the coffee shop had that quality.
He also had faded blue eyes, which were rather piercing.
"William?" Gabriel held out his hand.
The blue eyes surveyed him for a long moment, their expression slightly calculating, as though the man was trying to make up his mind about something. Then, unhurriedly, he held out his own hand. His grip was firm but not crushing.
"Gabriel. Thank you for coming. Please sit down."
Gabriel slid into his seat, and a waitress with a mournful smile approached the booth. "Coffee?"
"Yes, please. And poached eggs on toast. Three eggs. Runny."
The man opposite Gabriel made a negative gesture with his hand. "Nothing for me, thank you." Up close he was quite a bit older than he had appeared from outside. His movements were effortless, but the skin around his mouth was dry and raddled with tiny grooves. He was very thin.
Gabriel looked him full in the face and smiled. "Before we start, a few ground rules. I take it you have an information-gathering problem and you think I might be able to supply a solution. I probably can. But first I need to know your full name. I like to know who I'm dealing with. And then we can take it from there." He finished with another smile calculated to diminish the sting of his little speech. It was always best to get straight down to business. Sometimes prospective clients entered into a long courtship dance, too embarrassed to come straight out with what it was they had in mind. This could be very tiring.
"By all means," the man said courteously. "My name is William Whittington."
He had been right about the money. William Whittington. Well, well. Philanthropist and investment banker who had managed to add substantially to an already vast fortune inherited from his grandfather. A brilliant strategist. And a bit of a recluse. This could be interesting.
It was also puzzling. Why would Whittington meet with him in person? Gabriel did not usually deal with players at this level. In the normal swing of things he did not get to meet with CEOs, board directors or other members of top management. He was usually approached by someone much lower down the food chain. William Whittington was taking a big risk.
Whittington smiled faintly. "You're right, of course. I do have a problem and I do have need of your special talents. Except, maybe not quite in the way you expect."
For a moment he had the uncomfortable feeling that Whittington was enjoying a private joke at his expense. Before he could respond, the waitress appeared at the booth and plonked a chipped white plate down in front of him.
"Three eggs, runny. Right?"
"Right." He looked at Whittington. "Are you sure you won't join me?"
Whittington shook his head. He was looking at the plate with a mixture of amusement, horror and respect. "I couldn't possibly. But please go ahead."
The eggs were exactly as he liked them. After taking a bite, he said, "You were saying?"
"Do you have children, Gabriel?"
This was a new one. "No, I don't."
"I have a son." Whittington's face was suddenly set, no hint of amusement left in his eyes. "His name is Robert. Robert Whittington. He is twenty-one years old." A pause. "He is missing."
"Missing?"
"He disappeared nine months ago. I want you to find him."
Gabriel lowered his fork to his plate. "I think you may have been misinformed about what it is I do. I'm an information broker. I'm not a private investigator. I don't look for missing people."
"But you used to." A long pause. "At Eyestorm."
For a moment Gabriel felt as though the oxygen had been sucked from the room. He tried to keep his face expressionless, to wipe away the shock he knew must be reflected on his face. He found himself focusing intently on a black fly, which was walking delicately along the very edge of the Formica-topped table. It was the warm weather: the city was crawling with them.
"Gabriel?" The man opposite him was watching him speculatively.
"I can't help you." He took a deep breath and carefully wiped his mouth with his paper napkin. "You and I have no business. I am sorry about your son, but you should be talking to the police, not to me." He was trying to keep his voice calm.
"Don't you want to know how I know about Eyestorm?"
"Not particularly." The fly had taken flight. It settled on the rim of the sugar bowl on the table in the next booth.
"Cecily told me."
He had started to edge out of his seat, but at this he stopped. "Cecily. Cecily Franck?"
"Yes."
"Frankie is in the United States."
Whittington shook his head. "Not anymore. For the past two years she's been living in London."
"You're mistaken again. She would never come back here."
"She is back." Whittington smiled, rather sadly. "I know this, for a fact. You see, we were married two years ago. She's my wife."
CHAPTER THREE
"Call me Frankie," she had said the first time they were introduced. "Everyone does. Cecily was my grandmother's name. And to tell you the truth, I was never fond of the old lady. She was a mean broad."
She smiled widely-a delightful smile-and Gabriel found himself smiling back. Not exactly pretty, Cecily Franck was nevertheless immensely attractive. Narrow face. Light brown hair springing from her forehead in a widow's peak. A sweet mouth and surprisingly shrewd eyes. Flawless skin. Her voice was low but carrying, the American accent pronounced in that room filled with the hum of British voices.
He looked around him. There must have been close to forty guests in the large old-fashioned living room of Alexander Mullins's Oxford house. The room had a tired feel to it, with its dusty moss green carpet, fringed lamps and porcelain knickknacks. The guests, all of them sipping lukewarm wine and nibbling on pieces of rubbery cheese, were an odd-looking bunch. Judging from the information displayed on their name tags, they seemed to come from different walks of life and from different parts of the UK. Frankie was obviously American but her name tag stated simply that she was a student. As did his own, which was probably why they had instinctively sought each other out. The only common denominator linking all the guests was that each person present was there because he or she had responded to the same advertisement in one of the national newspapers.
"What do you think of him?" Frankie's eyes followed his gaze to where a tall, thin man with an impressively aquiline nose was talking to a woman with an eager expression.
"Mullins?" Gabriel shrugged. "Too soon to tell."
"He doesn't look anything like I thought he would." Frankie's voice was dubious.
"What did you expect-someone clutching a crystal ball?"