by Des Ekin
FOR a long time, Hunter sat staring at the photo in the Sunday Hibernian computer archive. It was a paparazzo snatch shot showing a couple in their twenties. They were riding a peculiar-looking bicycle through a complex of large buildings – it could be a hospital or an army barracks, except that many of the walls had been daubed with New Age symbols in bright Dayglo paint. Behind them, mushroom-shaped tables were laid out along a street to create some sort of outdoor market. Litter festooned the streets, and several wild-looking dogs scampered curiously around the bike as the couple rode past.
On closer inspection, Hunter realised that the bike wasn’t a bike at all – it was actually a tricycle. It had one wheel at the rear and two widely spaced wheels at the front, bearing a large wooden container box – as big as a car boot – designed to carry large quantities of luggage. The girl sat in the box with her legs pointing forwards, squinting suspiciously at the camera. She wore an eastern sarong and her long brown hair had been sun-bleached to a tawny blond. Perched on the saddle behind her, his face peering over her shoulder, was a young man with long black hair tied back into a ponytail. He was wearing a sloppy T-shirt and a pair of tinted Ben Franklin glasses.
‘They look like any other young couple on a holiday abroad,’ the article began, ‘but no one looking at this cheerful pair of New Age hippies would suppose that one of them is heir to a fortune of several million.
‘Money isn’t a problem for William Garville, Jr, eldest son of Irish supermarket magnate Bill Garville. ‘But you’d never guess his vast wealth if you looked at the bohemian lifestyle he’s adopted in the infamous “free city” of Christiania, smack in the middle of the Danish capital of Copenhagen.
‘Last month William, Jr, moved into a hippie squat in the controversial New Age township with his girlfriend – named by friends as Irish-American actress Charlotte Valentia, daughter of Athmore-born businessman Joseph Valentia.
‘Their new home is a former army barracks, which was taken over by squatters in 1971 to create an independent, self-governing city of peace and love, but which soon turned into a New Age slum of squalor, litter and narcotics.
‘Soft drugs are openly sold in the marketplace along Christiania’s main thoroughfare – subtly nicknamed “Pusher Street” – only ten minutes’ walk from the Danish Parliament, whose strict anti-cannabis laws are not enforced within the boundaries of the free township.
‘Here there are no laws, only a brief series of general “bans” – no hard drugs, no guns, no violence and no trading outside designated areas. Oh, and no photos to be taken in Pusher Street, the area depicted in this picture.
‘Within this huge lakeside complex, a community of nearly a thousand men, women and children try to rediscover the hippie dream, their lifestyles funded by the proceeds of open-air hash sales and weed cafés, alternative workshops and tourism …’
There followed several paragraphs of background information on the maverick William Garville – his controversial expulsion from an exclusive private school for smoking hash, his hedonistic lifestyle, his many convictions for speeding, drunk driving and possession of banned substances.
‘Little is known about his girlfriend Charley, whose father Joseph emigrated from Ireland and later set up a fundamentalist radio station in the Deep South of America,’ the story continued. ‘She is believed to have studied law at university before dropping out halfway through her course to pursue her dream of becoming a professional actress. However, that career, too, was short-lived, and she has spent the past few years travelling the world.’
Hunter sat silently in front of the page of text and graphics that had, once again, turned his life upside down. The room was totally silent. A draught rattled the dusty Venetian blinds and cast shimmering shadows of street-lights on the darkness of the far wall.
Charlotte. Charley for short.
Charley Valentia.
He mouthed the words soundlessly to himself. At last his ghost had a name. At last she had an identity. And possibly – just possibly – she had a motive.
Suddenly Hunter remembered he was on borrowed time. He needed a print-out of the story, but there was no printer in sight. There wasn’t even a floppy disk. He would have to find a copy of the newspaper and tear out the article in the old-fashioned way.
He remembered that Angus kept at least two or three spare copies of every edition in a dusty pile stacked ceiling-high in the storeroom next door. It took a long time to find the edition he wanted in the dimly lit annex, but eventually he succeeded; after hauling it back into the main library, he leafed eagerly through the pages until he reached the Lifestyle section.
There it was, the same article, pushed to the very bottom of the page by a layout sub who obviously hadn’t thought it was worth more prominent exposure. The sub’s boredom was evident in the lazy and meaningless headline: ‘A bicycle built for two’.
Hunter tore the article out, careful not to rip through the text or the photo itself. It was only then that he noticed the difference. The article, as it appeared in the paper, carried some extra words that hadn’t appeared in the computer version.
Those few small words hit Hunter like a knee in the groin. For what seemed like an eternity he stared at them, clutching at the table-top for support as he fought back a wave of nausea and vertigo. Those words proved beyond doubt that he’d been the victim of betrayal.
The door crashed open.
‘Okay, Hunter. Out. Now. Or we call the cops.’
Hunter glanced up and recognised Graham Ventry, the Australian deputy editor of the Sunday Hibernian. Behind him, his face flushed and triumphant, was Cormac Falcarragh. A decidedly sheepish-looking Angus brought up the rear.
Hunter slowly folded the cutting and put it in his pocket. ‘Just leaving, Graham. Thanks for the use of the hall.’
Whistling cheerfully, he closed down the computer and threw on his coat, as though he were an employee quitting work for the night.
‘What the hell were you doing here, anyway?’ Ventry was amused at his impertinence. ‘There’s a full-scale police hunt on for you. What makes you think we won’t turn you in?’
Hunter spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I’m sorry it had to be like this, Graham. But I needed some information quickly, and this was the only way I could get it. So I sneaked past Security and raided your archives while Angus was in the bathroom. Desperate times require desperate remedies, eh?’
He saw the librarian’s tense features relax. Angus’s job was safe – for the time being, at least.
‘Get out of here, you bludger,’ Ventry said. He knew exactly what was happening and he didn’t give a damn. ‘I’m going to make that call to the police. I have to. But there’s no way I’m going to physically restrain you from leaving the building.’
Cormac Falcarragh was spluttering like an overheated kettle. ‘Is that it?’ he demanded, throwing his arms out in a hysterical gesture of frustration. ‘You’re letting him go, just like that? I demand that this man be arrested!’
‘We can’t arrest him, Cormac. He hasn’t committed any crime that I’m aware of.’
‘The police want to question him, don’t they?’
‘We’ll inform the police,’ Ventry repeated patiently. ‘We’re newspapermen, Cormac. Arresting people isn’t our role.’
‘Then how about having him charged with trespass?’
‘There’s no such criminal charge as trespass, Cormac,’ Ventry sighed wearily. ‘It’s a civil matter, unless he’s terrorised someone or stolen something. Have you stolen anything, Hunter?’
‘Now you mention it, I did take a back issue from the storeroom,’ Hunter confessed solemnly.
‘On the house, Hunter. Now hop it, and let me get back to bed.’
But Hunter wasn’t finished yet. As he headed for the door, he suddenly turned to face Falcarragh. The man recoiled as though he were about to be attacked.
‘Relax,’ said Hunter. ‘I just want to shake your hand in gratitude. I’ve made a ma
jor breakthrough in my campaign to clear my name and to bring Joseph Valentia to justice. And Cormac, my friend – it’s all thanks to you.’
MARK Tobey stood at a public phone under a tall palm tree. Less than half a mile away, across a stretch of silver sand, moonlight sparkled on the ocean.
‘Claire? Mark here.’
‘Oh, hi, Mark.’
‘I need to talk to Hunter. He’s not with you, by any chance?’
‘No, he’s not.’
‘Will you be meeting him soon?’
‘I can’t really say.’ Claire’s voice sounded a warning. ‘Not over an open line.’
‘I see. Trouble?’
‘Lots of it. Can he call you?’
Mark shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, no. For some reason, this cursed mobile can’t receive calls from overseas. I’m reduced to using public phones along with the great unwashed.’
‘Perhaps he could call you at your hotel?’
‘Don’t have one, darling. I’m on the move. I’m not in Mississippi any more. I’ve flown to Florida.’
‘Why Florida?’
‘Tell Hunter that I struck gold. I’ve picked up a hot tip at the radio station in Mississippi. It meant setting up a meeting in Florida. I’ve done that. It’s in the bag. And it’s dynamite.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
Mark wiped the perspiration from his brow. It was early evening, but the temperature still simmered at eighty degrees.
‘Just tell him that I’ll be back in Ireland in time for the deadline,’ he said. ‘And that I’ll be bringing enough evidence to blow Joseph Valentia out of the water.’
‘WHAT sort of evidence?’ demanded Hunter.
‘He wouldn’t say. Not over an open line.’
It was two-thirty in the morning, but the all-night coffee dock at Jury’s Hotel was still surprisingly busy. There were businessmen locked in earnest negotiations, couples locked in furtive clinches, and raucously flushed nightclubbers who were simply locked.
‘I thought you’d be overjoyed,’ said Claire.
‘Sorry.’ Hunter rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m just too tired to take it all in. So much has been happening tonight …’
‘Listen, Hunter. You shouldn’t let your judgement be affected by that row you had with Mark about Emma. It’s a minor disagreement. Forget it. Your entire future is at stake here, and if Mark’s stumbled on to something that might help, you need to listen.’
Hunter shrugged, avoiding her eyes. ‘Okay. If he makes contact in the morning, we’ll talk it over. Evaluate it. What?’
He’d turned back to find Claire looking at him expectantly.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Well, what?’
‘How was your meeting with Wayne?’ she asked in exasperation. ‘Was it worth my promising to have dinner with him and spending five hours listening to an analysis of Ireland’s chances in the next World Cup?’
Hunter leaned forward. ‘Claire, it was more than worth it. I found out the name of our ghost.’
Claire gave a small gasp. ‘Who is she?’
‘Charlotte Valentia. Joseph Valentia’s daughter.’
He studied her reaction carefully. Her look of stunned astonishment seemed absolutely genuine.
She took a calming sip of coffee. ‘Hunter, if this is some sort of obscure joke, it’s in very poor taste,’ she said at last.
‘I’m serious. For some reason, Valentia’s daughter Charley decided to fly all the way from Copenhagen to Dublin to shop her own father.’
He told her everything.
Claire raised her hands and let them fall in exasperation. ‘But why …?’
‘I don’t know. But first thing in the morning, I’m going to talk to someone who might.’
‘Who?’
‘Joseph Valentia.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘I’M sorry. It’s out of the question.’
‘But –’
‘I’m sorry.’
The woman with the bright blue eyes and the straw-blond hair was adamant. She simply readjusted her focus to eliminate Emma from the foreground and concentrate on the man behind her in the queue.
As the two began talking in rapid Danish, Emma was left with no option but to slink away in embarrassment. This was the fourth travel agency she’d tried, and in each case the result had been exactly the same. They were sorry, but they could not possibly give out confidential information about customers to anyone other than the proper authorities. Their clients had a right to privacy. No, thank you, they would prefer not to look at the photographs at all. Now, if they could be excused, they had other customers to deal with …
Emma felt her face glow red with humiliation as she walked towards the door of the shop, painfully aware of the suspicious stares and hostile mutterings of the customers who’d been standing in line behind her. She was sure she heard someone mention the word ‘Politi’, police. Outside, in the bright sunshine and bitter cold, she forced herself to concentrate on the act of eliminating yet another address from her list and checking the route to the next one.
She walked two blocks to the Vesterbrogade, consoling herself that at least the weather had been kind to her. The previous night’s scattering of snow had disappeared with the dawn, leaving the air tinglingly crisp and salty in a way that is only possible in cities surrounded by the sea. The tall, genteel buildings sparkled in the sunshine. Graceful boulevards teemed with crowds of blond-haired, chattering shoppers.
Walking along a strip of pavement, Emma was startled by a sudden yell of anger behind her. She spun around and dived to the side, just in time to avoid a lightweight racing-cycle that was hurtling towards her at high speed. The rider, full-bearded and Vikingesque under his low-browed helmet, snarled at her and gesticulated furiously at a graphic image on the concrete beneath.
‘Okay, okay. So I was walking on your bike lane,’ Emma muttered to herself through gritted teeth. ‘Sorry.’
She flopped down on a bench, suddenly tired and fed up. Copenhagen was a wonderful city but it was certainly no fun when you were an outsider looking for favours from strangers. But then, what had she expected? she asked herself testily. Someone to walk up to her on the street and provide an answer to all her problems?
‘Excuse me.’
Startled, Emma looked up. The man standing beside her bench looked vaguely familiar, but then all young Danish males seemed to have the same blond hair, blue eyes and clean-cut appearance. This man looked about nineteen and was smartly dressed in a blue suit, cream shirt and red silk tie.
‘I am Jens,’ he introduced himself in excellent English. ‘I saw you at the travel agency.’
‘Yes, I remember. You were working at the computer as I talked to your boss.’
He shook his head. ‘No, no. I am the boss. The lady you talked to was my employee.’
Emma bit her lower lip in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You are from Ireland, yes?’
‘Yes. I’m from County Athmore, in the northwest.’
‘Ireland. Riverdance. U2?’
‘That’s right. That’s us.’
‘U2. Bono. The Edge. Larry. Adam. You like them?’
Emma stared at him. ‘You didn’t follow me halfway across town to talk about U2, did you?’
‘No. I think I can help you locate the woman you are looking for.’
‘What makes you think so?’ Emma’s pulse was accelerating wildly, but she didn’t want to risk disappointment if this turned out to be no more than an elaborate chat-up routine.
He lit a slim cigarette. ‘Because I sold a young woman a direct ticket to Dublin around the time you mentioned. She paid cash, which is unusual, but she seemed very nervous, almost as though she were committing a crime. I tried to chat to her about U2, because I am involved in their fan club in this country, but she said she had never heard of them. Come on.’ Jens shot Emma a look of sheer disbelief. ‘Everyone has heard of U2.’
‘And that’s why sh
e stuck in your mind?’
‘Yes. Plus, she had a strange face. A very hard face. She was a witchy woman. The sort, you better look out, she could put a spell on you.’ He grinned.
Emma’s heart-rate went into overdrive. Her hands fumbled as she handed over the pictures.
‘Is this the woman?’ she asked.
He barely glanced at the first photo before replying. ‘Yes. That’s her.’ He sifted rapidly through the entire batch. ‘This photo, here, is the one closest to her true appearance. She has dark-brown hair, mid-length, like so.’ He demonstrated on Emma. ‘No glasses.’
‘Jens.’ Her mouth seemed to have dried up and she found it hard to speak. ‘Did you get her name and address?’
He nodded rapidly. ‘Of course. I checked that before I followed you. I have it right here, in my pocket.’
He didn’t move.
‘Well?’
‘What is it worth?’ he asked, looking her directly in the eye.
‘You mean you want a fee?’ Emma returned his stare.
He shook his head. ‘I wasn’t talking about money.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No, no! Oh, my God, no!’ Jens raised his hands defensively as he realised what she was thinking. ‘I meant, have you any U2 things? Rare vinyl recordings? Tickets, photos, autographs?’
She released her pent-up breath in a long sigh of relief. ‘I don’t know. I mean’ – her tension exploded in laughter – ‘I didn’t exactly come here with the intention of standing in the main street of Copenhagen trading U2 memorabilia.’
He smiled back, but his eyes still held hers quizzically.
‘I don’t know, really.’ She tried to think. ‘I have their first single on vinyl – “Out of Control”?’
He shook his head. ‘Everyone has that.’
‘Not the twelve-inch version. The disc with all four names etched on the vinyl.’
