One False Move

by Robert Goddard

  ‘You’ve spoken to Zip?’

  ‘I had coffee at Bean Feast this afternoon. We chatted about this and that.’

  ‘Her name’s Karen. Only her friends call her Zip.’

  ‘I’m sorry about the subterfuge. There didn’t seem to be any other way to track you down.’

  ‘Who said I wanted to be tracked down?’

  ‘You must have known it would happen, considering what you’ve been doing.’

  ‘Go is just—’ Joe breaks off. ‘Shit.’

  I turn and see Zip heading towards us across the square in front of the pub. She’s huddled up in a duffel coat and the green strands of her hair have taken on a weird kind of turquoise in the lamplight. She doesn’t look as surprised to see me with Joe as I might have expected. I wonder if she recognizes me.

  But she does. ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘Again.’

  Joe jumps up from the table and intercepts her. ‘Let’s split,’ he says.

  ‘You’ve never had enough already?’ she says incredulously.

  ‘I have tonight. Let’s go back to yours.’

  ‘I fancied a drink.’

  ‘I’ll buy you one in the Ladder.’

  ‘Maybe we can talk in the morning, Joe,’ I say, standing up as well.

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  With that he grabs Zip’s arm and pilots her back across the square. She looks back at me quizzically as she goes. Joe doesn’t look back at all.

  I watch them cross the road and disappear into a block of shadow next to Lloyds Bank. I wait a couple of minutes, then go after them.

  Next to the bank is a steep flight of steps, climbing into the darkness above. Jacob’s Ladder, the sign says. I guess there’s a pub at the top named after the steps. But I reckon going up to see if they’re in it is a mistake. I’ll have to let Joe get used to the idea that he’s no longer anonymous before I spell out in more detail what we can offer him. He’ll come round in the end. I’m sure of it.

  My coat’s still in the Seven Stars, so I have to go back and fetch it. Jeremy Inkpen is standing outside when I arrive, half-drunk pint of beer in hand.

  ‘Wondered what had become of you,’ he says, the lamplight forming pools on the lenses of his glasses as he beams at me. ‘Where’s Joe?’

  ‘Decided to call it a night.’

  ‘Early for him to do that.’

  ‘His girlfriend came by.’

  ‘She usually does.’

  ‘I think I’ll call it a night myself.’

  ‘That’s a pity. How long are you in Falmouth?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘I do walking tours of Falmouth for the tourists. All the principal sites. I could do one just for you … if you like.’ I suddenly realize Jerry’s asking me out. God knows what he’s hoping might come of it. ‘Bespoke, you could say.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind, but I’m not sure I’ll have time.’

  ‘The town has a fascinating history. Were you over by Jacob’s Ladder?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘Built by Jacob Hamblen in 1791 so he could go to and fro between his house up top and his business down here on The Moor. One hundred and eleven steps in all.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘There’s lots more to show you besides that.’

  ‘Yes, well, as I say …’

  ‘I run a photography business in Arwenack Street. Why don’t you look in when you’re passing?’ I think he’s decided to settle for that and I’m happy to as well.

  ‘I’ll make a point of it.’

  He smiles at me with an expression of earnest goodwill. I feel a slight pang of regret. He knows what I’m really saying, poor guy. Then he adds, almost desperately, as if hoping it might interest me, ‘Joe’s dad was a nasty piece of work. Joe and his mother are well off without him.’

  ‘Is that right? You knew him, did you?’

  ‘I did. But … I shouldn’t really speak ill of the dead.’

  ‘You just have.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Forgot myself. Are you sure you won’t stay for some more Go? Or maybe just a drink?’

  ‘No.’ I give him what I hope works as a letting-down-gently smile. ‘I won’t, thanks.’

  The night’s still and quiet. I walk up the hill towards Tideways with lights twinkling at me from the opposite shore across an invisible gulf of water. I catch a drift of cigar smoke in the air as I turn in through the gate. There’s a man standing near the porch, barely visible in the shadows. I might have missed him altogether but for the smoke and the glow of his cigar-end.

  ‘Hello,’ I say cautiously.

  ‘Evening,’ he responds. I can’t really see his face or what he’s wearing and it’s hard to put an age on him. Sixty, maybe. His voice is gravelly but rich-toned. ‘You must be the new arrival.’

  ‘You’re a guest here yourself?’

  ‘Of long standing. I live on the top floor. Grand night, isn’t it?’

  ‘A bit cold for standing around.’

  ‘You think so? I like cold nights. They clear the mind.’

  ‘I expect the cigar helps.’

  ‘It does. Liz – Mrs Roberts – won’t allow smoking on the premises. So, I’m banished out here. But I like it.’

  ‘Well, enjoy the rest of your cigar.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I move past him and go into the house. I feel suddenly tired. This kind of work isn’t covered by my job description. But if it goes well I should get a whole new job description – and a salary to match – in the not too distant future. Joe was right. Women do have a hard time of it in the tech industry, as I can personally testify. But this is my big chance to change that. I’m not going to let it slip.

  I go up to my room and phone Carl. He answers straight away. I imagine him in his Thames-side apartment, gazing out at the city as he speaks. I can hear slow, ballad-like music in the background. It should be calming. But he doesn’t sound calm.

  ‘Tell me you’ve got our guy on side, Nicole.’

  ‘Nearly. He just needs time to think about it.’

  ‘Well, don’t give him too much time. Make it clear what’s on the table.’

  ‘I think he already knows.’

  ‘Then what’s the problem? If I could do what he does I’d be writing my own cheque in a hurry.’ So he would. But then Carl has always been hasty.

  ‘It’s possible he’s running a rival program on us.’

  ‘Bullshit. There’s no rival to gridforest.’

  ‘What if there is?’

  ‘Then we’ll buy it out would be my guess. Billy’s fully committed to this.’ The backing of our remote but somehow omnipresent boss, Billy Swarther, the king of computer gaming, is vital to everything we do. But it’s a two-edged sword. If he backs you, you’d better make sure you succeed. Carl and I both know that. ‘A signed-up hyper-genius would be a big coup for you and me both, Nicole. So, is that what we’re looking at here? What’s your instinct?’

  ‘I think he’s the real thing, Carl.’

  ‘Then reel him in. Any way you can.’

  It must sound easy to Carl. And maybe it will be. Tomorrow will tell.

  Tuesday October 8

  I slept better than I have in a long time, which seems ridiculous really, with so much riding on what today holds. I hope Joe turns out to be more materialistic than he seemed last night. Alternatively, I hope Zip – or Karen – can talk him round. She did say she wanted out of Falmouth, after all, and Silicon Valley’s definitely that.

  I clear a few emails, then go down to breakfast. I wonder if I’ll run into Cigar Man from last night, but there’s no sign of him in the dining room. A woman’s there to take my order. She’s homely and friendly and recommends the sausages on the grounds they come from her cousin’s farm. There’s one other guest, eating muesli and reading the Guardian. She’s wearing a grey trouser-suit and looks quite serious, with short blonde-tinted grey hair and a severe, sharp-nosed face. She’s older than me, but in good shape.

  We’re sit
ting at adjacent tables and soon start chatting. Ursula, as she’s called, turns out to be less serious and more loquacious than she appears. She’s been staying here for more than a week now, working on what she refers to as ‘VAT issues’ at the Docks. I assume she’s with HMRC. I’m more or less obliged to introduce myself and explain that I’m trying to interest a local corporate client in a groundbreaking new Venstrom system. As cover stories go, it sounds plausible as I trot it out.

  ‘I met another guest last night,’ I say after Hazel – as Ursula addresses her – delivers my scrambled eggs and one sausage. ‘He was smoking a cigar out front when I came in.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Ursula. ‘That’ll be Mr Forrester. He lives on the top floor. I believe he caters for himself up there. A driving instructor. You’ll see his car around town. And parked round the back. Forrester School of Motoring. Except there is no school. He’s a one-man band.’

  ‘You’ve picked up a lot in just over a week.’

  ‘Well, Falmouth’s a smaller town than I’m used to. And I’m stuck here on my own while this assignment lasts.’ She smiles. ‘Can’t help noticing things.’

  ‘I met Mrs Roberts’ son when I arrived. Joe. Seems very bright.’

  ‘He does, doesn’t he? Could really go places if he wanted to.’ She holds her smile a second longer than strictly necessary. I wonder if she actually knows how apt the remark is. Then I dismiss the idea as absurd. She’s just making conversation.

  My phone beeps at that moment. I check who the message is from. I don’t recognize the number. But I open it anyway.

  Can we meet in half hour? We need to talk. Don’t want to come to Tideways. Can do Prince of Wales Pier. Urgent. Karen Kliskey.

  Karen Kliskey. The girlfriend. She wants to talk. I think for all of about half a second before texting back. See you there.

  Ursula’s still smiling at me. ‘You’re never alone with a phone, are you?’

  The weather’s brighter than yesterday, with gleams of sunlight that glisten on the grey-slated rooftops of the town and the wave-crests out to sea. It’s colder too, with a keen edge to the breeze.

  Prince of Wales Pier is where the St Mawes ferry runs from. It’s handy for Bean Feast, of course. Maybe I’m catching Karen just before she starts work. She’s waiting for me at the end of the pier, leaning against a bollard and tapping at her phone, which she puts away smartly when she sees me coming. Her skin’s pale, almost transparent, in the sharp light.

  ‘Are you for real, Nicole?’ she asks straight away, holding up my card. ‘Venstrom Computers. Silicon Valley. There’s a picture of your head office on your website. Looks a bit like an egg-carton.’

  ‘Yes, I’m for real, Karen. And I have the authority to make Joe a very generous offer if he’ll agree to what I’ve proposed.’

  ‘I thought Go was just a game.’

  ‘Well, it is, of course. But there are games … and games.’

  ‘Joe’s told me what he’s been doing. Beating the computer and all that. Is it really such a big deal?’

  ‘It’s an enormous deal. He shouldn’t be able to do that. The Go world champion certainly can’t.’

  She frowns. ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  She chews her lower lip for a moment, then says, ‘Would he have to go to California?’

  ‘Not necessarily. California would come to him if he insists on it. But doesn’t he want to go? Don’t you?’

  ‘I’d be part of this?’

  ‘If you’re part of Joe’s life, then why wouldn’t you be?’

  ‘He’s nervous.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘The change, I s’pose.’

  ‘But it would be exciting. For both of you. There’s a big world out there, Karen.’

  She sighs. ‘Joe’s always been … different. I know that. I mean, different in a loveable way. But … there’s part of him that’s way beyond me. The part that can beat computers at Go for a start.’

  ‘But he needs you to keep him grounded.’

  ‘Does he?’

  I nod. ‘I suspect so, yes.’

  ‘How does he do it, Nicole?’

  ‘That’s what we want to find out.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’ll be able to tell you.’

  ‘He may not have to. Our researchers can figure it out when they see him in action.’

  ‘No one at that Go club ever said he was … a genius.’

  ‘I get the feeling he hasn’t let them see just how good he is.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She looks thoughtful. ‘That’s Joe all over.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Where he always goes when he needs to think.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘Look, he just told me to tell you he’ll contact you when he’s decided what he wants to do. You won’t get anything out of him if you badger him. I can tell you that from experience.’

  ‘How long d’you think he needs to think?’

  She shrugs. ‘How long is a piece of string? You’ll just have to wait.’

  ‘Do you know why he only plays on the Voglers’ computer, Karen?’

  ‘Not really.’ For the first time, I get the feeling Karen may not be telling me the truth. She probably does know why. I can probably take a guess myself. Joe has never wanted his talents to be recognized for some reason. But they have been. They were always going to be in the end. I guess that’s what he’s struggling to come to terms with.

  ‘You shouldn’t let him walk away from this, Karen. It’s a golden opportunity.’

  ‘Joe’s not a money-oriented person. You need to understand that.’

  ‘What about you?’

  Her gaze tightens slightly. ‘More than Joe, for sure.’

  ‘There you are then.’

  ‘You might have to buy him out of his contract with Conrad Vogler.’

  ‘His contract? What exactly does he do for the guy?’

  ‘Financial analysis.’

  ‘What kind of financial analysis?’

  Another shrug. ‘Haven’t a clue. Way over my head.’

  I smile at her. ‘I somehow doubt that.’

  ‘All I’m saying is you might have to make a deal with Vogler if you want to … make a deal with Joe.’

  I nod. ‘Understood. Don’t worry. I’ll sort everything out. If money’s the problem, my company has the solution.’

  ‘That sounds nice.’

  ‘It will be for you and Joe, Karen. Believe me.’

  I think Karen does believe me. And I believe her that the best way to bring Joe round to seeing things my way is to give him the time he needs to think everything through. Carl won’t be so patient, of course, but he may have no choice in the matter. Knowing when not to force the pace is a talent I’m pretty sure I have more of than him. He’s just going to have to let me decide how to play this. If I play it right, it’ll turn out to be a golden opportunity for me as well as Joe and Karen.

  I walk down the main shopping street and stop for coffee. Unusually, I have time on my hands. I’m even up to date with my emails. And Kyra confirms Joe isn’t playing this morning. No surprise there. Joe isn’t playing because Joe’s thinking.

  I leave the café and walk on. Shortly after the street takes a kink round King Charles Church I spot a photography shop ahead of me. Falmouth Photographic. It’s got an old-fashioned look about it. I’m not sure Jeremy Inkpen has been keeping up with the digital world. One window’s full of framed photographs of sailing craft around Falmouth: barges, yachts, coasters. They’re not actually sepia-tinted, but they might as well be. The other window’s given over to happy couple and baby pictures.

  I’m planning to walk straight on, but I haven’t allowed for how slack business is. Jeremy’s out of the door, grinning at me, before I’ve made it past. He’s holding an old camera in his hand and is fiddling with the winding lever. It looks like I’ve caught him in mid-repair.

  ‘Nicole,’ he says, his grin broadening. ‘Good morning.’

&
nbsp; ‘Morning,’ I say as brightly as I can manage.

  ‘Are you coming in?’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘Please do. It’s fairly quiet at the moment. I can show you round.’

  I’m soon inside. The shop’s not very big, so being ‘shown round’ doesn’t threaten to be too arduous. Jeremy witters about inheriting the business from his father. He shows me pictures on the wall of a couple of dead ringers for himself who turn out to be his father and grandfather. Then there are the antique cameras to be admired, the miniature studio and the digital equipment which he insists keeps him bang up to date. There’s still a darkroom, though, and a general air of anachronism.

  ‘Changed your mind about the town tour?’ he asks hopefully.

  ‘I really don’t think I’ll have time, Jerry.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  ‘In fact—’

  ‘I’m glad to have seen you this morning, Nicole. I wanted to ask you to forget what I said last night about Joe’s father. Er, well, whatever it was I did say, that is. I can’t exactly recall. I might have had a little too much to drink. Or maybe I was intoxicated for some other reason.’

  I’m not quite sure what to say to that. What I eventually come up with is, ‘I can’t remember you mentioning him.’

  He smiles and nods his head in appreciation. ‘Charlie Roberts wasn’t such a bad fellow, at least when he was sober. He just lacked business sense. And luck, I suppose. We all need that.’

  ‘We certainly do.’

  ‘Actually, I have a picture of him here somewhere.’ He casts his gaze around the innumerable framed portraits and period views the walls of the shop are adorned with. ‘There it is.’ He points.

  I step closer and peer at the photograph. It shows two men standing by the foundations of some waterside building in suits and hard hats. A banner behind them bears the words Carrick Haven Phase One.

  ‘That’s Charlie.’ Jeremy extends a finger past my nose. It lands on the older and tubbier of the two men. Charlie Roberts is fortyish, paunchy, round-faced and mustachioed, grinning broadly with the air of a schoolboy who’s just got away with something. He doesn’t look much like Joe.

  His companion is a slighter, slimmer man with a graver expression, even though he’s also smiling. There’s something cautious about the smile, though, something provisional. There’s nothing larky about him, as there is about Charlie. His eyes as they meet the camera’s gaze have a hardness to them.