The Death Of Ronnie Sweets Part 8

"Look, man," he said. "If you want to go and get a coffee or something, I'll keep working his name and all this information. I'll get something, man. If you're alive, there's something about you on the Internet."

I smiled and said maybe I would pop out, grab a drink. As I closed the door to his office, I thought to myself that for all its wonders, the Internet was a terrifying tool; all that information waiting for someone to come along and find it and put it to a use only they could know.

"Two days," Ros said, stirring her hot chocolate. We were in a Starbucks cafe on the upper level of the Overgate shopping centre. Around us, the hum of consumerism filled the air. A pigeon that had sneaked into the centre through one of the automatic doors perched on a metal rafter above us.

I looked up. "What?"

"I'm reminding you now, so you don't forget, hon. Two days."

I thought about it a moment. I couldn't even remember the date. Then, it came to me and I smiled broadly. "I won't forget. I haven 't forgotten."

She shook her head. "You're a man. Personal dates, they tend to slip through your head."

"One year," I said. "I forgot one year."

"Sure," she said. "But it was after we started counting again, so it's one year out of two, right?" She smiled, cheekily. She finished stirring in the sugar and took a short sip of the chocolate. The thick liquid stayed on her lips when she put down the cup. Her tongue darted out, finding and retrieving the remnants.

I took a sip of my coffee. "Honestly," I said. "I haven't forgotten."

"I'll believe it, babe," she said, "when I see it."

I made a mental note to do something about it in the afternoon, when I had some time. She was right, of course; I had forgotten. Things had been going well with the business lately, and I guess my personal life had started to slip from my mind. It wasn't as if I was ignoring Ros; it was just that she'd become a little more a part of the scenery. Maybe it was time to start making that lack of attention up to her just a little.

"How are things going at the university?" I asked her. "Your students behaving themselves?"

"More or less," she said. "There was a big party the other night at the Union. Those that deigned to turn up today were hungover to h.e.l.l."

I smiled. "These wacky university kids," I said.

"You missed out on all of that," she said. "It's a shame. University's not just about learning. It's about not becoming too serious for a few more years. The undergraduate years are the best years of your life."

I shrugged. I wouldn't know. I could have gone to university, I guess. Somewhere along the line, however, I figured getting a job and making myself useful to society was a better way to go. Joining the police force had been, in my mind, a n.o.ble decision. Even after all these years I still think it was pretty n.o.ble. It was just a pity the resulting-and short-lived--career hadn't followed that same sentiment.

"There's a dinner next week," Ros said. "In Glasgow. A lot of boring doctors and professors talking about morality, epistemology and all that other stuff you love."

"For Dr Denner and partner, I a.s.sume?"

She nodded. "It would mean a lot to me, babe, if you could make it."

"I guess I can be nice to the academics for a while," I said.

"Great." She sipped at her hot chocolate. Her eyes looked over my shoulder at something I guess only she could see.

"George Darren disappeared," said Jamie. We were sitting in Deacon Brodie's, a local pub in the converted bas.e.m.e.nt of an old church that's just a hop, skip, and stumble from the office. A few businessmen sat around the central bar, drinking, mostly alone, and trying to chat up the young barmaid with varying degrees of success. Jamie and I were sitting at a table at the far wall, sipping from pints and talking in hushed tones.

"Disappeared?"

"Aye. Piff-paff-poof, gone Just like that." Jamie took another drink. "Nineteen-seventy-five marks the last record I have of him. He was living in Dundee and then he just upped stakes and left. Christ, I even managed to get in touch with his old landlord, who's now retired but kept every single record from all the years he was running the building. Darren didn't pay his month's rent before b.u.g.g.e.ring off. But the landlord couldn't track him down. Darren had no living family, no next of kin, no one who knew where to find him."

"The thing is," I said, "this has all the marks of a con job. But from what Mrs Archer told me, that doesn't fit "It's a head-scratcher," said Jamie.

We both sat back. I took a deep drink of my pint and closed my eyes. The liquid seeped into my body and spread out along my limbs. A weight seemed to lift from me. Maybe I was trying to do too much of late; it felt good to finally just sit back and wipe my mind.

Jamie spoke first: "You think maybe Sandy'll be able to help?"

I shrugged. "Darren didn't have a record."

"Not one that he told Mrs. Archer about," said Jamie. "After all, Sandy's been bragging about that new Intelligence Department they gave to HQ. What's the harm in asking?"

Sandy met me in the car-park out the back ofTayside Police HQ. He was kind enough to bring out a Styrofoam cup of cofre "You know, I never like it when you call me at work." he said. "It always means trouble." His fair hair was ruffled by the wind.

"You'll be giving me a bad name talking like that," I said.

"Round here your name couldn't be any worse," he said. "So tell me what you want?"

I took Darren's photograph out of my pocket. "I need you to run an image."

"That's an old photograph."

"Aye, it is."

"I could run a name."

"Jamie seems to think we're not going to get anywhere with just a name."

Sandy smiled. "Where'd you have him hack into?"

"We don't hack," I said. "It would be . . . unethical."

Sandy almost spat out a mouthful of coffee.

I let it slide. "You've been boasting about these new facilities," I said. "About the new Intelligence Department they tacked onto the side of HQ. How they have computers hooked up to all the other databases in the U.K., how no one can really hide from you any more."

"Aye," he said. "But have you seen the forms we have to fill in? The paperwork. To protect the privacy of the innocent or what ever. Jesus, Sam!"

"There's always a way round it," I said. "I've cut corners for you before. h.e.l.l, I've almost got myself killed doing you a favour."

He nodded. "Dudman," he said. It was something I still held over his head. He'd sent me out after a police Witness who'd skipped custody. As it happened some very nasty people were also afterthe man, Dudman and they didn't care that I was in the way when they came after him with a shotgun.

"Fine," said Sandy, eventually. "I'll see what I can do. See what I san pull up." He took the photo from me. "It's an old photo, though. I mean, he won't look like that now. h.e.l.l, he could have changed completely"

I nodded.

"But I'll see what I can do." He turned to go back inside. He stopped on the steps before pus.h.i.+ng open the big gla.s.s doors. He twisted round his head and said, "You're a b.a.s.t.a.r.d when you want something. Pulling out the guilt trips and the favour card."

I shrugged.

"I'll see you later, man," he said. "We can forget about it over a few pints."

I went back o the offices. After checking with Babs, my secretary, if there had been any important calls, I went into my office and boiled the kettle. I stood by the window as I listened to the kettle boiling and looked out at Ward Road below. Across the way, the DSS office was closing for the day. The last few stragglers were being thrown out, told to come back with their pleas for money and housing the next day. The traffic on the road was getting heavier as the Dundee rush hour began to gather momentum.

When the water had boiled, I made a cup of coffee and sat down at my desk. I checked the computer for e-mail and found none that seemed especially interesting.

Looking at my watch, I decided it was too late to even attempt heading do to the shops. I decided I'd get Ros a gift the nextday. After all, it still gave me time to look like I'd been prepared this year.

The next morning I woke up in Ros's flat. She was lying beside me, still asleep, her long hair an explosion on the pillow. I moved gently, so as not to disturb her, and got dressed quickly before going into the kitchen.

After I put the kettle or, she joined me, her eyes still half shut, and her hair still a mess. She smiled at me. "You're as subtle as an elephant," she said. "I'll never understand how you can do a covert surveillance" She came over and kissed me quickly on the lips.

"I'm going to take a shower, hon," she said before she went back out to the bathroom.

The hiss of the shower started up, and I stood in the kitchen and made two cups of coffee. I left hers sitting on the breakfast bar, and took mine through to the living room and sat down on the couch. I flicked on the TV and caught the BBC morning news.

As the latest developments in the Middle East were interspersed with snippets about Z-list celebrities and their incessant couplings, my mind began to wander to Mrs. Archer. Something had been nagging me about het, about her story. Something in my head told me I hadn't got the whole story out of her, that some piece of the puzzle was missing and she wanted it to remain that way.

I was still mulling this over when Ros came back from her show- er. She sat down beside me. "You've got your serious face," she said. "Never liked that one."

I tried to smile.

"Don't bother," she said. "I'm used to it. You always were too serious. Probably always will be."

I looked at her and I thought about what Mrs Archer had said, about how you know when it's love. I spend most days trying to prepare myself for the fact that what me and Ros have won't last. I lie to myself and think I should enjoy each day because G.o.d only knows when the whole affair will come cras.h.i.+ng down about our heads. But maybe Mrs Archer was right: You know it's love when you keep coming back, no matter what. I always came back to her. Every thought, every good thought I've ever had has always come back to Ros. I can lie to myself all I like, but maybe that is love after all.

I was in the office at ten thirty when Sandy called. "You got time for lunch?"

"Aye," I said. We arranged to meet at the Deacon's at one o'clock. He rung off quickly, saying he had things to take care of I skimmed through what Jamie had left me on George Darren. There were a few references to Darren in Dundee in the early seventies. Residences, work, and so forth. He'd lived in three separate addresses in Dundee and had had two jobs. Both were in the retail. sector, first in a local butcher's and then a bookseller's. Both businesses had closed down abruptly in the mid-eighties, and Jamie was unable to get contacts with them. Other than that, information was thin on the ground. It looked like the man had simply disappeared.

After I was done skimming the little information we had, I checked through the company accounts and made sure that all our cases were up to date. The thing about my kind of business is that it comes in ebbs and flows. Some months can be deadly quiet and others can throw up a storm of cases, sometimes more than we can handle. Mrs Archer had come to us in a quiet month. I was glad. It was a routine investigation, the kind of thing we could handle without too much pressure.

At one o'clock, I walked into the Deacon's. Sandy sat at a corner table with another man, dressed in an ill-fitting suit with white s.h.i.+rt and black tie. He sported a buzz cut and thick gla.s.ses.

"Sam, this is Harry Kress," said Sandy. "One of our computer whizzes."

Harry offered me his hand, which was sweaty. When I offered to get drinks, Harry asked for a c.o.ke. Sandy and I decided it was late enough to grab a couple of pints.

When I brought the drinks back over from the bar, a pretty girl who looked like she was working to pay off university fees took our orders for lunch. Harry said he couldn't stay long, so he didn't order any food.

"So what have you got?" I said, right down to business.

"Nothing on the name," said Sandy. "Nothing to match the picture, exactly."

"The picture you gave us, of the suspect," Harry said, "we ran through an age-enhancement program."

"From what I understand," said Sandy, "these things aren't one-hundred percent reliable. The final picture may not match what actually occurs in the aging process."

Harry nodded. "There are a number of factors that can contribute to aging. Loss of hair is one that's difficult to predict, andif a person takes to wearing a wig, well, that can change the shape of their face. Then there are non-age-related factors, like an accident, or a scar, that can affect someone's appearance."

I took a drink of my pint. "How close did you come?"

Sandy took a computer printout from his pocket and pa.s.sed it over to me. "This guy matches the aging process we did on your snapshot."

I unfolded the paper. His skin was sagging, more yellow than it looked in the l975 picture. His eyes were deeper in his skull, and the moustache was gone. His lips looked red, like the blood had rushed into them from the rest of his face. His hair was thinning, but not gone entirely. That which was left was pure white.

"He doesn't look a well man," I said.

"He's not," said Sandy. "We found him in the s.e.x offender's registry. Under the name Charles Sanderson."

"He changed his name?"

"Not officially, no," said Sandy. "But this is the closest hit we have for you. If our records are anything to go by, then after 1975 George Darren simply disappeared."

Gillian smiled as I walked into the registrar She always looked glad to have company whenever I came in. She'd let her blond hair grow out since the last time I saw her. It fell about her round little face in soft, framing curls. When she smiled at me. I was reminded of a child's doll.

'Always nice tae see you," she said. "Ye don't pop by nearly enough."

I smiled and leant on the desk conspiratorially. She always responded well when I made out what I was involved in was some secret operation. "Don't worry" I said. "There's no other archivist for me."

She winked at me and said, "So what do ye want from me today?"

"I need information on a man named Charles Sanderson."

"Birth or death?"

"Death," I said.

"Do you have an approximate idea of when . . . ?

"1975," I said.

She nodded and swivelled her chair round to the flat-screen computer she kept on the desk. "They've been updating the archives," she said. "Trying to give us everything they can in electronic form. Unfortunately for you, blue-eyes, nothing before 1979 is on the database just yet." She smiled. I can put through a request, though."

"How long?"

"Five hours."