Probably the reason that Mike retired so early. Still…’ Sawyer half-turned, distracted, as a noisy group took up seats a couple of tables away.
‘Yes… yes, it is.’ Jac exhaled heavily. ‘Haveling phoned me this morning to tell me that Marmont’s condition had worsened. The hospital give him less than twenty per cent chance of pulling through. Haveling said that the next forty-eight hours would be the most telling – but that, obviously, if Marmont died, all bets were off.’
Jac found himself on edge over the following days, fearful each time the phone rang that it would be Haveling calling to say that Marmont had died.
Late afternoon, with the help of the company’s IT man, he’d discovered more about the e-mail: signed up and sent from an internet café, Cybersurf on Prytania Street , and an anonymous, untraceable e-mail address: durransave4@ hotmail.com . He phoned Cybersurf –it had been paid cash and they didn’t recall who’d been on that computer then.
Just as the last people were leaving the office, Penny Vance calling out, ‘Have a nice weekend,’ Jac finally sent the reply he’d been turning over in his mind the past twenty-four hours. Equally brief, but hopefully it might draw them out and give him what he needed; if anything came back.
His phone started ringing only minutes after he got back to his apartment, his hand hovering a second before he picked up; Haveling ? But it was Jeff Coombs, his squash and tennis partner and one of the few friends he’d made in his three years in New Orleans . He begged off a squash game Jeff was trying to organize for early Saturday evening.
‘Heading out to Hammond for the weekend to see Mum and Sis.’
‘I understand. Duty calls. Maybe we’ll get in a game in the week, Wednesday or Thursday night? I’ll phone you then.’
Part of that duty now included pressure to get him married off. He tried to relax in the shower, breathing long and slow with his eyes closed as he let the water run over his body, as if at the same time it was washing away the pressures of the week and some of the sticky heat and grime still there from Libreville .
Traffic was slow heading out of the city, probably because the weekend weather promised to be fine, and everyone had the same thing in mind: escape to the beaches or bayous. His phone rang again halfway along the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway: His mother, no doubt wondering where he was. He was twenty minutes later in leaving than he’d said, and the traffic had held him up still further. He let it go into message service.
The reason for the call he was confronted with as soon as he arrived.
‘Aunt Camille has arranged dinner for us all, and you know how fastidious she is.’ His mother looked anxiously at her watch. ‘Already it looks like we’re going to be ten minutes late. She’ll give us hell.’
A twenty-minute run to the far side of Amite, they decided to all go in his car.
‘If you’d called and told me, I’d have made sure to be on time,’ Jac said as he made the turn back onto the highway.
‘She didn’t tell me until very late.’
But as he glanced across, his mother looked slightly away. Either she had been told late – probably because his aunt’s last dinner invite he’d begged off with an excuse – or his mother had decided to delay telling him, for much the same reason. Either way, his lack of enthusiasm for his aunt’s company was now out in the open. Official.
Aunt Camille’s house was a sprawling Southern mansion complete with Doric columns on its front façade, straight out of Gone With the Wind . A servant with white tails and gloves greeted them and served them dinner. Perpetuation of the plantation-era image, except that he was white. Hired from an Atlanta-based agency that specialised in English servants, because she’d heard that they were the best.
That must have caused her weeks of mental anguish, thought Jac: choosing between what was considered traditionally
‘Yes… yes, it is.’ Jac exhaled heavily. ‘Haveling phoned me this morning to tell me that Marmont’s condition had worsened. The hospital give him less than twenty per cent chance of pulling through. Haveling said that the next forty-eight hours would be the most telling – but that, obviously, if Marmont died, all bets were off.’
Jac found himself on edge over the following days, fearful each time the phone rang that it would be Haveling calling to say that Marmont had died.
Late afternoon, with the help of the company’s IT man, he’d discovered more about the e-mail: signed up and sent from an internet café, Cybersurf on Prytania Street , and an anonymous, untraceable e-mail address: durransave4@ hotmail.com . He phoned Cybersurf –it had been paid cash and they didn’t recall who’d been on that computer then.
Just as the last people were leaving the office, Penny Vance calling out, ‘Have a nice weekend,’ Jac finally sent the reply he’d been turning over in his mind the past twenty-four hours. Equally brief, but hopefully it might draw them out and give him what he needed; if anything came back.
His phone started ringing only minutes after he got back to his apartment, his hand hovering a second before he picked up; Haveling ? But it was Jeff Coombs, his squash and tennis partner and one of the few friends he’d made in his three years in New Orleans . He begged off a squash game Jeff was trying to organize for early Saturday evening.
‘Heading out to Hammond for the weekend to see Mum and Sis.’
‘I understand. Duty calls. Maybe we’ll get in a game in the week, Wednesday or Thursday night? I’ll phone you then.’
Part of that duty now included pressure to get him married off. He tried to relax in the shower, breathing long and slow with his eyes closed as he let the water run over his body, as if at the same time it was washing away the pressures of the week and some of the sticky heat and grime still there from Libreville .
Traffic was slow heading out of the city, probably because the weekend weather promised to be fine, and everyone had the same thing in mind: escape to the beaches or bayous. His phone rang again halfway along the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway: His mother, no doubt wondering where he was. He was twenty minutes later in leaving than he’d said, and the traffic had held him up still further. He let it go into message service.
The reason for the call he was confronted with as soon as he arrived.
‘Aunt Camille has arranged dinner for us all, and you know how fastidious she is.’ His mother looked anxiously at her watch. ‘Already it looks like we’re going to be ten minutes late. She’ll give us hell.’
A twenty-minute run to the far side of Amite, they decided to all go in his car.
‘If you’d called and told me, I’d have made sure to be on time,’ Jac said as he made the turn back onto the highway.
‘She didn’t tell me until very late.’
But as he glanced across, his mother looked slightly away. Either she had been told late – probably because his aunt’s last dinner invite he’d begged off with an excuse – or his mother had decided to delay telling him, for much the same reason. Either way, his lack of enthusiasm for his aunt’s company was now out in the open. Official.
Aunt Camille’s house was a sprawling Southern mansion complete with Doric columns on its front façade, straight out of Gone With the Wind . A servant with white tails and gloves greeted them and served them dinner. Perpetuation of the plantation-era image, except that he was white. Hired from an Atlanta-based agency that specialised in English servants, because she’d heard that they were the best.
That must have caused her weeks of mental anguish, thought Jac: choosing between what was considered traditionally
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