I've Got Your Number

I've Got Your Number Page 96

“No.” Sam doesn’t break his stride.

“But you must have been friends once.”

“I suppose so.”

Could he sound any less enthusiastic? Does he realize how empty his life will be if he doesn’t keep up with the people who were once important to him?

“So, surely he’s someone you still have a bond with! If you saw him, maybe you’d rekindle that! You’d bring something positive into your life!”

Sam stops dead and stares at me. “What business is this of yours, anyway?”

“Nothing,” I say defensively. “I just … I thought you might like to get in touch with him.”

“I am in touch with him.” Sam sounds exasperated. “Every year or so we meet for a drink, and it’s always the same story. He has some new entrepreneurial project he needs investors for, usually involving some ridiculous product or pyramid scheme. If it’s not fitness equipment, it’s double-glazing or time-shares in Turkey. Against my better judgment I give him some money. Then the business folds and I don’t hear from him again for another year. It’s a ridiculous cycle I need to break. Which is why I blanked his email. I’ll call him in a month or two, maybe, but right now, frankly, the last thing I need in my life is David bloody Robinson—” He breaks off and peers at me. “What?”

I gulp. There’s no way round this. None.

“He’s waiting for you in the bar.”

Maybe Sam hasn’t turned into a statue quite yet. Because as we head into the hotel, he says nothing, but I can easily read his feelings on his face, the entire range of them: from anger, to fury, to frustration, to …

Well. Back to anger again.82

“Sorry,” I say yet again. “I thought … ”

I peter out. I’ve already explained what I thought. It hasn’t really helped, to be honest.

We push our way through the heavy double doors to see Vicks hurrying down the corridor toward us, holding a phone to her ear, struggling with a pile of stuff and looking harassed.

“Sure,” she’s saying as she nears us. “Mark, wait a minute. Just met Sam. I’ll ring you back.” She looks up and launches in with no niceties. “Sam, I’m sorry. We’re going with the original statement.”

“What?” Sam’s voice is so thunderous, I jump. “You have to be kidding.”

“We have nothing on Ryan. No proof of anything untoward. There’s no more time. I’m sorry, Sam. I know you tried, but … ”

There’s a tense silence. Sam and Vicks aren’t even looking at each other, but the body language is obvious. Vicks’s arms are now wrapped defensively around her laptop and a mass of papers. Sam is kneading both fists into his forehead.

Personally, I’m trying to blend into the wallpaper.

“Vicks, you know this is bollocks.” Sam sounds as though he’s trying hard to control his impatience. “We know what happened. What, we ignore all this new information?”

“It’s not information, it’s guesswork! We don’t know what happened!” Vicks looks up and down the empty corridor and lowers her voice. “And if we don’t get a statement out to ITN, pronto, we are sitting fucking ducks, Sam.”

“We have time,” he says mutinously. “We can talk to this guy Ryan. Interview him.”

“How long will that take? What will that achieve?” Vicks puts a hand to her head. “Sam, these are grave accusations. They have no substance. Unless we find some solid proof … ”

“So we stand back. We wash our hands. They win.” Sam’s voice is calm, but I can tell he’s simmering with rage.

“The techies are still investigating in London.” Vicks sounds weary. “But unless they find proof  … ” She glances at her watch. “It’s coming up to nine. Jesus. We have no time, Sam.”

“Let me speak to them.”

“OK.” She sighs. “Not here. We’ve moved to a bigger room with a Skype screen.”

“Right. Let’s go.”

They both start walking briskly along, and I follow, not sure if I should or not. Sam looks so preoccupied, I don’t dare utter a sound. Vicks leads us through a ballroom filled with banqueting tables, into the lobby, past the bar …

Has he forgotten about David Robinson?

“Sam,” I mutter hastily. “Wait! Don’t go near the bar; we should go a different way—”

“Sam!” A throaty voice hails us. “ There you are!”

My heart freezes in horror. That must be him. That’s David Robinson. That guy with curly, receding dark hair and a pale-gray metallic suit, which he’s accessorized with a black shirt and white leather tie. He’s striding toward us with a massive beam on his fleshy face and a whiskey in his hand.