Georgia, USA
The thirteenth day

Georgia wasn’t any noticeably hotter than Corfu, but it was about twice as humid. Ben’s shirt was stuck to his back within fifteen minutes of stepping off the plane at Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson Airport.

He adjusted his watch to US time. The zone shift meant that he was arriving pretty much the same time he’d left Greece, and the sun was high overhead. He hired a big silver Chrysler at the airport and drove the long distance to Savannah with the windows down and the wind in his hair.

It was late afternoon by the time he got there. Savannah was rich and verdant with picture-perfect colonial homes that looked as though they hadn’t changed since Civil War times. The first thing he did was to phone the number on Steve McClusky’s business card. But when he tried it, all he got was a message to say the number had been cut off. There was no landline number, and there was no S. McClusky, Attorney, listed in Yellow Pages. But he still had the address. He checked his map and turned the big Chrysler round.

He found McClusky’s building on the edge of town, far away from the opulence of the old houses and the tree-lined streets. He’d been expecting some kind of proper law firm offices, either an imposing glass-fronted modern building or some elegant old colonial-style place with columns and steps leading up to the front door. What he found instead was a little old barber’s shop in the middle of a crumbling block. There was a small parking space outside, with yellowed weeds growing though the cracks in the concrete. He looked twice at the address on the card. It was the right place.

A bell tinkled overhead as he walked in the door. It was cool inside, air conditioning working full blast. He glanced quickly around him. The fittings were straight out of the fifties, and the old barbers themselves looked as though they’d been there at least as long. One of them was busy cutting the hair of the single customer in the place. The other was perched up on a stool, sipping a can of lite beer. He was stooped and white and looked like an iguana. A young guy of about eighteen in an apron was sweeping up bits of snipped hair from the tiles.

The old barber with the beer turned towards the newcomer. ‘What can we do for you, mister? Haircut or a shave?’

‘Neither,’ Ben said. ‘Where can I find Steve McClusky?’

‘That would be Skid you’re looking for.’

‘The name on the card is Steve McClusky.’

The old man nodded. ‘That’s him. Skid McClusky.’

‘Why do they call him that?’

The barber grinned. He had no front teeth. ‘Well, some folks say it’s the way he drives that Corvette of his. Others say Skid Row’s the place he’ll wind up, if he ain’t there already.’

‘His card says his offices are at this address.’

‘Right there.’ The old barber pointed a scraggy finger at a door in the corner. ‘Up the stairs, turn left. Ain’t much to look at, though.’

‘Thanks.’ Ben headed towards the door.

‘Save yourself the trouble, mister. You won’t find Skid there.’ The barber grinned again, flashing pale gums. ‘No, sir.’

‘So where is he? I need to talk to him.’

They all laughed. ‘Get in line, mister,’ the old man said. ‘There’s a bunch of us who’d like to talk to that sonofabitch. Skipped out of here without paying his rent. Been gone more’n two weeks.’

‘So you don’t know where he is?’

‘’Fraid I can’t help you there.’

He’d come a long way and this wasn’t a great start. ‘Thanks anyway.’ Ben turned and pushed back through the door. The bell tinkled again. He walked out into the hot sun and made his way towards the car, bleeping the locks as he approached. He yanked open the driver’s door and was about to climb in when he heard running footsteps come up behind him.

He turned. It was the young guy from the barber’s shop. The apron was gone, under it a faded Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. ‘Mister,’ he said. ‘Wait a minute.’ The teenager was looking over his shoulder back at the place as though he was scared they might be watching him from inside. Must have slipped out the back way, Ben thought.

The teenager looked anxious and sincere. Whatever he was about to say, Ben believed it.

‘Skid’s in some kind of trouble, mister.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Don’t know for sure. Something real bad. That’s why he’s gone.’ He paused. ‘Skid’s always been good to me. Loaned me money when I needed it.’

‘If Skid’s in trouble, I might be able to help him,’ Ben said. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’

The kid shook his head. ‘I know someone who might.’

‘Can you pass on a message to them?’

The kid threw another jittery glance back at the barber’s shop. He looked back at Ben and nodded.

‘Tell them a friend of Zoë Bradbury, from England, needs to talk to Skid. It’s important and urgent. Got that?’

‘Zoë Bradbury,’ the kid repeated.

‘If Skid gets the message he’ll understand. He needs to call this number.’ Ben scrawled it on a piece of paper and handed it to the kid together with a twenty-dollar bill. The young guy nodded, turned and ran back towards the rear of the barber’s shop.

It was about an hour later, as Ben was driving back towards the middle of town, looking around for a hotel, that his phone buzzed on the dashboard. He picked it up.

‘Who I am talking to?’ said a man’s voice, nervy, aggressive.

Ben didn’t like the challenging approach but he bit his tongue. ‘I’m Ben Hope. Who’s this?’

‘Never mind who I am,’ the voice said harshly. The tone of someone working hard to cover up their fear. Someone clearly under a lot of strain. He gave Ben the name of a bar near a place called Hinesville, a few miles southwest of Savannah, and some rough directions to find the place. ‘Be there tonight at seven thirty.’ Then he hung up.

Anonymous rendezvous were not something Ben very much liked, but in his line of work he got a lot of weird calls from people too scared to give their identity away. Experience had proved that it was usually worth chasing them up, even it was just part of the process of elimination.

He checked his watch. A couple of hours to get there. He swung round and headed southwest, away from the neat white colonial houses and emerald lawns and the cool shade of the tree-lined streets. He stopped at a roadside diner and drank four cups of the best coffee he’d ever tasted outside Italy. Then he checked the time again, got back in the car and drove at a steady sixty towards his RV.

Music was thumping through the barroom walls as Ben stepped out of the Chrysler and walked up to the door. He swung it open and the noise of the country rock beat hit him, along with the heat and the smell of smoke, beer and a hundred tightly-packed bodies. He cast his eye around the place. There was a rebel flag hanging over the bar, below a couple of crossed sabres. Waitresses in high heels, tiny denim shorts and cut-off T-shirts were weaving between the tables. On a low stage there were electric guitars, a bass, a sprawling drum kit and a mountain of speakers and amplifiers set up and waiting for the band to come on.

Ben pushed through the crowd and headed the way the voice on the phone had told him to. A door between a pinball machine and a payphone led him up a dark flight of creaky wooden stairs. He walked along a dingy corridor. The music was pumping up from below, vibrations pulsing under his feet. It would probably get about twice as loud when the band started to play. He came to a door, and knocked.

A woman’s voice called from inside. ‘Come in.’

He opened the door and stepped inside the room. It was some kind of office, but it looked as though it had been abandoned quite a while ago. There was a desk and a plain wooden chair, an empty bookcase and a tall withered plant in a dried-out pot in the corner.

The woman was alone in the room, standing by the desk. She was small and wiry, not much more than five-two, about thirty years old. Her hair was curly and long, dyed blond. She wore high-heeled boots, tight jeans and a suede jacket; a heavy-looking leather shoulder bag on a strap.

‘I spoke to a man on the phone,’ Ben said to her.

‘You spoke to Skid,’ she answered tersely.

‘Where is he?’ He took a step closer to her.

‘Stay right where you are, mister. I’m the one asking the questions here.’ Her hand dipped quickly into her bag and came out clutching a huge revolver. She clasped it tightly, pointing at his chest from across the room. Its weight made the tendons stand out on her wrist.

‘OK, you have my attention,’ Ben said. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Who do you work for?’

‘What makes you think I work for anyone?’

‘If you’re one of Cleaver’s boys, you ain’t getting out of here alive.’ She sounded like she meant it.

‘I don’t know who Cleaver is.’

‘Sure.’ She frowned. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Not around here,’ he said. ‘Look, I need to talk to Steve. Skid. Whatever the hell you want to call him. It’s urgent.’

She raised the gun. ‘Easy.’

He eyed the pistol. It was a massive single-action revolver, large calibre, stainless steel. The kind of weapon hunters used to shoot grizzly bears in Alaska. He could see the noses of the fat hollowpoint bullets nestling in the mouths of the chambers. The muzzle diameter was half an inch across. Not a pistol for a woman of her build. She was having trouble keeping the long barrel level. If she let off a round, the recoil would snap her wrist like a piece of celery.

‘That’s not yours, is it?’ he said. ‘My guess is that belongs to Skid.’

She grimaced. ‘Makes no difference whose it is. I can still blow the hell out of you. And I will. So keep your distance, and your hands where I can see them.’

‘He should have taught you how to use it before he sent you out here as his guard dog,’ Ben said. ‘It’s not cocked. It won’t fire.’

She glanced down at the gun, keeping a mistrustful eye on him.

‘Try pulling the trigger,’ Ben said. ‘Nothing will happen. See the hammer there? You need to wrap your thumb around that, and ease it back.’

She did as he said.

‘All the way back, till it clicks,’ he told her.

The action made a smooth metallic clunk-clunk in the silence of the room. The big five-shot cylinder rotated and locked.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Now you can rest easy. You can shoot me if you need to. But before you do, let me prove to you that I’m not one of Cleaver’s boys. Whoever Cleaver is. Now, I’m going to move my hand to my jacket and peel it back. Don’t worry, I’m not armed. I’m going to show you my passport.’ He slid it out and tossed it on the desk. ‘Freshly stamped by US Immigration, just today. My name’s Ben Hope. Benedict on the passport.’

She reached out, picked it up and studied it. The gun wavered and he could easily have taken it from her. He just smiled. She glanced up at him, then back at the passport.

‘Now do you believe me?’

She let the gun down to her side. Her face softened, a look of relief in her eyes. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I believe you.’

‘Then maybe you should decock that revolver now.’

‘Oh. Right.’ She wrapped her left thumb around the hammer, squeezed the trigger and let the hammer down slowly.

‘You haven’t told me your name,’ he said.

‘Molly.’

‘It’s good to meet you, Molly.’

‘So what are you doing in Georgia, Mr Hope?’

‘You can call me Ben. I came from Europe to find Zoë Bradbury.’

‘You don’t look the kind who would hang around that little tramp.’

‘She’s in trouble.’

Molly snorted. ‘She is trouble.’

‘And Skid’s in trouble too,’ Ben said. ‘Or I wouldn’t have been looking down the barrel of that hand cannon

just now.’

‘I’m sorry. I had to be careful.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Hiding from Cleaver.’

‘Will you take me to him?’ Ben said.