The Bone Clocks

THIS MORNING I WAKE in my garret at Chetwynd-Pitt’s, knowing that the phone in the lounge, two floors down, will ring in sixty seconds and that the caller will be my father, with bad news. Obviously it won’t; obviously it’s the dregs of a dream—otherwise I’d have powers of precognition, which I don’t. Obviously. What if Dad’s calling about Penhaligon? What if Penhaligon blabbed in his suicide note, and an officer from Truro has spoken to Dad? Obviously this is postcocaine paranoia, but just in case, justin case, I get up, slip into the Turkish dressing gown, and go down to the sunken lounge where the phone sits silent, and will stay silent, obviously. Miles Davis’s In a Silent Waydribbles out of Chetwynd-Pitt’s room, no doubt to beef up his wigga credentials. The lounge is empty of bodies but full of debris: wineglasses, ashtrays, food wrappers, and a pair of silk boxer shorts over the Boer War rifle. When I got home last night, the Three Musketeers and their backing singers were frolicky and high, so I went straight to bed.

Perching on the back of the sofa, I watch the phone.

09:36, says the clock. 08:36 in the U.K.

Dad’s peering over his glasses at the number I left.

+36 for Switzerland; the area code; the chalet’s number …

Yes, I’ll say, Jonny did play cards from time to time.

Just a bunch of friends. Relaxation, after a long week.

Absolute tops was fifty pounds a sitting, though. Beer money.

How much? Thousands?I’ll laugh, once, in disbelief.

That’s not relaxation, Dad. That’s lunacy. Imean …

He must have fallen in with another bunch altogether.

09:37. The molded plastic phone sits innocuously.

If it doesn’t ring by 09:40, I’ve been scaring myself …

09:45 AND ALL’S well. Thank Christ. I’ll lay off the cocaine for a while—maybe longer. Didn’t the Yeti warn me about paranoia? An orange-juice breakfast and a vigorous ski from Pointe les Hlistes will flush last night’s toxins away, so—

The phone rings. I grab it. “Dad?”

“Morning … Hugo? Is that you?”

Damn it, it isDad. “Dad! How are you?”

“A bit startled. How the Dickens did you know it was me?”

Good question. “There’s a display on Rufus’s phone,” I lie. “So, uh, Happy New Year. Is everything okay?”

“Happy New Year to you too, Hugo. Can we talk?”

I notice Dad’s subdued tone. Something’s up. “Fire away.”

“Well. The damnedest thing happened yesterday. I was watching the business news at lunch when I had a phone call from a police detective—a lady detective, no less—at Scotland Yard.”

“Good God.” Think think think, but nothing joins up.

“One Superintendent Sheila Young from the Art and Antiques Recovery Division. I had no idea such a thing existed, but apparently if Monet’s Water Liliesgets stolen, say, it’s their job to get it back.”

Either Bernard Kriebel’s shopped me or someone’s shopped Kriebel. “A fascinating job, I guess. But why phone you?”

“Well, actually, Hugo, she wanted a word with you.”

“What about? Icertainly haven’t nicked a Monet.”

A worried little laugh. “She wouldn’t actually say. I explained you’re in Switzerland, and she said she’d appreciate your calling her when you get back. ‘To assist in an ongoing inquiry.’ ”

“And you’re sure this wasn’t some idiot’s idea of a practical joke?”

“She sounded real. There was a busy office in the background.”

“Then I’ll call Detective Sheila Young the moment I’m home. Some manuscript got nicked from Humber Library, I wonder? They have a few. Or … nope, I’m clueless, but I’m itching with curiosity.”

“Super. I—I must admit, I didn’t tell your mother.”

“Tactful, but feel free to tell her. Hey, if I end up in Wormwood Scrubs, she can do the ‘Free Hugo’ campaign.”

Dad’s laugh is brighter. “I’ll be there, with my placard.”

“Splendiferous. So, apart from Interpol hounding you about your criminal-mastermind son, is everything else okay?”

“Pretty much. I’m back to work on the third, and Mum’s rushed off her feet at the theater, but that’s panto season for you. You’re quite sure you don’t need a lift from the airport when you get home?”

“Thanks, Dad, but the Fitzsimmonses’ driver is dropping me off. See you in eight days or so, when our mystery will be resolved.”