the door behind him. He was dressed in tweed britches and a Pringle jumper over a checked country shirt, with thick socks and brogues. He brushed some grey-black hair away from his face. His jowls flexed as he smiled at me, lifting a little from the collar of his shirt.
I cleared my throat.
Fergus stood there, his arms folded. After a moment he said, ‘What can I do for you, young man?’
I moved from the window to the large wooden table that filled the centre of the room, and put my hands lightly on its surface to stop them shaking. A seat back pressed into my thighs.
‘Fergus ...’ I began. ‘I wondered ... I wondered if you knew where ... where my Uncle Rory might be.’
Fergus frowned, then one eye closed and he sort of cocked his head. Still with his arms folded, he leaned forward a little. ‘Sorry? Your uncle -’
‘Uncle Rory,’ I said. Maybe a little too loudly, but at least my voice didn’t sound as shaky as I’d expected. I lowered it a little to say, ‘I thought you might have an idea where he is.’
Fergus stood straight again. The frown was still there around his eyes, but his lips were smiling. ‘You mean Rory, who disappeared ...?’
‘Yes,’ I nodded. My mouth felt dry and I had to fight to swallow.
‘I’ve no idea, Prentice.’ Fergus scratched behind one ear with one hand. He looked mystified. ‘Why do you think I might know?’
I felt myself blinking too much again, and tried to stop it. I took a breath.
‘Because you got a man called Rupert Paxton-Marr to send match-book covers to my dad.’ My hands were shaking even though they were planted on the surface of the table. I pressed down harder.
Fergus rocked back a little on his brogues. His frown-smile intensified. ‘Rupert? Sending your dad ... what?’ He looked a little amused, a little confused, and not nervous in the least. Oh God, what am I doing? I thought.
Of course, I hadn’t thought to bring any of the match-book covers with me. ‘Match-book covers,’ I said, my dry throat rasping. ‘From all over the world, so that dad would think Rory was still alive.’
Fergus looked to one side and unfolded his arms, sticking his hands in his pockets. He looked up at me. ‘Hmm. Would you like a drink?’ he said.
‘No,’ I told him.
He moved to the other end of the table, where there was a small wooden desk like the top of a lectern. He opened it and took out a squat decanter and a crystal glass. He took the glittering, faceted stopper out of the decanter and poured some of the brown liquid into the glass, frowning all the time. ‘Prentice,’ he said, shaking his head and mating stopper and decanter again. ‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. What are you ... what is ... what do you think is going on? Rupert’s sending, or was sending Kenneth ...?’
‘Match-book covers, from hotels and restaurants and bars in various parts of the world,’ I told him, as he stood, relaxed, one hand in pocket, one hand holding the glass, his face scrunched up in the manner of one trying hard and with some sympathy to understand what another is saying. ‘Somehow,’ I struggled on, ‘they were meant to convince dad that Rory was still alive. But I think he’s dead.’
‘Dead?’ Fergus said, drinking. He nodded at the seat I was standing over. ‘Aren’t you going to take a seat?’
‘No thanks,’ I said.
Fergus shrugged, sighed. ‘Well, I can’t imagine ...’ The frown came back again. ‘Has Rupert told you he was doing this?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘And are you sure it wasn’t Rory?’ Fergus shrugged. ‘I mean, was it his handwriting?’
‘There wasn’t any handwriting.’
‘There wasn’t ...’ Fergus shook his head. He smiled, an expression that looked to be half sympathy and half incomprehension. ‘Prentice, I’m lost. I don’t see ...’ His voice trailed off. The frown returned. ‘Now, wait a moment,’ he said. ‘You said you thought I might know where Rory is. But if he’s dead ...?’ He stared, looking shocked, into my eyes. I tried hard not to look away, but in the end I had to. I looked down at the table-top, biting my lip.
‘Prentice,’ Fergus said softly, putting his glass down on the table. ‘I’ve no idea where your uncle is.’ There was silence for a while. ‘Rupert is an old school friend of mine. He’s a journalist who goes all over the world; he’s out in Iraq