She had tried calling him as soon as she left home for New Orleans. While she raced around packing a bag, she called Nicks cellphone at least three times. No point trying the office: he had sublet that to the correspondent from Danish television All on the QT, if you dont mind, Mags: London would not be best pleased preferring to work from home. Though that, Maggie suspected, was a laughable euphemism: from what she could divine, Nick du Caines didnt work during the week at all, instead building himself up to a fever which crested on Friday night as, in a sweat, he spewed out thousands of words, hammering away at his keyboard until dawn on Saturday just making the lunchtime deadline in London.
So where the august correspondent would be at this hour of a midweek morning was anybodys guess. Though youd get good odds for the bed of a lonely, ex-pat European the wife of the Belgian ambassador, perhaps, or that dark-eyed Kosovar who had worked for du Caines as a translator during the Balkan wars and somehow ended up in DC in his wake several years later.
No luck on the way to Reagan Airport, but there was a sign of life when she touched down at Louis Armstrong International: a busy signal. Now, just as her cab was navigating its way down streets with improbable names like Abundance, Cupid and Desire, she finally got through.
Mags! My long-lost comrade! What the hell is happening at the White House? Seems like the place is falling apart. Just heard on the old bush telegraph about your unwanted au revoir from there. Sounds like you got out just in time. Bastards, though, for firing you. Or letting you go as the tossers in HR would no doubt phrase it. Is there anything your Uncle Nick can do?
Well, actually-
Perhaps a brief tale in the paper, setting the record straight? You know, The New McCarthyism that lost Baker his best diplomat, that kind of thing? I love New McCarthyism stories: the posh papers version of political correctness gone mad. Might fight for space this week, though, what with-
Nick-
Still, any port in a storm. Things are terrible on the paper, threatened with a bloody-
Nick!
The cab driver turned round, a look of hurt on his face. Maggie pointed at the phone and mouthed an apology. Sure that she now had Nicks silence, she lowered her voice. Nick, theres something I need.
I cant tell you how long Ive been waiting to hear those words, Mags my love. Shall I come over at eight? Or right now? I love the afternoons.
Not that, Nick. I need some advice.
OK.
About being a journalist. I cant tell you much about it yet, but I promise when I can youll get it first.
A story?
Yes.
Oh bless your little Irish heart. What is it you need to know?
For the next ten minutes, Nick du Caines proceeded to teach the core elements of a crash course in journalisms black arts. They agreed that she would be Liz Costello of the Irish Times: if anyone were to be mischievous enough to check up on her via Google A loathsome practice, but increasingly common these days, lamented Nick then they would at least find something. The fact that the Costello byline would be attached to witty reports on Dublin nightlife would be a problem, but a surmountable one.
Say youre comparing the two scenes for a long article for the magazine, Nick advised, before exciting himself with another thought. Say youre writing it for the travel section: a post-Katrina piece, Return to New Orleans. Theyll be so grateful they wont care if you dont have a press card.
And why dont I have a press card?
Say you were mugged. Thatll make them even more desperate to make you love them.
Wont they start asking me for details? Taking witness statements, all that crap?
Good point. Say it happened in DC. Youre applying for a new one. In the meantime, any questions, theyre to call your bureau chief in Washington, one Nicholas du Caines.
What if they Google you?
They never do. Names too difficult. And remember you never write, you file. Its never an article, its a piece. And dont save anything onto the machine. My laptop was once crushed under a motorbike by some hairy biker: lost a three-thousand-word feature on the new Hells Angels. Those memory sticks are fucking useless too. Save everything online, Mags. In the ether. He sighed. New Orleans, eh? Itll be a riot.
Nick warned her that the city would be swarming with journalists after the Forbes death: Id be there myself if it wasnt for the fact that the foreign desk is even more broke than I am. She was to head for the hotel where all the reporters would be staying. Theres always one, he explained. He promised that the second he had rung off, he would call his mate from the Telegraph and find out the name. Within two minutes, there was a buzz on her BlackBerry: The Monteleone. Demand a room that doesnt look over the street. Bloody loud at night.
The second she got out of the cab, she was hit by a scent that reminded her of a combination of Africa and Washington in August: the sub-tropical tang of damp and decay, with a hint of sweetness. She looked around, instantly hit by the lushness that seemed to tumble off every Paris-style balcony, vivid purple bougainvillea or trailing plants of dense green. The place seemed to ooze with fertility, drunken and heady.
It was still early, but Nick had told her to head for the bar all the same: thanks to the time difference, the European hacks would all be off deadline by now. Even their damned bloody websites would be asleep. Theyre better anyway, Nick had said. Much more forthcoming than our tight-lipped American colleagues, most of whom stay on the bloody mineral water all night.
The Carousel Bar was the kind of place that would normally make Maggie recoil: it had, God help us, a theme the circus, complete with a spinning merry-go-round, elaborately decorated, in the centre of the room. But there were also black-and-white portraits of past guests, among them Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote and William Faulkner, which made her feel rather more forgiving.
She spied a group of half a dozen five men, one woman at a corner table. Past experience told her this was the foreign press corps; and she was right. There, sipping at a vile-looking concoction, was a man who perfectly matched Nicks description of his Telegraph pal sandy-haired, gawky, eager.
Tim? she asked, prompting the man to his feet, simultaneously putting down his drink and offering a handshake. His face bore the expression Maggie had seen ever since she turned eighteen, a look that even the most sophisticated men were not fully able to conceal, one that contained both a split-second act of assessment and the passing of a positive verdict. She felt rumpled after the flight and she was exhausted after the last two days. But the gaze of Tim from the Telegraph, probably ten years her junior, told her that whatever it was she had had at eighteen had not completely vanished.
Hurricane? he said, raising his glass with a smile. The post-Katrina cocktail of choice, apparently.
Remembering Lesson One in Nick du Cainess journalism for beginners course, Maggie insisted she would get this round taking orders for more Hurricanes from the rest of the table. As she did, she noticed a man at a corner table, alone. Dark-haired, thin-faced and older than the others, he had a laptop open and was speaking softly into a cellphone. Was he a journalist too?
By the time she came back to the table, Tim had already filled everyone in: she was Liz from the Irish Times, a pal of Nicks and therefore to be welcomed.
Where we got up to, Miss Costello, explained Francesco from Corrieredella Serra a bald man in his late forties, who nevertheless gave off a whiff of foreign correspondent glamour, starting with his battered photographers jacket and its countless pockets was the police statement today that they are looking for no one else in connection with Forbess death.
Means they are treating it as suicide, added Tim keenly.
And what do we think of that? said Maggie, taking a sip of her cocktail. Sickly sweet, it made her gag: how anyone would want to drink this over a glass of Jamesons was beyond her.
I dont see how they could do anything else, said Francesco. There was no sign of a break-in at the apartment, he said, counting the fingers off his hand for emphasis. There were no fingerprints except his own. And this is a known form of sexual how do you say fetish.
The Louisiana coroner might call it death by misadventure. It was the woman, whose voice sounded Home Counties English to Maggie but who was, apparently, the New York correspondent for Der Spiegel. Like the others, she had got on a plane the moment Forbess death was announced: since theyd been in New Orleans since lunchtime, they were now officially experts. Its not a suicide if Forbes didnt want to take his own life.
It seems, said Tim, turning to face Maggie, his voice lowering as if he was hoping to turn the group conversation into a more intimate exchange between the two of them, as if our Mr Forbes was so thrilled at his success in wounding the President, that he wanted to celebrate, as it were.
And we think Forbes was into the whole autoasphyxiation thing?
Oh, yes. He was a gasper, all right. Tim smiled, pleased with himself.
A gasper?
Thats the word for it, Im told: those who get their kicks being choked. Seeing Francesco straining to join their conversation, Tim decided to say more, to keep Maggie to himself. We have a piece from our medical correspondent which says Forbes fits the profile completely. Middle-aged man; risk-taker; thrill-seeker; loner.
We know all that, do we?
And dont forget the New Orleans factor.
Whats that?
NAwlins! He attempted a Southern drawl, without success. The Big Easy, the Big Sleazy. He lived just off Bourbon Street, for Gods sake. This is sin city, and he was right in the middle of it. He fits the bill perfectly.
Is that what the Telegraph is saying tomorrow?
Thats what Im saying. Cant speak for the bloody comment pages. The editor loathes Baker, thinks hes some crazed socialist. He asked the foreign desk to get me to write The ten clues that say Forbes was murdered. Been reading too many blogs.
That would be a cracking story, though, wouldnt it? Maggie said, before noticing that the woman from Der Spiegel was staring at her. Was she jealous? Had Maggie got between her and young Tim?