Page 47 of The Boathouse By the Loch

‘Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?’

The old man stared at him blankly. For Jake, this was a good sign, a sign that his presence or the money or both had caught him by surprise. Jake was now ahead of the game.

‘Who is it, Virgil?’ another man’s voice came from inside the room.

‘Virgil?’ repeated Jake, re-checking the number on the door to verify that in his haste he hadn’t knocked at the wrong apartment.

Virgil turned away from Jake and walked into the room, leaving the door ajar. He called out, ‘Paddy, is there something you’ve been holding out on from your mates?’

Jake opened the door wide and looked past Virgil into the room. The front door to the flat opened directly into the kitchen. To Jake’s surprise, there were three other men seated around a small circular table – so small, in fact, that their elbows were almost touching. One was smoking a cigar, and they were each holding a hand of cards. The guy smoking the cigar tossed a plastic chip onto the pile already accumulated in the centre of the table.

Jake had not anticipated company. He’d assumed when the young man on the balcony saidthe game, he was talking about watching the football on the TV.

Jake stepped into the room.

‘This is a friendly game of poker,’ said the guy with the cigar, pointing at his cards as he threw a plastic chip on to the pile in the middle of the table. He looked up at Jake and pointed his cigar at him. ‘I don’t know where you’ve got the idea that this is some den of iniquity, and we are gambling for real, but you can take your money and find another venue.’

Jake looked around the table as Virgil took his seat, studying each man in turn. They had all resumed the game, ignoring Jake completely. He had wrongly assumed the old, retired police officer would be at home alone, not playing cards with three other equally old, equally retired, fellow police officers.

This was not a good start.

If things turned nasty, there would be four very highly respected and reliable witnesses to testify to Jake’s threatening behaviour and, if things really turned nasty, assault with a deadly weapon.

Jake hoped it would not come to that. Not because he was afraid of losing his new teaching job – that didn’t matter a jot – but because he was afraid of losing Faye and Natty, which would certainly be the case if he was sent to jail and lost his liberty. However, he was there to find Natty, he reminded himself, whatever the cost. The question he was asking himself now was: which one was Patrick? He looked around the table until his eyes settled on an empty chair. At that moment, somewhere in the apartment, a toilet flushed and a door opened.

Everybody turned in the direction of the door.

Patrick Ames stopped in the doorway, momentarily disconcerted by Jake’s presence. He looked over at the men seated at the table. ‘Who ishe?’ he said in a strong Irish brogue.

Jake had found his man.

Virgil answered, ‘How the hell should we know? I called out to you, but you didn’t answer. I thought you must have invited him.’

Jake stared at the short, stout man with the harsh army crew cut and the deep-set, suspicious hazel eyes. This was exactly what Jake had imagined Faye’s father to look like in the flesh.

The man with the cigar spoke up in a deep baritone voice, ‘Says he’s got a wad of cash. Have you finally crossed over the thin blue line and gone to the other side, Paddy?’

‘Guess we’re going to have to arrest you,’ said Virgil. This was followed by a collective chuckle from around the table.

‘Pension not enough, Paddy?’ said the third man as he selected a card from his hand and placed it face up on the table.

‘How about cutting us in for a bit of the action?’ said the fourth man, smiling broadly at the other men and laying his cards face up on the table in front of them. ‘I’ve got full house, gentlemen.’ He reached for the large pile of chips in the centre of the table.

‘Wait a minute. I recognise you,’ said Patrick Ames as he walked into the room, eyeing Jake. ‘You’re Jake Campbell-Ross. I’ve seen your picture in the newspaper.’

Jake knew that having married into such a wealthy family made him recognisable, like some sort of minor celebrity. Not everyone recognised him, of course, or if they did think he looked familiar, they couldn’t put a name to his face. Trust Patrick Ames to do just that.

Patrick’s four friends turned in their seats to scrutinise Jake.

‘Lost your wife last Christmas.’

Jake’s frown deepened.

‘Thought he looked familiar,’ said Virgil.

The other three chimed in too, in agreement, one adding, ‘He’s better-looking in real life.’

Jake rolled his eyes in their direction.

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