The tinny speakerphone relayed a laugh from the guy called Hubble.
`OK, here goes, testing, testing,’ his voice said. `This is Paul Hubble, right here at home, that’s number twenty-five Beckman Drive, I say again, zero-two-five Beckman Drive, down here in little old Margrave, that’s M-A-R-G-R-A-V-E, in the State of Georgia, USA. How am I doing on my signal strength?’
Finlay didn’t respond. He was looking very worried.
`Hello?’ the voice said. `Are you still there?’ `Yes, Mr Hubble,’ Finlay said. `I’m right here.
Can’t find any problem at all, sir. Just a false alarm, I guess. Thank you for your help.’
`OK,’ said the guy called Hubble. `You’re welcome.’
The connection broke and dial tone filled the room. Finlay replaced the phone. Leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. Spoke to himself.
`Shit,’ he said. `Right here in town. Who the hell is this Paul Hubble?’
`You don’t know the guy?’ I said.
He looked at me. A bit rueful. Like he’d forgotten I was there.
`I’ve only been here six months,’ he said. `I don’t know everybody.’
He leaned forward and buzzed the intercom button on the rosewood desk. Called Baker back in.
`Ever heard of some guy called Hubble?’ Finlay asked him. `Paul Hubble, lives here in town, twenty-five Beckman Drive?’
`Paul Hubble?’ Baker said. `Sure. He lives here, like you say, always has. Family man. Stevenson knows him, some kind of an in-law or something. They’re friendly, I think. Go bowling together. Hubble’s a banker. Some kind of a financial guy, you know, a big shot executive type, works up in Atlanta. Some big bank up there. I see him around, time to time.’
Finlay looked at him.
`He’s the guy on the other end of this number,’ he said.
`Hubble?’ Baker said. `Right here in Margrave? That’s a hell of a thing.’
Finlay turned back to me.
`I suppose you’re going to say you never heard of this guy?’ he asked me.
`Never heard of him,’ I said.
He glared at me briefly. Turned back to Baker.
`You better go on out and bring this Hubble guy in,’ he said. `Twenty-five Beckman Drive. God knows what he’s got to do with anything, but we better talk to him. Go easy on him, you know, he’s probably a respectable guy.’
He glared at me again and left the room. Banged the heavy door. Baker reached over and stopped the recording machine. Walked me out of the office. Back to the cell. I went in. He followed and removed the handcuffs. Put them back on his belt. Stepped back out and closed the gate. Operated the lock. The electric bolts snicked home. He walked away.
`Hey, Baker,’ I called.
He turned and walked back. A level gaze. Not friendly.
`I want something to eat,’ I said. `And coffee.’ `You’ll eat up at the state facility,’ he said. `Bus comes by at six.’
He walked away. He had to go and fetch the Hubble guy. He would shuffle up to him apologetically. Ask him to come down to the station house, where Finlay would be polite to him. While I stood in a cell, Finlay would politely ask Hubble why his phone number had been found in a dead man’s shoe.
My coat was still balled up on the cell floor. I shook it out and put it on. I was cold again. Thrust my hands into the pockets. Leaned on the bars and tried to read through the newspaper again, just to pass the time. But I wasn’t taking anything in. I was thinking about somebody who had watched his partner shoot a guy in the head. Who had seized
the twitching body and kicked it around the floor. Who had used enough furious force to smash all the dead inert bones. I was standing there thinking about stuff I’d thought I was through with. Stuff I didn’t want to think about anymore. So I dropped the paper on the carpet and tried to think about something else.
I found that if I leaned up in the front far corner of the cell I could see the whole of the open-plan area. I could see over the reception counter and out through the glass doors. Outside, the afternoon sun looked bright and hot. It looked like a dry and dusty place again. The heavy rain had moved on out. Inside was cool and fluorescent. The desk sergeant sat up on a stool. He worked on his keyboard. Probably filing. I could see behind his counter. Underneath were spaces designed not to be seen from the front. Neat compartments contained papers and hardback folders. There were sections with Mace sprays. A shotgun. Panic buttons. Behind the desk sergeant the uniformed woman who’d printed me was busy. Keyboard work. The large room was quiet but it hummed with the energy of investigation.