Vancouver.
The last time I’d seen them was back in September, the morning we’d driven them to Heathrow. Adam’s father, himself ex-navy, had run a yacht brokerage in Torquay. Far too honest for his own good, he’d finally tired of Thatcher’s England, sold the business, and swapped a view of the River Dart for an acre and a half on Vancouver Island. He was a hard-working, intensely practical man and in her letters home Adam’s mother had written glowing reports of what he’d been doing to transform the garden. With a little boat and a mooring in the nearby anchorage, their new life would be complete. They’d been incredibly lucky. In five brief months, they’d found their feet. Canada already felt like home.
When I got through, it was Adam’s father who answered the phone. He sensed at once that something was wrong. When I told him what had happened, he didn’t say a word. For a moment I thought he’d rung off, or put the phone down, then I heard him clearing his throat. When he spoke again, it was an old man’s voice, tired, almost resigned, as if I’d given him news he’d been expecting for years. He wanted to know, absurdly, whether I’d be OK for money. I gulped. Money was the last thing on my mind.
‘ Fine,’ I said, ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘ You must promise to let us know,’ he said, ‘if things get sticky.’
‘ Of course.’
We talked about a funeral. I said that there wasn’t a body. He said we’d have to have a memorial service. I said I supposed we would. Then he went quiet again and the next voice on the phone was Adam’s mother. She sounded shocked, and when I explained again she said she didn’t believe it. At that point I was back in familiar territory and after we’d both finished crying, she said she was sorry, so sorry, but she’d have to ring off. We’d talk again soon. There’d be so much to sort out. Would I be sure to keep eating? Would I be getting in touch with Leslie, Adam’s sister? I said yes to everything, keen to end the conversation, and after we’d said our goodbyes I began to wonder about Adam’s father again, how well he’d cope. He’d always come across as immensely strong but I was beginning to realise that even a lifetime of military service and self-discipline can’t shield you from the shock of losing a child.
Across the hall from the snug is the room that Adam and I had converted to an office. I’d gone in to check Adam’s sister’s number but the moment I got to the desk I saw the fax waiting in the machine. At first I thought it was a booking confirmation from the States but then I realised it had come from Dennis Wetherall, our accountant in Jersey. He’d been trying to get through since mid-afternoon but there’d been no response to his pleas for me to ring.
I turned on the Anglepoise over the desk and sank into the chair. The second paragraph was even brisker than the first. He’d heard about Adam. He was very, very sorry. But there was a problem with the company’s liquidity and certain steps had to be taken at once. Urgent, he added, wasn’t a term he ever used lightly.
After the longest weekend of my life, fending off more media phone calls, I flew to the Channel Isles. The early-morning Monday flight out of Southampton was booked solid and it was nearly midday before I got to Jersey. Dennis Wetherall was waiting for me inside the terminal building.
Dennis has never looked like an accountant. He’s short and slightly squat in build. He goes in for designer jeans, cowboy boots, collarless shirts, and he wears his hair in a long ponytail, secured with a length of scarlet ribbon. Amongst his clientele he numbers a couple of rock stars and a millionaire novelist or two, and he seems to view the rest of his profession with a kind of bemused resignation. Adam, predictably enough, loved him, and socially he was never less than amusing. The occasions he came to stay at Mapledurcombe, we were rarely in bed before three.
Dennis drove