Anonymous Sources (14 page)

“Are you sure?” I pressed her. “I think he was there just last week.”

“Yes. He was here for the one term. Do you need his forwarding address?”

She read out a street name and house number in Cambridge. I copied them down and thanked her. Within a couple of minutes, I had the phone number and was dialing.

“Hello?” The voice sounded English, older, female. Not promising.

“Hello, I wonder if I might speak with Nadeem Siddiqui?”

“Nadeem?” The woman sounded bewildered.

“Yes, is this the correct number for Nadeem Siddiqui?”

“Well, isn't he the popular one now.”

“Oh, good, you know him?” I said with relief.

“Course I know him. My lodger for the past four months, isn't he? Mind you, nobody ever bothered to ring him when he actually lived here.”

Now it was my turn to sound bewildered. “So—you mean he doesn't live there anymore?”

“No, dearie. You've missed him. Moved out, he has. Just this week. Left everything neat as a pin. Nice lad, that one.”

My heart sank. “Do you have any idea how to reach him?”

“That's what the other one asked. No, I've no idea. He paid his rent in cash and I don't expect I'll be hearing from him again.”

“The other one, did you say? What other one? Was someone else looking for Nadeem?”

“Just that gentleman showed up yesterday. Handsome, but an odd bird. Wanted to see the room. I asked, was he wanting it for himself? It's got new carpeting and its own private bath, you know. But, no, he didn't want to take it, he just wanted to look around. Very odd bird.”

I thanked her and hung up.

Then I sat for a moment and thought things over.

Nadeem Siddiqui had left town because the academic term was over. Maybe he'd forgotten to pack something—something utterly pedestrian, such as his tennis racket or a pair of glasses. And he'd asked a friend still in Cambridge to go back to his room and look for them. There were perfectly logical explanations for everything I'd just heard.

Still.

I checked my watch. I would need to leave for Heathrow soon to make my flight back to Boston. I didn't move. On the sidewalk outside the café, the morning routine of the city was unfolding. Tourists wandered
past, maps in hand. Sanitation workers wheeled trash bins to the curb. A bicycle messenger whizzed by.

Hyde wanted me on that plane so I could get back to cover the funeral. That was obviously the responsible thing to do. But Hyde was the first to tell his reporters,
Always trust your gut
. I hesitated one more minute. Then I got up and took the train back to Cambridge.

    

    

I
was at Cavendish Laboratory by lunchtime, and for the next several hours I was exceedingly efficient.

Cavendish was mostly a dead end. The German woman I'd spoken to on the phone was summoned to the front reception to help me. She was tall, with grayish-blond hair scraped back into a bun. She looked visibly irritated at having now been disturbed twice. But I did manage to learn that her name was Gitta Juette and that she was deputy director of the lab's nuclear-physics research group. She said Siddiqui had been working for her, just for this past term, part of a pilot exchange
program with Pakistani scientists. He'd given a few lectures and helped with research here. He finished up a little over a week ago.

“Can you be more specific about what his research here focused on?”

Now she looked at me suspiciously. “I'm sorry, tell me again what exactly this is regarding?” I had told her my name and that I needed to speak to Siddiqui on a professional matter.

“I'm with an American company and I'm doing research.” Which was true, if not exactly the entire truth.

“Well, I'm not sure I can help any further. I didn't know him well, to be honest. He kept to himself and he wasn't here for long. Although sometimes we chatted a bit in German. He speaks German beautifully, did you know that?”

“No, I didn't.” Then I pressed her: “I know you gave me his address here, and thank you for that. But his landlady says he's moved out and she doesn't have a way to contact him. Would you have any other information? Perhaps an e-mail address?”

“I can't give that out. But I tell you what. I'll get you the number for the coordinator who helped arrange the exchange. Okay? And if he wants to put you in touch, he can.”

She turned and started to walk toward a set of double doors. I followed her.

“No. Just wait here, please.”

A few minutes went by and then the phone on the receptionist's desk rang. The receptionist answered and scribbled down a message. She tore the paper off her pad and waved it at me. “Dr. Juette said to give you this. I'm afraid she's going to be tied up for the rest of the day.”

Smart woman. I looked at the paper. It had a name and a number starting with 00 92. An international dialing code. Pakistan, presumably.

AT MY NEXT STOP I
got a much warmer reception.

Mrs. George Forsyth laid out tea and cakes, insisted on making fresh cucumber-and-butter sandwiches, and generally fussed about as if she'd been expecting me for weeks.

“How kind of you to call,” she said, beaming at me. “Nadeem is such a nice boy. Very polite. He's a Muslim, you know, but one mustn't judge.”

I tried not to choke on my tea. “Right. Yes. Mrs. Forsyth, how long did he live here with you?”

“Let's see. He must have come in March. Yes. So just a short while. Since Mr. Forsyth passed away—God rest his soul—I've let out the two top rooms. It brings in a bit of pocket money, and it's nice to have the company. I try to pick quiet ones, but sometimes it's hard to tell what they'll be like. Do you know Nadeem well?”

I decided to risk the truth. “No. I've never met him, actually. I'm a reporter and I want to interview him for a story.”

“That's nice, dear.” She didn't seem fazed. “Is it a fitness story?”

“A—a fitness story? Um, no. Not precisely. Why do you ask that?”

“Just that he was so sporty. Dearie me, always getting up early to go exercise. Weight-lifting nonsense.” She raised a plump arm and pretended to make a muscle. “And then of course all that fruit he liked to eat. I baked this cake with the last of his bananas.” She pointed enthusiastically at my plate.

“Oh.” I looked down. It was excellent banana bread.

“Mind you, I've baked enough banana cakes to last a lifetime,” she chattered on. “I'll have gained two stone before they're all gone. And the freezer's still stuffed with them.”

I tried to steer the conversation back to Siddiqui. “You said he liked to get up early. Did he have friends he exercised with? Anyone you remember coming round?”

“No, no, I told you. No one ever visited when he actually lived here.” She giggled. “I suppose you'll be wanting to see his room, too?”

I followed her up the stairs. It was an ordinary room. Single bed,
a desk and chair, a small sink in the corner. No books on the shelves. Everything wiped clean. I sighed. This had been a dead end too.

Mrs. Forsyth was staring out the window. “I do wish they would hurry up and collect that crate,” she tutted. “It's been there nearly two weeks this time.”

I followed her gaze. Near the back of the forlorn-looking garden sat a huge wooden packing crate. It was nearly the size of a car.

“Furniture delivery?”

“No, bless him, that's the bananas.”

“The bananas?”

“The delivery crate for the bananas. He got them every few weeks. I told you. I don't know how he ate as many as he did.”

“But—you don't mean—that entire crate was full of bananas?” I stared. “But that must hold hundreds of them. Thousands, even. Where were they from?”

“Pakistan, of course. He said bananas in the shops here don't taste the same. He likes the Pakistani ones he grew up with. And they won't ship just a few bunches at a time.” She smiled fondly, as if recalling a wayward child. “They are really splendid bananas, I must say. I just wish he'd chucked out that box before he went.”

On my way out I peeked over the garden wall at the crate. It must have been five feet high and eight feet long. On the top it was stamped
KARACHI, PAKISTAN
. On the side was this logo:

Habibi Farms—Pakistan's Finest Produce. No one can beat the taste of our fruits!

    

    

T
here are two ways to make Hyde Rawlins happy, so far as I can tell.

The first is a very good, very cold bottle of sauvignon blanc. The second is a very good, very well-reported story that he can run on the front page of his newspaper.

Unfortunately I was not in a position to produce either today.

By four o'clock I forced myself to stop procrastinating and call him.

“Hyde Rawlins,” he answered.

“Hi, Hyde.”

“Ms. James. Is that you? How are you? Where are you? Except . . .
that can't possibly be you. Because you're on a plane right now flying back here to Boston. Aren't you?”

“Actually, I couldn't make that flight. I had to go see Petronella this morning, and then I got some leads to chase here.”

“You had to go see Petronella?”

“You remember, Thom's girlfriend. Except I'm not sure we can really call her that. Since she dumped him, or so she says. But she's flying over for the funeral anyway.”

“Is she now? What a novel idea. Flying over for the funeral, I mean. I seem to remember giving someone a direct order to do exactly that. A reporter, as I recall. Does that ring any bells?”

“Yes. And I'm sorry. But couldn't someone on the national desk do it? I mean, is anyone there actually likely to say much? We won't be able to get close to the family. And I wanted to chase down these leads over here.”

Hyde sighed long-sufferingly. I could picture him removing his reading glasses, running his fingers through his silver hair. “I see,” he said finally. “Tell me about these wonderful leads.”