Perfect People by Peter James

kicking in now and he felt good in the company of this increasingly attractive woman, and he really felt relaxed, perhaps too relaxed. All this secrecy had been hard; surely it wouldn’t hurt talking to Naomi’s friend? He glanced at the tape recorder. The tell-tale red light was not showing. ‘We’re off the record? Strictly off the record, right?’
    ‘Totally.’
    With a smile he said, ‘You’re not talking to the right people.’
    ‘So who should I be talking to?’
    He tapped his chest. ‘Me.’

18
     
    The building was moving. Definitely. For a moment, as the floor rose up beneath him, John thought he was back on the Serendipity Rose . Then the wall came in towards him, clouting him on the shoulder, sending scalding black coffee slopping out of the cup he was holding and onto his hand, his clothes and the floor.
    He staggered sideways, everything in front of him blurry. He had to sober up, somehow. He’d been all right in the bar, he’d been fine there, no problem, it was the walk in the cold fresh air outside that had done it.
    A chunk of time was missing. There was a blank from when he went into the bar to now, walking down the corridor towards his office. He couldn’t remember saying goodbye to the reporter. When had she gone?
    How much did I drink?
    It hadn’t been that much, surely? Just a few beers – then he’d moved on to whisky on the rocks. Just a couple of whiskies, just enough to relax him, that was all. Christ. Empty stomach, that was the problem, he realized. Skipped lunch after seeing Dr Rosengarten. It was now – he looked at his watch – ohmygod – almost a quarter after ten. He’d been with the reporter for over three hours. Not like I was having an affair or anything. I was only talking to the woman. Trying to get her to write a good piece, one that would help me get funding – that’s all I was doing.
    Except. Something dark inside his head was stalking him, something elusive was shadow-boxing him, taunting him. It was the sense that something was wrong, that he had made a terrible error. He hadn’t made a pass at her, nothing as crass as that – although he had some memory of escorting her to the car park and some clumsy clashing of their lips when she’d suddenly darted her head forward to kiss his cheek, he had thought.
    But that wasn’t what was worrying him.
    He unlocked his door, switched the light on and put the cup, which was now less than half full, on his desk, and sat down more heavily than he had intended, sending his chair trundling back on its castors.
    He checked his voice mail, and there was a message from Dr Rosengarten, received at ten to seven, the curt nasal voice of the obstetrician informing him he was returning his call, and was about to leave his office for the day.
    John felt cheered up by the fact that he had at least bothered to return the call – and had done so personally. He would try him again in the morning. He ran through the rest of his messages; there were a couple from earlier in the day that he hadn’t yet listened to, both from Sweden. One from a friend from Uppsala University, who was coming over to Los Angeles this fall, and another from his mother, chiding him for not calling her to tell her how the visit to the obstetrician went today. It was now early morning in Sweden; too early to call either of them.
    He hung up and checked his email. Over a dozen new ones since he had gone out to the bar, but nothing that looked important. Nothing from Dettore.
    Bastard.
    Suddenly he looked around, puzzled, aware that the room did not feel right. There seemed to be something missing, but he couldn’t figure what. Or maybe it was just that the photographer had messed some things around.
    His cellphone rang, startling him. It was Naomi. She sounded so scared, so vulnerable. ‘Where are you?’
    ‘Offish. In the offish. Jush leaving.’ I got you into this , he thought. Anything that happens is my fault. ‘I’m sorry – been tied up – I