I called the Dorchester, I waited while the call was placed to his room; it was only then that the thought occurred to me that he and his wife might be still in bed (as it was lunchtime, they were on their honeymoon, and there was only so much sightseeing that any sane person could stomach) or that they might be having a drink in one of the various plush bars. As I sat next to the telephone my thoughts strayed to one night’s hedonism on Park Lane, fuelled by Manhattans and another cocktail that had a secret recipe known only to the bartender, that had an effect like drinking aviation fuel mixed with tabasco sauce. I racked my brain for its name, and as I recalled that it was an Afterburner, the telephone in the room connected.
“Hello?” said a man with and Australian accent.
“I was about to leave a message,” I replied. I hadn’t spoken to my brother since the previous Christmas, when, drunk, I had miscalculated the time difference between Corfu and Sydney, to get him out of bed at two o’clock in the morning. On that occasion I had been treated to an expletive filled greeting; taken aback, I had fallen from the kitchen stool where I had perched cross legged, holding a glass of whiskey. The telephone spun before my eyes on its cord as a disembodied voice screamed: “Are you there, are you there you drunken Pommy bastard?!” Suddenly, an image formed of Little Dick sitting in his Dorchester bedroom quite naked, scratching his backside. I had no way of knowing whether this was ESP or perverse intuition but decided that a conciliatory tone was required. “Dick, I hope I haven’t called at a bad time,” I said, “my housekeeper took the message. How are you?”
“Great. Your housekeeper said that the cops had you. What have you been up then, eh? Smuggling drugs to sell to the tourists? Ha!”
“No, I have an idea for a book, a crime story,” I lied, “I needed to do some research, to get the feel of a cell in a local police station.”
“That should be no problem if you go out on the piss one night, the cops’ll give you all the feel of a cell you want and then some!”
“I’m not looking for that level of authenticity.”
“That was always your problem Michael.”
“Enough of the insults. I called because the message was that you are coming to Corfu, and that you are married.”
“Correct on both counts!”
“Congratulations on your wedding. Does Gus know?”
“Yep, we had dinner with him and Imogen last night. Their kids are crazy, but I think seeing them has made the missus broodier.”
I decided that this would be the opportune moment to raise the subject of his wife’s name.
“Ah, your wife. You know, Sophia wasn’t clear what her name is.”
“It’s Caroline.”
“And how did you meet?”
“At a crocodile farm.”
I took the telephone and peered at it for a few seconds, then pressed the receiver to my ear.
“Do you mean that you were both visiting the…farm?”
“I was, she works there, her old man owns the place, supplies croc skin all through the east coast for leather goods.”
“Isn’t that a dangerous occupation?”
“Only if you try skinning the buggers while they are still alive. Just as well that Caroline is a good shot, gets them right between the eyes.”
I have always been uneasy about reptiles, the house in Corfu was home to a family of geckos, which roamed silently across the walls and ceilings in summer months seeking cool shelter. It was very unnerving; although they typically maintained a firm grip, this was prone to error, as on more than one occasion a gecko had fallen from my bedroom ceiling to land beside me on the bed. We confirmed the details of his flight and exchanged good wishes. I replaced the receiver in the cradle, then surveyed the room for signs of reptilian activity.
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