The Search Read Free Page B

the evidence of his home. There was furniture, a few records, books – not enough of either to
suggest any passion for music or reading. There were a few pictures on the walls, none of which he paid much attention to – except for a framed Victorian photograph. It was of a man sitting
in a chair, wearing a heavy sepia suit, eyeglasses. Walker wondered who it was and moved closer to read the small caption in the right-hand corner: ‘Unknown Self-portrait’. Walker
stepped back and gazed at the face of this strange ghost, captivated by the closed logic of the picture. Who was he? A man who looked like this . . . But who was he?
    Walker moved away from the sad old photograph and went round the rest of the house. It was a place dominated by the absence of everything except light and places to sit or move around. In the
study he went through Malory’s files and desk. Rachel had said that if he was away his secretary came in once a week to take care of all his personal affairs, and in a desk drawer he found
credit card statements and bills. From these he was able to trace his movements up until three months ago; since then there was nothing. The last payment was to a car rental firm in Durban. Walker
made a note of the company’s name and went round the house once more. No flowers or ornaments, only the vista windows looking out over the ocean heaving silently.
    Back at his own apartment he called the rental company and asked if they had any information about a car rented three months ago by –
    The woman cut him off there and said she couldn’t possibly deal with queries like that on the phone. As soon as he put the phone down it rang beneath his hand: Rachel. Her voice.
    ‘Did you find out anything?’
    ‘Not really. What about this secretary – could I speak to her?’
    ‘No point at all. She’s been with him for fifteen years. He likes her because she never asks any questions. He won’t have told her anything about where he is. Like I told you,
he’s a very secretive man. Pathological. You almost had to use the Freedom of Information Act to get his birthday out of him.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘So what will you do next?’
    ‘I suppose I’d better start looking for him.’
    ‘Meaning?’
    ‘The only lead we have is that rental firm. I guess I’ll head to Durban.’
    ‘When will you leave?’
    ‘As soon as I can.’
    ‘But I’ll see you before you go?’
    ‘I hope so,’ he said.
    They met later that night, in a bar with candles and no music. Walker ordered beer, bought one for a guy he knew who was sitting at the bar. Rachel drank red wine that looked thick and sleepy in
the candlelight. In the curved darkness of her glass Walker saw a reflection of both their faces, dancing, swaying, settled. She handed him the documents that she needed Malory to sign. Walker
glanced through them.
    ‘About money,’ Rachel said.
    ‘We can take care of that when I get back.’
    ‘You’re sure?’
    ‘The money is no problem.’
    Rachel finished her wine. ‘Let’s pay and go down to the sea,’ she said.
    They walked to the beach, listening to the crash of waves. In places the receding tide had left still pools of water that reflected the stars so perfectly it seemed they were breaks of clear sky
in a beach of cloud. Jumping across them was like leaping over the sky itself. Every now and then headlights from the coast road probed out to sea. In the distance they could see the hazy spars of
the Bay Bridge. Clouds slipped past a moon that was barely there. They threw a few stones into the sea, listening out for the faint splashes. A ship’s lights blinked in the middle of the
darkness and then disappeared.
    ‘And nothing is but what is not,’ said Rachel.
    ‘Was that a quote?’
    ‘Shakespeare. I forget which one.’
    ‘William probably,’ said Walker.
    They sat and waited, looking out at the dark ocean. Rachel said she should be getting back. Walker turned towards her.
    ‘I have a present for you,’ she