Drybread: A Novel by Owen Marshall Page A

them in his capacious memory.
    As they neared the work carpark a tall boy in a tracksuit
loped past. 'Are you still running, Theo?' Nicholas asked.
    Theo chose not to take it as a figurative summation of
his life. 'A couple of times a week at least.'
    'You must be a fit bugger,' Nicholas said. 'I should be
doing it, but somehow I can't get into the routine. We
should try for a fishing trip soon. Blue cod in the Sounds
— what do you reckon?'
    'Good idea, if Anna will let us off together. I've got
a fair bit on. This Maine-King story is taking up a hell of a
lot of time, what with the secrecy and everything.'
    'You want to watch it there,' said Nicholas.
    'They're not divorced yet.'
    'Whatever. Anyway, you watch yourself, Theo. Catch
you later.'
    Nicholas went into the building that housed the
paper; Theo wandered into the darkness of the carpark.
    The distant artificial light glinted here and there on glass,
chrome or a polished bonnet, but wasn't strong enough
to cast definite shadows. The carpark was almost entirely
walled in by the high buildings around it. Traffic noise was
muted, and more insistent over it was retro ballad music
from the direction of the beauty shop. There seemed to
be plenty of overtime available for beauticians. The smells
were not of the cars, but of wood and lino corridors,
refuse skips, female potions and, faintly, the penned lesser
creatures of the pet shop.
    A pace or two from his Audi, Theo used the remote to
unlock it, and in the quick flash that the park lights gave
in response, he glimpsed a figure standing close by. 'Theo
Esler?' the man said pleasantly. He came closer to the side
of the car. Even in that dim light Theo recognised the
parson, though standing near him he realised that he was
a bigger man than he'd appeared while driving.
    'Nice car,' the parson said.
    'Thanks.'
    'Very nice cars these.' He nodded. 'You're the reporter
who's been dealing with the Maine-King custody business,
aren't you?'
    'That's right, and you are?'
    'My name's Hugo Doull.' The parson didn't extend a
hand. Hugo Doull was a good name for a private detective, the
carpark was a suitable place for him to materialise — slightly
noir in atmosphere. But Hugo didn't have a trenchcoat, or
a felt hat low over his face. He wasn't smoking.
    'Ever been in holy orders, Mr Doull?' Theo said.
    After the wine and meal with Nicholas, he couldn't see
that Hugo Doull's appearance was something to be taken
seriously.
    'I'm a private investigator,' the parson said. 'Maybe we
could sit in your comfortable car for a while and talk.'
    'I haven't got that much time,' Theo said.
    'Okay, just a quick word here then.'
    Was that the parson's life: attempting to get reluctant
strangers to talk to him, standing on the outside of doors
and gates and open friendship? A life of uninvited and
reluctant intercourse. A dispassionate professionalism
would be needed, otherwise you'd come to believe other
people found you personally unattractive. He tilted his
head back in the semi-darkness and worked his shoulders a
little. Maybe he'd been standing in the carpark a long time,
and was disappointed at not being able to sit in the car. He
seemed in no hurry to begin. His shirt had a soft collar, and
there was a monogram of some sort on his jacket pocket.
    'The thing is,' he said. 'The thing is Mrs Maine-King's
in defiance of a legitimate court order. She's in hiding
despite that court order and warrant to enforce it, and the
authorities and other parties concerned are entitled to know
where she and the boy are.' There was nothing threatening
in the parson's tone, rather it was one of gentle reproof.
'And your articles, Theo, although perfectly justifiable in
themselves, indicate you know where Mrs Maine-King is.
You know where to contact her.'
    Theo told the parson about journalistic freedoms, about
the protection of sources and so on, and the parson nodded
slightly in the dark, even worked his shoulders. It was late
enough for them both, and the