a walk through Kelvingrove Park in the rain with my lovely wife. It was while I was in this reverie that I heard the first scream.
I dropped the cigar overboard and ran down the inner stairs to the lower decks, taking three at a time.
The screams came from the vicinity of my own cabin, and they rose louder, then suddenly cut off. I turned a corner a bit too sharpish and barreled into a figure coming the other way. We raised our heads at the same time, and I found myself staring into the smiling eyes of the old Arab. He pushed me away and left at a run. I considered following, but it hadn't looked like he was the source of the screams. I turned and headed towards the cabins.
My cabin door was open and Johnson was on his knees beside a body. As I entered he took something from the body's hand and secreted it in his suit jacket pocket. But I had no time to consider that.
Young Campbell was not going to get time to prove his serpent theory.
He lay in a crumpled heap, and his body looked strangely deflated. It was only when I turned him over that I could see the extent of the damage that had been done. He had been eaten. Eaten by something with a very small bite. A lot of very small bites.
After confirming the lad had passed on, I raised the alarm. The ship was scoured, but no old Arab was ever found.
2
I woke, having slept all night upright in the armchair. It took me several seconds to realize that the phone was ringing, and several seconds more to answer it.
"Is this Adams Detective Agency?" a young voice asked. They sounded far away, and their accent was more California than Glasgow.
"Yes," I said, warily...I got my fair share of crank calls.
"I think I'm being followed," the voice said. "And I'd like you to find out who it is."
"You mean you don't know?" I asked.
"No. I sometimes catch a glimpse of him, but they're too good at what they do and I can never catch them at it."
I thought about my caseload. The amulet case was all I had-it wouldn't hurt to take on another.
"Where are you?" I said. "I'll come and have a chat."
"Just off the San Diego turnpike," he said. "It's...."
I stopped him.
"I'm not an American," I said.
"That's okay," he replied. "Nobody's perfect."
I laughed.
"No," I said, "I mean I'm not even based in the US. You've got a number in Glasgow, Scotland."
There was a silence at the other end of the line, then he hung up without saying anything else.
It was to be the start of a day when everything was slightly off-kilter, a day I never got the hang of.
* * *
Dunlop's story still resonated in my head an hour later as I made my way to Maryhill. It was obvious that the archaeologist believed that the amulet was in some way involved in Campbell's death-what else could Johnson have put in his pocket? But if a search of the boat hadn't found any old Arab, maybe he had never been there at all? Maybe Doug was right-the old man had caught too much sun out in the desert. All the same, I hadn't taken the picture from my pocket yet, and the thought of just looking at it again made me uneasy.
The walk up Byres Road didn't help any. Besides thinking about Dunlop's book, I just couldn't get Liz, and the past, out of my head. Every shop I passed, every pub, reminded me of that time. The facades might have changed, and students were certainly better dressed now than then, but the mood of the street stayed the same.
Liz had called it "Urban Bohemian". Charity shops and batik specialists, vegetarian cafes and art-house bookshops, you'll find them all in most University towns. It's just that in Glasgow they're concentrated in one street, a street that's shared with bookmakers, drinking men's pubs and off-licenses. The non-academics and the students share an uneasy existence that sometimes breaks out into acts of sudden violence, but this morning, with the sun shining and the wind only a breeze, all was quiet.
I walked quickly until I reached the Botanic Gardens at the north end of the road, and took the