Free Finding Davey by Jonathan Gash

visit Shirley this afternoon.”
    “Thanks, Christine. Sure you won’t come in?” He was already moving the door, making it easy for her to decline.
    “No, thanks. I’d better get back to…home.”
    She did the pursed lips with which women escaped giving offence, avoiding mentioning the children she managed to protect, unlike some people.
    “Say ta to Hal.” So many thanks.
    “It’s no bother.” She hesitated. “If there’s anything.”
    Gently Bray closed the door. He instantly went to the phone and dialled Mr Corkhill. It was picked up on the fourth ring. Somebody was arguing about football, mid-sentence .
    “Could I please speak with Mr George Corkhill, printer?”
    “Speaking.” Bray recognised the voice.
    The hunt was beginning. Bray felt himself shaking slightly.
    “I don’t know if you remember me, Mr Corkhill. Mr Charleston, joiner.” He halted, giving the other a moment. “We corresponded some years ago.”
    “William Vile of York!” Corkhill interrupted enthusiastically. “Of course! I finished the piece, gave it to a small museum we have here. Nothing like what you’d turn out, I’m sure, but I was pleased.”
    “Very complimentary, Mr Corkhill.”
    Bray hesitated. He’d forgotten his written questions and lost direction.
    “Have you entered for the competition, Mr Charleston?”
    Competition? Something in a cabinet-making journal? The latest issue was still in its postal wrapper among othermail on the hall table.
    “Er, no. I hope this isn’t a terrible intrusion, Mr Corkhill. It’s personal. Perhaps you’ve read in the papers?”
    A silence, then Corkhill asked him to hold on while he changed phones. Something clattered, Corkhill saying to freeze the video. Youthful voices pierced Bray. He stayed impassively looking at the hall’s frosted glass, going over the sentences ploddingly worked out.
    “Hello? I read something in the paper, Mr Charleston. The surname…I almost rang. I hope not?”
    “Afraid it was, Mr Corkhill.” Bray went straight on to forestall any questions, “No news yet.”
    “I’m so sorry.”
    “Can I ask your advice?”
    “Anything I can do?” The offer seemed a long time coming.
    “Would you tell me about printing?”
    “Printing?” The man sounded startled. “What, exactly?”
    “A small book.”
    “Have you a word count? What computer language have you?”
    Bray cleared his throat for the hard part. “It depends on what you tell me.”
    Corkhill went quiet with puzzlement. “How many copies? Illustrated or —?”
    “It isn’t written. Not a word.”
    Bray had the first twinges of doubt. He would have spoken more directly but for the agony of missing even the most fragile chance.
    “Look,” the printer said at last. “I’m at a loose end. How far are you from Saxmundham?”
    Bray almost sweated in relief. Now for the
hard
hard part.
    “The job might not be altogether legal, Mr Corkhill.”
    “I’ll tell you if it’s not, Mr Charleston,” Corkhill answered drily.
    They arranged to meet at a coastal wharf. The printer would borrow his niece’s motor.
    That morning Bray read his paperback on the hieroglyphics of the Internet. Could computers really do all these things, chat, explore, roam, “surf”? He lost the thread, took Buster to watch football on the park. Later he attacked the incomprehensible book for another hour.
    He cooked Geoff egg and chips, and left his weary son sleeping in front of the TV sports. As Geoff dozed, Bray made an appointment at Dr Feering’s surgery for the morning Well Man Clinic. He then booked a finance session at some all-hours investment office in London.
    It was then, dozing after that greasy lunch, that he saw the note on the matting by the front door. For a frightening moment he had a wild vision of a ransom demand. It was nothing so hair-raising. The note was typed.
    mr charlston a m8 can get u a pc with the busniss but itl cost its clean av u wheels hav 2 b cash its a 1 of OK
    I told him ur