Smoke & Whispers (6 page)

Sarah reminded herself never to piss Vicky off.

‘But anything on her desktop, forget it. And you want to know what I think, I don’t think Zoë’s gunna leave anything lying around for others to read. And when I say lying around, I mean out there in the air. She knows about this stuff, you get?’

‘I get.’

‘But I’ll do what I can.’

‘That would be great.’

For a moment they shared a silence. Silence is louder over a phone.

‘. . . Sarah?’

‘Still here.’

‘You don’t believe it either, do you? About Zoë, I mean?’

She closed her eyes briefly: saw a white body on an overused slab; a black leather jacket on a wire coat hanger. The river at night lapped darkly beneath any number of dangerous bridges. ‘No, Vicky. Not for a moment.’

‘Good. ’Cause I don’t, either.’

‘That’s why I want to find her, actually. To ask her who she thinks she’s kidding.’

‘Yeah. And tell her what I said, won’t you? That I’m like,
that’s
gunna happen.’

‘Oh, I’ll tell her.’

They promised to talk later, then Sarah put her phone away.

The roaring in her head had subsided, as if action had reduced the pressure. That Vicky could do what she’d said, Sarah had no doubt. That her efforts would reveal what Zoë had been up to was less certain. On the other hand, Sarah already had a pretty clear picture of what that had been – Zoë had been looking for Alan Talmadge. Though even as the thought occurred, Sarah picked it up, turned it round, and set it down again. Perhaps Alan Talmadge had been looking for Zoë. Perhaps Zoë hadn’t known he was here until it had been too late.

After a while, Sarah dozed. The body was capable of making its own decisions whatever the mind was up to. It wasn’t a refreshing nap, more a bumpy ride through the outer borders of sleep, and when she came fully awake twenty minutes later she was in desperate need of coffee, but also in possession of an idea.

Coffee could wait. The idea needed to be acted on immediately.

In the lobby, Barry was back on reception, door keys hanging neatly on the board behind him.

‘Good morning, Ms Tucker. Afternoon, I should say.’

‘Hi, Barry. Barry, is that man still outside?’

‘Man?’

‘Some homeless guy. Selling
Big Issue
s, except he didn’t have any to sell.’

‘Was he bothering you?’

‘He wanted change. Was pretty insistent.’

She felt dreadful, saying this. Made a mental note to make amends.

‘I’ll take a look, shall I?’

The time it took him to cross the lobby and look outside was all she needed. Gerard’s key was in her pocket before he’d turned.

‘Over the road?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s still there. I’ll move him on.’

‘Oh – no. No, don’t do that.’

‘No worries. If he’s been upsetting you –’

‘Not really. Just startled me. No, leave him be. I’ll avoid him, that’s all.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’

‘Thanks, Barry.’

‘And I’d put a coat on, I was you. If you’re going out, I mean.’

‘I am. In a bit. And I will. Thanks, Barry.’

On the landing she paused, before getting paranoid about being caught on camera, pausing. Except the hotel didn’t have CCTV, did it? Though there were mirrors everywhere – one on this landing, even – and it was possible they were placed to allow whoever was on reception a reflected view of every staircase, every corridor; a Wizard-of-Oz perspective of every floor at once. But
Get
real
, she told herself, resuming her ascent. That wouldn’t be a security system, it would be an art installation.

On Gerard’s floor, she checked the number on the key fob: 37. There was nobody in the corridor. The key felt fiddly in her hand, and wouldn’t fit the lock on its first attempt. Too late it occurred to her that she should have knocked, in case Gerard had come back while she was napping, but – get a grip. The door opened. If Gerard had returned, his key wouldn’t have been hanging on the board. She slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her.

The first thing that struck her was the smell; not an unpleasant smell; not even, especially, a masculine smell, and Sarah wondered if Gerard used his wife’s soap when he was away from her. The thought struck her with guilt. Gerard was a friend, or at any rate, not a stranger. What was she doing? Looking for clues, she answered. What was Gerard doing, that was the question, at the same hotel Zoë had stayed in before winding up in the river? If this was coincidence, Sarah could live with it, because strange things happened. But to believe it coincidence, she had to lean on it first, to see if it broke.

Gerard wasn’t Alan Talmadge, and maybe Talmadge had followed Zoë here rather than the other way around. But Sarah had to be sure there was nothing else happening. If Gerard was hiding a connection to Zoë, his reasons couldn’t be good.

It was early afternoon now, but gloomy out, and the window was a murky oblong. There seemed no reason not to turn the light on. Once she’d done so, Sarah could see that the room mirrored hers, but with enough of Gerard’s stuff in it that it might have beamed down from a different time zone. His laptop sat on the chest of drawers, next to a snake’s nest of recharging cables: for a mobile phone, a BlackBerry, and God knew what else – an electric wine cooler, she wouldn’t be surprised. A sandwich-thin, moneymaker’s briefcase lay on the bed, but it would be locked: nobody with a case like that left it unlocked, the same way no one with a Merc forgot to set the alarm. His suitcase sat on a deckchair-arrangement in the corner. On the dresser was a scatter of loose change, along with a pocket-sized packet of tissues, a set of house keys, and a small deck of business cards secured by a rubber band. A pile of shirts, socks and boxer shorts lay in an armchair, on whose back hung a bag named Laundry Service – this gave Sarah pause. It was one thing eyeing up a locked briefcase. That had a professional anonymity to it. Gerard’s dirty laundry was a different story.

But burglars aren’t distracted by guilt pangs. Burglars switch laptops on instead. While it hummed to life she tried the briefcase, just to prove it was locked, then turned to the suitcase, which opened. It didn’t hold much – some more recharging cables: for God’s sake, Gerard, are you powered by the grid? Along with an M&S four-pack of red-and-white striped boxers, and an HMV bag containing, still wrapped in cellophane, a DVD boxed-set of
Buffy the
Vampire Slayer
, Series 5 . . . Okay. Probably not germane. In the case’s side pocket was a buff folder, the kind that came in ten-packs from Rymans, but a quick flip through it revealed nothing relating to Zoë: just printoffs of Internet downloads from newspapers, stories about orphanages. Gerard’s wife Paula had been orphanage-raised, she remembered. The Arimathea Home. Gerard was a donor. She replaced the folder, and closed the suitcase.

The laptop, meanwhile, had swum into life, and was asking for a password. Sarah hit the return key, on the offchance Gerard didn’t actually use one, but the screen blinked, then asked again. She closed it down. With any luck, it wouldn’t register the attempted intrusion.

Getting nowhere fast. There was a burglar’s rule, she thought, about spending time on invaded premises: Zoë would have been able to quote it. A few more minutes, though. She turned to the dresser, where – behind the loose change, the packet of tissues, the keys, the business cards – lay a letter, still in its envelope. The address – to Gerard, here at the hotel – was handwritten, in what didn’t look like Zoë’s writing, but Sarah picked the envelope up anyway; aware as she did so that this was a line she wasn’t sure she was ready to cross. She turned it over. On the back flap was the sender’s name: Paula. Gerard’s wife wrote him letters when he was away. Definitely not a line to cross, then. But the envelope had been lying on a folded-over sheet of paper, and this she did read. It was a -computer-generated list of names, headed by Jack Gannon’s, and including a couple of others she recognized from last night. Invitees to Gerard’s soirée. She refolded it, replaced it, laid the envelope on top. Whatever that rule was, it was time to obey it.

But first she looked around again, ignoring the contents and absorbing the room; same wallpaper, same paint on the ceiling; a one-storey-higher view from the same sash window. Just like her room, only not. We could all sit in identical boxes and we’d all make a different mess, she supposed. Then came a footfall outside the room, and the doorknob rattled.

Sarah didn’t know she could move so fast. Wasn’t really sure why – there’d be no hiding from this – but moved anyway; stepped into the bathroom, closed the door gently. Slid the bolt across. The door to Gerard’s room opened, and someone stepped inside just as Sarah sank to the tiled floor and put an eye to the keyhole.

Already she knew it wasn’t Gerard, though didn’t know why she knew. Whoever it was had a key, or something that worked as well as a key.

Silence. The somebody remained out of Sarah’s eyeshot. In the bathroom, what she was mostly conscious of was the aftermath of a morning’s ablutions: the towels piled on the floor were damp; the shower curtain still dripped. The smell of toothpaste lingered. So whoever had just come in was the maid, right? The maid or whatever the male equivalent was: this was no time for PC semantics. He, she, it: they had a right to be here, and Sarah hadn’t. And they knew Gerard had left – except they couldn’t, could they, because his key was in her pocket. If it wasn’t hanging on the board at reception, the maid would assume he was in his room.

The somebody moved. His hip – it was a he – passed into her eyeline, then out again. Grey or black trousers: the keyhole’s dimness didn’t allow for subtle variation. Ahand flashed into view. And then she might have been alone, crouching by a bolted bathroom door; there was no noise for almost a minute, as if whoever it was was simply standing, taking in all the Gerard-junk – the nests of cables; the laundry; the leather case.

And what if it’s a sneak thief? she thought. What if Gerard’s about to be ripped off, while I hide here doing nothing?

There was something amusing about two people breaking into the same hotel room at the same time, but pardon me, pardon
me
, if I don’t appreciate the humour just yet. Movement happened; the bed sighed as a weight descended on it; there was the snick of a clasp as something, probably Gerard’s laptop, surrendered its lid. Of the man himself, nothing . . . Not a sneak thief. A thief would carry off the laptop without pausing to review its contents. But someone versed in silent invasion all the same; someone who could adjust to another’s surroundings, and move comfortably within their space: calibrate their possessions, breathe their air, all without leaving any telltale scratches on the atmosphere; no coughs or sighs; no rustle of clothing. A ghost, playing with a machine. Sarah’s mobile trilled into life.

Da-da da-dah da-da da-dah-dah

She snatched it from her pocket, hitting buttons as she did; a meaningless string of numbers threaded across its screen and already a voice was barking tinny queries into the damp air – she’d hit the wrong bloody button; answered the call instead of killing its ring. Not that it would have made a difference; the noise was out; had slipped through the keyhole to dance round Gerard’s room. Any moment, whoever it was would batter the bathroom door. An unfamiliar terror grabbed Sarah’s throat – she was in the wrong, caught where she shouldn’t be; it was the inverse of those nights you woke at a sudden sound, wondering who was creeping about downstairs. Wide-eyed she looked round, as if a disguise, or a way of escape, or a cast-iron reason for being there would present itself, but found only damp air and a dripping shower curtain and a tinny voice repeating
Sarah?
until she turned the phone off. From the bedroom, footsteps approached the bathroom door, and then whoever it was paused, as if listening intently, waiting for a password to be called out: proof of friendship, or membership of the same burglars’ club. She held her breath. There were too many films where this happened, and she had seen too many of them; films where a woman cowered on one side of a flimsy wooden door, while a man with a wolfish grin crouched on the other, nostrils flaring. Axes were sometimes involved. She heard a crack – a strangely organic, splintery noise – and understood half a second later what it was; not the first assault on the door, but the noise a man’s knees could make when he was straightening up from a crouch . . . There were no footsteps. But a moment later came the faint sound of a door opening, then closing. She was alone. She was almost certain she was alone.

The curtain dripped. The damp air waited. The loudest noise was her own heartbeat; a percussive lollop slowing to a canter. She closed her eyes, and let her head fall into her hands. Her brow was wet. Truth to tell, she felt clammy all over. And what she really needed to do was get out of here, and back to her own room.

Before she could move, her phone rang again.

Da-da da-dah da-da da-dah-dah
I want you back
. A ringtone Russ had downloaded for her after a minor row.

Her hand shook badly as she pressed the button to receive the call.

‘Sarah?’

‘Gerard?’

‘What just happened, you drop the phone or something? Where are you?’

She allowed that question a moment or two to be forgotten about, but his silence forced an answer. ‘I’m at the hotel, Gerard. Having a rest.’

‘Yes, well, it’s lunchtime. How long’ll it take you to get to the city centre?’

‘Gerard –’

‘Only we’re famished. So you really ought to get a move on.’

He gave her a street name, a restaurant, and was gone, leaving her sitting on his bathroom floor, looking at the damp heap of towels he’d abandoned earlier.

She stood. If she allowed her nerves to have their way, she’d remain rooted to the spot, unable to open the door in case the exiting noises had been a ruse, and he – whoever he was – was still out there, waiting. Paralysis, though, wasn’t a sensible choice, so she threw back the bolt and emerged like a legitimate tenant, to find the room empty. She released the breath she’d not been aware of holding. Nothing looked different. The prowler had left everything the way he’d found it.