‘Are you friends of Miss Wada?’ he asked at last, breaking out of Icelandic.
‘Yes,’ said Nick. ‘We are. And we’re worried about her. We haven’t been able to contact her since Sunday night.’
‘You haven’t?’
‘Has she actually been here since then?’
‘As I say …’
Erla chipped in with more Icelandic and more smiling.
The young man gave a little exasperated smile of his own. He leant forward across the counter and lowered his voice. ‘Look, I never told you this, OK?’
Nick nodded. ‘OK.’
‘Miss Wada hasn’t been here since Monday morning. That is, the bed in her room hasn’t been slept in since Sunday night, according to housekeeping. She’s booked in for the rest of the week, but, er … we haven’t heard from her either.’
‘Have you done anything about that?’
‘Such as what? If she wants to rent a room here but not use it …’ He shrugged.
‘You are absolutely sure she’s not here, aren’t you, Johann?’ Nick asked, reading the young man’s name on his lapel badge.
‘I’m sorry?’ Johann looked bemused.
‘Well, one of the things we’re concerned about is her state of mind. She might be … hiding in her room.’
‘Not according to housekeeping.’
‘Could you just call her room? On the off chance she’s up there.’
‘But her key’s here, you see.’ Johann pushed his chair back on its castors and pulled open a drawer in a tall cabinet. Bemusement returned to his face. ‘That’s strange.’
‘What is?’
‘The key … actually … isn’t here.’
‘Meaning she’s in her room after all?’
‘No, no. That can’t be right. I’m certain …’ But he didn’t look certain of anything. ‘I’ll phone her room.’ He grabbed the house phone and dialled. A deep frown crossed his face. ‘That’s … weird,’ he said. ‘The line’s out of order.’
‘There’s a fault?’
‘No. There shouldn’t be. But …’
‘If you gave us her room number, Johann, we could go up and check.’
‘No.’ Johann thought for a moment. Then he burrowed in a cabinet and pulled out a key with a tattered cardboard tag on it bearing the number 22. ‘I will go.’
‘Actually,’ said Nick, ‘why don’t we all go?’
Johann might have argued with Nick’s suggestion if he’d been less distracted. As it was, he seemed so baffled by the missing key and the dead phone line that he gave little thought to Nick and Erla as they joined him in the lift.
A few minutes later, they were all at the door of room 22 on the second floor. There was no sound from within. Johann knocked, then knocked again more loudly. There was no response. He made a third attempt, then put the key in the lock, called ‘Housekeeping’ and opened the door.
Wada wasn’t there. Nobody was there. But someone clearly had been there since the last chambermaid’s visit.
The room was in chaos, with every drawer open and clothes strewn across the bed. The door of the safe in the wardrobe was wide open. It, like the wardrobe itself, was empty. The bedside cabinets had been pulled away from the wall, disconnecting the phone that stood on one of them in the process. A suitcase was lying open and upside down on the floor. Its contents, like those of the drawers and wardrobe, appeared to have ended up on the bed. Glancing into the bathroom, Nick saw that the panels under the bath and basin had been unscrewed and removed. No hiding-place had been overlooked.
The room had obviously been thoroughly searched, though whether the search had been successful was another matter. The removal of the panels in the bathroom smacked to Nick’s mind of desperation. Maybe they hadn’t found what they’d been looking for. Maybe Wada had taken it with her.
A shocked Johann herded them back down to reception and said he would have to phone his manager to decide their next course of action. Nick persuaded him first to check security camera coverage of the reception area. Johann seized on that as a ‘Good idea’ and commenced scrolling back through the footage on his computer. Only to discover, to his amazement, that the camera hadn’t been working since 8.41 that evening, which he reckoned coincided with him leaving the desk to help an elderly guest into a taxi.
‘That’s when they came in, isn’t it?’ murmured Erla as Johann scurried into the back office to phone his boss.
‘Looks like it,’ said Nick. ‘We only missed them by a few hours.’
‘I think the hotel manager will say call the police.’
‘Maybe. Or maybe he won’t want to admit there’s been a breach of security. Either way, we shouldn’t hang around to answer questions. Let’s clear out while Johann’s busy.’
‘This means they’re on her trail, doesn’t it?’ said Erla as they exited the hotel and hurried away along the street.
‘Yes,’ said Nick. ‘But it also means they haven’t caught up with her yet. And that they have no more idea than us about what her next move will be.’
‘Maybe they don’t care about her any more. Maybe they got what they wanted this evening.’
‘I doubt it. I think what they wanted is still out there. With Wada. Wherever she is.’
NINETEEN
WEDNESDAY MORNING AT stóri-asgarbær. wada ate the porridge Caldwell cooked for her and drank the tea he brewed. She thanked him for both. She showed no anger or resentment. And he responded with courtesy and kindness – up to a point. But she was still his prisoner.
If her strategy was to work, she had to start altering the balance of their exchanges. Caldwell had been happy to recount past events from his point of view – a tiresomely self-pitying one in her unspoken opinion. She’d allowed that to run its course. He’d talked himself to a standstill, as he tacitly acknowledged that morning. ‘Sorry if I bored you last night with my tragic tale, Miss Wada.’ It was as if they agreed: the time had come for her to do some talking.
‘Did you always believe Peter Ellery had survived?’
‘Hoped. Suspected. Wondered. All of those things. But I didn’t believe it until … Caro sent me the Evening Standard advert from 1992. That clinched it.’
‘But you did not contact Mimori Takenaga straight away?’
‘No. I debated whether to act for a long time. Eventually, I realized I had to. Otherwise the doubt would never go away.’
‘The doubt about whether Peter Ellery was alive? Or how Alison Parker had died?’
‘Very perceptive of you, Miss Wada. Yes, of course, it was as much as anything about Alison that I wanted to know. She was the centre of my thoughts. Only Peter could tell me what had really happened to her. If he was alive.’
‘Why do you think Caroline Miller sent you the advertisement?’
‘Because she knew I’d been torturing myself over what had happened for more than forty years and, with death approaching, felt she should do what she could to lighten my burden.’
‘You mean she thought you deserved to know the truth?’
‘Yes. That’s what it comes down to.’
‘And she was right to think that?’
Caldwell frowned at her. ‘Obviously. It was a truth that profoundly involved me. I had a stake in those events that I’d argue entitled me to a proper understanding of them.’
‘I agree. And … do you have a proper understanding of them now?’
He nodded solemnly. ‘Yes. I do. Peter has told me everything that occurred.’
‘Everything that occurred that night?’
He nodded again, a little impatiently this time. ‘Yes.’
‘And everything that occurred later that summer, between him and Shitaro Masafumi?’
‘He gave me the gist of that as well. Likewise the circumstances that led him into business partnership with Hiroji Nishizaki. But if you think I’m going to share any of those details with you, then I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. Matters are unfolding that I’m not free to speak of.
They require discretion on my part – and inaction on yours. Hence the regrettable necessity of holding you here, Miss Wada.’
‘Actually, you may be interested to know that Miss Wada is not strictly the correct way to address me. I am a widow.’
‘Oh. Sorry. You should have mentioned it sooner.’
‘I did not quite know how to. It involves a strange coincidence. My husband was killed in the sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subway in 1995. You have heard of it?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Caldwell looked genuinely sympathetic. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’ His expression grew cloudy. ‘Sarin again. Such a terrible thing.’
It might be more terrible than Caldwell knew, of course, since Yozo Sasada, the man who’d released the gas, had worked for Quartizon. But now wasn’t the moment to allege a connection between Quartizon and the Aum Shinrikyo cult. Now was the moment to capitalize on the sympathy she’d just generated. ‘This handcuff is beginning to chafe my wrist, Mr Caldwell.’ She raised her arm so he could see the rash the ring had caused on her flesh. ‘It will only get worse, I fear.’
‘There’s nothing I can do about that, I’m afraid.’
‘You can release me.’
He sighed. ‘As I’ve already explained, I can’t trust you not to go back to Reykjavík and try to interfere in Peter’s plans.’
‘I cannot drive, Mr Caldwell. I drove George’s car the short distance from where Ohara killed him, it is true, and I was lucky to keep it under control. There is no way I could drive it to Reykjavík. And obviously I cannot walk there. Nor can I telephone for assistance. So, what do you lose by releasing me? I would become your ally.’
‘My ally in what?’
‘Who sent Ohara to find you?’
‘I can’t—’
‘Nishizaki. It has to have been. Nishizaki, not Peter Driscoll. So, there is no longer unity between them. They do not trust each other. That is why you are in danger. That is why we are both in danger.’
‘Not while we lie low here.’
‘People will be coming here tomorrow. This you have told me. Who will they be working for? Driscoll? Or Nishizaki? Or both?’
‘Peter has assured me—’
‘It does not matter what he has assured you, Mr Caldwell. What matters is who these people are actually working for. How will you know you can trust them? How will you know that for certain, with your life at stake?’
Caldwell looked stumped by the question. He frowned deeply.
‘We should not stay here, Mr Caldwell. The weather has cleared. We should go. Not to Reykjavík. But to somewhere less isolated than this farm. There is a hikers’ hostel on the road from Þingvellir to Gullfoss. I saw the sign when George and I drove past. No one would know that was where we had gone. You could call Driscoll from there on Thursday – your phone would work there, I think, or, if not, there would surely be a payphone – to make whatever arrangements with him you think are best. But staying here … is not wise. It is not wise at all.’
Caldwell looked searchingly at her, then stood up and walked out into the passage. He moved out of her sight, though she could still see his shadow on the wall, cast by low sun shining through the windows and doorway of the next room. He appeared to put his hands on his head and stoop forward slightly. And he stayed like that for close to a minute.
Then he came back into the bathroom.
‘I have your word you’d make no effort to contact anyone … if we did … go to this hostel?’
‘You could keep my phone, Mr Caldwell. But I would not try to contact anyone, I promise.’
‘You would have to do exactly what I told you to do.’
‘I would. I am certain lying low, as you call it, is the sensible course of action. But not lying low here.’
‘Perhaps … you’re right.’
He licked his lips nervously. He knew, just as Wada knew, that he could only release her once. From that moment on, he’d have to trust her to keep her word. And she knew, just as he didn’t, that she hadn’t decided yet whether she would.
She said nothing. She waited, her instinct for patience winning out over the temptation to press him further. He stood, looking down at her. He dried his lips with the side of his hand. He adjusted his glasses. Then he reached into the pocket of his trousers and took out the key to the handcuffs.
She didn’t move as he knelt awkwardly beside her. She had to let him do this of his own volition. It had to be his decision.
He grasped the cuff attached to her right wrist and twisted it towards him to reach the keyhole. Then … he hesitated. ‘I … I’m not sure,’ he muttered. ‘Perhaps … it’s safer … to leave things as they are.’
Wada saw the change in his eyes and knew at once. He wasn’t going to let her go. She’d brought him to the brink. But now he was edging back.
The key was close. The chance was there. And it wouldn’t last longer than a few more seconds.
She plucked the key from his fingers. ‘No,’ he shouted. She rolled under the basin, twisting the cuff round the downpipe to evade his grasp. He lunged after her. But already she’d slid the key into the keyhole. One turn. And she was free.
Caldwell tried to pin her against the wall. He grabbed at the cuff that was still in her hand, banging his head against the underside of the basin as he did so. He was dazed for an instant. It would have been enough for Wada to escape. But there was a way to make her escape more certain and she took it. She closed the cuff round Caldwell’s wrist and snapped it shut, then scrambled away from him across the floor.
Caldwell tried to go after her, but the handcuff chain clanged taut and he fell on to his elbow with a grunt of pain, then rolled on to his side. ‘Stop, stop,’ he cried. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.’
She wasn’t listening. She slipped the key into her pocket and dodged past his flailing feet to the door.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he mewled on. ‘That wasn’t meant to happen.’
She ignored him and headed for the back door. However bad a driver she might be, she was going to drive away from Stóri-Asgarbær now. She was going to drive far away. And while she was on the road, she was going to decide what to do next. As for Caldwell, he would have to take his chances. If he’d let her go, it would be different. But his change of mind had made her mind up. He deserved nothing from her.
He was still calling after her as she left the house and hurried round to the front, where George’s car was parked. Soon, mercifully, she could no longer hear him.
She reached the car and opened the tailgate to confirm her shoulder bag was where she’d left it, complete with the kage-boshi file and the printed extract from the Emergence files. They were all in Japanese, of course, so, even if Caldwell had looked at them, he wouldn’t have understood what they meant.
She closed the tailgate, went round to the driver’s door and climbed in. She slid the key into the ignition and turned it. Lights glowed on the dashboard. But the engine did no more than sputter and die. She tried again. There wasn’t even a sputter this time. Then she saw the red light on the fuel gauge. Empty.
She stared at the red light in disbelief. How could that be? There’d been no warning of low fuel when she’d driven the car. George had filled up as they left Reykjavík on Monday morning. This made no sense.
Then she remembered the shot Ohara had fired when she reversed into him. She’d heard a metallic crack as well as the shot itself. Could it be …
She jumped out of the car and ran round to the rear wing that had impacted with the roadside post. There was the flap over the filler-cap. And, below and to the left of it, a bullet-hole in the bodywork. She sighed and leant against the car, cursing her luck. The gasoline must have been leaking out while she fought for her life with Ohara – and later, while she made her first futile attempts to persuade Caldwell to release her. Leaking out – until it was all gone.
She took a breath and stood upright. This wasn’t going to stop her. There was a second car –
Ohara’s – in the barn. She collected her shoulder bag and hurried across the yard.
The barn doors weren’t fully closed. Maybe the wood had swelled in the snow, preventing Caldwell from securing them properly. The snow had melted since, exposing wheel-rutted mud. Wada pulled the doors open. Ohara’s car was a tight fit inside. Caldwell had collided with a pile of paint-pots while driving it in. The pots were jumbled and jammed between the car and the wall. There was a big pool of white paint extending beneath the vehicle. Wada had to hop over it to reach the driver’s door.
The first question to answer was whether Caldwell had left the key in the ignition, or taken it into the house. It was dark inside the barn and even darker inside the car, but stretching in, Wada located the key, still plugged into the ignition. She clambered into the seat and slammed the door behind her.
She turned the key. There was a different sound from the sputter of the engine in George’s car. It was more of a whimper, a mechanical moan. There was no burst of ignition. The engine was dead. She knew that even without trying again, though she did try again, of course.
Her second attempt told her what the problem was. Caldwell hadn’t turned the key all the way off. She saw then that the stalk beside the steering wheel was adjusted to the headlights-on position. They weren’t on now, though they probably had been for most of the past two days, draining the battery.
An empty fuel tank and a dead battery. She sat staring into the darkness at the back of the barn, trying very hard not to be overwhelmed by her situation. She had the use of two cars, neither of which was going anywhere. Unless …
She jumped out of the car and hurried round to the rear. She raised the tailgate and peered into the storage compartment, hoping Ohara might have been carrying a set of jump leads. She had no experience whatever of using such things to start a flat battery, but she’d give it her best shot.
Nothing. It was a hire car, supplied with the bare minimum of tools: a jack, a pump, a tyre lever. No jump leads.
She let the tailgate fall shut under its own momentum, turned round and leant back against it. All she could see around her, beyond the roofline of the farmhouse, was a bleak and empty landscape. She had no means of navigating her way across it. Following the road out on foot was a daunting prospect. She wasn’t sure she had the stamina to walk as far as she might need to. She couldn’t actually remember how far along the road the last habitation was that they’d passed.
The Fine Art of Invisible Detection Page 21
