No Time To Cry

by James Oswald

  A soft beep, and I realise what it was that must have woken me. Both phone and backup battery pack have fully charged. I pick them up, swipe the phone’s screen awake and tap in the passcode. It takes a few seconds to connect, then the emails and text notifications start pinging in.

  Groggy and stiff with sleep, it’s not until I’ve stripped and am in the shower that I remember last night’s worry about cameras. I find that I no longer care. It’s my body, and I’ve never been particularly ashamed of it. Since I’ve every intention of bringing down Roger DeVilliers and everyone who works for him, karma will catch up with them soon enough.

  I’ve just got to work out how I’m going to do that.

  Through in the bedroom, I throw open the window as far as it will go, taking the opportunity to look out and see how a person might escape that way. It’s not particularly encouraging, and I can’t spend too long staring in case I’m being watched. I take my time choosing clothes and getting dressed, quite unlike my usual approach of grab what’s at the top of the clean pile and get going. It gives me an opportunity to search the room without it being too obvious. Not that I find anything that might be a camera or microphone; Adrian’s team will be far too good for that.

  Breakfast is better than I could have hoped for. In among the many expensive ingredients left behind to keep me happy is a bag of fine coffee, and there are croissants in the bread bin. I’m most impressed to see that someone has even cleaned all the mouldy crusts and festering crumbs out before putting fresh produce in it. That’s a level of attention to detail some of my detective colleagues could learn from.

  It takes the better part of an hour to go through all the emails and texts on my phone, deleting most and responding only to those where no harm can come from the messages being intercepted. I’m about to make another pot of coffee when I hear a light tap at the door. Startled, it takes me a while to react. I wasn’t expecting anyone to come until tomorrow at the earliest. Actually, I was counting on it.

  The knocking comes again, followed by a familiar voice. ‘Con, girl? You in there?’

  I get up and hurry to the door, opening it wide to the welcome sight of Mrs Feltham. She’s clutching a tupperware pot wrapped in tin foil, and I can smell the herbs and spices from where I’m standing.

  ‘Thought I heard you come in last night. Been all types coming and going while you away.’ She raps a knuckle on the freshly painted door. ‘Done a nice job, mind you.’

  ‘You want a coffee, Mrs F.? I was just putting the pot on.’ I open the door a little wider, but she shakes her head.

  ‘No time, child. My boys are all coming round this evening and I have to get everything ready. I made a bit extra curry goat for you though. I know you like it, and you need to put some meat on your bones.’

  She thrusts the tupperware towards me, and when I take it with one hand she clasps the other between both of her own. ‘You take care of yourself, girl. I was worried when you were gone so long without telling me.’

  She’s let’s go of my hand, is about to leave. ‘One moment, Mrs F. I’ve still got the empty pot from last time. Let me get it for you. Won’t be a sec.’

  It’s a risk, and I don’t want to involve anyone if I can help it, but I have to take the chance. I dash back to the kitchen and grab the clean tupperware box off the draining board where my kind abductors have left it. I can’t waste any time, so the message is necessarily short and cryptic, scrunched up on a bit of paper torn from the corner of my notebook and dropped into the box. Lid on, I hand it to Mrs Feltham as she stands at the door.

  ‘You’re so kind to me, Mrs F. I just hope I can repay the favour some day.’

  ‘Favour nothing.’ She waves me away, tupperware box tucked under one arm as she sets off for the stairs.

  The rest of the day is a nightmare. I want to call up people, Charlotte and Ben, Aunt Felicity, even Emily Robertson to see how Cat is doing. And yet I know I can’t have any communication with any of them. My mobile phone is bugged and tracked, any call on the landline will be listened to as well. I spend a couple of hours searching for cameras, and find a few sneakily hidden within lightbulbs. I leave them where they are, except the one in my bedroom, which I make a big show of removing. They can come in and replace it if they want, or they can leave it to chance.

  I make the bed before I remove the camera, even though the holes in the mattress are unlikely to be very comfortable to sleep on. And then I spend the afternoon cleaning. It’s not as if I’ve got anything better to do, and it gives me an opportunity to look for any more bugs. What I wouldn’t give for the sort of high-tech scanning gear our IT boys have.

  The landline rings at about six in the evening. I consider leaving it for the answerphone, but pick up at the last minute.

  ‘Mr DeVilliers would like to see you tomorrow morning. I’ll send a car round at eight.’ Adrian sounds bored. I would be too, if I was being expected to act as a secretary when my specialist training was in close surveillance and protection work.

  ‘Should I wear my best party frock?’

  ‘You don’t own a party frock, Miss Fairchild. I know because I’ve been through your entire wardrobe. Trust me, I got no particular thrill from the experience.’

  ‘Not you who put the camera in my bedroom, then, if girls aren’t your thing.’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed off. Lots of my friends are gay. You wouldn’t believe how many serving police officers are these days too.’

  ‘Whatever. We know you found the camera. I’d send someone round to put it back, but you’re not going to do anything stupid, are you.’ It’s not a question, more a weary assertion of fact. I don’t have the heart to contradict him.

  ‘Eight o’clock sharp,’ I say instead. ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  Adrian hangs up, and I walk over to the window that looks out across the street. I can’t see anything in the building opposite, where the cheery fellow waved at me early this morning, but that doesn’t mean much. Checking my watch, it’s still not time.

  I’m not hungry, but I heat up the curry Mrs Feltham brought round. A couple of mouthfuls soon revives my appetite. I don’t finish it all, even though I want to. Instead, I spoon about half into a bowl, pull cling film over the top and put it in the fridge. Then I make myself a cup of tea, all in full view of the camera mounted in the light bulb hanging from the middle of the kitchen ceiling.

  I dump my dirty plate, cutlery and the teabag into the sink, knowing it will annoy whoever tidied up the kitchen while they were restocking it for my house arrest. Through in the living room, I try to watch the television, but it’s all shite soap operas and weird reality shows, neither of which bear any resemblance to everyday life at all. The cop show I stumble upon is even more laughable. If only the job were that simple. I channel-hop like a teenager, keeping an eye on the little clock that appears each time I switch over. Killing time.

  Around half eight, I make a big show of yawning and stretching, switch off the telly and take my mug through to the kitchen. I check the front door is locked, then switch off lights on my way through the tiny flat, into the bathroom. Teeth cleaned and face washed, I go through to the bedroom. And that’s when the nerves kick in.

  The window’s still open from earlier, letting in the noise of the city and it’s more unsavoury smells too. There’s no bulb in the ceiling light any more, so I switch on the bedside light, clamber onto the bed fully clothed, and wait.

  It doesn’t take long.

  First I hear a couple of voices arguing, loud but too far away to make out the actual words. A third voice joins in, then a fourth. More join the fray and soon there are other sounds too. Bins being kicked over, car alarms going off. Bless Mrs Feltham and her boys.

  It takes a few minutes to strip the bed and knot the sheets together like they do in all those Chalet School adventures I read as a girl. I’m
still not convinced it’ll take my weight, but the alternative to falling to my death is being forced to serve Roger DeVilliers, so it’s not much of a choice, really. The biggest problem is getting out of the window – it was designed specifically to stop people accidentally falling to their deaths, after all. There’s a moment when I think I might be stuck, but the low whoop whoop of a police siren in the street spurs me on.

  The sheets don’t get me all the way to the ground, and the drop from the end looks too far. I have to risk it though. There’s too much at stake.

  Hitting the concrete walkway drives all the wind from my lungs. I crumple and fall sideways, narrowly avoid smashing my head against the concrete wall, and end up curled in a ball in the shadows by the bin store, wheezing and gasping. My legs hurt, and my ribs, but as I haul myself to my feet I can tell nothing is broken.

  I left my phone behind. No point giving Adrian any help. Checking my watch, it’s not quite nine in the evening. The car might not be here until eight tomorrow, but they’ll know something’s up if I don’t show myself in the house by seven. I’ve got ten hours to find Isobel and enough evidence to clear my name.

  No pressure, then.

  40

  I never thought I’d want to come back to this place. The concrete and glass monstrosity that is the tower block where Roger DeVilliers has his penthouse apartment isn’t the tallest building in London, but it makes up for that with its ugliness. Approaching from the front this time, I wish I’d made a little more effort with my appearance. There’s no point going to the private entrance, especially given that I don’t want the wrong people to know I’m here, so I’m going to have to get in through the public side and somehow find my way past security. I have a plan, roughly worked out on the journey over here, but it’s not a good one.

  Nobody pays me any attention as I walk through the hotel lobby, which is a good sign. The Ladies’ toilets are shiny clean and opulent to a fault. They’re also unoccupied, so I don’t feel too self-conscious studying myself in the mirror. I wouldn’t say I was untidy, but there are far more glamorous women out there. There’s not much I can do about my hair, but a little bit of concealer and some dark-red lipstick make it look like I’ve not just stepped in from working on a building site.

  The door opens while I’m still deciding whether to try and do anything with my eyelashes. I don’t really do make-up though, so chances are if I try too hard it’ll look rubbish. I tense at the noise, only relaxing when I see that it’s not a knife-wielding hipster who’s come in, but a sensibly dressed woman about my age.

  ‘You with the conference too?’ She goes to the next basin but one, puts her bag down beside it and starts to rummage around inside. No doubt she’s got much the same idea as me.

  ‘Conference?’

  She looks at me a bit more closely, taking in my clothes. It’s only then that I see the lanyard hanging around her neck, a name badge I can’t read at the bottom of it, hidden by the fold of her jacket. ‘Thought you were a programmer, maybe. Sorry.’

  ‘No need.’ I shake my head slightly as she sets about making herself look even more perfect with a skill that suggests she’s done it many times before. Finally she produces a tiny atomiser and sprays little puffs of scent at her neck. It’s powerful stuff, most likely very expensive.

  ‘Nice.’

  She smiles. ‘My boyfriend bought it for me. He’s normally rubbish at that sort of thing, but just occasionally he gets it right. Want to try it?’

  I’m about to say no, but my new friend didn’t appear to be expecting an answer. Before I know it, she’s sprayed more of the scent around my neckline. I can’t help feeling as if I’ve just been claimed.

  ‘Thanks.’ I try to smile, and I have to admit that the perfume isn’t unpleasant. It might even help.

  ‘So what are you here for, then, if you’re not a programmer?’ It’s an innocent enough question, but given recent events I can’t help going on the defensive.

  ‘Just came in for a drink. Chap I know’s got one of the apartments here. Thought I’d see what all the fuss was about.’

  It seems to satisfy her. She pops everything back into her little handbag, clips it shut and takes one last look in the mirror to check she’s not missed anything. Then with a little nod and a smile, she leaves, high heels making her hips sway in a manner that’s probably provocative and certainly uncomfortable. I wait for a while after she’s gone, steeling myself for the task at hand, and as I finally make for the door myself, I can’t help wondering if her boyfriend is here too – or if the effort is for someone else.

  Now that I know there’s a conference on, the hubbub in the public atrium of the hotel makes a lot more sense. I drift around as if I’m supposed to be there, taking in the electronic noticeboard at the bottom of a set of wide stairs. ‘Hotel DeV welcomes the Federation of IT Security Consultants,’ it proclaims, and then lists a number of function suites and what is going on in them. I hadn’t really taken on board that this entire building was one of Roger DeVilliers’ properties, but it makes sense. There are many branches to his empire, after all, some more legitimate than others.

  The main conference hall is up the stairs, and the great and good of the IT security world are milling around at its entrance, slowly filing in for what must be some kind of award ceremony. It’s far too late in the evening for it to be a conference dinner, surely? But then, don’t all these computer types work late at night anyway, or is that just how they’re portrayed on the telly? I take the lift, noting that the floor numbers go only so far before a resident’s swipe card is needed to access the apartments above.

  I catch a brief glimpse of my glamorous friend as she moves with the crowd into the big room. I have no lanyard, and don’t want to go in there anyway. Instead I go to the bar, where a few people nurse expensive drinks. Their expressions are mostly of relief, which makes me think they’re regulars here who hadn’t got the memo about the conference and are only just now enjoying the peace they’d been expecting.

  The glass of white wine I order costs considerably more than I’d normally spend on a bottle. The barman looks slightly aghast when I ask him for some tap water to go with it, but if they want me to drink more they’re going to have to lower their prices a bit. And, besides, I need to keep my head clear.

  Alternating sips of wine which is actually very good and London water which is at least 90 per cent ice cube, I look around the bar and the wide landing beyond. It’s quiet now everyone’s gone into the conference room, too quiet for what I was hoping to achieve. Then I sense more than hear someone to my side.

  ‘This seat taken?’

  I look round, pretending to be startled. A young man who looks like he ought to be in the conference room stares down at me. He’s maybe mid-twenties, not bad-looking in a tousle-haired kind of way.

  ‘Sure. I mean, no. Help yourself.’ I give him a ghost of a smile as he settles into the seat beside me, waves at the barman for service.

  ‘I’m David, by the way. You come here often?’ He lets out a soft laugh which is surprisingly attractive. ‘God, I can’t believe I just said that.’

  ‘Sometimes you’ve just got to go with the classics, right?’ I take a delicate sip of my wine and try to remember how to act sophisticated. Ten years at Saint Bert’s and all I can remember is how to climb out of a sports car without flashing my knickers. ‘And no. I’ve never been here before. What about you?’

  If he notices I’ve not told him my name yet, he doesn’t let it show. ‘A couple of times. I’m still finding out about the area. Not long moved in.’

  ‘Here?’ I raise both hands in a gesture that’s meant to encompass the whole building. ‘In a hotel?’

  ‘Ha ha. No. There’s apartments higher up.’

  ‘Oh, I know that. It’s just . . . Well, I heard the apartments in there started at a million and a half, so . . .’ I let the assumption hang unsaid.<
br />
  ‘You think I’m not worth that much, is that it?’ David’s voice is hurt, but he smiles as he speaks, a flash of perfect teeth that must have cost a fortune in private dentist bills.

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re worth. That’s the beauty of London, isn’t it? A smart suit and a neutral accent, you can be anyone you want.’

  ‘And you? What do you want to be?’

  ‘Me?’ I toy with my drink, lean closer to him and let him get a whiff of the perfume. Is it time to slur my words a bit yet? ‘I always fancied being a detective, you know? Like those badass women on the telly?’

  ‘Really? Like, here? In London?’ His eyes widen in disbelief and he suppresses what would probably have been a belly laugh, reducing it to a slightly disdainful snort. ‘I’d have thought that would be really dangerous, wouldn’t it? Not much fun at all.’

  ‘I guess so. Can’t all be glamour and car chases.’ I shake my head, wishing I had my perfume-sharing friend’s tumbling locks. ‘So what about you, then? What does someone have to do to be able to afford to live in a place like this?’

  He studies me a little before answering. Not in a lascivious way, or at least not in the way my male colleagues at work tend to eye up the young female constables, which is my benchmark for this kind of behaviour. It’s been too long since I’ve spent non-professional time with a man who’s not related to me or on the same payroll. I’ve forgotten what it’s like, how to behave.

  ‘The suit’s a bit of camouflage,’ he says, tugging at one lapel. ‘I’m usually more of a jeans and T-shirt person, but I had a long and bruising meeting with my financial backers this afternoon. Hence the drink.’

  It’s the tiniest of tells, a flick of the eyes to the left as he speaks, but I see now he’s lying about something. There’s a little too much detail in his answer too. That’s always a sign someone’s making it up as they go along. Most people wouldn’t notice, but then most people haven’t been trained in suspect interview techniques. Most people probably aren’t as jaded and cynical as me either. Ah well, it was always going to be too good to be true. Rich, handsome, available and picking up women in bars.