by Mick Herron
‘I don’t know what difference that makes,’ she told him. And told him, too, that she’d made her mind up; that this was something she was going to do.
Russ had this quality: he knew when to stop making objections.
She’d brought the postcard with her. It lay on the laminated sheet on her bedside table, the one explaining how the telephone worked; where to go when the hotel caught fire; what time breakfast was served. All useful information, but she’d have preferred this clarity to be transferred to the postcard; its message set out in simple, basic terms, perhaps with a telephone number attached, or a list of available times.
Once, years ago, Zoë had arrived when Sarah was in big trouble. ‘I can’t just walk away,’ she’d told Sarah. Neither could Sarah, now.
Having arrived, having unpacked, having made her calls, Sarah felt somewhat paralysed. It was a not unfamiliar response to unfamiliar surroundings: should she stay here, where the few possessions she’d brought at least allowed her to feel she’d made a mark, or head out and lay claim to somewhere else? If Russ were with her, there’d be no contest. Alone, and in a city not different enough to feel exotic, the temptation was to hunker down: stay in her room, read, get through tomorrow when it came. Go to bed early. Have a bath. Options unfolded like a flower, all of them safe and time-consuming. She wandered into the bathroom, to reflect a while.
The face that looked back at her was the one she’d grown into, with even the changes that time had wrought seeming expected, as if they’d always been buried beneath the skin, waiting for the right moment to appear. Lines at the eyes threaded outwards, and on bad days her chin would sag if she didn’t hold her head at a tilt. But holding it so gave her a defiant edge, which made her feel more confident, and thus better able to cope with a fat day . . . Her brown hair, which she now wore short, tufted in a way that could look artfully achieved, but was mostly down to its having its own ideas about how it should grow. That was the process in a nutshell, really. Your body did what it was going to do. You took steps in mitigation, but the face you were growing into was already there.
What she thought now – an attitude she’d achieved these past few years – was that hers wasn’t a bad face, and allowing for the age-old default female setting of wishing she looked completely different, she was happy enough with it, except for the chin, and perhaps those lines at the eyes. And now she reached into her handbag, withdrew her spectacles case, and put her glasses on. Okay: this, maybe, her face hadn’t been prepared for. Evolution took slow steps, as she understood it. Aged thirty-nine, she hadn’t worn glasses; aged forty she did. Maybe, in another ten years, she’d have grown used to the way they made her look, but she wasn’t banking on it.
Russ liked them. He said they made her look ‘studious, but still up for it’. Russ could be depended upon to say the right thing, particularly if he’d had a fortnight to prepare.
But this was ridiculous: standing here hamstrung in a hotel bathroom. She brushed her hair. She’d go out. At the very least she’d head down to the bar, and have a drink. It was surprising, actually, that it had taken this long to notice she hadn’t had one yet.
At the doorknob she paused, and looked behind her. She’d planned to ask for the room Zoë had had, but when it came to the crunch, found herself unable – how would she frame the request? Hold herself out as another private detective? Did the staff know that’s what Zoë had been? Or even, come to that, that Zoë had been pulled out of the river a week ago? She’d checked out of the hotel before that happened. Ludicrous to think the staff kept a check on erstwhile guests; possible, too, that Zoë Boehm hadn’t used her real name when checking in. Sarah herself wouldn’t have known she’d been here had it not been for that postcard.
I’m in this mausoleum called the Bolbec Hotel. I swear at nights you can hear the mice laying plans.
The picture showed the Gateshead Millennium Bridge after dark; a graceful arc reflected in the water; an oval the river might pour through.
Unlike Zoë to drop Sarah a line. But was it unlike Zoë to jump off a bridge? She didn’t know. She didn’t know. Was the picture a clue? It might have been. She’d thought she’d known her friend but – she didn’t know.
And didn’t know which room Zoë had stayed in, but surely it wouldn’t have been much different to this, and that thought held Sarah there a little longer, hand on the doorknob – eyeing the reds of the carpet; the creams of the bedspread; the regimented pattern on the walls – and wondering if Zoë had had such a moment, near the end of her life; a moment of hesitation on a threshold, glancing back to see if there was anything she’d forgotten. Except Zoë never forgot much. What she left behind she left deliberately, as being no longer of use.
Sarah flicked the light switch and shut the door, locking the darkness inside.
She didn’t need to take the lift – she could manage a couple of flights of stairs, thanks – but with six floors to descend, she’d have made the same choice: the lift didn’t inspire confidence. It had a metal grille for a door, and she suspected this might be all that was holding it together. The stairs it was then, which were wide; the landings hung with the kind of paintings that always look like they need cleaning: pairs of dead pheasants, tied at the ankle; improbably polished pieces of fruit. Sarah was compiling her own picture of the hotel’s past, a brighter place than its present. Crinoline featured heavily, as did steamer trunks carted by uniformed porters, with braces showing.
The bar, too, was a hymn to faded grandeur. There was a large mirror behind the bar itself, engraved with gilt lettering she couldn’t make out for the rows of bottles in front of it. The wooden counter curved like a ship’s flank, and had a brass footrail. If she checked, she’d probably find the screwholes that once fixed a spittoon in place. A thread-bare rug covered most of the floor. Scattered here and there were the usual round tables with small congregations of stools, but by the fireplace in the far wall was a sofa; also a couple of rattan armchairs that looked like they’d wandered in from somewhere else – possibly the dining room, whose entrance was to their left. Their backs faced the rest of the bar, as if they were engaged in private conversation.
She was the only one here, apart from the barman. Who, she guessed, was mid-thirties, which was pushing it for the look he was aiming at: head shaved to blond stubble; small gold hoop through his left nostril. But she’d be the first to admit she wasn’t the best judge of what passed for edge these days; besides, his eyes were a blue so pale, they almost shaded into grey, and he smiled with genuine warmth. And when he asked her pleasure, his accent broke like a wave on a faraway beach.
‘You’re not local.’
‘Ah. You penetrated my disguise.’ He wiped the counter with a cloth as he spoke, as if he were method acting. He wore a collarless white shirt, its top button undone, and dark chinos. ‘I heard that wherever you go in the world, you’ll find a Geordie and an Australian. I’m just cutting to the chase.’
‘So statistically, there must be a Geordie bartender in Sydney now.’
‘If I came from Sydney, miss, I’d never have left.’
She liked the ‘miss’. ‘So why not just go there instead?’
‘I am. I’m taking the long way round. What can I get you?’
He chatted amiably as he poured a glass of Sauvignon: his name was Barry, he’d only worked here two weeks, and he hailed – don’t laugh – from Wallaby Springs.
‘Sounds like a middle-of-nowhere place.’
‘You wish. Wallaby’s slightly left of nowhere. People heading for the middle miss it completely.’
‘This must feel like home from home.’
‘The hotel, you mean, not the city. We’re not weighed down with guests, that’s true.’ He glanced around theatrically: they were still alone. ‘We’re not supposed to be trumpeting this – act like everything’s normal, you know? – but the place is closing down. End of next month.’
Sarah said, ‘I thought it felt deserted.’
She did
n’t just mean of guests, either. All she’d seen of staff so far was the woman who’d checked her in, and now Barry.
Who said, ‘That’s how come I got the job. Last guy quit soon as he heard. No barman likes to close a place down.’
‘But you don’t mind.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s not a career. Just where I am right now. And it beats flipping burgers.’
Flipping burgers, Sarah thought. Had any job summed itself up so succinctly? She took a sip of wine, which was crisp and dry and stirred an appetite: she’d not eaten since a sandwich on the train. ‘Speaking of which,’ she said, ‘is your restaurant open?’
‘Don’t worry, we’re not that closed. It’ll open at seven.’ It was ten to. ‘There’s a party coming in.’ was ten ‘Party?’
‘You’re not the only guest.’ He winked, and she thought: uh-oh. There was clear blue water between friendliness and fancying your chances. She didn’t want to be fending off Barry in a deserted bar. But he went on, ‘Some businessman, here to frighten up investors. He booked a buffet for twenty-five. Things’ll get busier.’
This, too, Sarah didn’t need: to be sharing a restaurant with a gang of venture capitalists. ‘How about room service?’
He made a face. ‘Sorry. Must seem like a half-arsed operation, right?’
‘Not your fault.’ The wine was going down nicely. ‘I’ll have another of these.’
‘Second one’s on the management,’ he said. ‘House rules.’
‘Thank you, Barry.’ When he set a fresh glass in front of her, she said, ‘A friend of mine stayed here a few weeks ago.’
‘Male or female?’
‘Female.’
‘Dark-haired lady? Curly hair?’
She said, ‘That was quick. That was very quick.’
‘She was my first customer. Or the first not to be an overweight bloke wanting to know if I had any useful numbers. Guys who tend bar and guys who drive taxis, we’re all supposed to be a sort of 18-rated Time Out.’
‘So you remember her.’
‘Yeah, she was here. We talked a bit. Zoë, right?’
‘Zoë. Yes.’
‘She drank what you’re drinking. Always a good basis for friendship.’
‘In the absence of anything else,’ Sarah agreed. ‘What did you talk about?’
Barry shrugged. He’d thrown his cloth over a shoulder, and again this struck Sarah as a little too perfect a gesture. Maybe he took his cues from that same olde-worlde sense she’d felt on walking down the stairs. Then again, what did she know about bartending? It must come with its own set of tics. ‘Usual stuff,’ he said. ‘She played her cards pretty close. Never did work out why she was here, or what she did for a living. But I only noticed that afterwards, you know what I mean?’
‘Yes,’ Sarah said.
‘She had a way of drawing you out without letting you in. What felt like a conversation at the time seemed more like an interrogation afterwards. I mean, she must have left here knowing all there is to know about the Springs, right? But I can’t even remember where she lived. London, was it?’
‘You’re talking about her in the past tense.’
‘Occupational hazard. A lot of the people I talk to, I never see again.’
There was noise behind Sarah; voices approaching from the lobby. This would be the party Barry had mentioned. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she told him. ‘Thanks for the drink. And the company.’
‘You’re very welcome.’ He raised his voice. ‘Evening, gents. It’s my pleasure to be serving you tonight.’
Sarah retreated to one of those rattan chairs; sat with her back to the incoming company. Businessmen. She could see it already. Loud-voiced laughter and off-colour jokes. She closed her eyes as the noise level rose, and found herself hurtling into tomorrow, when all doubts would be settled one way or the other: Zoë was dead or not dead, and Sarah would know whether she was free to mourn or not. This would be new territory. She had encountered death before, of course, but there were degrees of appropriate grief. An English attitude, but no less felt for all that. So far, there’d always been someone closer to the dead than her; she’d always been encroaching on someone else’s sorrow simply by feeling less of it than them. With Zoë, that wasn’t the case. With Zoë, she’d be mourning hardest.
Her wine was still dry, still crisp, but it was also rapidly disappearing.
Voices floated over from the bar.
‘You can call it the Athens of the North for all I care, old boy, the clue’s still in the name. North.’
‘It’s only three hours from London by train.’
‘My point exactly. In three hours, I could have a good meal, asset-strip a failing charity and still get an early night.’
It was the words as much as the voice, but it was also the voice – a round plump voice, which could only come from a tongue thick and fat, well used to digging the cream out of a doughnut.
But, of course, it was also the words.
‘So you’re only here to make money.’
‘Only God and the Treasury make money, old son. I’m more of a collector.’ more of a Ha ha.
‘But a generous collector. As those around me can testify.’ The clink of a glass being set on a counter. ‘I don’t get many complaints from those who follow where I lead.’
Sarah looked at her own glass, which had become horribly empty. In her mind she was tossing a coin, but there was never any doubt which side it would fall.
‘Is this all an act?’
‘All? No.’ The pause came with stage directions: she could almost hear him tilting his head to one side. ‘Thirty per cent. Maybe forty. Does it matter?’
Ha ha.
She slipped out of the chair, and found her legs a little wobbly – the wine? No, not the wine. Circumstance, pure and simple.
A small circle had congregated at the bar, behind which Barry was wiping the counter again, trying a little too obviously not to listen to the entertainment. The circled characters were the usual collection of suits; were all men; teeth and eyes and hair and limbs arranged in recognizable ways. She paid them no attention. Her interest was in their focal point: the man with his back to her, making all the noise, though whatever he was actually saying now was lost in another round of laughter: lost in another round Ha ha ha ha ha.
And then the laughter died bit by bit, as the men facing her realized she wasn’t about to sidestep them and make her order at the bar; that she had, in fact, come to a halt just behind their host, and wasn’t going anywhere until he’d turned. Which he did, once it became apparent from their expressions that there was someone behind him.
In that first brief moment of recognition, something else flickered in his eyes: a hint of shock. Or possibly even fear.
‘Good God,’ he said. ‘Sarah Trafford.’
‘Gerard Inchon,’ she said. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’
3
They’d both racked up some body miles since last meeting, but – glasses notwithstanding – Sarah was wearing hers better. It wasn’t that Gerard had put on weight (though he had) or lost more hair (though he had); it was that he seemed to be carrying something extra, the strain of which tugged at his mouth, making a flat line of what had once been plump and fleshy. His face looked drawn, was her initial impression; was almost a caricature of his younger self, though that thought lasted no more than a second, and whatever reaction he’d nearly let slip was swallowed in a smile that seemed no less genuine for being hastily slapped on. ‘After all this time,’ he said.
‘It’s been a while,’ she agreed.
‘You’re here alone?’
He was looking over her shoulder, satisfying himself she wasn’t the vanguard of a larger visitation.
‘I’m on my own, yes.’
He said to his gang, ‘Do excuse me. An old friend, an unexpected pleasure. Gary – fix drinks, good man. Introductions in half a sec.’
One hand on her elbow, he drew her expertly towards the fireplace she’d just l
eft. Which was laid but unlit: split logs criss-crossed in tepee fashion – that thing about carrying coals to Newcastle had come home to roost. Nobody was doing it, so they had to rely on wood.
‘Sarah Trafford,’ he said again.
‘Tucker,’ she corrected him.
‘Of course.’ He released her arm. ‘You ditched the less-than-lily-white Mark, didn’t you?’
She had no desire to rattle the bones of her defunct marriage. ‘How are you, Gerard?’
‘Oh, bloody well. Not far short of fantastic, in fact. But what about you? You’re not actually staying here, are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good God. What on earth for?’
‘I’m on holiday.’
‘In Newcastle?’ Gerard Inchon could do puzzled like nobody’s business. ‘Doncaster fully booked, was it?’
Thinner mouth or not, he could still give it some lip.
‘They had a rush on,’ she told him. ‘I suspect they’re having a whippet rally.’
He was into his forties now: his thinning still brown hair scraped back over his head; his jowls – she rarely had recourse to ‘jowls’, but Gerard demanded it – his jowls still wobbly, giving his face an inverted look. Still clean-shaven. Immaculately so, in fact. And, now his initial reaction had faded, still with that knack of assuming local attention as his due: for all he might resemble an extra in a forties film – a background figure at a racetrack, or remonstrating with a policeman – Gerard would never settle for a walk-on part. Not that he’d steal scenes, precisely. He’d just acquire them at fire sale prices, flog them to a shell company, then lease them back at rates he could claim against tax: he was, after all, a businessman – a ‘leading’ businessman, in fact. Nor was this just his opinion. Sarah had heard him profiled on Radio 4 when Inchon Enterprises went public; she’d been impressed by how little of his private life made it on to the airwaves. His marriage to Paula had been mentioned, and that was about it. Because Gerard Inchon was a public figure, but not one anyone knew much about. She suspected that was the way he liked it.
