Smoke and Whispers

by Mick Herron

  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 intent
ly, 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.

  While she herself, of course, was empty-handed.

  It seemed a paltry return. There must be something she could salvage, to convince herself this hadn’t been a pointless breach of trust . . . ‘Well, all right, then,’ she said out loud. Sheer bravado. But all right, then. One last look.

  The laptop remained tempting, but was hopeless; the suitcase, she’d already searched. On the dresser was the same scatter of loose change, tissues, house keys, and business cards – she picked these up, and slipped them from their elastic band. Topmost was one Brian Harper: a name and two numbers; landline and mobile. The name was vaguely familiar, but too ordinary for her to be sure. She thrummed the deck as if it were one of those flickbooks, with little stickmen dancing under her thumb, and surveyed the room. The wardrobe – she hadn’t checked the wardrobe. This didn’t take long to rectify, but it held nothing to grab her attention: shirts and suits on hangers, a spare blanket on a shelf. Sarah dropped to peer under the bed. Nothing there either, bar a flock of dust bunnies. She rose slowly, brushed her knees with her free hand, used the other to steady herself on the bed, and dropped the business cards, which hit the floor and fanned out wide: bugger, she thought, stooping to gather them up. He wouldn’t have memorized their order, surely? Brian Harper was topmost; the rest she stacked as they came to hand. One or two had landed face down. She turned them over. The first was Zoë’s.

  Sarah rewrapped the cards in their elastic band and put them back where she found them. Then turned the light off and left the room.

  6

  The restaurant, tucked off one of the main shopping arteries, had mirrors lining the walls on which the day’s specials had been scrawled in red crayon. This rendered them illegible, but the effect was nice. Half a dozen pairs of lunchers provided ambient chatter, while over in a corner two tables had been pushed together. She could see Gerard, his back to her. With him were three others. ‘We’re famished,’ he’d said. She hadn’t noticed at the time.

  She faltered at the doorway, and might have turned and slipped away if one of Gerard’s companions hadn’t spotted her first.

  Jack Gannon waved; mimed over here.

  There was no turning back. As she approached the table Jack stood, and pulled a chair out.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Fruitful morning?’

  ‘I did what needed doing. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were having a business lunch. Gerard, you should have said.’

  He really should have.

  ‘All done and dusted,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been wandering round. Taking in the sights.’ He put invisible quote marks round the word.

  ‘By yourself?’

  ‘These chaps had better things to do. We’ve just reconvened. Did you meet Harper last night? Brian Harper, Sarah Tucker.’

  Harper was the white-haired man from last night. ‘We weren’t introduced.’ He shook Sarah’s hand. ‘But I saw you of course. Brightening the room.’

  ‘Token woman,’ John M. Wright offered. A beat or two after the other men, he too had made it to his feet.

  ‘Does that charm school do refunds?’ Gerard asked Jack. Then said to Sarah, ‘You met Mr Wright, I think. And Jack Gannon.’

  They sat. Harper poured Sarah a glass of wine. Jack handed her a menu. Wright stared, lips pursed. Perhaps he was worried she’d eat his share of lunch.

  Eat? Drink wine? After the morning she’d had? It would be like picnicking over a grave. But she was hungry.

  She glanced at Gerard, who was studying his menu. He had Zoë’s business card among his collection, and coincidence’s lease had just expired.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘Successful meeting?’

  ‘Could be,’ Gerard said.

  ‘Mr Inchon is very interested in my research,’ Wright said.

  Jack said, ‘I’m sure Ms Tucker doesn’t want to hear about a business meeting.’

  Ms Tucker was pretty sure she did. Anything that might cast light on what Gerard was up to.

  Brian Harper asked her, ‘Have you visited the Baltic yet?’

  Small talk. It was like hitting a sharp curve in a road. ‘The gallery? Not yet, no. Not this time, I mean. I’ve been before.’

  ‘How about the Laing?’

  ‘The Laing?’

  ‘More art. Less modern.’

  Jack Gannon leaned across. ‘They have a number of John Martins. Do you know his work?’

  ‘The name rings a bell. I might be thinking of someone else.’

  A waiter came, took their orders, collected menus.

  ‘Local artist,’ Jack went on. ‘Nineteenth century. He painted these big biblical extravaganzas, full of sound and fury. Very popular in his day, but he’s fallen from favour since.’

  ‘Story goes, they used to need crowd control when he exhibited new work,’ Harper said. ‘He was the Hollywood blockbuster of his time.’

  ‘I don’t see the point of art,’ Wright said.

  ‘Well,’ Gerard said after the moment of silence that followed this. ‘That’s admirably focused of you.’

  ‘I just don’t see its use.’

  ‘Which doesn’t mean it has nothing to teach us,’ Gerard said smoothly. He picked up his glass; revolved it by rolling the stem between finger and thumb. Light splintered off its contents. ‘This Martin chap. Didn’t he paint the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah?’

  Harper nodded. ‘Yes. He did.’

  ‘There you go,’ Gerard told Wright. ‘The terrible vengeance of a righteous God. We can all learn something from that.’

  Gerard, Sarah decided, would only surprise her when he stopped being surprising. It didn’t look like their current enco
unter was going to involve that.

  When the waiter brought their starters, she had to be reminded what she’d ordered.

  All of this had a surreal quality, as if she’d wandered from one story into another. If she looked at her watch, she’d know to the precise minute how long it had been since she’d borne witness to that body on the slab; how long since she’d cowered in Gerard’s bathroom, listening to breathing on the other side of a locked door. And now there was duck salad, and conversation in a well-lit restaurant with three men she didn’t know and a fourth who was hiding something. The impulse came to heave cutlery to the floor. But she couldn’t. Partly, of course, this was social training. But underneath was the awareness that both stories were part of a whole; that whatever had brought Zoë to Newcastle was bound up with what Gerard was doing here . . . There’d been a soggy clump of business cards in Zoë’s drowned wallet; a single pristine example in Gerard’s collection. It would be difficult to ask him about this without revealing that she’d been in among his things.

  Conversation had slipped back Gerard’s way.

  ‘First advice I give about taking over a company,’ Gerard said, ‘is sack the HR and PR departments.’

  ‘How very broad-minded of you,’ she said.

  ‘Not really.’ Sarcasm bothered him the way kittens bother tanks. ‘It’s like buying a second-hand car. Before you do anything else, you knock the rust off.’

  ‘You’ve never bought a second-hand car in your life.’

  ‘But I’m capable of making that imaginative leap.’

  ‘I thought we were staying off business?’ Brian Harper reminded them.

  John M. Wright’s knife scraped against his plate, making everyone else jump.

  Jack Gannon said, ‘Well, we’d better steer clear of religion and politics too. How about family. You got a son and heir waiting to take up the reins, Gerard?’