by Tom Bale
‘Hold on,’ Jen said into the phone, ‘I’ve found somebody who might be able to help.’ She offered a hopeful smile to the cleaner, a stocky woman of about thirty, whose hair was the same dark blonde as Jen’s, except the tips were dyed bright pink.
‘I’ve just realised my husband has taken both of the key cards. It’s room 318, Sam Dhillon. I’m meeting him later but I really need to pop in and pick up some, er, Tampax?’ She said this with a grimace, judging from the woman’s face that she might not be following the conversation.
‘Okay.’ The woman had a musical voice, and an Eastern European accent. ‘But rule is, you must go to desk—’
‘Well, I need to get to the toilet as well. Urgently. So just this once, do you think you could open up for me?’
She let the woman study her for a moment, and then: ‘Okay. But say nothing?’
‘Not a word. Thank you so much.’
If Dhillon does have a partner, I’m in big trouble, Jen thought. But it was too late to worry about that: she stood by gratefully as the cleaner used her pass to open the door.
A second later she was in the room, which thankfully was empty. For the sake of her cover story, she turned on the bathroom light and then shut the door, calling out her thanks once again.
The room was a modest size, with a small double bed. There was an open suitcase on a stand, half full of underwear and T-shirts. Seven or eight formal shirts hung in the wardrobe, alongside two more suits. There was a toilet bag in the bathroom, and two bottles of expensive aftershave.
The bedside table held a book, a large work of non-fiction about modern Russia, and an iPhone charger. There was a writing desk against the opposite wall, and that too had a cable trailing across it, probably for a laptop or tablet.
Fighting despair, she surveyed the room. She’d taken a huge risk, and for what? There was nothing here that could help her. She hadn’t even thought to bring gloves, which now seemed like a very poor decision. With a criminal case pending against her, just what kind of mess would she be in if someone caught her in here?
She fetched a strip of toilet paper and wiped everything she’d touched, then used it to open the wardrobe again. This time she noticed a small electronic safe on the top of three otherwise empty shelves. Self-programmable, so unless she could miraculously guess the code he’d chosen, it was impossible to open.
But there had to be something, didn’t there? Some small clue as to Dhillon’s true motives. Unless he—
Her phone buzzed. A text from Sam: I’m here.
Three minutes to ten: he was keen. With nervous, clumsy fingers, she texted back: Running a bit late, shouldn’t be much longer x
In desperation she knelt and looked under the bed, and even tried lifting the mattress. Nothing. Soon the cleaner might question why she hadn’t come out.
She inspected the suitcase, trying not to alter the position of the clothes; though it looked haphazard, he might notice if something was moved. There was nothing concealed within the case, and nothing beneath it.
The only object she hadn’t touched was the book. Still using the toilet paper as a makeshift barrier, she picked it up and spotted a sliver of paper tucked between the pages: a sheet of A4, folded into four.
As she put the book down, her phone buzzed again. She wanted to ignore it, but what if Sam was cancelling the date?
Hope you’re not standing me up! Well, that didn’t require an immediate response, so she unfolded the paper. It seemed to be a partial printout from a website, with a footer that said ‘Page 3 of 3’. All it contained was a couple of paragraphs that appeared to be describing a successful case study or project. There was a name mentioned – Jonathan Oldroyd – as well as a company: SilverSquare.
On the lower half of the sheet, somebody had been doodling with a pen, lots of swirls and boxes but also a few cryptic notes. There were two sets of initials: BC, PK and DG, YG, then another set in a box on its own, DD, along with what might have been a date, 24.9.16, accompanied by half a dozen exclamation marks. Then a scrawled phrase – KMI? – followed by n/a.
It made no sense to Jen, but it was the only thing that seemed remotely interesting, so she laid it flat on the desk and lined up her phone. A photograph would be a lot quicker than trying to copy the text.
Very James Bond, she thought wryly, but when the phone started to ring she almost threw it in the air – not very cool for a secret agent.
It was Dhillon.
‘Sam?’
‘Hi, Jen. I don’t want to seem pushy, but I’ve got a few things on—’
‘You have to go?’
‘No, no. I want to see you. But is there a problem?’
‘Kind of. Having quite a hectic morning.’ She swallowed nervously, suddenly convinced that some unique quality to the background silence would alert him to her location. ‘Give me five, maybe ten minutes.’
‘Okay.’ Something about the way he ended the call made her think he wasn’t buying it.
Would he come back here?
Fighting against panic, she took a couple of pictures of the sheet of paper, and had to hope they’d be clear enough to read – there wasn’t time to check. With visions of another night in a police cell, she folded the paper and put the book back, then checked that everything was as she had found it. She stuffed the scrap of toilet paper in her pocket and made for the door.
She heard the rumble of a cleaner’s trolley and waited until it had passed, her heart thumping so hard it was making her dizzy. Then opened the door and peered out. All clear.
She hurried along the corridor and took the stairs to the lobby: the thought of the elevator made her claustrophobic. Hat and sunglasses on, and so what if that looked a bit odd? Better that no one got a proper look at her face.
She told herself to relax as she headed for the exit. There was very little chance of Dhillon returning this quickly. Of course, she had to be on the lookout for Alex Wilson as well. . .
She’d registered that someone was climbing the steps outside but dismissed him as the wrong size and shape as either Dhillon or Wilson. It was only as the revolving door began to move that something tugged at her memory: she knew this man from somewhere.
Raising her phone like a shield, she half turned, then caught a glimpse of his face. There was a split second of unacknowledged eye contact before they both looked away.
That was Dean, wasn’t it? The man who’d started coming to the climbing wall without his girlfriend. Awkward to see him here, but not disastrous.
She glanced back, preparing to chuckle at the coincidence, then saw that he hadn’t emerged from the door. Instead he’d carried on round and was now hurrying down the steps, away from the hotel.
26
Jen’s nerves were stretched tighter than ever. Could it be a coincidence? If Dean worked at the hotel, or had some other legitimate reason to visit, why would he turn and do a runner?
She descended the steps to find that he had vanished, presumably along one of the side streets that ran towards Western Road. Jen went the opposite way, across the coast road and down to the lower promenade, where she broke into a run. The exercise helped to calm her down, and the speed made her feel less exposed. Anybody trying to follow would be easy to spot on foot.
She thought about going to the police – but what reason would she give for being at the hotel? The original tip from Russell Pearce had only come about because she’d been standing outside number 14, in breach of her bail conditions.
Who could she rely on for help and support? Not Anna: the poor woman was already doing more than her fair share, and last night had clearly freaked her out.
Family, she thought. It had to be Dad.
She ran as far as Concorde 2, a concert venue where in happier times she and Freddie had enjoyed many noisy, carefree nights. Up the steps to Marine Parade, checking to see if she was being watched, then into Kemptown.
It was tempting to stop at a cafe, just for the chance to sit and think somewhere other than
at home. But money was always a factor: she had to conserve every penny. Who knew what this situation was going to mean in terms of her finances? The Skyway might dump her, even without a conviction.
There was no answer on the landline, so she tried Dad’s mobile. He greeted her with his usual warmth. She could hear the murmur of cricket commentary in the background, and what might have been the whoosh of a kettle.
‘At the allotment?’
‘Getting set for the day’s toil – just as soon as I’ve finished a contemplative cup of tea.’
She snorted. ‘You’ll end up dozing in the shed. How’s Mum?’
‘She’s in Copenhagen. Only three days, but then she flies from there to San Francisco – I think.’
‘Wow. I hope you’re remembering to eat?’
‘Oh, the choccy digestives are calling to me as we speak. So how are things with you and the little lad?’
‘Not too bad.’ He’d hear in her voice that it wasn’t true, so she said quickly, ‘Dad, can I come and see you? I’d really value a chat.’
‘Of course.’ He sounded taken aback. ‘Or do you want me to come down? The trains are diabolical.’
‘It’s okay, I’ve got the use of a car. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.’
‘Lovely. Though I can’t guarantee there’ll be any biscuits left.’
It was a brave attempt at humour, given how tense he sounded. Jen admired him for not asking any difficult questions; he simply wished her a safe journey.
She made the detour round to Henley Gardens. No sign of Russell Pearce, but even the thought of him made her skin crawl.
There was no activity outside number 14, and no cars that she recognised. In fact, her little street was so peaceful on this sunny Friday morning that it was hard to believe she had become engulfed in madness.
Then came heavy footsteps, the sluggish tread of a reluctant runner. She turned, and there was Pearce, today in yellow flip-flops, the usual jogging shorts and a long-sleeved white shirt with all but the last two buttons open. His chest was pale, plump and hairless.
‘Jen, wait up.’ He wasn’t looking at her, but at his phone, holding it at an odd angle and squinting at the screen as if puzzled by something. ‘I haven’t heard from you.’
She frowned, fighting the impulse to march away. ‘Were you supposed to?’
‘Well, yes. Your solicitors. . .’
‘I only saw them yesterday. I don’t think they’re sure yet what approach is best.’
Displeased, he said, ‘And what about you?’
She shook her head, crossing her arms tightly as he moved closer. The phone was still against his chest, held in a pincer-like grip.
‘I don’t know. There’s a lot going on.’
‘I’m well aware of that, Jen. And maybe you ought to think about the value of what I’m offering?’
Confused, she said, ‘I’ve already—’
‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that I could take a whole other route with this? Imagine if I told the police I saw you going in, acting suspiciously, and that you came out with something you’d taken from the house.’ He nodded solemnly. ‘Think what it would be worth, not to have me saying all that?’
‘I won’t be blackmailed, Russell.’
‘Hey, this isn’t blackmail – I wouldn’t do that to you.’ With a wounded tone, he said, ‘I’d much rather tell them I saw you finding the keys. I’ll say I’ve just seen you, and it jogged my memory. But I’ve got to know that it’s going to be. . . appreciated. That’s only fair, isn’t it?’
Jen wasn’t sure she could trust herself to speak. It was a long time since she’d been as tempted to punch somebody as she was right now. But adding a conviction for assault to her present troubles was hardly a prudent choice.
Instead, pretending to go along with it, she said, ‘So what sort of “appreciation” do you have in mind?’
He brightened. ‘Well, why don’t we start by going for that drink, find out what we’re both into?’
As he winked, Jen had to uncurl her hands and wipe the choreography from her mind: a kick to the groin, then a swift left-right. . . Because this was the man who had put her on to Sam Dhillon. The man who could still, in the right circumstances, keep her out of prison.
‘I don’t know if that’s wise, Russell,’ she said, demurely. ‘I mean, what would your wife say about this?’
He blinked rapidly, trying to maintain his composure. Jen hadn’t known for sure that he was married, but his reaction left her in no doubt.
‘Who says she has to know? Life’s for living, that’s how I see it.’ He tried a grin. ‘Any chance for some fun, you should take it.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Jen said coldly, and walked away.
27
Uppity bitch. The ingratitude made him seethe. Treating him like he was worthless.
I ought to teach her a lesson, Russell thought. And maybe he would.
Back home, he went straight to the computer, uploading the footage to his digital secret compartment. Had to keep the phone clean; that was a cardinal rule.
Today it proved a godsend. He was at his desk, at work with the editing programme – playing around with the images and simultaneously playing in other ways – when the witch came home.
At frigging lunchtime.
He cleaned up, closed Photoshop and locked the folder back in its hidey-hole, then brought up a virginal Word document and half a dozen employment-related web pages.
Pulling up his shorts, he met Kelly in the hall, his stomach plummeting as his first fear – Is she trying to catch me at something? – was superseded by a second: What if she’s been fired?
‘Is everything okay?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be? You look petrified.’
‘Just wasn’t expecting. . .’
‘I wanted to surprise you.’ At her sly smile, he thought, Here it comes. But she gestured over her shoulder. ‘Lovely weather, it’s Friday, I’ve got loads of hours in credit, so I thought. . . why not have a half day?’
She opened her eyes wide, as if expecting something from him; after a moment her face fell. ‘You don’t look very pleased.’
‘No, no.’ He saw the danger of an afternoon with the witch in one of her strops. ‘I had two more rejections today.’ This, at least, wasn’t a lie. ‘I’d planned to get under way on a new CV. Start it again from scratch.’
‘Ah, hun.’ Her expression was no doubt supposed to be fond and sympathetic, but came across as pitying. ‘You’ve worked hard this week. Take the afternoon off and let’s kick back a bit – walk along the seafront, maybe a cocktail at the Grand?’
‘Mm,’ he managed, before she wrapped him in an embrace that aimed at more than affection. A hand grasped one of his buttocks in a way that, if he did it to somebody else without warning, would be classed as a sexual assault.
‘The weekend starts here!’ she declared, sounding so cheerful that he wondered if it was guilt. The idea that she was screwing someone else was a frequent preoccupation, and he could never work out why it made him so anxious. If she walked out, was it really possible that he would miss her?
Of course he would, because money was a consideration – especially now, when he had none of his own and was in no real hurry to go out and earn some. It was a reminder that he ought to be counting his blessings: a roof over his head, three square meals and all the rest of it, as well as getting practically every day to himself.
Her lips grazed his ear, her teeth nipping at his lobe. ‘I’m off to hop in the shower, and put on something silky. Why don’t you join me in the bedroom in ten minutes?’
He swallowed. ‘Lovely. Can’t wait.’
Ten minutes. Just time to hurry back to his computer and the sanctuary of those secret files. He browsed his newest, favourite folder, constructing a fantasy that was guaranteed to get him hard and hopefully see him through the next half hour or so.
A fantasy of her. A scenario that went much further than any that had gone before,
and felt all the more potent because he knew it wouldn’t – it couldn’t – be only a fantasy. For all his attempts to control the urges that made his life a misery, he knew that one day he was going to succumb to the next stage. It felt as inevitable as the tide.
A none-too-subtle thump came from overhead. Time for one final contemplation of the image on the screen.
Lovely Jennifer would do the business for him, no question about that.
28
Freddie had upgraded both his cars since he and Jen had separated, which he’d as good as admitted had been his father’s way of rewarding him for having jettisoned ‘that bloody woman’ from the family.
The Audi had by far the highest spec of any vehicle she’d ever driven. Ironically, what she struggled with was the sheer ease of piloting a car that wanted to do everything for her. But once she’d settled in, the drive was fabulously – and dangerously – smooth. A couple of times on the M23 she swept past what seemed like irresponsibly sluggish motorists, only to realise they were doing around eighty, while she was pushing a hundred.
It had always amused her that Freddie worshipped cars, whereas Jen thought driving was deadly dull unless there was a challenge involved. Stick her in a beaten-up 4x4 and send her across tundra or over a sand dune and her blood would be pumping.
Still, today’s journey was about the destination, the chance to talk through her problems and perhaps even hit on some solutions.
The satnav unerringly delivered her to the allotments on the southern edge of Dorking, by which time she’d sorted the script for her opening remarks. She needed to lay out the situation without causing her father too much alarm or confusion. But all that preparation was for nothing when Dad stood up from his runner beans, saw the distress on her face and pulled her into a hug, whereupon she let out a muffled howl of pain and said, ‘I’ve been arrested, Dad. They’re gonna send me to prison.’
