'Sennen Cove?'
'Yes, that's it.'
Lynn knew it from childhood holidays, the north coast close to Land's End. Journeys they had made all the way across country from East Anglia, Lynn sitting squashed in the rear seat beside mounds of luggage, staring out at scenery that scarcely seemed to change, hour upon hour, unable to read for more than twenty minutes at a time lest it make her carsick.
Mum, Dad, how much longer?
Don't ask.
'This friend,' Lynn said, 'do you know her name?'
'Nadia. That's all. I don't know her last name.'
Unless that part of Cornwall had changed a great deal in the intervening years, Lynn didn't think it should prove too hard to track down someone of that name working in one of the relatively few hotels.
'If that isn't where she's gone, you've no idea where else she might be?'
'No. I'm sorry. None at all.'
'No other friends she spoke of? At the hotel, say, where she worked?'
Bucur shook his head.
'These men, the ones who came here looking for her. Can you describe them?'
'Of course. They were both quite tall, leather jackets, jeans. One, the one who did most of the talking, he was older-I don't know, thirty, thirty-five-and he had a beard, dark, almost black, and a scar, here.' Bucur ran his hand down the left side of his face.
'What nationality would you say he was?'
Bucur thought before answering, trying to recall the man's voice. 'Not Romanian. Slovakian, maybe.'
'Serbian?'
'Yes, that is possible. You know him?' he added, seeing the expression change on Lynn's face.
'He might be a man named Lazic,' Lynn said. 'Ivan Lazic. The description sounds similar to the man who threatened Andreea with a knife.'
Bucur had not been in the room when Andreea had identified him in the photograph.
'What about the other man?' Lynn asked.
'I didn't notice him as much. Except when he hit me, of course.' He gave a quick, self-deprecating smile. 'He was young, my age, I suppose. Tall, like I say. I didn't hear his voice. I don't think he spoke at all.'
Lynn nodded.
'If you know him, this man, surely you can arrest him?'
'Not without good reason. And always assuming we knew where he was.'
Bucur sat back, tasted the tea and frowned. 'It is too strong.'
'It's fine.'
He added more sugar to his own. 'If they come back, what shall I do?'
'If they come back, it's a good sign. It means they still don't know where Andreea is.'
'But not so good for me,' Bucur suggested with a smile.
'Keep the door locked; don't let them in. Phone the police and tell them these men have attacked you before. I'll have a word with the neighbours while I'm here, knock on a few doors. Someone may have seen something, strangers hanging round. I might call in at the local police station, too. It's just back along the High Road somewhere, is that right?'
'Yes. Past the sports ground and on the left. Francis Road. The bike I had before was stolen and I had to go there then.'
Lynn took a quick look at her watch and gulped down a last mouthful of tea. 'I'd better get cracking if I'm going to do all that and not miss my train. You'll let me know the minute you hear anything?'
'Of course.'
'Likewise.' She shook his hand. 'We'll find her, don't worry. She's probably on a National Express coach even now, heading west.'
'I hope so.'
After the comparative warmth of the small flat, it struck cold when Lynn stepped out onto the street. There were lights behind most sets of curtains, but not everyone came to the door, and those who did had little useful to say. A stout woman with her hair wrapped in a towel and the residue of an Irish accent thought she might have seen two men earlier in the day, not doing anything, just standing there, looking up at the house opposite. But if one of them had had a beard, never mind a scar, she hadn't noticed. 'Next time I looked, they'd gone.'
The sergeant she spoke to at the police station listened without giving her story the fullest attention; it was all a bit vague, and besides, trying to keep tracks on a transient population like theirs…
Lynn thanked him, left her number and headed back for the High Road and the walk to the tube; with any luck, she'd be at St. Pancras in time for the 20:55.
She phoned Resnick from the train, the sound of some jazz or other in the background as he spoke. She pictured him sitting there, perhaps with one or other of the cats on his lap, a glass of whisky close at hand.
'If you ask me,' Resnick said, after listening, 'she's in Cornwall even now. Coach just pulling into Falmouth or Penzance.'
'I hope you're right.'
'It's not all down to you, you know. The situation she finds herself in.'
'Isn't it? I can't help feeling it is. I put her in danger, Charlie.'
'You asked her to help put a dangerous man behind bars. Not the same thing.'
'That was a right fiasco, too.'
'No fault of yours.'
'I know.'
'You want me to meet you at the station?'
'No need. I'll get a cab.'
'You're sure?'
'Sure.'
When the CD finished, he set aside the book he'd been pretending to read, recharged his glass, and searched for a Bob Brookmeyer reissue he'd picked up a month or so before. Brookmeyer on valve trombone with a couple of different rhythm sections back in '54, the instrument's sound less sinuous than brittle, a slight rasp to his tone. Nothing too surprising here, pleasant, relaxed, moving with an easy swing, comforting; the trombone releasing the melody to the piano before working its way through a series of variations and then restating the final theme. 'Body and Soul.' 'Last Chance.' Four minutes and twenty-two seconds of 'There Will Never Be Another You.'
Through the music he heard the sound of a cab approaching along the narrow, poorly made-up road that led towards the house and a smile came to his face. In his mind's eye, he saw Lynn leaning forward to pay the driver, exchanging, perhaps, a few words, before getting out and, as the cab drew away again, crossing towards the house. In a moment he would hear the faint clicking of the gate. The cat jumped down from his lap as he rose and moved towards the door.
At first he thought what he heard as he stepped into the hall was the sound of a car backfiring, then knew, in the same breath, that it was not.
PART TWO
Twenty-two
Waking, Karen Shields found herself reaching, automatically, for the glass of water beside the bed. Her head, as she lifted it off the pillow, felt like a medicine ball that had been thrown once too often around the gym. The water was stale and warm, and she swilled it around her mouth and spat it back into the glass. Then, with a sudden jerk of memory, she reached her hand into the space beside her and, to her relief, touched nothing but tousled, empty sheets. Thank Christ for that!
