CHAPTER 64
01:1 °CET
Rebecca yawned. Her eyes were sore. He’d been gone about an hour, and she had no idea when he was coming back. He had been evasive when she had pressed him for a time. As long as it takes, was the best answer he gave her. She wanted to be awake when he came back, so she picked up the phone and called room service for a triple espresso. If that didn’t keep her awake, nothing would.
She had settled on watching a news channel. It helped her eyelids stay up, even if the stories held no interest for her. Hurry up and get back, she thought. She didn’t like being on her own, even in the relative safety of the hotel room. Don’t open the door to anyone, he’d told her. She was starting to find his paranoia unbearable.
But then she had seen his scars. It had been a revelation. Rebecca couldn’t imagine the kind of existence that would cause someone to carry so many injuries. And if he carried that may physical wounds, how many psychological scars were there inside his head? She realized, almost to her amazement, that she actually felt sorry for him.
She thought back to what happened in the bar, the way he’d intervened on her behalf. Was that because he actually wanted to help, or was it just to maintain their low profile? At the time she’d been insulted that he hadn’t let her fight her own battle, thinking maybe even hitmen could have chivalry, misplaced as it was, but then she had realized he was more than likely just protecting himself by keeping her out of trouble. Now, she was sure he had simply been looking out for her and that thought touched her.
Twice now he had, in a way, rescued her. She smiled. Like a guardian angel. Though a guardian angel of death would be a better description.
Would he kill her when this was all over? It was a question she’d asked herself a dozen times or more over the last few days. Initially, even after he’d said she would never see him again, Rebecca had expected he would put a bullet in her skull the second he didn’t need her any more. The idea of seducing him in an effort to keep her off his list of targets had once been in the cards — she’d seen the way he looked at her — but she hadn’t had the courage.
Now, after the way he’d avoided telling her his name, she was certain he didn’t intend to kill her. If he’d told her, she would become even more of a risk to him, and his professional mentality would force him to eliminate that risk. He didn’t want to do that. Maybe he had once planned to kill her but not any more. She smiled at that, knowing he liked her, even if he would never admit it.
She was under no illusion about who he was or what he did for a living, but maybe there was something approaching a human being behind all that, after all. Maybe, when this was all over, she might find out what that human being looked like.
When her coffee arrived she was already half asleep. Rebecca opened the door and took the cup and saucer from the guy, her eyes squinting from the hallway lights behind him. She went back into the room to get some money for a tip.
Turning around she saw that he was now inside the door. Though her vision was blurry she realized he looked too old to be a hotel waiter. His hair was black but his skin tone was light, not Greek. Suddenly afraid, she stepped back away from him, further into the room.
His expression showed nothing as he closed the door behind him. He moved forward smoothly, unrushed. She saw his eyes: icy blue. They were the eyes of a man without a soul.
Rebecca prayed that the man whose name she didn’t know would come back at that moment, but there was no sign of him.
This time he wasn’t going to save her.
CHAPTER 65
01:49 CET
The main light was off when Victor returned to the room. Good. He’d told her not to put it on. Secondary lights only. They were off too. He heard the shower running. He hadn’t told her never to use one. If someone came for her he doubted it would make a difference either way.
‘It’s me,’ he said.
No answer. She couldn’t hear him over the noise of the shower. There was a crack in the curtains. A trace of moonlight shined through into the room. Light from the bathroom slipped under the door. There was just enough illumination for him to see that nothing was out of place. He was cautious, though — he always was. In the darkness he walked over to his bed, the one farthest from the door. He flicked on the lamp. The room stayed dark.
Sighing, he walked around the bed to the second lamp next to the broker’s bed. They always used double rooms with two beds. It was hard enough to sleep knowing she was in the same room without her being in the same bed too. After all the years of sleeping alone Victor didn’t know if he could with someone next to him. He didn’t want to try and fail, to know just how far removed from normality he really was.
He flicked the switch but it stayed off too. Victor turned around. The light in the bathroom was on, so the electricity was working, but both lamps were out. It seemed like too much of a coincidence.
The knife appeared in his hand.
He moved over to the main light switch. It was against protocol to turn it on if a smaller light source was available, but there wasn’t one. His hand reached out, his finger touching the switch. But he didn’t flick it down. Something was very wrong.
It felt as if he had been guided toward it. He could be mistaken, but he wasn’t about to take the chance. He moved his hand away from the switch and took the slim flashlight from his pocket. He shined the light at the switch. It was just an ordinary light switch, no different from how it had been when they had first entered, except the screw heads looked scratched. He shone the light at the floor underneath the switch. It took him a few seconds before he noticed the minuscule white speck on the carpet. He squatted down and touched it with his finger. Plaster.
The room had been immaculate when they had arrived.
His pulse started to rise. There were no sizeable wardrobes, no room underneath the beds. That left the bathroom.
Victor turned on the TV, cranked up the volume. He moved back to the bed. He had the flashlight in his left hand, the knife in his right. He moved silently over to the bathroom door, standing facing it. He had a horrible feeling about what he was going to see inside. His stomach was tighter than it had ever been.
He kicked the door open.
The bathroom was small. There was no one hiding in there, no one waiting.
No one alive anyway.
She still looked good, even with wet hair draped across her face. Her head was resting on the lip of the bath as if she were resting, but at an impossible angle from the rest of her body. The water from the shower splashed on her face and the wide, open eyes. Victor approached slowly and turned off the shower.
No amount of controlled breathing could slow down his heart rate. Victor squatted down next to the bath, the knife slipping from his fingers. He knew it was pointless, but he checked her pulse anyway. Her skin was still warm. He reached out a hand and brushed the blonde hair from her face. She’d complained when he’d ordered her to bleach it. He gently closed her eyelids. She looked asleep, peaceful. He stayed looking at her far longer than he knew was prudent.
He retrieved the knife from the floor and stood back up, his knuckles white. He felt sick. Victor left the bathroom, cold anger in his eyes.
There were no defensive wounds, no evidence of a fight of any kind, no traces of blood, no skin under her nails, nothing to suggest she had even fought back. Victor knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t have died without a fight. But against whoever killed her that fight had been over the second it had begun. The killer was
