I've Got Your Number

My phone bleeps and I take it out of my pocket for old times’ sake. I’ve given up hoping for a miracle.

“You have one new message,” comes the familiar, unhurried tone of the voice-mail woman.

I feel like I know this woman, she’s talked to me so often. How many people have listened to her, desperate for her to hurry up, their hearts pounding with fear or hope? Yet she always sounds equally unfussed, like she doesn’t even care what you’re about to hear. You should be able to choose different options for different kinds of news, so she could start off: “Guess what! Ace news! Listen to your voice mail! Yay!” Or: “Sit down, love. Get a drink. You’ve got a message and it’s not good.”

I press 1, shift the mobile to the other hand, and start trudging again. The message was left while I was on the tube. It’s probably just Magnus, asking where I am.

“Hello, this is the Berrow Hotel, with a message for Poppy Wyatt. Miss Wyatt, it appears your ring was found yesterday. However, due to the chaos of the fire alarm—”

What? What?

Joy is whooshing through me like a sparkler. I can’t listen properly. I can’t take the words in. They’ve found it!

I’ve already abandoned the message. I’m on speed-dial to the concierge. I love him. I love him!

“Berrow Hotel—” It’s the concierge’s voice.

“Hi!” I say breathlessly. “It’s Poppy Wyatt. You’ve found my ring! You’re a star! Shall I come straight round and get it?—”

“Miss Wyatt,” he interrupts me. “Did you listen to the message?”

“I … Some of it.”

“I’m afraid … ” He pauses. “I’m afraid we are not presently sure of the ring’s whereabouts.”

I stop dead and peer at the phone. Did he just say what I thought he did?

“You said you’d found it.” I’m trying to stay calm. “How can you not be sure of its whereabouts?”

“According to one of our staff, a cleaner waitress did find an emerald ring on the carpet of the ballroom during the fire alarm and handed it to our guest manager, Mrs. Fairfax. However, we are uncertain as to what happened after that. We have been unable to find it in the safe or in any of our usual secure locations. We are deeply sorry, and will do our utmost to—”

“Well, talk to Mrs. Fairfax!” I try to control my impatience. “Find out what she did with it!”

“Indeed. Unfortunately, she has gone on holiday, and despite our best endeavors, we have been unable to contact her.”

“Has she pinched it?” I say in horror.

I’ll find her. Whatever it takes. Detectives, police, Interpol … I’m already standing in the courtroom, pointing at the ring in a plastic evidence bag, while a middle–aged woman, tanned from her Costa del Sol hideout, glowers at me from the dock.

“Mrs. Fairfax has been a faithful employee for thirty years and has handled many valuable artifacts belonging to guests.” He sounds slightly offended. “I find it very hard to believe that she would have done such a thing.”

“So, it must be somewhere in the hotel?” I feel a glimmer of hope.

“That is what we are endeavoring to find out. Obviously, as soon as I know anything more, I will be in touch. I can use this number still, can I?”

“Yes!” Instinctively, I grip the phone more tightly. “Use this number. Please call as soon as you hear anything. Thank you.”

As I ring off, I’m breathing hard. I don’t know how to feel. I mean, it’s good news. Kind of. Isn’t it?

Except that I still don’t have the ring safely on my finger. Everyone will still be worried. Magnus’s parents will think I’m flaky and irresponsible and never forgive me for putting them through such stress. So I still have a total nightmare ahead of me.

Unless … Unless I could—

No. I couldn’t possibly. Could I?

I’m standing like a pillar on the pavement, my mind circling furiously. OK. Let’s think this through properly. Logically and ethically. If the ring isn’t actually lost …

I passed a Boots on the high street, about four hundred yards back. Almost without knowing what I’m doing, I retrace my steps. I ignore the shop assistant who tries to tell me they’re closing. My head down, I make my way to the first-aid counter. There’s a glove thing you pull on, and some rolls of adhesive bandage. I’ll get it all.

Ten minutes later I’m striding up the hill again. My hand is swathed in bandages, and you can’t tell whether I’m wearing a ring or not, and I don’t even have to lie. I can say, “It’s difficult to wear a ring with a burned hand.” Which is true.

I’m nearly at the house when my phone bleeps and a text from Sam Roxton pops into my in-box.

Where’s the attachment?

Typical. No “hello,” no explanation. He just expects me to know what he’s on about.

What do you mean?

The email from Ned Murdoch. There was no attachment.

That’s not my fault! I just sent on the email. They must have forgotten to put it on. Why don’t you ask them to send it again, WITH the attachment? Directly to your computer?