last I can relax a little. I’ve got a number.
“Madam, was there anything else?”
The concierge is starting to look quite pissed off, and there’s a queue of people building behind me. So I thank him again and head to a nearby sofa, full of adrenaline. I have a phone and I have a plan.
It only takes me five minutes to write out my new mobile number on twenty separate pieces of hotel writing paper, with
I call the police and dictate my new number to them. I text Ruby—whose mobile number I know by heart— saying:
Then I flop onto the sofa in exhaustion. I feel like I’ve been living in this bloody hotel all day. I should phone Magnus too and give him this number—but I can’t face it yet. I have this irrational conviction that he’ll be able to tell from my tone of voice that my ring is missing. He’ll sense my bare finger the minute I say, “Hi.”
I’ve leaned back, closed my eyes, and am trying to send a telepathic message through the ether. So when Beyonce starts up again, I give a startled jump. Maybe this is it! My ring! Someone found it! I don’t even check the screen before pressing
“Violet?” A man’s voice hits my ear. It’s not the man who called before; it’s a guy with a deeper voice. He sounds a bit bad-tempered, if you can tell that just from three syllables.8 He’s also breathing quite heavily, which means he’s either a pervert or doing some exercise. “Are you in the lobby? Is the Japanese contingent still there?”
In reflex, I look around. There are a whole bunch of Japanese people by the doors.
“Yes, they are,” I say. “But I’m not Violet. This isn’t Violet’s phone anymore. Sorry. Maybe you could spread the word that her number’s changed?”
I need to get Violet’s mates off my case. I can’t have them ringing me every five seconds.
“Excuse me, who is this?” the man demands. “Why are you answering this number? Where’s Violet?”
“I possess this phone,” I say, more confidently than I feel. Which is true. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.9
“You
“The Japanese people?” I squint at the group. “Maybe. Can’t tell.”
“Is a short guy with them? Overweight? Thick hair?”
“You mean the man in the blue suit? Yes, he’s right in front of me. Looks pissed off. Now he’s putting on his mac.”
The squat Japanese man has been handed a Burberry by a colleague. He’s glowering as he puts it on, and a constant stream of angry Japanese is coming out of his mouth, as all his friends nod nervously.
“No!” The man’s exclamation down the phone takes me by surprise. “He can’t leave.”
“Well, he is. Sorry.”
“You have to stop him. Go up to him and stop him leaving the hotel. Go up to him now. Do whatever it takes.”
“Nor me you,” he rejoins. “Who are you, anyway? Are you a friend of Violet? Can you tell me exactly why she decided to quit her job halfway through the biggest conference of the year? Does she think I suddenly don’t
Aha. So Violet’s his personal assistant. This makes sense. And she walked out on him! Well, I’m not surprised, he’s so bossy.
“Anyway, doesn’t matter,” he interrupts himself. “Point is, I’m on the stairs, floor nine, the lift jammed, I’ll be downstairs in less than three minutes, and you have to keep Yuichi Yamasaki there till I arrive. Whoever the hell you are.”
What a nerve.
“Or what?” I retort.
“Or else a year of careful negotiation goes down the tubes because of one ridiculous misunderstanding. The biggest deal of the year falls apart. A team of twenty people lose their jobs.” His voice is relentless. “Senior managers, secretaries, the whole gang. Just because I can’t get down there fast enough and the one person who could help won’t.”
Oh, bloody hell.
“All right!” I say furiously. “I’ll do my best. What’s his name again?”
“Yamasaki.”
“Wait!” I raise my voice, running forward across the lobby. “Please! Mr. Yamasaki? Could you wait a minute?”
Mr. Yamasaki turns questioningly, and a couple of flunkies move forward, flanking him protectively. He has a broad face, still creased in anger, and a wide, bullish neck, around which he’s draping a silk scarf. I get the sense
