could look herself in the face without feeling guilt.
The man handed her an envelope.
‘Listen to me carefully,’ he said. ‘Inside that envelope are train tickets and a hundred pounds. Open it and check it.’
She put down her bag and opened the envelope. The contents were as he described and included an itinerary and instruction sheet.
‘Read and follow the instructions to yourself as I explain them to you.’
She unfolded the piece of paper.
‘The hundred pounds is for taxis and general expenses. You’ll catch a taxi outside this hotel to King’s Cross railway station. You’ll go straight to platform 9 and catch the first train to King’s Lynn. Platform 9b to be exact.
‘Make sure you’re on the right train. Ask someone. King’s Lynn. Go to the far end of the platform. Make sure you’re in one of the front four coaches or you might get left in Cambridge. The journey takes about an hour and three-quarters. Do you understand so far?’
‘Yes,’ she said, intimidated. She could feel his strength, his resolve.
‘King’s Lynn is the end of the line. The train doesn’t go any further. Get off the train, go outside, and get a taxi. The station has a taxi rank. If there are none left, wait for one. Don’t go anywhere else. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell the taxi driver you want to go to Burnham Market and a hotel called the Hoste Arms. He’ll know where it is. Read that back to me.’
‘The . . . Burn-ham Market, the Hoste Arms.’
‘Burnham. One word. The H is silent. Not burn ham.’
‘Burnham,’ she repeated correctly.
‘Go in the front door and find a seat in the bar. Someone will meet you there. They’ll say,
‘What’s the weather like in Boston, Kathryn?’
‘When your business is concluded, ask the hotel to call you a taxi and you will do the exact same journey in reverse. Is that clear?’
‘What business?’
‘Were you not told, don’t ask any questions?’
‘Yes. Sorry. It’s just that—’
‘I’m here to talk.You’re here to listen and do what you’re told. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘When you get back to King’s Cross, platform 9, you will walk directly out of the station. If the train does not stop at platform 9, you will walk to platform 9 as if it had, and then walk directly out of the station. When you are outside, that’s in the open air, as opposed to being under the roof of the station, you will turn right and move out of the flow of pedestrian traffic, just a few feet.That means you will still be by the entrance to platform 9. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Someone will meet you there. At the bottom of the instruction sheet is a number. It’s a mobile phone number. You will call that in the event of an emergency only. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s it then.’
‘Can I ask you one question?’
He sighed. ‘What is it?’
‘Am I staying in this hotel?’
‘No.’
‘Do I have time to freshen up, I—?’
‘No.’
‘But I didn’t sleep on the plane.’
‘No. You’ll leave your bag with me. You’ll get it back when you return to London tonight. Now go. Outside. Catch a taxi to King’s Cross railway station . . . Go,’ he said with finality, staring into her eyes.
Kathryn stood, looked at her bag, changed her mind about asking to get something from it, and turned and walked away.
She stepped out of the hotel and looked up and down the road for a taxi. She saw one and waved, then realised she was waving with the envelope and money in her hand. She folded them and put them into her coat pocket as the taxi pulled over to the kerb. She paused to look at the hotel; there was no sign of the man - or her bag. The level of her nervousness went up a notch as she climbed into the cab.
‘King’s Lynn railway station, please.’
‘King’s Lynn? You sure, luv?’
Kathryn had a flash of panic and quickly took the envelope from her pocket and checked the instructions. ‘Sorry. I mean King’s Cross.’
‘That’s more like it,’ the driver said as he pulled away and headed up the road. ‘King’s Lynn is bloody miles away. Nice place though, parts of it. It’s on the coast. Me an’ the misses used to keep a caravan up there. Up the coast a bit. Nice place. Ain’t been there for years though.Yeah, don’t you get King’s Cross mixed up with King’s Lynn for Christ’s sake. Cost you a pretty penny by taxi that would . . . ’
Kathryn hardly listened to a word he said.
Aggy sat in her bedroom at her dresser, looking at herself in the mirror. She wanted to do something with her short hair but couldn’t think of anything she liked. Her eyes fell on the perfume bottle on the dresser. It was the only one she had. No one had ever bought her perfume before.
She picked it up, removed the top, sprayed a little on her hand and smelled it for the umpteenth time. What the hell, she thought. Got to start sometime. She sprayed some on her wrists and rubbed them together then gave a little squirt to either side of her neck. She then had a mischievous thought, hiked up her skirt and sprayed some on her inner thighs, high up and close to her panties. She went to her bed, where she had laid out a selection of possible clothes to wear. She held up two blouses, looked from one to the other several times, and settled for the tighter one. She picked a bra up off the bed and tossed it into an open drawer and pulled off her shirt. She inspected her breasts in the mirror from one side and then the other, cupped them in her hands and pushed them up and then smoothed them over, as if putting them back into place gently. She pulled on the blouse and adjusted it. Sexy was definitely the word that came to mind.
Her door opened and her mother leaned in holding a cordless phone.
‘Call for you,’ she said, then put her hand over the phone and mouthed playfully, ‘It’s a man.’
Aggy smiled and took the phone as her mother raised an eyebrow at the blouse, suggesting it was cheeky. Aggy playfully shooed her out and closed the door.
‘This is Melissa,’ she said. There was only one man she was expecting a call from, and he knew her as Melissa. She was happy that he’d called even though she was due to meet him late that afternoon to spend the rest of the evening with him - and perhaps the night too.
‘Aggy,’ the voice said.
All cheery images of her and Bill Lawton together fled from her mind. She knew who it was and he was the last person in the world she had expected to call, even though for a long time he was the only man she hoped would. She had long since given up that daydream. Now here he was.
‘Stratton?’ she said.
‘How you doing?’ he asked.
‘Fine. You?’
‘Not bad. I asked your mum for Melissa by the way.’
She’d thought Bill was the only person in NI who knew her real name. But then, nothing about Stratton surprised her, except a telephone call from him.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
She couldn’t believe it. Now that she was seeing someone he was calling her. Nevertheless, she was torn. Bill
