‘That’s where we’ve stopped,’ the policeman said, exasperated. ‘That’s where I stopped and went back to twenty past twelve.’
‘Fifty-six seconds,’ Adam said. ‘They were in her room for fifty-six seconds before they came running out and raised the alarm.’
‘Under a minute to cover more than a hundred square metres,’ Bastesen mused and rubbed his chin. ‘That’s not much of a search.’
‘Would you please speak English,’ Warren requested without taking his eyes from the screen.
‘Sorry,’ Adam said. ‘As you can see, they can’t have done a very thorough search. They saw the apparently empty suite, read the note and that’s about it. Hang on. Look, look there!’
He bent down towards the screen and pointed. The policeman at the keyboard had fast-forwarded to a frame where a movement could be seen at the bottom of the screen.
‘A… a chambermaid?’
Warren squinted.
‘Chamber boy,’ Adam corrected. ‘If there is such a thing.’
The cleaner was a relatively young man. He was wearing a practical uniform and pushing a large trolley in front of him. It had shelves of shampoo bottles and other small items and a deep, apparently empty basket in front for dirty laundry. The man paused a moment before opening the door to the suite and going in, pushing the trolley in front of him.
‘07:23:41.’ Adam read the numbers slowly. ‘Do we have an overview of what was happening elsewhere at that time? In the rest of the hotel?’
‘Not a complete one, no,’ Bastesen said. ‘But I can safely say that it was generally… chaotic. The most important thing is that no one was watching the CCTV screens. There was a full alarm and we had problems with-’
‘Not even your people?’ Adam cut in, looking at Warren.
The American didn’t answer. His eyes were glued to the screen. The clock showed 07:25:32 when the cleaner came out again. He struggled to get the trolley over the threshold. The wheels were pressing down against it and the front of the trolley was stuck for a few seconds before he finally managed to push it out into the corridor.
The basket was full. A sheet or a large towel lay on top; one of the corners was hanging over the edge. The trolley approached the camera and the man’s face was clearly visible.
‘Does he work there?’ Adam asked quietly. ‘I mean, really work there. Is he an employee?’
Bastesen nodded. ‘We’ve got people on their way to pick him up now,’ he whispered. ‘But that man there…’ He pointed to the man who was behind the young Pakistani cleaner; a sturdy figure dressed in a dark suit with dark shoes. His hair was thick and short, and he had a hand pressed against the Pakistani boy’s back, as if to hurry him along. He was carrying something that resembled a small, foldable ladder. ‘We don’t know anything about him for the moment. But it’s only twenty minutes since we saw this for the first time, so the work…’
Adam wasn’t listening. He was staring at Warren Scifford. The American’s face was grey, and he had a thin layer of sweat on his forehead. He was biting his knuckles and still had not said a word.
‘Is something wrong?’ Adam asked.
‘Shit,’ Warren responded in anger, and then got up abruptly, almost tipping the chair over. He pulled his coat from the chair, hesitated for a moment and then repeated, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, ‘Shit! Shit!’
He grabbed Adam hard by the arm. The sweat had made the curls in his fringe stick to his forehead.
‘I have to see the hotel room immediately. Now.’
He stormed over towards the door. Adam exchanged looks with the Chief of Police before shrugging and jogging after the American.
‘He didn’t say who it was who gave him the idea,’ the policeman by the computer said sulkily. ‘You know, to check the footage from later. Did you catch who that bloody genius was?’
The woman at the neighbouring table shrugged.
‘Now, at least, I’ve definitely earned a rest,’ the man said, and went in search of something that might resemble a bed.
XVIII
Helen Lardahl Bentley woke up from a heavy sleep. She had no idea how long she had been out cold, but she remembered she had been sitting on the flimsy chair by the wall when the attack started. When she tried to sit up, she noticed that her right arm and shoulder had been hurt. A large bump on her temple made it difficult to open her eye.
The fall should have woken her. Maybe she had lost consciousness when she hit the floor. She must have been out of it for a long time. She couldn’t get up. Her body wouldn’t listen to her. She had to remember to breathe.
Her mind was spinning. It was impossible to focus on anything. She caught a glimpse of her daughter as a child, a little fair-haired three-year-old, the most beautiful one of all – and then she vanished. Billie was sucked into the light on the wall, which was like a deep red hole, and Helen Bentley remembered her grandma’s funeral, and the rose she had laid on the coffin; it was red, and dead, and the light was so bright that it hurt her eyes.
The room was far too silent. Abnormally still. She tried to scream. All she managed was a whimper, and it was muffled, as if there was a huge pillow in the room. There was no echo from the walls.
She had to breathe. She had to breathe properly.
Time went into a vortex. She thought she could see numbers and clock faces all over the room, and she closed her eyes against the shower of arrows.
‘I want to get up,’ she shouted in a hoarse voice, and finally managed to haul herself up into a sitting position.
The leg of the chair dug into her back.
‘I do solemnly swear,’ she said and crossed her right leg over the left, ‘that I will faithfully execute…’
She twisted round. It felt as if her thigh muscles were about to explode when she finally managed to get up on to her knees. She leant her head against the wall for support, and vaguely registered that it was soft. She leaned her shoulder into the wall too, and with great effort got to her feet.
‘… the office of the President of the United States.’
She had to take a quick step to the side to avoid falling. The plastic strips had cut even deeper into her wrists. She suddenly felt light-headed, as if her skull had been emptied of everything other than the echo of her heartbeat. As she was only a few centimetres from the wall, she stayed upright.
There was only one door in the room. On the opposite wall. She had to cross the floor.
Warren had betrayed her.
She had to find out why, but her head was empty; it was impossible to think, and she had to cross the floor. The door was locked. She remembered that now. She had tried it earlier. The padded walls swallowed what little sound she managed to make, and it was impossible to open the door. But still, it was the only hope she had, because behind the door was the possibility of something else, someone else, and she had to get out of the soundless box that was about to be the death of her.
With extreme care, she put one foot in front of the other and started to cross the dark, heaving floor.
XIX
After a while, Adam Stubo started to understand why Warren Scifford had been given the nickname ‘The Chief’.
He didn’t have much in common with Geronimo. His cheekbones were high, his eyes were deep set, his nose was small and his facial hair was profuse, so that he already had a visible grey shadow. The man had been clean-
