Cathy Jordan had fallen back to sleep. One of those shimmering dreams that refused to touch ground. Railway carriages, aero planes other people's bathrooms. Silk. Steel. Slivers of skin. She woke with the under sheet wound tight between her legs and her hair plastered to her scalp with sweat.
'Frank?' Frank was still not back. Breakfast? The breakfast didn't seem to have arrived. If room service had knocked, they had got no answer and gone away. Cathy prised herself from the bed and made it, less than steadily, to the shower.
Testing the temperature of the water with her hand, she stepped beneath the shower, letting the water stream over her neck and shoulders and as, eyes closed, she lifted her face towards it, she felt braced, revived.
Ten minutes later, Cathy briskly towelled herself down. Through the curtains, she saw it was another fine day. Not exactly sunny, but fine. Better than she had anticipated. Maybe she'd laze around a little longer, take a look at the Sunday papers. Wasn't that interview she'd done being printed today?
She glanced around. Frank could have taken the newspaper with him when he went out, but that seemed unlikely. Probably, they were still outside in the corridor.
Wrapping a towel around her, Cathy pulled back the door and looked out. There they were, and a full breakfast trolley, too. A glass cafetiere with silver trim, juice, several pots of honey and jam, a bread basket covered with a starched white cloth. Oh, well, the coffee would be cold, but nothing was wrong with orange juice and a couple of cold croissants. Cathy wheeled the trolley back inside and snapped the door closed with her hip. Letting the towel fall to the floor at her feet, she flicked back the cloth from the basket and screamed.
Where she had expected croissants, a baby nesflet snugly, its limbs, where they showed through its bab) clothes, skinned and streaked with blood.
Thirty-three The flesh was rabbit, not the supermarket kind, but bought fresh and skinned, none too expertly at that. The blood, it seemed, had been squeezed from a pound or so of liver, the richness of the smell suggesting pig as the most likely source. Baby clothes, otherwise new, had been purchased at Mothercare. The face, cherubic and brittle, had been detached from a child's doll, the old-fashioned kind.
It was not until later, when the trolley was being carefully checked and searched, that the note was found, a single sheet inside a small envelope which had been slipped between two napkins, folded beneath an empty glass.
'You don't want to see it,' Resnick said.
Yes, I do. '
'There's no point, not now. Why don't you wait?'
Till when? ' Cathy Jordan had laughed.
'Till I'm feeling better?'
When Resnick had first arrived, she had been standing by the window, dressed in denim shirt and jeans, an absence of colour in her face.
Someone from the hotel had brought her black coffee and brandy and she had drunk the latter, allowed the coffee to get bitter and cold.
The trolley and its contents were where she had left them, towards the centre of the room.
Frank Carlucci had arrived back from the pool a little after Resnick, unaware that anything was wrong. Immediately, Cathy had rounded on him, shouting, where in God's name had he been, why the fuck was he never there when she needed him? Once, hard, she had pounded her fist against the meat of his shoulder and Frank had lowered his head, eyes closed, bracing himself for her to strike him again.
'Can't someone, for Christ's sake, get me some fresh coffee up here?' she had said, turning away, letting her hands fall by her sides.
Since then she had been quiet, almost controlled, patient while Resnick made calls, issued orders, people came and silently went.
Conversations were held in hushed tones beyond the door.
Handling the edges carefully with gloves, Resnick held the note towards Cathy Jordan's face. It had been typed on an ill-fitting ribbon, black shadowing into red: How do you like this? The only misbegotten child you're likely to have.
Cathy read it slowly, again and again, tears filling her eyes until she could no longer see. Blindly, she moved towards the bathroom, banging her shin against the low table laden with magazines. When Frank went to help her, she pushed him angrily away.
The two men looked at one another, Resnick replacing the note inside its envelope.
'What kind of a sick bastard does something like this?' Frank asked.
'I don't know,' Resnick said. All the while thinking, this weekend the city is full of them, writers, film makers, people for whom thinking up things like this is meat and drink.
'Frank,' Cathy said, coming back, tiredness replacing the shock in her eyes, 'would you be a sweetheart, see what's happened to that coffee? '
Sure. '
As Frank picked up the phone, Mollie Hansen appeared in the doorway and Resnick motioned for her to stay where she was, walking over and leading her into the corridor outside.
'I only just heard,' Mollie said. Her face, usually unblemished and even, was beginning to show signs of strain.
'I'm not sure I know everything that happened.'
Concisely, Resnick told her all she needed to know.
'How's she taking it?' Mollie asked.
'She's angry, upset, pretty much what you'd expect.'
'And those threatening letters she had do you think this is the same person?'
'It's possible. As yet there's no way of knowing. At first sight, the note doesn't seem to have been written on the same machine. But that might not mean a thing.'
'And you don't imagine…'
What? '
'Well, that business with the paint. This couldn't be another stunt to get publicity for their cause?'
'Vivienne Plant and her friends? I don't know. I'd have thought she'd have had a photographer on hand, at least. But we'll talk to her, all the same.'
'Good.' They were standing near the lift doors, opposite a lithograph of trees and a beach, shaded pink.
'Can I talk to her? Cathy?' Mollie asked.
'From my point of view, no reason why you shouldn't. But you might leave it a while longer. Give her some time to settle down.'
Mollie sighed, looked at her watch.
'I suppose so. It's just she's got this interview this evening with Sarah Dunant. If she isn't going to be able to go ahead with it, I ought to let Sarah know.'
'Why don't you give her half an hour?' Resnick said.
'I can let her know you're around. If she says she wants to talk to you now, I'll let you know.'
'Fine,' Mollie smiled tiredly.
'Thanks.'
Behind her, the lift shushed to a halt and Lynn Kellogg stepped out, Kevin Naylor immediately behind her. 'Thought you could use a little help,' Lyim said. Resnick nodded his thanks and set them both to work.
Susan Tyrell stood in the centre of the kitchen, door open to the garden, whisking meringue and wondering how long it had been since she and David had made love. Probably it had been Christmas, that squeaky bed in her parents' spare room, several bottles of cheap champagne and some good port enough to stir a little life into David's libido. Even then, he had called out the name of some movie star at the point of climax. His and not hers. Hers had been an altogether quieter, more private affair, later.
Since then it had been a cuddle last thing at night, those long moments before falling into sleep, David's last waking act to turn away from her arms.
'Why do you stay with him?' her friend, Beatrice, had asked.
Susan had sat there like a contestant on Mastermind, stumped for the right answer.
'This damned festival,' Tyrell said, coming into the kitchen, cell phone in his hand, 'is getting more like a
