She could get to the mains switch in ten seconds…
She was flat on the floor beneath the window ledge in the living room, out of sight. She'd moved the free- standing mirror in from the bedroom, positioned it to the inch, tilted it until it gave the optimum view. Now she could lie here safely and watch the back garden. She would see any of them coming immediately. There was another mirror halfway down the garden – a big one she'd hung from a fence post. From this position, she could see around the side as well.
When she'd first bought the flat, the garden had been great. She'd enjoyed sitting out there on summer nights, with a man sometimes, sharing a bottle of wine before bed. These days it was a bloody liability. It would be the way they would come. It was the place they watched her from most of the time, though the officer in the cherry picker pretending to fix the lamp post on the street outside was a clever idea. But she was cleverer. She knew all the tricks, didn't she?
The surveillance game. She knew the car that was following her was probably the one in front. She knew all the tricks because she was one of them.
Holland must have been talking. Everybody knew, she was certain of it. She'd caught two people at it in the space of five minutes, earlier in the day. Talking about her, clamming up when she came into the room. Watching her and judging. Well she was watching, them as well. As she re-applied make-up using the small mirror she kept in her bag. She could see what they were thinking. Same as Holland. Same as everybody. All of them thinking that she couldn't do the job. She froze. A shadow moved across the garden. She could be at the mains switch in less than five seconds at a push, plunge the place into darkness, turn everything off. She'd done it before when she'd heard them coming. It was a pain to spend the time re-programming the video and re-setting clocks, but she'd had no choice. They were out there, listening. The bastards weren't going to hear or see anything tonight. She. slid across the floor until she was away from the window before standing up and inching her way around the wall. She dropped into the chair by her desk, woke up her computer.
There were those she could talk to who knew how good an officer she was. Who thought she was probably better at the job than anybody else. Who challenged her to prove it.
She had email.
The ringing phone punched its way into Thorne's dream where it became the bark of a hungry animal, scrabbling at a door, digging its way beneath it. Behind the door stood a small boy, rooted to the spot, terrified, until a girl arrived and took him by the hand. Thorne woke then and leaned across, fumbling for the phone.
'Palmer?'
'Thorne? It's Colin Maxwell. You in bed?'
Thorne blinked hard and looked at the clock. It was just after eleven. He'd been asleep less than half an hour. 'I was reading. Trying to get an early night…'
Maxwell. The hotel killings. More bodies…
'Which hotel is it?'
Maxwell sounded surprised. 'The Palace, in South Kensington. How the hell did you know?'
Thorne was wide awake now. He needed some more painkillers.
'Why else would you be calling? How many dead?'
'Nobody's dead. Listen, I think we've got our wires crossed here, mate. This is good news, and I reckon you could do with cheering up. Our man isn't as bright as we thought he was.'
The painkillers could wait. 'You've got him?'
'He delivers bar supplies. Drives a fucking beer wagon. Delivery once a month, gets friendly with the catering managers, chats up a few waitresses. Who've you got staying? Who's throwing their money about? Bungs them a few quid for the right bit of information…'
'What's the Palace hotel got to do with it?'
'A witness comes forward, a cleaner, gave the suspect information last year when she was working at the Regency, back when our murderer was still just a thief. The suspect approaches this girl again last week, only now our cleaner's read the papers hasn't she? She knows all about him. We've told her she's in the clear if she plays along.'
Thorne was growing irritated. They could go over it all in detail later. 'Colin, just tell me about the Palace hotel…'
'That's the best bit, mate. What are you doing next Tuesday night?'
TWENTY-FOUR
Thorne looked down at his new phone. It was smaller than the one it was replacing and flashier. He'd spent most of the day making sure that everyone who mattered had the new number. He hadn't discontinued the account on his old phone. He wanted that number active for the time being.
While it was quiet, while they were waiting, Thorne messed around with some of the new phone's features. This one had a predictive text function. He had never been one for sending text messages, it always seemed easier and quicker to make the call. This might be fun, though. He typed the message. There were probably all manner of symbols and shortcuts he could be using – he knew this stuff was hugely trendy with kids – but he just kept it straightforward. He pressed the send button and looked up, smiled at a couple of the others. Nobody was saying a great deal.
Thorne was pretty sure that what he'd sent would be read. There was no risk in opening it, even if the number that sent-it wasn't familiar. It was a simple enough message.
GIVE UP…
A stomach rumbled, breaking the silence, dispersing the tension. They all had a good laugh. Somebody suggested calling room service, ordering up a bit of dinner on expenses.
Holland and McEvoy pushed through the revolving door and made their way across the lobby towards reception. Holland was wearing a blue suit. McEvoy wore a soft leather jacket over a black dress. They were hand in hand.
'Room 133, please,' Holland said.
McEvoy took a small hand mirror from her bag and checked her makeup.
The woman behind the reception desk plastered on a fake smile that was almost, but not quite, the same fake smile she plastered on the rest of the time. The tremble in her hand was almost imperceptible as she handed over the key.
'Do you need a call in the morning?' she asked. McEvoy shook her head.
'Would you like a newspaper?'
Holland smiled. She was very good. 'No thanks. Goodnight..?
They waited for the lift. McEvoy stared at her reflection in the metal doors. Holland turned round casually, had a quick look. A man smoking a cigar on the armchair by the main entrance, fifty-ish, waiting for someone. A party of noisy business types spilling out of the bar. A younger man on the phone.
The lift arrived, bringing with it half a dozen more jabbering businessmen. Holland and McEvoy stepped inside. Holland pressed the button for the first floor.
It was only when the doors had closed fully that they stopped holding hands.
Jason Alderton moved quickly along the corridor, his feet in soft black training shoes that made no noise on the deep carpet. A woman came around the corner. He grinned as they passed each other, got a smile in return.
He stopped outside the door and readied himself. He placed the bag soundlessly at his feet, looking left and right every few seconds, pulling on the gloves. It was important to step up close to the door, to get your face right up against the spy hole. The clothes were utilitarian enough anyway, but up close all anyone could see was the smiling face that looked away unconcerned, whistling.
Jason breathed in and out very fast a dozen times, then knocked. It gave him a little kick that inside the gloves, his palms were perfectly dry. He was getting very good at this.
Footsteps from inside the room. He tensed up, ready for it. It was the surprise that gave him the edge. They were always so completely stunned. He saw that expression on every face. They'd felt safe.
