She feels her way through the door and finds them on the bedside table. A moment later, she’s holding a match and trying to strike it. The match snaps. She tries another and then another, her hands trembling. Finally, she manages to strike one and the room lights up with the faint glow of the candle. It’s not how she imagined it would be tonight. She thought they’d be in bed together, drinking wine, making love. Like a normal couple. But it’s turning into a nightmare.
The candle’s shaking so much in her hand that she spills some wax on the floor. She puts it down beside the bed and lights two others she brought with her in her luggage, calming candles from Cornwall. Relax. She needs to get everything in perspective. The power cut, the dead phone line, the shutters – there’s a perfectly rational explanation. They’re all part of the problem with the apartment’s software, the same issue that prevented her from leaving earlier tonight. It’s either an accident or an over-cautious Rob. The drone is more problematic. There was nothing accidental about that. Maybe its appearance was a coincidence, an envious neighbour who enjoys buzzing the rich kids in their penthouse suites.
I’m sorry, this isn’t how I wanted it to be.
What did Rob mean? Will he be back tonight? And which Rob will it be? The old thoughts are returning like smoke, seeping in under the door, circling and swirling around her. She is certain it was Rob’s voice on the phone earlier, but she won’t be able to cope if someone else turns up here now. An impostor, his double. The man from Thailand.
She looks around for her phone to call Ajay. She needs his reassurance that her damaged brain is playing tricks, nothing more. She knows she should ring Rob first, ask him what’s going on, but she’s lost her nerve.
She finds her mobile on the sideboard in the kitchen. No signal. She purses her lips, trying not to cry. The steel blinds must be blocking reception. What sort of security measure is that? Protection against bloody cold-callers? She just wants to be back in Cornwall with Bex and Stretch. And maybe even with Jake too, camping on the rainy hillside like they used to.
There’s hardly any power left on her phone either. Perhaps the landline’s working again. She finds the receiver in the bathroom. Dead. She looks around. There’s a ticking sound high up in the corner. The blades of a wall fan are turning lazily in a faint breeze. Climbing up onto the end of the bath, she can see the evening light outside. No sign of any steel blinds. She holds the phone up by the fan and looks at the screen. One bar of reception appears. Balancing carefully, she dials Ajay’s number. Engaged.
And then a distinct sound echoes through the apartment. The front door. She listens for a moment. Silence. On an impulse, she decides to try Jake’s number.
‘Hello?’ she calls out, waiting for the phone to connect. More silence. ‘Rob?’
The door again, closing behind whoever has just come in.
‘Rob?’ she repeats, louder now, her voice shaking. ‘Is that you?’
Why hasn’t he said anything? The silence is scaring her. She climbs down off the bath, knocking over the candle as the phone connects through to Jake.
‘Rob?’ she calls out.
He doesn’t answer. It must be someone else.
69
Silas
‘Boss, your phone.’
Silas turns from the window in the Parade Room and takes his mobile from Strover. She doesn’t say anything, but it’s clear from the display that it’s Conor.
‘You OK?’ Silas asks, walking over to a quiet corner.
‘I’ve just spoken to Mum,’ Conor says.
Silas glances around the room. No one is within earshot, but it’s still not the sort of conversation he’d like colleagues to overhear. Not even Strover.
‘And?’
‘Thanks – for calling her,’ Conor says. He sounds in a better place, more together. ‘She was chuffed about the counselling.’
She didn’t seem particularly chuffed when Silas spoke to her, but he’s glad if they’ve made progress, however slight.
‘I’ve also been up at the Bluebell, asking around,’ Conor continues. ‘I overheard a conversation in the back room – went the distance for you, Dad.’
‘You’re not to put yourself in danger,’ Silas says, checking again to make sure that no one can hear him. He’s being disingenuous. If Conor is to find out anything useful at the Bluebell, it’s going to be dangerous. And it sounds like Conor took a big risk. For him.
‘I was almost caught listening at the door, but I got away with it,’ Conor says. ‘Had to pay someone off to keep quiet.’
‘How much?’ Silas asks.
‘We can talk money later. The whole place was in turmoil anyway. You heard the ex-barman’s been killed? The one who used to work there a while back.’
‘In Cornwall,’ he says, sighing. ‘Yesterday. Anyone know who shot him?’
‘That’s what’s pranging everyone out.’
‘What are they saying?’
‘Turns out he had to do a runner six months ago. He’d been told to target that woman you mentioned, the one who was sick at recognising people. Apparently she was causing all kinds of carnage.’
Silas is hit by another pang of guilt about Kate. He’d been told to target that woman… He should have been more careful. The irony of what Conor’s saying is not lost on him either. He always hoped his son might show a bit more interest in his old man’s job and now he’s giving him a blow-by-blow account of his working life.
‘So anyway, after he spikes her drink that night, he drives off after her, just to be certain,’ Conor continues, speaking in the mockney accent that used to so annoy Silas. He can live with it now. At least they’re talking. ‘And sure enough he comes around the bend and sees her car smashed into a tree. Not nice, quite peak actually, but job done. I didn’t know any of this shit until tonight. He’s a hard bastard and just sits there, lights out, having a toke as he watches her life ebb away. What he doesn’t realise is that she managed to call 999 before she passed out.’
Silas remembers listening to the recording of her anguished voice, barely able to breathe let alone speak.
‘Just as he’s about to head off, he sees this other car pull up silently next to the crashed one,’ Conor continues. ‘A man gets out and checks on the driver. But this geezer doesn’t wait around. He drives away when he hears the ambulance approaching.’
‘What sort of car was it?’ Silas asks. He sees this other car pull up silently.
‘The barman is shitting himself in case this other man was following him,’ Conor continues, ignoring his dad’s question. ‘He thinks he might have seen the same car at the pub earlier that evening – in the car park. So he drives off too, in the other direction. Stays low. Disappears. Six months later, it’s show-trial time and a lot of people are banged up for fat sentences. The remaining gang members are not happy and send the barman down to Cornwall, where your woman’s recovering, to finish the job. And then he’s shot dead.’
‘This could be very helpful,’ Silas says, way too formally.
He’s having a conversation with his own son, not taking down a witness statement. Just how dysfunctional a dad has he become? He glances around the Parade Room, over towards Strover. Mel will kill him if she ever hears about this. He reassures himself that the only way to get their son out of the trouble he’s in is by dismantling the entire gang. And to do that, he needs to understand the network, its rivalries.