Helen tried to catch a glimpse of the landscape behind the tall, untidy hedges that grew almost directly alongside the asphalt. According to the GPS, they had only another two miles to go before they reached their destination. “Can you tell me where we’re going yet?”
Werner glanced at her. “I’ll give you a clue: it came highly recommended by Serge.”
Serge was someone Werner knew well—a top chef whom the kitchen staff at the Horn of Plenty would visit each year for inspiration.
They drove past a large brown-varnished sign that alerted passing motorists to a five-star hotel farther down the road. Their view of the landscape was still blocked by the tall hedges, but through occasional gaps in the vegetation, Helen saw flashes of hills, meadows bordered by hedgerows, and here and there, an enormous tree.
She caught a glimpse of a building standing high up on a hill. It was half castle, half manor house, and it looked historic. “That can’t be it. Can it?”
Werner said nothing. He took his foot off the gas and turned onto a driveway, which meandered through a carefully maintained patch of woodland. On either side grew the biggest rhododendrons Helen had ever seen. At a bend in the road stood a small stone wall bearing an elegant sign, “South Down Hotel.” There were five stars printed below it, as well as the name of a restaurant and the logo of the Michelin Guide.
“Are you serious? Here?” Helen felt like a child on an unexpected outing to a theme park. She and Werner had always kept their vacations simple. Camping in France—“cramping,” Sara called it—or cute little guesthouses on the Adriatic coast. They hardly ever stayed in fancy hotels.
The driveway crossed a neatly mowed lawn and curved around in front of the portico of the impressive building. A uniformed older man stepped out through the entrance.
Werner pulled up and turned off the engine. A second man, also in uniform, hurried over. The two employees greeted them politely, and one of them took the car keys from Werner while the other placed their suitcases on a trolley and escorted them inside.
The entrance hall was magnificent. On the floor lay gleaming marble in a complex pattern. The white walls were lined with wood paneling, and chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. Richly upholstered sofas, enormous Persian carpets. Grandfather clocks with gold detailing.
“Werner, pinch me.”
He put his arm around her waist. “Good choice?”
“Wonderful,” she replied, almost breathlessly.
6
It was a selfie, taken from slightly overhead. Naomi looked frightened. The man next to her was holding the camera; he had bent his knees slightly to be at the same height as Naomi, and his cheek was pressed against hers. It looked like they knew each other intimately. The man’s crossed eyes were fixed directly on the camera, and his stubby teeth were bared in a mocking grin.
Ralf forgot to breathe.
Mikey.
Naomi was with Mikey.
Below the photo, it said:
See you soon. Looking forward to it!
Ralf could feel a vein throbbing in his temple. A monotonous buzz filled his ears. The photo didn’t show much of their surroundings—all he could see was a gray carpet, a radiator, and the bottom of a curtain. Dusky pink. He recognized that curtain.
They were in Brian’s room.
Ralf stuffed his phone into his pocket and sprinted up the stairs—two, three steps at a time. In his bedroom, he hauled the stack of magazines out of his nightstand, grabbed the gun, and tucked it under his waistband. He pulled his jacket on over it and zipped it up.
On the landing, he ran into his father, who had just emerged from his bedroom and was yawning as he tied the belt of his bathrobe. “You’re up early. That’s not like you.”
“I have to go out,” muttered Ralf, ducking past his father and heading for the staircase.
“Ralf?”
Their eyes met, long enough for him to see the open, contented expression on his father’s face give way to concern.
“Is everything OK, Son?”
Ralf opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. He turned his back on his father, hurried down the stairs, and sprinted down the street. Flustered, he put the key in the ignition. By the time he hit the road, all his doubts had vanished, and his fear had been replaced by a sharp and clear image of what he had to do.
7
Mr. Hawtrey wore a neat suit and a waistcoat. He had a big, friendly face, and short legs that propped up a significantly oversized torso. Maybe that explained why he walked in such a strange way—waddling slightly, like a character from a fantasy movie. Helen guessed he was around seventy.
“Here we serve our breakfast,” announced Mr. Hawtrey proudly. He took a step back so that Werner and Helen could peer inside.
There were roughly twenty round tables decked with white linen and surrounded by upholstered chairs. Eggplant-colored carpet, wood paneling running up to the ceiling.
“How beautiful,” answered Helen in her best English.
Mr. Hawtrey took obvious pleasure in her remark. He was the fourth generation of his family to work at the hotel, and he went on to tell them about the manor house’s walled gardens, where the chefs grew fruit and vegetables for use in the hotel kitchens. “You’ll look back very fondly on our jam.”
The tour continued. Mr. Hawtrey led them into a long corridor with a Persian carpet running the full length of the parquet floor. Everywhere you looked, there were oil paintings and side tables laden with sculptures, bouquets of dried flowers, and ornamental dishes. They wandered up and down staircases, passed through hallways lined with antique clocks and yet more art. In one softly lit room, they encountered a handful of respectably dressed guests drinking tea. Helen saw tiered cake stands covered with petits fours, and somebody was playing a grand piano. A large staircase led to the oldest part of the building.
“This wing dates back to the fifteenth century,” said Mr. Hawtrey.
The floor of the corridor was creaky and slightly crooked.
“Your room.” Mr. Hawtrey opened the door and ushered Helen and Werner inside.
Their suitcases were already there, standing at the foot of the enormous four-poster bed. Mr. Hawtrey pointed out the TV, “the coffee- and tea-making facilities,” the iPad and docking station on top of the walnut desk—all of which clashed somewhat with the antique furniture. The adjoining bathroom was set a few steps down from the bedroom; resembling a chapel, it was laid out in gleaming travertine with brass faucets. The bath was built into a niche and had a small Gothic-style window above it. According to Mr. Hawtrey, the stone windowsill was nearly six centuries old, though the lead-lined stained glass had been installed at a later date. After concluding his explanation, he vanished noiselessly.
“This place is like a fairy tale,” said Helen. “That man!”
“Straight out of Alice in Wonderland.”
A picture frame standing on the marble mantelpiece drew Helen’s attention. She picked it up. Behind the glass lay a sheet of paper with text printed on it. She read:
Our hotel is set in ninety-three acres of garden and parkland, which were created by Frederick DuCane Godman, an eminent nineteenth-century botanist. Please feel welcome, when taking a stroll around the gardens, to pick flowers for your room and place them in the vase provided.
“Amazing! You need to hear this.” She read it out loud to Werner.
“What a great idea.” Werner’s eyes twinkled. “Get your guests to pick their own flowers and tell them it’s a privilege. Genius.”
Grinning, she walked over to the window. The view was just as breathtaking as the hotel itself. Rolling fields ringed by woodland. In the distance, she could see ridges ranging in color from diffuse violet to blue gray. She heard somebody laughing nearby.
“Wow, Werner, look at this!”
Directly below the window, on one of the exterior staircases, stood around fifteen women and girls in cocktail dresses, drinking champagne. Beyond them, on the lawn, a group of men w
ere playing cricket—in dinner jackets.
“A wedding party.” Werner came and stood next to her, his hands in his pockets. “I was warned about them when I made the reservation, but they assured me the inconvenience would be minimal.”
“Inconvenience? But this is wonderful!” Helen folded her arms and took in the scene. “It’s just like a movie. Some kind of aristocratic wedding, I suppose.”
“A family with money, at any rate. They’ve booked dinner for one hundred people in the hotel restaurant tonight. But that doesn’t affect our plans, as I’ve arranged something different for us.”
“Let me guess: another recommendation from Serge?”
“Bingo.”
She threw her arms around him and planted a kiss on his lips. “It’s so sweet of you. I mean it—you’ve exceeded all my expectations. I feel like a twenty-year-old again.”
8
Ralf’s whole body was shaking. His hoodie was plastered to his back, but he didn’t notice. After leaving his car in the parking lot, he had sprinted into the building, his pace gradually slackening until he found himself standing before Brian’s door. Panting for breath, vibrating with anxiety. He ran his hand over his jacket and felt the gun underneath his waistband. The door was slightly ajar, and the room behind it ominously quiet. Ralf felt light-headed—for a moment, it felt like he was hovering just above the ground. He swallowed and nudged the door with his foot, causing it to slowly swing open.
“Brian’s little helper.” Mikey grabbed his arm and pulled him inside forcefully.
Ralf was pitched into the room but remained standing. He saw Naomi cowering on the bed. She was deathly pale, and her mascara had run.
“Are you OK?” His heart thumped behind his ribs.
She nodded. Looked anxiously at Mikey as he closed the door behind him.
“What did he do to you?”
“Nothing,” she said. It came out as a sob.
“Goddamnit—you call that nothing?” He spun around to face Mikey. “You’d better—”
Mikey lunged at him, but Ralf was on his guard this time. Ducking to one side, he rammed his fist upward and caught him directly on the jaw. Mikey’s face twisted in pain, but he recovered almost instantly and narrowed his reptilian eyes into slits. “Dumb move, Ralf.”
Ralf was beside himself with fear and rage. “You keep your filthy hands off her!”
“I don’t take orders from you.” Mikey slowly rubbed his jaw. His eyes ran inquiringly over Ralf’s clothing. “Where’s the money?”
Naomi made herself even smaller behind Mikey, lifting her knees up to her chest.
Ralf wondered how she had gotten here. Had Mikey dragged her off her bike? Run her off the road?
What the fuck has he done to her?
“I’m asking you a question.”
“I heard you.” Ralf’s voice sounded pinched—like it belonged to somebody else. He could feel the gun behind his waistband; the clammy skin underneath it; the smooth, dense metal. “I don’t have any on me.”
Mikey’s expression shifted. He raised his eyebrows, then narrowed his eyes once more.
“You want Brian. Not me,” continued Ralf. His eyes flickered back and forth between Mikey’s eyes and his hands, alert to the slightest movement. “And you’d better leave Naomi alone. She has nothing to do with this.”
Mikey slowly began to move. He made a half circle around Ralf, like a predator encountering a rival on the edge of its territory, staring at him all the while. A butterfly knife appeared in his hand, the metal clinking between his fingers. “Think you’re tough, do you?”
Naomi shrieked.
Ralf took a step backward and simultaneously pulled the gun out from under his jacket. Aimed it at Mikey. His hands were trembling uncontrollably; the grip was slippery with sweat. The room went blurry. Ralf could only see Mikey, his crooked eyes. The knife.
There’s no going back.
9
“Would you like one?” asked Helen. She held up a packet of instant cocoa she had found in the box next to the kettle.
Werner was standing by the window, looking at the brilliant-blue sky. “We should drive over to Brighton for a drink and then go for a stroll along the beach. What do you think?”
She put the packet right back down. Brighton had made a big impression during their first visit. It had an enormous palace festooned with white minarets and cupolas—the Royal Pavilion—and the city center was overflowing with cafés and small theaters. Not to mention the shingle beach and the esplanade full of fairground rides and slot machines. “Will the pier still be there?” she wondered out loud.
“It must be.”
Helen grabbed her coat and hung it over her arm. “OK, let’s go,” she said, smiling.
Werner didn’t move.
At the door, she looked over her shoulder. “You did mean now, didn’t you?”
“Sure.” He looked pensive for a moment before adding, “Don’t you want to take any photos for back home first? So they know where we are?”
“Oh yeah, of course.”
She was a little shocked at herself. All these new impressions had absorbed her attention so thoroughly that she hadn’t thought about the children at all. Hastily, she pulled her phone out of her purse, but there were no missed calls or messages. She began taking pictures of the view and the wedding party, as well as the four-poster bed and the bathroom, then sat down and sent the images to Sara, Thom, and Emma, adding:
We’re at the South Down Hotel and it’s fabulous here, just like a museum! Your father and I are about to head off to Brighton. Is everything OK at home? Are Grandma and Grandpa already there? Lots of love (and hello to Jackie and Naomi), Mom
She remained on the bed, staring expectantly at her phone. The texts had been received, and Sara was already typing an answer.
“What are you waiting for?” asked Werner.
“I just want to make sure everything is OK at home.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
She looked up. “Have you forgotten already?”
“Jesus, Helen, are you still worrying about that?”
She frowned. Was he serious? “What do you mean, ‘still’? It only happened nine days ago.”
Her phone began to buzz. Sara sent a selfie with Jackie and Emma in the kitchen. Below it, she had written:
OMG! Have fun over there! I’m so jealous!
Emma’s message was longer and more informative:
Are you really going to sleep there, Mom? It looks like a haunted house. We made pancakes. They turned out really good! Naomi already went home. X E
Thom’s reply came immediately after:
Nice, Mom. Grandma and Grandpa are on their way (they just called).
“They made pancakes.” Helen smiled up at Werner. “And Emma thinks this place looks like a haunted house.”
“Wonderful. Shall we?” He was standing by the door, holding his coat demonstratively in his hand. Despite the smile on his face, he had a cool, nonchalant look in his eyes.
Why was he acting like this? she wondered. Or was he completely unaware that he was putting distance between them?
She stood up and followed him out of the bedroom. Said nothing. She didn’t want a fight, least of all now.
10
“Stop!” Naomi leapt up from the bed.
“Get out of here!” bellowed Ralf. “Run!”
Naomi looked from Ralf to Mikey, her eyes wide. “You’re crazy, both of you!” She sprinted toward the door.
Mikey was quicker. He grabbed her hair and pulled her back against himself. With a fluid movement, he placed the knife on her throat.
“Let her go,” said Ralf. “I don’t want to shoot.”
Mikey held Naomi in front of himself like a shield. His eyes glittered. “Come on, Ralf. This is too much for you. Put that thing on the floor and kick it over to me.”
Naomi stood stock-still, her eyes squeezed shut. Ralf didn’t dare pull the trigger. The risk of hitting Naomi w
as too great. He had never fired a real pistol before, and besides, he was shaking uncontrollably.
But he knew one thing for certain: whatever happened, he wasn’t going to hand his gun over to Mikey. No fucking way. The moment he did that, he would lose all control of the situation. Then they would both be at Mikey’s mercy.
“I don’t have all day, buddy.” Mikey tightened his grip on Naomi’s hair. She was panting through clenched jaws, her eyes squeezed shut.
Ralf locked eyes with Mikey, concentrating as hard as he could. He could see or hear nothing else.
“I won’t ask you again.”
Was he imagining it, or did Mikey’s voice sound more uncertain? His demeanor seemed to be shifting too; he was moving away from Ralf, very slowly, as if he wanted to back out of the situation altogether. Ralf’s hand gradually ceased its trembling.
“You’re asking for it,” growled Mikey. The razor-sharp tip of the knife pressed against the soft, thin skin of Naomi’s throat. Pushed down harder. Her eyes shot open.
“Don’t!” exclaimed Ralf. “I swear it, I’ll—” He stretched out his arm, stared tensely down the barrel of the gun. His finger on the trigger.
Mikey pulled Naomi closer and shrank, hiding behind her body. Then he swore and took the knife from her throat, pointing it toward Ralf and pouring a torrent of abuse at him. At that exact moment, Naomi sprang into action, bringing her heel down forcefully on Mikey’s foot and swinging her arm downward. Her fist landed squarely on Mikey’s crotch. He emitted a muffled squeal and struggled to stay upright as Naomi fought her way free.
Ralf leapt forward, grabbed Mikey’s wrist, and lashed out with the pistol. The heavy metal collided with Mikey’s temple. He struck him again, and again, as hard as he could, holding Mikey’s wrist in an iron grip. The knife fell to the carpet with a faint jingling sound as Mikey tottered over, pulling Ralf with him.
Ralf heard a loud bang, followed by the sound of breaking glass. A dull pain ran up the side of his body. The panels of the coffee table had been forced apart under their combined weight, and the black glass tabletop had shattered into countless shards. Amid the fragments of glass and particleboard lay flat white packages, wrapped in transparent plastic.
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