“Perhaps when you went on break, or stopped for your tea…”
Without looking up from her cleaning, she replied. “I worked straight through. I always do. If your friend shows up today, I can let her know you’re looking for her. Where shall I tell her you’ll be?”
“Thanks, but I’ll just hang around The Hanoverian. That’s where we’re supposed to meet.” He grabbed the bread and left the shop.
Thinking Karin might have been hungry and needed to eat before she left Hathersage, Jamie tried three more businessesa teashop, a small restaurant, and a smaller grocery. His account was the same and the responses were the same: no woman of Karin’s description had been in the establishment on the day in question. Or recently. They were sorry, but perhaps his friend had eaten in the hotel restaurant. Or stayed at one of the bed-and-breakfasts in the village. Which just might explain everything, Jamie thought, if Karin had decided to bed down elsewhere if the hotel’s price was too high for her budget. He thanked them and returned to the hotel.
A couple, probably in their early twenties, was packing up their car. Three suitcases waited on the ground as the man unlocked the boot. The woman cooed to an infant and rearranged the blanket enveloping the child. Jamie picked up the baby bottle that had dropped onto the ground, handed it to the woman, and headed toward the back of the hotel. A maid and waiter stood near the door, taking a smoking break. He walked up to them and rattled off the now-familiar lines.
The maid shook her head and said she’d seen no such guest. “I’ve done up most of the rooms already this morning, sir, and seen most of the occupants. Not a red haired woman in the group.”
“She couldn’t be still here, perhaps sleeping late… Someone you haven’t seen…”
“Could be, of course. But I know who’s registered in each room.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t snoop! Heavens, I don’t mean that! But I know by the hotel registration. I need to know when I go to each room if I’m serving a single occupant in a double room, or a family.”
“Of course. Helps you with the towels and sheets,” he said, not unkindly.
“Yes, sir. So I don’t believe your friend is staying with us. Not that I’m one hundred percent certain, but I don’t think so.” She chewed her bottom lip and frowned slightly. “Unless…”
“Yes?”
“There is one lady that could be her, I guess. All depends on your definition of ‘red hair,’ though.”
“Hers is very red. Almost a fiery red.”
The maid shook her head. “No. Can’t be her, then. This woman’s hair is more carroty. And she’s old. You said your friend’s in her twenties?” Her eyebrow went up, as though silently commenting on the ten or twelve years’ difference in his and Karin’s ages.
“Yes. Perhaps her hair looks duller because she’s indoors.” He mentally crossed his fingers.
“Can’t be her. Sorry. Our guest is a lot older than that. Probably fifty. Walks with a cane, too. Can’t see your friend hobbling all this way on a cane.”
“Not her, then. Thanks anyway.”
The maid crossed her arms over her chest, her cigarette dangling from her fingers. “You seen her, Robbie?”
The waiter took a last puff on his cigarette, then crushed it in the sand-filled stand near the back entrance. He was short, dark and muscular, and had the appearance of always being ready for a fight. But he was courteous to Jamie, perhaps unsure if Jamie were a guest. He barely glanced at the maid before looking at Jamie. “No. Doesn’t sound familiar.”
Jamie said, “If she had dinner somewhere else Friday night and was out all day yesterday, and hasn’t come down yet for breakfast, you mightn’t have seen her yet.”
“Could be, sure. But I’ve not seen her in the hotel at all. Usually a guest will call down for tea or coffee of an afternoon or evening, or even ask one of us about something in the area. Tourist stuff, you know?”
“And no one like Karin has done that.”
“Not to my knowledge. ’Course, I wasn’t on Friday night. I work mornings and afternoons mostly. So I wouldn’t know about any room service requests that night. But I haven’t seen her this morning.” He stopped, his mouth open, then snapped his fingers. “‘Course, she could be in the dining room right now. Want to see?”
The waiter led Jamie and the maid down the hall and opened the double doors of the dining room. They lingered in the doorway, eyeing everyone in the room. After several seconds, the waiter lowered his voice. “She there?”
Jamie shook his head and turned to the two people peering over his shoulder. “She could still be in her room, but it’s pointless to wait. Or waste any more of your time.”
They walked back outside and the waiter consulted his watch. He drew another cigarette from the pack in his pocket while the maid replied. “If we see her, we can ring you up, if you like.” She smiled, the sunlight on her brunette hair lightening its dark shade.
“Thank you. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Not at all, sir. You’re worried about your friend. If she shows up I’ll let you know. And I’ll ask the waiter who was on duty last night. Perhaps he’s seen her, or taken her tea in her room. Ta.” She put the piece of paper with Jamie’s phone number into the pocket of her work trousers and left him with “Hope you find her.”
So do I, Jamie thought, but not for the reason you think. He strolled back to the hotel car park and stopped opposite the side door. There was no mistaking that it was a side entrance for the convenience of guests arriving by car. The hotel name was sprawled over the doorway in large, well-lit lettering. There also were no container plants or shrubs that she could have ducked behind, giving McLaren the impression that Karin had entered the building but had actually afforded her cover. No, if McLaren saw her walk inside, she went inside. But that didn’t explain the clerk’s unwavering statement that no Karin Pedersen was a guest at the hotel.
Jamie repocketed his car key, grabbed the side entrance door handle, and slowly opened the door. It was heavy, probably steel, but swung open easily. He eased it shut, nervous for some inexplicable reason that the desk clerk would hear him and investigate, and stood with his back to the door.
The entry area was small, holding the odors of tobacco smoke and fried foods. Yet it hadn’t the claustrophobic feel Jamie associated with minute spaces, for it was painted in white and apple green. A helpful sign declaring Guests’ Rooms and Reception pointed to the two destinations, its background whiteness tainted red from the glow cast by the EXIT sign over the door. To Jamie’s left a narrow hallway, brightly lit by a row of recessed canister lights, stretched toward the back of the building; ahead was another door with a glass insert. Beyond that he could see the reception area and part of the clerk’s desk. He turned to his left and walked down the hallway.
A flight of thickly carpeted stairs extended to the next floor and Jamie climbed the steps two at a time. The passage smelled of carpet cleaner and lilacs and the walls were papered in a muted floral print. The polished wooden handrail slid beneath his hand as he sprinted up the steps, his heavy, gold wedding band making faint rubbing sounds along the rail’s slick surface. At the landing, to his right, the hall stretched toward the front of the hotel. Guest rooms lay along the length as far as he could see. He ran lightly down the hall, looking at each door as he passed. Nothing seemed irregular. The main staircase opened up to the ground floor at the end of the corridor. A large potted palm squatting on the landing nodded in the draft from the air conditioning unit wedged into the front window. Jamie jogged back down the hall, then ascended to the top floor.
It was identical to the floor he’d just left, housing only rooms and a maid’s closet. A small boy stood beside the partially open window at the front of the building, offering breadcrumbs to the pigeons cooing and crowded together on the narrow outside ledge. Noises from the street rushed in through the windowconversations, laughter, dogs barking, a police car siren. The boy seemed obliviou
s to the world beyond the pigeons. He tore up the bread and placed each piece in a specific spot, covering the ledge in systematic order, like a row of checkers. As fast as he put down a piece of bread, a bird would grab it. Other birds not yet fed or wanting more pecked at his hand and fingers. The boy shook them off, scolding them for their gluttony and impatience. When he had finished, he dusted his hands over the ledge, knocking off any remains crumbs, and turned. It was then that he saw Jamie. A grin broke. “We’re going to see Little John’s grave now. Do you know about him?”
“He’s Robin Hood’s trusted friend.”
“One of his Merry Men. They lived in Sherwood Forest, but they’re not real. I have to be going now. Mum doesn’t like it when I’m late.” He ran a few feet down the hall, stopped, then turned back toward Jamie. “I made a poem for Little John. I’m going to put it and a flower on his grave so he can read it. I want to be like Robin when I grow up.” He ran to his room and banged the door closed.
So much for fame, Jamie thought. He went to the window and glanced outside as he closed it. From this height he could see the bakery, teashop, and post office across the street, their roof tiles glistening from the morning’s heavy dew. He turned as the door to the main stairway opened and an older couple stepped into the hallway. Nodding to Jamie, they continued with their conversation and entered their room. Jamie waited until their door was closed before he scampered back the way he had come, taking the steps downstairs and returning to the side entryway.
He stood near the side entrance, wondering what his reconnoitering trip had proven. At least he could report to McLaren that he’d found nothing sinister in the hotel, no remnants of a fight with enemy agents. Though if there were anything sinister going on, he reasoned, it was probably on Karin Pedersen’s part and not the hotel’s. Still, he needed to check as thoroughly as he could; he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he didn’t. He eased up to the inner door and peeked through the small glass inset. The clerk wasn’t in sight. Jamie angled his head so he could see the entire desk. Still no clerk. He said a quiet, silent prayer, slipped through the open door and tiptoed into the reception area.
No one was at the desk or small table that held pamphlets and flyers of area attractions. Jamie paused for several seconds, thinking perhaps the opening door had triggered a beep in the clerk’s retreat behind the front desk. No one appeared. He repeated his prayer and slipped behind the desk.
The wooden box that held the registration cards sat where he’d seen it earlier, beside the phone. He leafed through the cards but found no Pedersen. He scanned the hotel guest book for the previous two days but again found no Karin Pedersen signed in. He was reaching for the large calendar on which reservations were noted when he heard the sound of footsteps. A masculine voice called to someone either in the main hallway or dining area. Jamie rushed into the back corridor as the front door slowly opened. He crouched and pressed lightly against the door to keep it from swinging. No footsteps followed him to the back hallway. He let out his breath as the phone rang and the clerk’s voice answered with a formal “The Hanoverian. How may I assist you?” Then, still hunched over, Jamie crept outside.
Chapter Eighteen
Jamie’s other hunchthat Karin had changed her overnight plans and was safely ensconced in a local bed-and-breakfast, oblivious to the hunt for her and innocent of devious activityproved to be as much of a dead end as everything else he had tried that morning. The area’s handful of B&Bs and the medieval hall-turned-guest-house had no guest of Karin’s ilk. Nor had a Karin Pedersen registered in any of them in the past week, the day of McLaren’s misadventure, or for the upcoming week. Karin Pedersen, evidently, was a hallucination of Michael McLaren’s mind.
At noon, Jamie paused for lunch. He returned to the tearoom, not because he was enamored with such places, but because it was one of the few places he could sit over an inexpensive meal. He made out a list of people McLaren had talked to, then a list of the odd occurrences happening since he had taken the case. Jamie stared at the two lists for many minutes. Besides the broken poker chip, which could signify Noah’s Ark or the casino Marta had patronized, he could determine nothing linking people from Marta’s life to McLaren’s trouble. Jamie stuck the sheet of paper into his jeans pocket, paid his bill, and left.
He sat in his car, the windows down, and rang up McLaren. He leaned back, the car seat upholstery smelling faintly of fast food meals, cigarette smoke, and perfume. Funny how this defines my life, he thought. Fast food and cigarettes characterizing the hectic schedule of his job, the perfume a lingering remembrance of his wife, his private life. He shook his head. He kept them separate, fiercely protective of the time with Paula and his off hours, making it a point not to bring home work, even the emotional dregs, that would infringe upon their time together. Yet the two worlds were here, tied together like some eternal knot.
Jamie shook himself from his reverie and realized the phone had been ringing for quite a while. He hung up, then punched in McLaren’s mobile phone number and stared again at the lists as he waited for McLaren to answer.
After thirty seconds, Jamie rang off. Must be struggling with another log, he thought, half smiling. Or left the phone in his car. He pocketed his mobile and drove to the local doctor’s house.
A soundurgent, harsh, and relentlessbroke through the dark morass of nebulous images. McLaren moved his head slowly as he tried to open his eyes. A beer bottle hurled at him. He ducked. The movement brought instant pain and more confusion as he cracked his eyes open and saw linoleum floor, a base unit, and a splash of shiny whiteness. Wooden spindles near his right hand seemed non-threatening and supportive of his weight. He grabbed the closest one just above a horizontal piece of wood and pulled himself over on his right side. His universe tilted and spun, a turmoil of black, silver, and red, the colors deepening in hue as the whirlpool enlarged and swirled faster. Yet, the unceasing sound called to him, adding to the buzzing in his head. He tried to sit up, pulling himself mentally from the spiral that churned at his feet. A bottle bobbed in the spinning mass and a poker chip rushed at him. He reached for it as the wave of sound rang louder, but the chip spun away to sink into the center of the whirlpool. Again he sought the firmness of the polished wood, somehow knowing it would rescue him from the madness. His fingers closed tightly around the slender wood and he pulled himself upright. Opening his eyes, he saw a flat piece of wood attached horizontally to the spindle, and an even larger and longer slab of wooden slightly above that one that seemed to support a length of dark blue fabric. Was it his police uniform? Was the unending sound the siren of his patrol car? Was he calling himself to work? He grabbed the edge of the fabric and pulled. The cloth and several hard items flew at him. His head seemed to explode from the pain, and he fell back onto the floor, surrendering to the whirlpool.
Jamie’s afternoon matched his morning as far as gathering useful information was concerned. The local doctor was adamant that he had treated no one of Karin Pedersen’s description, nor had his receptionist received a call from such a person. However, to appease what he diagnosed as Jamie’s anxiety, he consulted his appointment diary. No, he informed Jamie, sitting back in his desk chair, he had not seen anyone with a cut on that day. Or the day prior or afterwards, he added, flipping the pages. Was Jamie certain he had the correct village? He blinked behind his round spectacles. Perhaps his friend was in Hatton. Perhaps Jamie had misunderstood.
Jamie assured the man that he had not misunderstood and stood up.
“If the wound was only superficial,” the doctor continued as Jamie was about to thank him for his time, “perhaps she merely cleansed it herself. Nothing wrong with soap and water.”
“That’s a possibility, I’m sure.” Jamie didn’t believe it, but he agreed to continue the conversation. “But I think the cut required something more extensive. It bled rather profusely.”
“Of course, there are the hospitals, if the wound required stitching up. Have you inquired at Buxton or Che
sterfield?”
“No, sir. I thought I’d ask around this area first.”
“And there’s always the chemist’s.”
Jamie drew back his hand and blinked. “Pardon?”
“Here in the village. Just down the street. You’ve not inquired in there, I assume.”
“No, sir. Frankly, I hadn’t thought that far.”
“Could be your friend purchased an antibiotic ointment and some sort of first aid dressing. You know, sterile gauze, adhesive plaster or those pre-medicated cloths. If her knee needed attention but she didn’t want to have it properly attended to, she might have looked after it herself.” He smiled as Jamie thanked him and hurried from the office.
The chemist’s shop was on the edge of the business district, up the road from the establishments Jamie had called at that morning. It was a small building, squeezed between a mountain bike/camping centre and the pub, its façade the same gray stone that comprised every building in the village. Health and beauty products sprawled across the interior, extended ledge. The placard above the door proclaimed ‘Hathersage Chemist Shop’ in white lettering against a black background. Jamie said a mental prayer, took a deep breath, and walked inside.
Head-tall sales shelves and the white-and-black checkered ceramic floor disclosed the shop’s orderliness. Jamie pushed the triangular gate on the waist-high railing that separated the shop proper from the entry, and passed the tower of stacked plastic carrier baskets. He turned down the bath and body products aisle, heavy with the scents of perfume, soap and hand lotions, and sought out the shop assistant.
He had finished his recital and was preparing to be disappointed again when the clerk said, “Yes, your friend was in here.”
“You’re sure?” He replied more slowly than usual, forcing the excitement from his voice, hoping he sounded mildly interested. “Friday?”
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