I parked up where I could see the entrance and Kristina’s Range Rover, put the seat back and waited, wishing that I hadn’t had that second cup of coffee at Antonio’s.
13
IT HAD BEEN NEARLY AN HOUR SINCE KRISTINA GALBRAITH HAD gone into the hotel and my bladder had long since reached its natural capacity. I used to keep a two-litre Coke bottle cut off at the top in the car for when I was caught short on a stake-out. I replaced it with something fit for purpose with a screw-on lid after an unpleasant incident going too fast round a corner with a bottle of urine I’d forgotten to empty wedged between the passenger seat and the door. The resulting smell had taken several weeks to fade and I still got a whiff when I opened the door on a hot day – it was a bit like entering an elderly care home where the heating was on too high.
Unfortunately, the mobile urinal which I’d replaced the bottle with was sitting in the bottom drawer of my desk in the office where I’d put it after rinsing it. I’d forgotten to bring it back to the car.
I now regretted my sloppiness, although to be fair I hadn’t planned a stake-out. If I had I’d have brought food, a book and a flask of coffee. Coffee was the wrong thing to think about. Damn that gratuitous second double-shot Americano at Antonio’s. There was no handy shrubbery nearby and the car park was open and in full view of the hotel rooms. There was no getting away from it, I’d have to risk being seen by Kristina and go into the hotel.
I made it without incident to the hotel entrance. Inside the small lobby I couldn’t see a sign for any toilets so stepped up to the reception desk where a bored young man forced himself to look up from something behind the counter (I’m guessing his Facebook timeline) and coerced his pasty face into the semblance of a smile.
“Toilets?” I asked, hoping to convey urgency without desperation.
He pointed down a corridor and the sight of an illuminated male figure over a door had not been more welcome than when three kings saw a bright star over Bethlehem. The exquisite relief of emptying a full bladder cannot really be explained so I won’t try. Suffice to say I was whistling a happy tune as I washed my hands – it may have been from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. A handsome grey-templed Asian man in a natty blue suit came in as I put my hands under the noisy dryer. We actively ignored each other as men in toilets do, and I left.
So far so good. Now I just had to get back to my car without being seen. When I got back to the lobby, however, there was Kristina, her back to me, standing by the doors looking at a very large smartphone. Her sunglasses were wedged in her impossibly satiny black hair. I froze, then looked round for an escape. There was none; this was a no-frills place where people came to break their journey. Where were they supposed to get food round here? Thinking about it, the hotel was ideal for an illicit meet-up; out of town, only reachable by car – I was surprised I hadn’t been here before in a professional capacity.
“Can I help you, sir?” It was the pasty-faced young bloke, no doubt wondering why I was standing in the lobby looking like a trapped deer. I waved nonchalantly at the bastard and naturally Kristina, alerted by his question at someone else’s presence, turned round. Shit. Our eyes met and her mouth opened, either in alarm or possible speech. The man who’d come into the toilets passed me and went up to her. She switched her gaze from mine and smiled awkwardly at him. He placed his left hand, wedding ring and all, on the small of her back. He was fit, tall, and oozed self-confidence, the sort of man who can’t get past the fact that he’s good-looking. I immediately took a dislike to him. They moved through the doors and I picked up a leaflet describing the delights of punting in Cambridge before following.
Kristina and the man parted ways without making any physical contact as I emerged into the car park. She all but ran to her car as he sauntered off in another direction. I went to my own vehicle, keeping him in view. He was parked in a corner, a sensible low-emission new-model Toyota. Not really the type of car I’d have had him down as driving, not in that suit. I wrote down the licence number as he took off his jacket and put it carefully on a hanger in the back. I watched Kristina speed off; I would no doubt have to deal with her later. Or not, since she might pretend it had never happened.
I stayed with the Toyota, following it out of the car park towards the city centre and as we did so I saw that there was a burger place behind the hotel, no doubt complete with toilets. But there was no time for regrets as I concentrated on keeping a few cars between me and the Toyota. We headed into the middle of Cambridge, crossing over the river on Elizabeth Way. Did he live this centrally? On the roundabout coming off the bridge the lights changed just as he went through them and I was resigned to sitting there watching him drive up East Road towards Parker’s Piece, being ever more obscured by the cars and buses coming from my left until he disappeared.
I considered heading on to the office but didn’t really see the point, so when the lights changed I went round the roundabout and headed slowly home in rush-hour traffic.
* * *
I got indoors just in time to avoid a downpour. No sooner had I closed the door on it than Linda called on the landline.
“What you up to, Georgie?” She sounded relaxed, like she’d had a little help.
“You coming round?”
“I don’t think I can,” she drawled. “I’m a teensy weensy bit high.”
“I can pick you up.”
“Come to my place, you mean?”
“That’s what it would involve, yes.” The office number on the mobile started to ring. No caller ID.
“I don’t have men back to my place. You know that, Georgie.”
“Men?”
“I shouldn’t need to explain it to you, of all people. Is there a phone ringing at your end or is it mine?”
“Can you hold on a minute, Linda?”
I answered the mobile. “Hello, Cambridge Confidential.”
“Mr Kocharyan.” It was the pleasingly accented voice of Kristina Galbraith.
“Mrs Galbraith, would you mind holding on a second?”
I put the landline back to my sweaty ear. “Linda?” But Linda had hung up. Good, in a way. I have only ever been able to deal with one woman at a time. Back to the mobile.
“Hello, sorry about that.”
“I think we should meet, don’t you? In light of, erm, this afternoon.”
“I’m sure that’s not necessary.”
“I would like to meet. If that’s acceptable to you, of course.”
“Yes, of course. I’m just saying—”
“Perhaps it would be easier to say whatever it is face to face. I would certainly find it easier.”
“Of course. When would you like to meet?”
“This evening?”
“Can it wait until tomorrow morning?”
There was quiet at the other end. I couldn’t even hear her breathing. The landline started to ring again. It was probably Linda; maybe she’d thought about the benefits of me going round to her place and changed her mind.
“Is tomorrow morning OK, Mrs Galbraith?”
“As long as you aren’t planning to mention this afternoon to anyone else? Or haven’t done so already?”
“No, of course not. You needn’t worry about that.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow first thing, at your office.”
She hung up without as much as a confirmation or a goodbye. Nice. I picked up the landline as it stopped ringing.
“Linda?” Nothing. She’d given up. The mobile rang again. No caller ID – maybe Kristina was ringing to apologise for being so brusque.
But no, it was a man, sniggering, saying to someone at his end, “Hang on, you wanker, he’s answered the fucking phone.”
“Who’s this?” I asked.
“Is that the Kardashians?” Peals of laughter from him. Great – drunk prank callers.
“Apart from being a fuckwit, who are you?” The laughter stopped.
“Where you hiding that Filipino bitch, you little Armenian shit?” An accen
t that could match my squat weightlifting friend. Maybe.
I hung up and turned off the mobile – I’d had enough phone calls for one evening. Two things crossed my mind. I hadn’t given Mrs Galbraith the office number so she must have got it from her husband somehow – maybe he’d just left the card lying around, maybe she’d asked him for it. The second was that the two clowns who’d rung, assuming there were two of them, had also got the office mobile. Unlike the work landline, the mobile number was only given to people actively taken on as clients.
14
NO FORD FOCUS OUTSIDE THE OFFICE, BUT KRISTINA’S RANGE Rover was there, on the street. I parked on the drive and crossed the road to it. She was sitting in the driver’s seat, looking frustrated while fiddling with the radio. I moved to the passenger side on the pavement and her little rat of a dog stuck his head up and looked at me balefully. The window slid down. A heady scent was released, and summarily spoilt by yapping. She snapped at Misha in Russian. The radio was emitting the sound of static with intermittent reception. She switched it off.
“Mrs Galbraith.”
“Call me Kristina, please. Mrs Galbraith sounds so… formal.”
“Would you like to come up to the office?” I asked, although it wasn’t my first choice of place to invite people. She hesitated. “Or I know a place that makes decent coffee, just round the corner?”
She got out of her enormous car with her enormous shoulder bag which she opened and little Misha jumped in.
A minute later, after an awkwardly silent walk except for her mutterings to Misha to stay in the bag, Antonio was fussing around her like a lovelorn teenager. She was undoubtedly the sort of upmarket customer he yearned for in his café, especially in her expensive-looking tailored trouser suit. I had to make eyes at him to leave and make the coffee. Thankfully it was too early for hipsters so we had the place to ourselves. I grimaced as an American crooners’ medley came over the sound system that Antonio had misguidedly installed. At least it offered us some privacy.
I coughed to get things started. She looked me in the eyes and it was an effort to pull myself from their draw. I waited for her to speak.
“Tell me the truth, George. Did my husband hire you to follow me?” she asked in a rush.
“Right, I could see how you might think that, given the, um, circumstances of our meeting yesterday afternoon. I can assure you it was entirely coincidental.”
She thought about whether to believe me. I listened to Sinatra fill the silence.
“So what were you doing there?” she asked, just as Antonio arrived with the coffees and biscotti.
“On the house,” he insisted, fussing around, reluctant to leave. Annoying, but it gave me time to think of an answer.
“If I was following you, Mrs Galbraith, you wouldn’t have seen me,” I said, at the risk of sounding pompous. She picked up her coffee and smelled it before taking a tiny sip to check it for heat. She put the cup down and picked up a biscotti which she slipped into her bag. Some frantic chomping could be heard. She fixed me with her eyes.
“I suppose you’ve come to some conclusion as to what I was doing there?” she said, holding my gaze.
I struggled to keep mine steady. “In my business I have found that it is a mistake to jump to conclusions.”
“But most often the simplest explanation is the correct one, no?”
She was right, but I wasn’t sure what she was hoping to get out of this conversation. I could only imagine she was worried about one thing.
“Look, this has nothing to do with what I have been hired to do so there is no reason for me to mention it to… Mr Galbraith.” I almost said “your husband” but it might have sounded pointed.
She barely nodded and looked down at her coffee. “Things have not been good between me and Bill.” Oh dear, she was about to unburden herself.
“You don’t have to explain yourself, Mrs… Kristina. It’s really none of my business and believe me, I make no judgements.”
“It might seem hypocritical of me but I do love my husband, Mr Kocharyan. It’s impossible for anyone to know what goes on in my marriage, and why we do the things we do.”
She was wrong there. I was perfectly capable of understanding how she might have found herself in her current situation; there are many good reasons why people might find solace elsewhere, without wanting to jeopardise what they have with someone. But I also know that just as often it is simply a matter of lust, and in my experience the more intelligent the person succumbing to physical desire, the more elaborate their rationalisation as to why they did.
Her eyes had welled dangerously. Why did this always have to happen to me? Did I give off some sort of vibe? Mind you, Johnny Mathis and Deniece Williams were warbling about how things were all over and it was all too little, too late, so perhaps I should be giving them the credit. I handed her a napkin. She took it but tears didn’t come; instead she blew her nose.
“Bill has been focussed on his surgical career,” she said, as if this explained everything.
“And now he has a second career,” I said.
She offered me a wry smile. “Yes, he’s found a new path, but he couldn’t have done it without being a good surgeon.” Personally I didn’t see the connection: people who are adequate at what they do but have a knack for self-presentation and are pushy are often those who rise to the top of the pile.
“I’m sure you’ve helped him along the way. Behind every successful man and all that.”
She gave me a look and a little smile.
“And you have your own career?” I asked, laying on the praise.
“I run a successful business. Not somewhere you would visit, though,” she said.
“Try me.”
“A beauty treatment parlour. I’m in the process of opening a second one in London. I have an MBA…” She trailed off, perhaps realising how unnecessary it was to add. To be fair she was probably tired of being judged on her looks and wanted to be taken seriously; but it made her sound insecure.
“You’re right, I don’t think I’ve ever been in one, except as a kid when my mother was getting her hair done.”
“Men need to look after themselves too.” She took a business card out of her cavernous bag and handed it to me. It was black with cursive writing on it that read “Kristina’s Treatment Parlour” with a phone number and physical and web addresses underneath. “It’s on Green Street. I can arrange for a manicure and pedicure.” She didn’t appear to be joking so I smiled politely and pocketed the card.
She slipped Misha another biscotti before draining her coffee.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked. “About Aurora.”
She shrugged non-committally.
“Did you know that her daughter is ill?”
She looked at me pitifully. “You believe her?”
I was taken aback; it’s true that I had taken Aurora’s story at face value. “You think she’s lying?”
“She’s just a child. She’s like a teenager…” tapping her head, “…up here. She does things to get attention.” She gathered her bag impatiently. She didn’t want to talk about it but I figured she owed me, given my discretion.
“And her passport?”
“What about it?”
“Why do you have it?”
“I told you before, for safekeeping. How long do you think she’d survive out there on her own?”
I shrugged; she’d done alright so far, but I didn’t say it. Kristina stood up. I felt obliged to do the same.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr Kocharyan.”
So it was back to formalities. I risked a last look into her eyes before remembering something. “By the way, Aurora is insisting that she didn’t take your pearls.”
“What, are you working for her now?” she asked with a strained laugh.
“She says she found a single pearl in your husband’s study and gave it to him. It’s quite a specific lie to come up with.”
“Did you ask him about it?�
�
“Yes, but to be honest he’s more concerned with getting his patients’ notes back.”
“What?”
“The notes in the briefcase she took.” She looked puzzled so perhaps she didn’t know about the briefcase or the notes, or even both.
I let her walk off. I could have gone with her to the car but I felt that would invite more social awkwardness than either of us wanted to deal with. Instead I sat down again and Antonio came over.
“More coffee?”
I nodded. “Is the Argus in?”
“I’ll get it.”
“And can we turn the music down?”
He gave me a black look and took the used cups away. More customers came in and got out their laptops. Paul Anka came on but was thankfully turned down. Sinatra was one thing, Anka another.
Antonio brought fresh coffee and the newspaper and looked at the half-empty plate of biscotti.
“Did she like?”
“Yes, she loved them,” I said. He took the remainder away, because I, a regular paying customer, wasn’t worthy of them. I unfurled the Argus and the front-page story was by Linda.
The Runaway Maid Page 7