Audrey closed her eyes and slumped back against the seat. She remembered the phone she’d found, the one in the bin. She sat up and replayed the video from the start.
This time, she focused on everything other than the main event. She imagined she was standing in a courtroom, tasked with proving that the woman in the bed was Natalie O’Connor and that the bed was the one upstairs in Cottage No. 6.
Exhibit A: the furniture. Audrey had a photograph on her phone, snapped during her mad dash around the cottage just before she vacated it, which she knew would match up exactly. The same headboard, same bedside table, same bare wall. Same ratios of space between them. But it was entirely possible, even likely, that every cottage was decorated the same way, so that narrowed it down but didn’t alone prove that it was Cottage No. 6.
Exhibit B: the light. The room was dark but there was a light to the left. It was too weak to be anything other than the light from outside, the glow of a streetlight, perhaps, coming through the thin curtains. There had been one directly outside Cottage No. 6; Audrey remembered seeing it. But she hadn’t really taken notice of where the other streetlights were situated, so she couldn’t say for sure that that wasn’t the case for all the other cottages too.
Exhibit C: the bedside table. By the end, the bloodied knife was sitting on it – but something else was too. Something that had been there from the start. Audrey didn’t think she’d have recognised it if she hadn’t already seen it, or one like it, somewhere else, up close.
It was the chunky, plastic phone that Natalie had bought at the petrol station.
If the Gardaí determined that the phone Audrey had found in the bin in the bathroom of Cottage No. 6 had been Natalie’s, then it’d be safe to say that this video had been filmed just across the landing, in the bedroom of Cottage No. 6.
In the same room where Audrey had been not two hours ago.
Natalie wasn’t in a spa somewhere, hiding out. There was no innocent explanation behind her disappearance. She had come to Shanamore, she had stayed in the cottages, and in the middle of the night someone had come into her room and stabbed her to death.
And Audrey had just watched it happen in real time.
In the very same bed where she’d slept.
What was under the sheets she had laid down on? Was there still blood on the mattress? Had the camera still been there? Had someone watched Audrey sleep in that bed too?
If she had stayed there tonight, would the same thing have happened to her?
Something in her chest clenched and Audrey suddenly felt that, despite the open window, there wasn’t enough air inside the car to fill her lungs. She couldn’t breathe.
She kicked open the door, pushed the computer off her lap and climbed outside, the icy wind whipping furiously at her face as she took a deep breath, then tried to take a deeper one, slowly this time, one hand on the roof of the car to steady herself—
Something moved in the dark.
Someone was coming towards her.
When Audrey’s eyes adjusted, she saw it was Richard Flynn.
Jennifer is struggling to concentrate on a spreadsheet that details this month’s room revenue when she hears a voice declare, ‘We’re leaving.’
It’s a male voice. Gruff. American accent.
She’s in the back office and this voice is coming from the reception desk.
‘I’m sorry,’ he’s saying now, ‘but we just cannot stay.’
She gets up and moves stealthily to the swinging door that, if she were to push through it right now, would deposit her behind the reception desk, right alongside Benek, one of her most experienced receptionists, who’s already out there and tasked with dealing with this disgruntled guest.
‘Is there a problem, sir?’ Benek asks.
‘We’re just leaving,’ the guest says. ‘And that’s that. Car keys, please.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ Benek says – or rather, purrs. His voice is so wonderfully smooth, each sentence comes out sounding like a little lullaby. Soothing. Reassuring. But not at all patronising. And all the better with his Polish accent. ‘Has there been a change in your plans or …?’
‘Look, it’s just not what we were expecting, okay?’ The man’s voice is rising. ‘That’s it. That’s all. Now, give me my keys. I can see them there. The Hertz tag.’
‘It was number twenty-one, wasn’t it, sir? The room?’
There’s a loud, angry exhale of breath, followed by a muttered expletive.
Then a new, female voice, polite and gentle:
‘That’s the one, dear. So sorry about this.’
The wife, presumably. She sounds embarrassed.
‘Perhaps we can move you to another room,’ Benek says.
‘No.’ The man again. ‘We’re not staying here, under any circumstances.’
‘I’m so very sorry, sir, but perhaps if I knew what exactly was the source of your displeasure—’
‘My keys.’
That had practically been bellowed, and Benek knew when to quit.
‘Certainly, sir.’
The wife, again: ‘I just don’t understand you, Tom.’ The volume of her voice suggested she was speaking to her husband. ‘Why don’t you let this nice boy help us? He could find us another room. A better one. For God’s sake, we’ve barely even been here five minutes.’
‘Jude, I told you. We’re leaving.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ Benek says smoothly. ‘But you should be aware that Sycamore House operates a twenty-four-hour cancellation policy. I’m afraid that means you’ll be charged for tonight’s stay.’
‘That’s fine,’ the guest says.
That’s when Jennifer pushes through the door.
All three of them turn towards her. Benek’s face has his front-ofhouse smile affixed to it but his eyes say, Can you even believe this prick? The wife is in her sixties, with shoulder-length grey hair and a hefty piece of ugly turquoise jewellery hanging from her neck. She’s about two foot shorter than her husband, and about that width narrower as well. He’s a bear of a man, the smooth, rounded bulb of his stomach straining against his shirt as if he’s got an inflated balloon under there. His face has the red sting of a lifelong drinker and his teeth the unnatural white gleam of a Hollywood star.
Jennifer glances at the computer screen.
‘Mr and Mrs Feldman,’ she says then. ‘How are you this evening?’
‘Unfortunately—’ Benek starts.
‘We’re leaving,’ Mr Feldman grunts.
The wife looks stricken. ‘I’m so sorry, dear.’ Her tone is conspiratorial, as if the root of the problem isn’t standing right beside her. ‘But I think we’re going to have to leave.’
Jennifer looks Mr Feldman right in the eye and asks bluntly, ‘Why?’
‘We just are.’ He looks away. ‘That’s all there is.’
A red flush is creeping up his neck.
He puts a hand on his wife’s back and turns her around, away from the desk. She turns to mouth a sorry over her shoulder as they hurry out the door.
Mr Feldman slams it closed behind them.
Then Benek says, in his actual, everyday voice, ‘What the fuck was all that about?’ He shakes his head. ‘People. Are. Mental. Is it a full moon tonight? Tell me it’s a full moon.’
‘It’s not,’ Jennifer says.
‘He didn’t even mind that we were going to charge him for the night. Even though they were in that room for, like, what? Ten seconds? It couldn’t have been much more. I just checked them in.’
That’s what had struck her, too. Anytime one of their arrivals had themselves an immediate shit-fit – there was some third-party website, they’d never got to the bottom of which one, which was taking bookings for Sycamore House, Dublin 4, but showing a photo of the interior of Sycamore Manor, a five-star resort overlooking the sea somewhere in Co. Mayo; nine times out of ten, that was the cause – they could be counted on to throw a second one when they were told they’d have to pay a night�
�s rate for their trip up and down the stairs. It was an industry standard that made up for any loss incurred by refusing a booking to someone else, but for a disgruntled guest it was a live grenade. They rarely, if ever, enforced it. It wasn’t worth the hassle.
If Mr Feldman had as much as twitched when Benek mentioned the charge, Benek would have immediately said they’d make an exception and waive it.
But he didn’t. He’d said it was fine. He was willing to pay it.
‘I’ll go check the room,’ Benek says.
It didn’t make any sense to get your knickers in a twist about a perfectly fine room, refuse to say what exactly was the problem but also be willing to pay for it when you were going to have to pay to stay somewhere else.
Jennifer knows she shouldn’t do this …
She comes out from behind the reception desk, goes to the door.
… but that guy was a dick.
Outside, the Feldmans are at their car. She’s already in the passenger seat, head down, face lit by the blue glow of a mobile phone. Probably tasked with looking for alternative accommodation after her husband’s little hissy fit.
He’s at the boot, just about to shut it closed.
‘Here,’ Jennifer says, hurrying towards him. ‘Let me help you.’
He blinks at her, confused. His mouth opens as if to say something, to protest. But she reaches him before he can, slaps a hand on the boot and yanks it down, slamming it shut just a fraction of a second after Mr Feldman pulls his hand out of its way. She catches his sleeve, grabbing it, squeezing his arm as hard as she can, digging the tips of her nails into the soft flesh underneath.
‘What the—’
‘You recognised it,’ she says, cutting him off. ‘Didn’t you?’ Her mouth is so close to his ear, she can see that he badly needs to clean it. ‘That’s why you’re leaving, isn’t it, Mr Feldman? Because you recognised the room.’
He jerks away, pulling free of her grip, eyes wide.
Confused. Nervous. Frightened.
His eyes move to the passenger side of the car, where his wife is sitting.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Jennifer says. She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘Your secret’s safe with me so long as my secret’s safe with you.’
When she goes back inside, she collects €1,000 from Mr Feldman’s credit card. She know he won’t dare contest the charge.
Natalie left the Dylan in the middle of lunch-hour. Upper Baggot Street was bustling with foraging office workers, uniformed secondary school kids and yummy mummies pushing toddlers around in various wheeled contraptions. It was a bright, clear day – cold, but clear – and as part of her plan to get to know the area, Natalie decided to walk home. Reasonably confident in her sense of direction in this postcode, she set off without checking the actual route and found herself meandering through leafy residential streets and, at one point, past the space-age silver curve of the Aviva Stadium. After half an hour or so of pleasant strolling, Natalie emerged into a little triangle of a village green, surrounded by upmarket restaurants and shops.
The trendy deli there gave her an idea for dinner: let someone else make it. It had been a fun morning, for the most part, but being ‘on’ for hours at a time could be exhausting. She’d be half-asleep on the couch by the time Mike got home. She wouldn’t feel like cooking and his repertoire was limited to things so spicy you needed to clear half the next day for side-effects, so picking up something ready-made was a much safer bet.
Natalie was trying to choose between a lasagne and butter chicken when she looked up and saw the woman in black glasses for the second time that day.
She was standing side-on, just a couple of feet away. Studying the label on a bottle of red wine. Replacing it. Frowning at the next bottle along.
And now, turning slowly towards Natalie.
Staring at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ Natalie said, taking a step closer. ‘Do I— Do we know each other? Did I see you at the Dylan just now?’
Natalie didn’t know what she expected would happen next, but it was somewhere on a spectrum between ‘No …’ (weird look, quick exit; the mystery deepens) and ‘You were there too? How funny!’ (warm handshake, excitable introductions; mystery solved). It certainly wasn’t that the woman’s face would harden into what looked like barely contained rage before she suddenly turned and stormed out of the shop.
It was so alien an event, the aftershock felt physical. The woman may as well have slapped Natalie across the face.
‘Miss?’ a voice said from somewhere behind her. ‘Miss, you haven’t paid—’
By the time Natalie got outside, Black Glasses was gone.
_________
Right on cue at a quarter past six, Mike’s keys rattled in the front door.
His routine since they’d moved in here was to call out, ‘Honey, I’m home,’ in a terrible American accent, empty the contents of his pockets into the bowl in the hall, flop down on the couch, put his feet up on the coffee table, put them down again after Natalie said, ‘Shoes!’ and then ask what was for dinner, to which Natalie would respond that it wasn’t the fifties.
But today his footsteps came to a halt just inside the front door and he said, a little uncertainly, ‘Natalie?’ and then, ‘Why is it so dark?’
‘In here,’ she called from the living room.
She was curled up in one of the armchairs, staring into the fire – fireplace, really, because no fire was lit.
‘What’s going on?’ Mike stood on the threshold; he made no move to sit down. ‘What are you doing sitting in the dark?’
‘Is it dark?’ Natalie reached out to flick the switch on a table lamp. The room was transformed by its golden glow; she hadn’t realised how late it had got. ‘Will you light a fire? You’ve been saying you will since the night we got the keys and I really—’ Her voice cracked on the really so she swallowed the rest of the sentence, then chased it down with a gulp from her glass of white wine.
Mike came and sat on the coffee table, facing her.
He touched her knee. ‘Nat, what’s going on?’
‘Oh, nothing much.’ She waved a hand. ‘I’m just going crazy. Or being pursued by crazy. I don’t know which.’
‘What happened?’
She told him about Black Glasses Lady. Three sightings now altogether. The one in the café just under two weeks ago, and the event and the deli today. And about the woman’s reaction when Natalie had approached her.
When she was done, she took another swig of wine.
When she lowered the glass, she saw that Mike was smiling.
And then, trying not to laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But what exactly are we talking about here? You were at an event. So was this woman. Then afterwards you went to another place. So did this woman. And she didn’t like it when a complete stranger approached her while she was going about her business. What am I missing?’
‘She was also in that café,’ Natalie said. ‘The day I met Carla.’
‘But so were you.’
‘That’s my point.’
‘My point is that if you were in both those places, what are the odds that someone else was in both those places too? They’re pretty good, Nat. This is Dublin, not Manhattan. And for all we know, she could think you’re following her.’ He shook his head. ‘Natalie, have you been eating the dishwasher tabs again?’
‘Michael, this is serious.’
‘I agree. You’re seriously losing it.’
‘No, really.’ Natalie looked into her wine, swirled what was left around the bottom of the glass. ‘After that woman was here …’
A beat passed.
‘Okay, okay,’ he said then. ‘Let me in.’ He squeezed himself on to the armchair next to her. He took the wine, transferred it safely to the side table and then wrapped his arms around her.
She let her head fall against his chest.
‘So what’s really going on?’ he said into her hai
r.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe things are changing.’
She looked up at him. ‘What?’
‘Look, you always said you loved this. That you can’t believe this is your job, you’re so lucky, etc., etc. But if that’s changing, then …’ Mike shrugged. ‘Maybe this has gone as far as it can. Maybe it’s reached the end.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘You always knew that that’s what was going to happen eventually, Nat. This gravy train can’t last for ever. A new social network will come along and everything will change. You think all those girls with their pouting and their Pumpkin Spice are going to be around in twenty years showing us school lunchboxes and grey hairs and the recycling bin?’
‘What the hell are you saying?’ Natalie stood up, turned to face him. ‘I’m confused, Mike. Because I’m here trying to tell you that I think someone is following me and you’re telling me I should quit my job? This is all just a joke to you, isn’t it?’
‘No.’ Mike stood up too. ‘No, it’s not. I just think you’re overreacting.’ His tone was gentle. ‘It’s not improbable that someone would be in a café in Dawson Street, and then at your event this morning, and then at that deli – because you were, too.’ He reached for her. Reluctantly, she let him. ‘This is because of our visitor, I know. She has you paranoid. But everything’s fine. And we’ll get that gate. And maybe a guard dog. Something scary that barks and bares his teeth a lot. Or how about a burly bodyguard? One of those ones with mirrored aviators and an earpiece.’
‘You weren’t there,’ Natalie said. ‘You didn’t see her face.’
‘Whose?’
‘The woman today. She looked at me like …’ She took a breath. ‘She looked like she hated me.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true.’
‘But she—’
‘I’m going to order some dinner. And get another bottle of wine. And light the fire. Okay? And we’ll just sit down here and have a nice, relaxing night for ourselves. Watch a movie. Something funny.’
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