‘What? A misunderstanding? Don’t waste your breath denying it. No one else could have planted it. No one else had any reason to.’
‘I planted nothing.’
‘You plan to stick to that line?’
‘It’s the truth. You can believe it or not as you please. Now, I think I’ll be going.’
I stand up. Suddenly, I’m aware of being slightly unsteady on my feet. But, still, I don’t believe there’s anything Marianne can do to stop me leaving. I’m anxious, but not yet frightened.
Then I see a man standing in the kitchen doorway. He’s squarely built and muscular, dressed in jeans and a leather biker’s jacket. He has close-cropped greying hair, a raw-boned face and cold blue-grey eyes that are studying me intently. He’s chewing gum with a slow methodical rhythm of the jaw.
‘Sit down, Nicole,’ says Marianne.
The man takes a couple of steps towards me. He goes on staring at me.
I get the feeling refusal would be a serious mistake. I lower myself back into the chair.
‘Frank’s going to stay with us while we talk this through, Nicole,’ says Marianne, topping up her wine glass. Frank. It has to be Frank Scaddan, the guy Forrester told me about. Shit, shit, shit. ‘And you’re going to answer my questions. If not, Frank will force you to. Don’t make him do that. Please. I don’t enjoy that kind of thing. He does. But I don’t. And you certainly won’t. OK?’
I glance round at Scaddan. Marianne’s not bluffing. I tell myself how stupid I’ve been to return to this house after what happened last time. But here I am. With no good options. ‘OK,’ I murmur.
‘Let’s start with Joe. Why do Venstrom want him so badly?’
‘He’s a games-playing genius. He can help us revolutionize our computer gaming programs.’
‘So, this is just about making money out of online gaming?’
‘Well, there’s lots to be made.’
‘How do you know he’s a genius?’
‘He’s proved it.’
‘How?’
‘He, er …’
Marianne nods faintly to Scaddan, who steps still closer and lays one hand heavily on the crown of my head. The downward pressure is bearable – for now. ‘How?’
‘He beat our best computer program in a demonstration game of Go this afternoon.’
‘So?’
‘That shouldn’t be possible.’
‘But he did it?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many other people could do that?’
‘No one we know of.’
‘The world Go champion, maybe?’
‘Not even him.’
‘How did Joe do it?’
‘We don’t know. He just … did.’
‘Like he just makes money for us out of companies we’ve never heard of on the other side of the world.’
‘I guess.’
‘How unusual does that make him?’
‘Unique. A one-off. A phenomenon.’
‘So everyone will want a piece of him.’
‘I suppose they will.’
‘But they’ll have to go through Venstrom to get that piece. And they’ll have to pay for it. They’ll have to pay big.’
I nod awkwardly. The weight of Scaddan’s hand makes it difficult actually to move my head. ‘Yes.’
‘And you’re greedy. You don’t want to share any of that with us. So you decide to dig up some dirt on us – on our business – so you can freeze us out.’
‘Your husband didn’t leave us much alternative.’
‘Have you heard the recording, Nicole?’
‘No.’
Another nod. And Scaddan pulls my head back so far I actually think my spine’s going to snap. I cry out. And he stops. But he holds my head where it is, leaving me looking up into his ice-blue eyes.
‘I haven’t heard the recording,’ I gasp.
‘Sure?’
‘I haven’t heard it.’
‘Has Carl?’
‘No.’
‘Someone higher up the Venstrom food chain, then?’
‘No one at Venstrom.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense, Nicole. Who’s got the recording?’
I don’t want to betray Ursula to these people. But I think I may have to.
Scaddan relaxes his grip and I’m able to raise my head and look at Marianne again. For the moment, I just don’t know what to say – what I can say – that will get me out of this situation.
Suddenly, Scaddan loops something round my neck and draws it tight against my windpipe. I choke and raise my hand to try to release it. It’s a thin leather strap. But I can’t prise my fingers beneath it.
‘Stop struggling and answer the question, Nicole,’ says Marianne, staring straight at me. ‘Who’s got the recording?’
I choke again. Scaddan loosens the strap by just enough to let me speak. When I do, my voice is hoarse and cracking. ‘HMRC,’ I manage to say.
‘What?’
‘HMRC. The tax authorities.’
Marianne looks as if I couldn’t have told her anything worse. ‘Fuck,’ she says quietly.
‘Ursula Kendall,’ says Scaddan. It’s the first time he’s actually spoken. His voice is flat and hard. ‘The woman staying at Tideways.’
‘Ursula Kendall has the recording.’ Marianne looks enquiringly at me. ‘Is that right, Nicole?’
‘Yes.’
‘She left town yesterday,’ says Scaddan.
Marianne takes a deep swallow of wine and glances away for a moment. Then she sighs and returns her gaze to me. ‘You put the taxman on our tail, Nicole? Is that what you did?’
‘She was already investigating you. The bug was her idea. But …’
‘It suited you to help her gather evidence against us?’
‘Yes.’
‘And now she’s scuttled back to London with it and dealing with Venstrom is basically irrelevant because we’re going to have the Fraud Squad banging on our door.’
‘Not necessarily. I mean …’
‘It depends what’s on the recording. Is that what you mean? Well, enough is the answer. More than enough for Ms Kendall’s purposes.’
‘I can’t—’
‘Help us out of the mess you’ve landed us in?’ Marianne shakes her head sadly. ‘No, I’m sure you can’t. And this means—’ She breaks off. ‘I told you we might end up in a situation like this, Frank. Well, here we are. Remember what I said we’d have to do to about it?’
‘I remember,’ says Scaddan.
‘Take her to the cupboard in the hall.’
Scaddan jerks me up from the chair. I’m forced to stand simply in order to avoid being strangled. And I’m well aware that he’s quite strong enough to choke me to death if he wants to. Or if Marianne tells him to.
‘Move,’ is all he says, the word rasped in my ear.
We set off out of the kitchen into the hall. I have to walk rapidly to avoid being bowled over. Our route leads ultimately to the front door. But we’re not going to reach the front door. There’s a closed door ahead on our left. Marianne overtakes us and opens it.
Scaddan pushes me into a narrow, shelved space and whips the strap away from round my neck. I glimpse mops, cloths, brushes, a vacuum cleaner, a pile of old newspapers and stacks of spare light bulbs. Then the door slams behind me and I hear a key turn in the lock.
I’m in the dark. It’s not completely dark, though. There’s light seeping under the door. ‘You can’t keep me here,’ I shout. But they can, of course. They very much can.
‘Shut up,’ Marianne shouts back. ‘Our cleaner will let you out in the morning. I don’t want to hear any more from you. If I do, I’ll get Frank to tie you up and tape your mouth shut. OK?’
I’m terrified and ashamed. I’m trapped and I’m helpless and it’s my own stupid fault, which only makes it worse. How did I allow this to happen? It doesn’t really matter. I’m here. And Marianne is calling the shots. So, I say nothing.
Neither doe
s Marianne, other than something to Scaddan I don’t catch. They move away. I hear footsteps heading in different directions. The front door opens and closes. But there’s still someone – Marianne, I assume – in the house. There are muffled movements at some distance. I strain my ears, but I can’t make out anything distinctly.
Long periods of silence follow, when my own breathing and heartbeat are all I hear, broken by occasional sounds from some way off. Then the light goes out in the hall and the darkness is total. I hear the front door open and close again, followed by the beeps of an alarm. They’ve both gone now. I’m alone.
I try to force the door open, but it’s solidly constructed. All I get for my efforts is a bruised shoulder.
Looking into the keyhole, I can see the key is still in the lock. Feeling around on one of the shelves, I find a roll of fuse wire. I slide a sheet of newspaper under the door, then fashion the wire into something I can push into the hole to dislodge the key, hoping it’ll fall on to the paper, though even then I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to pull it back under the door, which is very nearly flush with the floor.
Not that it matters. The fuse wire, even wound round on itself, isn’t stiff enough. The key stays exactly where it is.
I can only guess what the time is. My phone’s in my handbag. And my handbag’s in the kitchen. At least, it was in the kitchen. I slump down on the floor of the cupboard, push the vacuum cleaner to one side and lean my head back against the wall. There’s nothing I can do. Absolutely nothing. It’s a bleakly comforting thought. The cleaner will come in the morning and let me out. All I have to do is wait.
Then the thought occurs to me that Marianne may only have said what she needed to in order to shut me up. Maybe she’ll cancel the cleaner’s visit. And tomorrow’s Saturday, so maybe the cleaner isn’t due to come anyway. Besides, Marianne may intend to return before then. I don’t know where she and Scaddan have gone or why. I don’t know what her plan is. But she has one. And I don’t.
Pummel my brain as much as I like, there’s not a single thing I can do.
Except wait.
I must have fallen asleep. My neck aches when I jolt awake. There was a noise. Breaking glass, maybe? I can’t be sure I didn’t dream it.
Then the alarm starts to beep. Someone’s moving. I hear soft, hurrying footsteps. The light of a torchbeam flashes past the door. The alarm goes on beeping. It can’t be Marianne. She would have switched on a light and deactivated the alarm by now. Then who?
Suddenly, the alarm bell starts ringing. Loudly.
And just as suddenly, it stops.
A minute or so passes. Then the torchbeam’s back. It comes to rest on the newspaper I slid under the door earlier. Whoever the intruder is, they’re very close by.
I have to take this chance in case I don’t get another. I scramble to my feet. ‘Hello?’ I call.
There’s no answer. There’s no sound from the other side of the door at all.
‘Hello?’
Still nothing.
‘Please. Let me out.’
Then the torchbeam moves away. I rattle the handle and thump on the door. But the beam doesn’t return.
Has the intruder gone? I don’t think so. I can’t hear anything, but I sense there’s someone in the house. Minutes slowly pass. Maybe half an hour in the end. I try a few more thumps on the door. Nothing happens.
Eventually, I sit back down on the floor. I start to wonder who the intruder can be. What’s brought them here? It’s too much of a coincidence to believe this is a standard burglary. If it is, how were they able to turn the alarm off? Do I know them? Have they recognized my voice?
There’s no flash of the torchbeam to warn me when it happens. The key turns in the lock. That’s all I hear. A click of the lock being released. Nothing else.
I jump up, turn the handle and fling the door open.
I see nothing. There’s a sound, far off in the house. I head for the front door and flick the switch I find on the wall near it.
I’m dazzled at first by the brilliance of the hall lamp. I stand by the front door, heart pounding, breath racing. Slowly, my eyesight adjusts. But there’s nothing to see.
My first instinct is to get as far away from Admiral’s Reach as I can as quickly as I can. Then I remember my handbag’s in the kitchen, with my phone inside. I don’t know if it’s still there. But I have to find out.
I walk cautiously along to the kitchen, switching on every light as I come to it. I keep expecting to see someone ahead of me. But I don’t.
I do see my handbag, though. It’s just where I left it, on the chair next to the one I sat in.
I grab the handbag and check for the phone. It’s gone. Marianne must have taken it. I left it on, so she’ll have access to everything about me. Shit, shit, shit.
But at least I’m out of the cupboard. And she hasn’t taken my car key. I loop the handbag over my shoulder and head back along the hall.
I can’t stop expecting the intruder to step suddenly into my path. But nothing happens. I reach the door. It opens when I turn the latch.
The night’s cool and quiet. It’s dark on the driveway. The light from the hall is enough to see my car by, though. I try to ignore the deep shadows beyond and around it. I try to put the intruder out of mind. If they’d meant to harm me, they’d surely have done it inside the house.
I run for the car, pressing the key to open the doors as I go. I leap in, find the ignition after several fumbles and start up. I hit reverse and pull back across the drive. There’s a crunch as the rear wing strikes the wall next to the garage, but I don’t care. I swerve round and accelerate up the drive.
Then I’m out on to the road and heading away from Admiral’s Reach. Fast.
It’s nearly two o’clock when I pull into the village car park. St Mawes is deeply quiet. The air’s still and chill. I hurry across to the hotel entrance and find the door locked. I press a button for the night porter, who eventually appears and lets me in.
‘Hope you had an enjoyable evening,’ he says, which he must assume I’ve had given the time.
But I’ve got no energy to spare for idle conversation. ‘Is Mr Hinkley back?’
The porter looks surprised when he checks. ‘Er, no. No, he isn’t actually.’
‘I’ll be able to make calls from the phone in my room, won’t I?’
‘Er, yes.’ Clearly, the question puzzles him. ‘Are you all right? You look, er …’
‘I’m fine. Thanks for the key.’
I head straight up to my room and call Carl from the bedside phone. No answer. Straight to voicemail. Why isn’t he back? Where in God’s name is he? I call him again. Same result.
Then I call the Venstrom security helpline – the number’s on my company ID card – and cancel all access to my phone. It’s off anyway, the guy there tells me. But that only means Marianne’s finished delving into my texts, emails and call log. There’s a system for tracking the phone, he reminds me, but only if the phone’s active. Somehow I don’t think it’s going to be active again now.
I sit on the bed, surrounded by anonymous hotel furniture and decorations. Should I call the police? It’ll be difficult to prove Scaddan assaulted me or Marianne locked me in a cupboard. I haven’t got any physical evidence for what happened apart from a red mark round my neck that's probably fading already. I have visions of a deadpan police officer noting down everything I say and believing me less and less with every word I utter.
Where is Carl? I realize I don’t even know the name of the restaurant Vogler was taking him to. Not that it matters. There isn’t going to be anyone there to answer the phone in the middle of the night.
I double-lock the door of the room and put a chair against it, which is crazy, but makes me feel slightly better. I turn on the television, just to break the silence with mindless normality. I lie back on the bed. I try to work out, calmly and logically, what the best thing to do is. But the effort only takes me in a circle.
It’s a
circle from which there seems to be no exit. My brain isn’t working properly. Everything’s a fog. Everything’s—
Saturday October 12
Morning light, seeping through the curtains, wakes me. I’m still lying on the bed, fully dressed. My neck’s sore, my throat’s dry and my head aches. When I look at my watch, I see it’s nearly eight o’clock. I can’t believe I’ve slept so long.
I gulp down some water and call Carl on the bedside phone. Voicemail again. Then I call reception.
‘Is Mr Hinkley back?’
There’s a pause. Then: ‘No. Er, he doesn’t seem to have come in last night at all.’
‘Has he called?’
‘Not … as far as I know.’
‘Can you check?’
‘Hold on.’ A delay. Voices in the background. Then: ‘No. Mr Hinkley hasn’t been in touch. Is there a problem?’
‘I don’t know.’ But actually I do. I’m sure there is a problem. And I’m going to have to do something about it.
I decide I can’t think without a shower and some food. Hot water powering down over me feels good. And I realize how hungry and dehydrated I am as I work my way through apple juice, muesli and bacon and eggs. Breakfast among the other guests, with a watery sun glistening softly on a still blue sea beyond the windows, restores some perspective to my thoughts. But those thoughts still take me nowhere.
Carl and I have an appointment at Roger’s flat in Falmouth at eleven o’clock. I wonder, almost in desperation, if Roger or Joe has heard from him. It’s possible he’s tried to contact me, of course. There may be a simple explanation for his absence from the hotel. And, if he’s left a message on my phone, he may believe I know what it is. That doesn’t explain his failure to answer his own phone, though. I just don’t know what to think.
I have to wait until I’m back in my room before I can call Roger or Joe. Then, when I’m just about to, I realize I don’t have their numbers any more. They’re on my phone. God, I’m lost without it. I can’t even phone Kyra on the general office number to see if she’s heard anything from Carl because it’s Saturday.
So, I call Venstrom Security again and tell them I’m worried about Carl because I haven’t heard from him. They don’t sound worried. But they say they’ll try to contact him.
One False Move Page 11