‘We could have breakfast together.’
Steve collected his key from the desk and was handed a small yellow envelope. He ripped it open and read Sophie’s message. As the words sank in, he felt as if his stomach had dropped out of him.
He ran towards the reception desk where Vladimir was handing over his credit card to the receptionist checking him into a room at the hotel.
9
The doctor finished his examination of Sophie, but gave his views to Cathy as if Sophie, being foreign, wouldn’t understand him. ‘Nothing too serious – a few bruises and minor abrasions; that’s where the blood comes from. Amazing how much blood you can get from the tiniest cut. She doesn’t have any broken bones or head injuries, her eyes are focused; no sign of concussion. Unless something shows up during the next few days, I think she’s come off pretty lightly.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘She’s obviously a bit accident-prone, of course.’
‘Accident-prone?’ Cathy repeated blankly.
‘You didn’t notice the faded bruises on the face?’ He put a hand under Sophie’s chin and turned her face sideways so that the light fell directly on to one side of her cheek. ‘Under the eye, see that? And here . . .’ He touched the edge of her jaw with one light finger; he had cold skin and Sophie did not enjoy being touched by him. ‘And here, too.’ He flicked back her neckline and showed a shadowy bruise on her neck. ‘Others on her arms and legs. They’re recent – in the last few days, I’d say.’ He raised an eyebrow at Sophie. ‘Not the boyfriend, I hope?’
She didn’t bother to laugh at his joke, nor did she answer his question frankly. ‘I fell down.’ Her eyes did not meet his. She did not want to talk about what had happened in the subway; it would lead to more questions and more curiosity.
‘As I said, accident-prone,’ he drawled, and she knew he did not believe her but really did not care. She did not live here, she was only a temporary patient; it didn’t matter to him what happened to her. He might be attractive to look at but he had cold eyes. ‘Lucky young woman both times, then,’ he said, opening the large black briefcase he had brought with him. ‘Did you know the driver of the car, by the way?’ And he shot her a quick, sideways glance as he asked, hoping, she saw, to surprise a reaction out of her.
She couldn’t hide her shiver, her frown of dismay at the memory, but was able to answer honestly. ‘No.’ She did not know who had been driving that car, but she had her suspicions – at the back of her mind she had had a faint, fugitive impression without having time to think about it; that feeling had grown ever since. Could it have been Gowrie’s secretary in that car? The idea appalled her, that Gowrie was the man behind this latest attempt to kill her; she couldn’t talk about it, though, not in front of Cathy.
‘Is the fire out yet?’ Cathy asked him and he nodded.
‘Yes, but the firemen are still working on the car.’ He didn’t expand on what they were doing, for which Sophie was grateful. Taking a small box out of his case, he wrote on it rapidly in an unreadable hand and held it out to Cathy. ‘Give her one of these capsules with water now. It’s a sedative, not a sleeping pill, but it should calm her down and help her sleep. If she needs it she can take another one in six hours; I’m only giving you enough for twenty-four hours. She must consult her own doctor or call me again if she needs any more.’
‘Thank you, doctor, it was very good of you to come.’
He nodded and looked down at Sophie. ‘Try to stay out of accidents, hmm?’
She felt a flare of irritation and sharply said, ‘I don’t enjoy having accidents, doctor!’
He raised his brows again, but said no more. Cathy saw him to the door, Sophie heard her talking quietly to him before the door closed and Cathy came back.
‘He thinks you are up to talking to our local policeman before I give you the sedative. Can I let him come in now? He needs to ask you some questions about the accident.’
A pulse of panic beat in Sophie’s neck. ‘Must I?’ She knew she sounded childish but she couldn’t help it, she was afraid of talking to the police. She always found the sight of police uniforms alarming. Right from her childhood, when Mamma had first told
her about the way Papa died, giving her that vivid little picture of men in uniform appearing out of the dark, shouting to the driver of the car Papa was in to stop and then the bang, bang, bang of machine guns when the car drove on.
It must have happened just the way it did tonight; the car out of control, zig-zagging all over the place before it crashed and burst into flames.
Sophie as a little girl had listened, wide-eyed and terrified. She had taken on board then that if you didn’t do what the men in uniforms ordered you were killed. All her life since she had heard similar stories from people back home: stories of police brutality, the helplessness of people confronted by the knock in the night, the disappearance of loved ones. Everyone had a story to tell. It was the commonplace of their daily lives for so many years, as she had said to Steve the other day. You had to learn to live with it.
Steve! she thought with a jab of shock – she had forgotten Steve. She must let him know what’s happened, where she was.
‘Don’t look so scared!’ Cathy knelt down beside the couch and took her hand. ‘Do you want me to stay with you while Constable Hawkins interviews you?’
‘Yes, please.’ Sophie clutched her fingers and smiled gratefully at her. ‘Oh, yes, stay, I’ll find it easier if you’re here. But first . . . can I make a phone call?’
The gatekeeper of Arbory House was sitting in front of his TV when, even above the noise of the chat show he was watching, he heard a loud prolonged hooting from a car outside. He reluctantly got up and went out.
A long American-style car had pulled up, headlights blazing, outside the gates.
‘Hey, excuse me!’ the driver called, having wound down his window electronically. ‘Hey, sir! Can you open up for us, please?’
‘Sorry, my instructions are not to open up for anyone but the police,’ the gatekeeper yelled, from his doorstep.
He lived alone in the small stone cottage just inside the gates and with his front door open you could hear his television blaring and glimpse grainy pictures of a chat show with a permanently smiling host and a guest who was chattering inanely and gesturing far too much. The audience in the background laughed in gales; they seemed to be all teeth and big, clapping hands.
‘Could you come to the gate? Don’t want to shout.’ The driver flapped a leather object which held a large, shiny badge. ‘This is official business, sir. We’re security people working for Mrs Brougham’s father. We’re here to check out this accident and the young lady who was involved. If Mrs Brougham wants to make sure we’re who we say we are, she can ring Senator Gowrie’s hotel in London, ask for Mr Beverley, the head of his security team, and he’ll explain what this is all about.’