The Girl Who Stole the Apple

The problem with doubts and suspicions is that once they slip into your consciousness, they become very hard to dislodge. As Maggie trudged up the stairs back to her room the questions inside her head swirled thick and fast. Who exactly was Sinead? Sam hadn’t brought them to this hotel by chance. He had come for a specific reason, and that reason had to be Sinead. And now he and Sinead had disappeared and she had been left behind with Beth. Was that always Sam’s plan, to palm his daughter off on her before doing a runner with Sinead to God only knew where? And was Beth his daughter anyway?

When Maggie got to the bedroom, she paused. It was time to put on her super confident, I’m-in-charge-and-I-know-what-I’m-doing face. ‘It’s only me, Beth,’ she said as she pushed the door open.

Beth was sitting on the bed, engrossed in the TV. Beyond her, also on the bed and also watching was a woman with blonde hair and a magenta-and-white striped top. She turned towards Maggie and beamed at her.

* * *

Elgar stood outside the back door and admired the view. Not that it was an extensive one, but it was pleasant enough. In the foreground were grass fields populated by sheep safely grazing. Beyond the sheep were dense fairy-tale woods which separated them from whatever it was that lay beyond. There were deer in the woods. He had seen three of them on a previous stay. But he had seen none that morning, not even when he had scanned the edge of the woods with his binoculars soon after dawn. Maybe, if nothing happened, he would take a walk later and see if he had more luck.

He was smoking his first and only cigarette of the day. He did this slowly and methodically, admiring the lengthening ash in between puffs and reflecting on the power of nicotine. He had once been a thirty-a-day man and he took pride in the fact that he could now smoke one a day and not relapse. It was a matter of self-control, and a test he set for himself every single day. Self-control was essential in this job. The day he smoked a second cigarette would be the day he needed to jack it all in.

The door opened behind him. He didn’t have to turn to see which one of them it was. He had worked with Bridget long enough to be able to distinguish her tread, and her cloying perfume was something of a giveaway.

‘He’s having breakfast,’ she said. She had a glass of water in her left hand and a gun, complete with silencer, in her right. Elgar made no comment. She was always prepared. The chances of Arthur making a run from this place were as remote as the Hindu Kush. The doors and windows of the safe house were fastened tight. The only way out for the old man would be via this back door.

‘No news then?’ Elgar knew it was a daft question to ask her, but sometimes daft questions were better than none.

‘Something will happen.’ Bridget sipped at her water, calmness personified. ‘It always does. Sooner or later.’

‘Those two aren’t your average idiots, you know,’ he said. He had studied their background. He didn’t believe in underestimating people.

‘You remember what they say, Elgar?’ She gave him one of her inscrutable smiles. Elgar said nothing. He knew that another Chinese proverb was poised on the tip of her tongue. ‘When you are dealing with an idiot, that’s when you most need your wits about you.’

She wasn’t calling them idiots, of course. Elgar knew that. Her words were aimed at him. She might as well have been pointing her gun right between his eyes. Idiot! She was goading him again. Elgar shrugged. He wasn’t going to get dragged into her games. He knew she was trying to get him to react. The question was, why.

‘Your turn to babysit the old man,’ she said. She tipped the rest of the water onto the ground and handed him the glass. ‘I fancy a walk.’

Elgar said nothing. He watched her saunter down the path and out of the picket gate. He was puzzled. What the hell was she playing at? I fancy a walk. Bridget Malone never fancied a walk. She wanted to get away from him. She wanted to speak to Bowman where she couldn’t be overheard by Elgar. She was trying to cut him out of the loop. Suddenly Elgar was certain of that. But he still didn’t know why.

* * *

‘Hi, there,’ the blonde said. ‘Nice to meet you again, Maggie. By the way, my name is Sinead.’

‘What exactly are you doing in my room?’

‘Been having a nice chat with Matt.’

‘I’d like you to leave.’

‘Or rather Beth.’

Maggie felt a chill run through her.

‘I’ll ask you again. What the hell are you doing in my room?’

Sinead gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Don’t worry, honey. Sam brought me up to date with everything. Matt or Beth — doesn’t matter to me. Sam and I are old friends, if you know what I mean.’

‘Old friends?’ If she had wanted to rub Maggie up the wrong way, she could hardly have chosen two more effective words. ‘Where the hell is Sam anyway?’

Sinead shrugged. ‘Dunno. Honest.’ She showed no sign of getting off the bed. She stretched out her perfectly shaped legs. She was wearing brown leather boots over jeans. She flicked an invisible speck off her thigh. Maggie felt a surge of jealousy.

‘You gave him a lift somewhere,’ Maggie said. ‘Pavel told me.’

‘Into town. He said he had things to do.’

‘What things?’ Maggie snapped. She could feel her self-control unravelling.

Sinead flipped herself up off the bed like some show-off gymnast and slipped on a black leather jacket which was lying over the back of the one armchair in the room. ‘You know what Sam is like. He never tells you more than the minimum.’ Sinead moved round the bed and up to Maggie. ‘But he asked me to give you this.’ She held out an envelope.