Walking in Darkness

‘He hasn’t retired,’ snorted Lilli. ‘He’s moonlighting with half the media in New York, working odd shifts here, odd shifts there, picking up a story here, a story there, and little crumbs of income everywhere.’

‘Time enough to retire when you’re put in your coffin,’ agreed Theo, beaming. ‘I get bored doing nothing.’

Sophie glanced into the Italian restaurant and saw that it was filling up: there were not many tables free. ‘Shall we go in and eat?’

‘Yes, I’m starving,’ Lilli agreed, pushing open the door and leading the way. ‘Have you seen much of Steve?’

‘Too much,’ Sophie said, then wished she had not been so unguarded as Lilli gave her an amused, intrigued glance.

‘You must tell us all about it over our pasta.’

Upstairs Sophie’s bed was being made, her half-eaten food taken away, the fanned photographs on the table tidied into a neat pile, her damp towels removed and clean ones hung in their place. The maid straightened the chairs, closed the curtains and left one lamp lit before going out and closing the door. She continued on to the next room, pushing her trolley, laden with sheets, towels, soap, plastic shower caps, tiny sachets of shampoo and bath foam.

It took her nearly an hour to do all the rooms on the floor. When she had vanished again, her trolley creaking to rest in the staffroom near the lifts, the corridor was quiet. Most guests were out at dinner. A few were eating in their rooms, watching TV.

A tall figure in a black jogging suit came out of the lift and walked quickly to the room next door to Sophie’s, using a key card to get in, closing the door again almost silently.

Inside the room the figure moved to a door connecting this room with Sophie’s, getting a thin strip of metal from a pocket. Softly the metal slid between lock and frame, there was a click and the door opened.

Moving very fast, the intruder went into Sophie’s room, then paused, flashing a rapid glance around, taking in the empty tidiness, the made-up bed, the closed curtains, the faint glow of lamplight.

Even from the other side of the room it was obvious that the bathroom, too, was empty. The door was open and no light showed, there was no sound from there, either.

Where was she? At dinner? Would she come back alone – or with someone? Was she sleeping with the journalist who had booked her in to the room? Was he just intrigued by her? Or was he in on the secret now?

The intruder walked around the room, frustrated, angry, then stopped by the table to stare down at the photos, gathered them all up to look closer. What the hell was this? The strange, grainy reproductions, all in black and white, lacking depth, took a moment to identify. Photocopies. That was what they were. Photocopies of the photographs that had been taken from the girl’s apartment. They must have been taken before the burglary. But why?

Hearing a sound out in the corridor, voices, laughter, the intruder froze, listened intently, poised to act or flee. A man’s deep voice said, ‘Give me your key, Sophie,’ and the silent eavesdropper moved hurriedly to the door leading to the other room, slid through it and closed it without making a sound. No point in hanging around here if she had company. If it was Colbourne, he might stay all night.

They would have to wait and get her in London before she could contact Cathy.

6

Sophie was astonished to discover that she and Steve and the rest of his TV crew were on the same flight as Don Gowrie and his team, not to mention a whole mob of other media people, reporters, photographers loaded down with cameras, and TV crews from other networks. The difference was that while the senator and his closest aides were in first class the press were largely in economy, except some of the higher-paid political correspondents who were in business class. Looking around the rows of seats, Sophie soon realized that most of the press seemed to know each other and were talking away. And drinking. They all had glasses in their hands most of the time.

Sophie had one glass of white wine with her very uninviting food, but otherwise drank orange juice and then mineral water. She knew the long flight would make her feet ache and her ankles swell because that was what had happened to her on her flight to New York from Prague and she didn’t want a repeat performance. She didn’t want a headache tomorrow, either.

‘More coffee?’ the stewardess asked, and she nodded, holding out her cup.

‘Thank you.’

Beside her she heard an odd intake of air and looked round at Steve enquiringly. He was staring at a burly middle-aged man in a neat grey suit who was just shouldering his way past the food trolley on his way to the lavatory.

‘Do you know him?’ Sophie asked, and Steve frowned, hesitated, then nodded with what she saw was reluctance. Why didn’t he want to talk about the man?

‘Who is he?’

Steve paused, watching the stewardess pouring coffee for the row in front of them, then, as she moved her trolley on, murmured, ‘Someone who means trouble,’ and something in his tone made the hairs on the back of Sophie’s neck rise.

‘What do you mean? Who is he?’

‘His name is Bross; he’s in security, on the president’s staff, and if he is going to London on the same plane as Gowrie you can bet your bottom dollar he’s here to keep an eye on everything Gowrie does and says, and above all everyone he meets. The president must be worried about Gowrie.’

‘How do you know so much?’ She watched him with uncertainty, wondering again just how much she could trust this man and what his motives really were for helping her. To get the inside track on whatever she knew about Don Gowrie? Was that his only reason? Sometimes she felt it wasn’t Gowrie but herself he was interested in, herself he cared about – but it was easy to fool yourself when you wanted to believe something. She hadn’t known him long and she didn’t know him very well. Why did she feel this strong desire to believe he cared what happened to her? Hadn’t she learnt not to hope for too much where other people were concerned? They lied, they cheated, they were indifferent. You were a fool if you trusted them.

‘My family has been mixed up in Republican politics all my life,’ he said, staring into his drink before swallowing some. ‘There isn’t much I don’t know about the party. And in my job I get to hear a lot of sensitive information.’

Almost angrily, Sophie said, ‘Why is politics always such a dirty business, whichever country you look at?’