Shifting Sands (13 page)

She looked up. ‘It was easy to check, because many of our guests are celebrities. But still I did not believe—'

‘You found the names of more clients?'

‘A couple, yes. They were all of much the same age, so it seemed likely they had been offered the new treatment.'

‘Surely there must have been post-mortems, if the deaths were unexpected?' Steve put in.

‘In some cases, yes. There was talk of congenital defects, allergic reactions. But, you see, rashes, swelling, irregular heartbeat – all these symptoms could be side effects of the treatment.'

Jonathan frowned. ‘Have you spoken to your boss about this?'

‘I tried, but he became very angry. He insists there is
absolutely
no connection, and I must never suggest such a thing, or they take me to court.' She looked at them, her large eyes brimming with tears.

‘So you want us to look into it. But we need a lot more to go on, you know.'

‘Of course.' Her voice scarcely audible, she seemed to be fighting an internal battle. ‘Records are kept of all our clients,' she went on more firmly, ‘and a star is put against the names of those who receive the new treatment, so they may be monitored for reactions and results.'

‘What kind of results?'

She shrugged. ‘In their appearance, their fitness, their . . .
jeunesse
.'

‘You have access to this folder?'

She shook her head. ‘Though available to all the resorts, its access is restricted to the management and those in charge of the treatment.'

‘Then how—?'

‘I . . . was able to discover the password.'

‘And you took copies?'

‘Yes, on a USB memory stick.' She gave a little shiver. ‘All the time, I was afraid someone would see me.'

Steve leaned forward eagerly. ‘You have it with you?'

Elise raised both hands with a little grimace. ‘I regret, no.' And, at his exclamation, hurried on. ‘It is in the safe in my room. I intended to retrieve it after breakfast, but my boss needed to see me, and then we must go out and there is no time.
Malheureusement
, we were late back this evening, and if, on top of this, I delayed further by going to my room, you would think that once again I let you down and go out somewhere. I dared not risk that.'

Steve sat back with a gesture of impatience. ‘Then how the hell—?'

Ignoring him, she turned to Jonathan. ‘As I say, it is in my room – number four-o-six – in an envelope addressed to you. It is a double room, so I am issued with two keys.' She opened her bag and handed him a plastic key card, and he registered the name of her hotel. ‘Tomorrow, we shall again be out all day. You will go and collect it?'

Jonathan stared at her. ‘You want me to go to your hotel room and open your safe? Suppose a chambermaid comes in? I'd be arrested!'

She leant forward urgently. ‘You go around midday and no one will come. The cleaners have all finished, and the guests will be either out or at lunch. It is a good time.'

‘Where is the safe?'

‘Inside the cupboard; the combination is forty-eight, seventy-two.' She looked from one doubtful face to the other. ‘You will do this, yes? You will take the drive and look into the deaths?'

‘You could be mistaken, you know,' Jonathan said slowly. ‘It might be coincidence after all.'

‘I pray that it is. But I must know for sure, or I go crazy.' She stood up abruptly, placing her empty glass on the table. ‘I must go. I am expected back for dinner.'

‘And if we do find something? We can contact you on your mobile?'

She shook her head quickly. ‘There must be no further contact between us. I have given you all I have, and it is vital this information is not traced to me.' She paused, considering. ‘If, however, it is essential that you speak with me for some reason, you must telephone in the evening, when I shall be home and alone.'

‘Understood.'

She held out her hand, and Jonathan took it. ‘I do so hope I am mistaken,' she said.

‘We'll do our best to find out.'

‘I don't know about you, but I could do with another drink,' Steve commented as Jonathan returned from seeing her out. ‘My God, what a hornets' nest! Do you think there's anything in it?'

Jonathan opened the minibar. ‘God knows. We'll have a better idea when we see the records, though I don't fancy having to break into her room to get them.'

‘Hardly breaking in, when you have the key.'

‘All the same, I wish I'd suggested waiting till we get back to London. She could have posted it to us, for God's sake.'

Steve took the glass handed to him, raising it in a silent toast. ‘I have the feeling she can't wait to get shot of it. Our flight's at two thirty, isn't it? There'll just be time to collect it at midday, as she suggested.'

‘You go then, since you're so keen.'

Steve shook his head. ‘Oh no, this is your baby. You were her contact, and the envelope's addressed to you. That might be a saving grace, if someone
does
see you.'

‘Thanks,' Jonathan said drily. ‘That makes me feel a whole lot better.'

Steve laughed. ‘Oh, come on! This could be the hell of a story – Mandelyns-gate!'

‘We could also be sued for millions if we get it wrong. Still, there's no point in any more speculating till we know what we're looking at, so –' he drained his glass – ‘let's get the hell out of here and go down to dinner.'

Seven

A
nna's procrastination was in vain, for that evening Lewis phoned her.

‘Lewis!' she exclaimed, wooden spoon in hand.

‘You sound surprised to hear me!'

‘I . . . thought you were away,' she said stupidly.

‘But not incommunicado!'

‘No, no, of course not.'

‘Are you all right, love? You sound a little strained.'

‘I'm fine. Just in the middle of preparing supper, actually.'

‘Well, I'm sorry to interrupt you,' he said a little stiffly. He paused, and when she made no comment, continued, ‘God, Anna, I can't wait to see you, especially after the week I'm having. Negotiations are proving trickier than expected up here.'

‘I'm . . . sorry to hear that.'

‘I did make it clear, didn't I, that the invitation's not limited to Friday? It's the weekend, after all; we might as well make the most of it – theatre, dinner, drive out somewhere – whatever takes our fancy. I've a comfortable
pied-à-terre
that makes an excellent base.'

The weekend? She caught her breath – but who was she fooling? She'd known all along what his invitation had implied. Memories of the night in Pretoria flooded back, and with them an intense longing for him.

She took a moment to ensure her voice was steady. ‘Thank you, that sounds great.'

‘I must go, my love; we're meeting in the bar before dinner. See you Friday.' And he rang off. For a moment longer she held the phone to her ear. Then, with a little smile, she replaced it on its stand and went to check the oven.

The meeting with Keith Perceval went well the next morning. He was the owner of a small manufacturing company that was struggling for existence and being constantly elbowed aside by the big boys. Perceval's grandfather had started the business after being decorated for valour in the First World War, and various members of the family had since achieved prominence – by winning a medal in the 1960 Olympics, by rescuing a family from a burning house, by swimming the English Channel.

Steve had caught a brief interview with him on television and thought both he and his company warranted further coverage. Family stories were always of interest, and with luck, an in-depth article in one of the nationals might also help the firm's commercial prospects.

Perceval was a hard-headed businessman in his fifties, proud of his northern roots and of what his family had achieved. His two sons worked with him in the business, extending the history of the firm over four generations, and after conducting them round the factory and introducing them to some of his men, he was happy enough to supply them with anecdotes, photographs and previous newspaper coverage of his illustrious forebears. He also passed on a few more leads to follow up, and the meeting ended with expressions of goodwill all round.

It was eleven fifteen when Jonathan and Steve emerged from his office and took a taxi back to their hotel, to finish packing and be out of their rooms, as required, by midday. Having checked the address of Elise's hotel, they agreed that Steve should take both bags to a nearby café, where, having accomplished his mission, Jonathan would join him for a snack lunch before making their way to the airport.

‘Wish me luck,' Jonathan said as they parted outside the designated rendezvous.

‘You'll be OK; you should be back in fifteen minutes tops. Remember the combination?'

Jonathan nodded. ‘Right, here goes.'

He crossed the road and walked briskly along the opposite pavement to the hotel entrance. Steve watched him go inside, then, an overnight bag in each hand, went into the café and secured a corner table.

In the foyer, Jonathan paused briefly, looking for the bank of lifts, then made his way swiftly over to them, hoping he'd be the only occupant; on leaving the lift, he'd be unsure which way to turn, and had no wish to be seen hesitating.

His luck held, and he was conducted swiftly to the fourth floor, but as the doors opened and he moved forward, he found himself face-to-face with someone about to enter it. Jonathan hesitated, startled by the unexpected encounter, and the man smiled and stood to one side, gesturing for him to exit.

With a nod of thanks, Jonathan did so, the lift doors closed behind him, and the lift began to descend. He released his breath. Had the guy been a minute or two later, he might have seen him furtively entering Elise's bedroom. He could even be a member of the Mandelyns' negotiating team. It was a narrow escape.

A board on the wall opposite showed arrows pointing in the direction of the rooms, and Jonathan set off towards 406. A swift glance up and down the corridor showed it to be empty. Taking the key card from his pocket, he slipped it into the slot, turned the handle, and quickly let himself in, closing the door behind him.

The room smelled faintly of the scent Elise wore. He stood for a moment, looking around. The double bed had been made, so there was little likelihood of an inadvertent visit from the chambermaid. His eyes passed rapidly over dressing table, chairs, tea-making equipment, trouser press, before alighting on the fitted cupboard.

Repeating the combination under his breath, he opened the double doors – and stood staring in disbelief. The safe was there all right, on a shelf, as Elise had said. But its door stood open – and it was empty. God! he thought in a panic. Now what?

The right-hand half of the cupboard was a hanging space, where a couple of dresses and a jacket hung on a rail. Roughly, he pushed them aside, but no second safe was hiding behind them.

He looked feverishly round the room. The only other furniture with doors was the minibar, and without hope he pulled it open. As expected, all it contained was an array of miniatures and bags of nuts.

In desperation, he returned to the cupboard and felt around inside the safe. No envelope had been caught behind the door, and, knocking aside a pair of shoes, it was clear nothing had fallen to the floor.

The damn girl had changed her mind again! The least she could have done was let him know, spare him this heart-stopping expedition. He turned, raking the room with his eyes. The only place he'd not looked was the en suite, and there wasn't likely to be a safe in there. Nonetheless, on the principle of leaving no stone unturned, he pushed open the door and received his second, brain-numbing shock. For Elise lay crumpled in the bath like a rag doll, her eyes staring sightlessly up at him and an ugly brown stain marring the whiteness of her blouse.

Bile in his throat, sudden sweat drenching his body, Jonathan struggled to take in the situation. Unbelievably, Elise was dead, had obviously been murdered, and – a stab of panic – his fingerprints were all over the bedroom!

Galvanized into action, he fumbled for a handkerchief and began rubbing frenziedly at all the surfaces he could remember touching – the minibar, the inside of the safe, the door handles. And all the while a mantra repeated itself over and over inside his head.
Don't let anyone come!
Don't let anyone come!

He should phone the police, he thought confusedly. But how to explain his presence in the murder room? No, he had to get out of here and back to Steve as quickly as possible.

Sheathing the doorknob with his handkerchief, he carefully turned it, easing the door open inch by inch until he could look out and satisfy himself no one was in sight. Then, heart hammering, he stepped into the corridor, pulled the door shut with his handkerchief, and walked rapidly away. Bypassing the lift, he took the stairs, hurtling down floor after floor, accepting that, though still nauseous and desperate to stop off at the rest-rooms, he couldn't afford the delay. Elise might be found at any minute, and the man by the lift could describe him.

Outside at last, gulping in the fresh air, he set off at a shambling run for the café where he'd left Steve fifteen minutes earlier. Legs like straw, a persistent stitch in his side, he pushed his way inside, and, though vaguely aware of his friend's raised hand, made straight for the sign reading Toilets. He reached the cubicle with seconds to spare and, kneeling on the tiled floor, vomited long and painfully.