‘Good.’ She slips her arm through his and taps her head against his shoulder. ‘Then I’ve got you all to myself.’
Chapter 12
Anna
Alex hasn’t replied to my last text and now I’m regretting snapping at him. He was only wondering how I’m doing but the mention of sleep was like a jab in my chest. I thought, by coming here, that I’d leave what happened behind. But grief can’t be cast off like a jacket. It becomes part of you, an invisible film welded to your skin. Some days you feel it, some days you don’t, but it’s always there.
‘Come in, come in, come in.’ My boss shepherds five guests into the centre of the lobby, two men, two women and a teenage girl, their coats and bags dappled with rain. He squeezes past them to reach the reception desk and stands next to me.
‘Welcome to the Bay View Hotel, the best hotel on Rum,’ he says, his hands spread wide in greeting. Several of the guests smile. One, a thin, midde-aged woman wearing a red cagoule and a matching bobble hat, forces a laugh. The Bay View Hotel is the only hotel on Rum.
‘Anna here will check you all in,’ David continues, ‘and I’ll carry your suitcases and bags up to your rooms.’ He turns to the man standing nearest to him – tall, average build, dark hair, wearing a pale blue fleece, dark trousers and walking boots – and reaches for one of the straps of his rucksack. The man lurches backwards as though stung, knocking into the woman in red who’s standing directly behind him.
‘Sorry, sorry.’ His eyes dart wildly behind his frameless glasses as he searches for somewhere, anywhere, he can stand in the small lobby without touching another person. ‘I’ve just … I’ve just … I’ve got important stuff in here and I … I—’
‘No problem.’ David raises a hand in apology, his lips pulled tightly over his teeth in a half grin, half grimace. ‘If you don’t want me to take your bags that’s no problem at all.’
‘You can take mine.’ The woman in the red cagoule squeezes through the crowd then reverses up against David so her rucksack is almost pressed against him. ‘It’s killing my shoulders.’
The balding older man who was standing next to her raises his left hand in protest, a gold wedding ring glinting on his finger. ‘I told you I’d carry it for you, Mel, but you did insist …’
The woman ignores him and gives David the nod to help her remove her rucksack. He glances over at the husband and nods tightly.
‘Actually, ladies and gents, I’ve got to get back to the dock to collect the other guests. If you’d like me to take your bags to your room, just deposit them here and I’ll bring them up to you when I get back. Anna will show you where you need to go. When you’re settled in do come down to the lounge where there’s a complimentary tot of whisky waiting for you. When the other guests arrive I’ll explain the itinerary for the week.’
He raises his hands in the air as he sidles out of the hotel, sidestepping like a crab. I see a flash of relief on his face when he reaches the front door.
With David gone the guests turn hesitantly in my direction. First to reach the table are the couple. The woman takes charge, nudging herself in front of the man so she can spread her hands wide on the desk.
‘Melanie and Malcolm Ward. And … Katie.’ She takes off her bobble hat then glances at the small, sallow-skinned teen who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. ‘Also Ward,’ she adds.
Unlike the girl in her oversized parka and pink Converse, Melanie and Malcolm are kitted out like serious hikers in branded waterproof jackets with walking poles, well-used walking boots and bulging rucksacks. Malcolm’s clutching a map in a plastic slip. Melanie has mousey-brown hair tied back in a ponytail and a fringe that finishes just above her remarkably thick eyebrows and red-rimmed glasses. She looks lithe and strong, as though she could leap up Rum Cuillin without drawing a breath. Her husband is older: mid to late fifties. His grey hair is receding, showing a large expanse of forehead, speckled with liver spots. His brows have thinned so much at the edges that they appear to end mid-pupil, making him look as though he’s permanently frowning.
I enter their details into the laptop, then reach round to the hooks and hand Melanie a bunch of keys. ‘There you go, you’re in Rooms 7 and 8. They’re at the front of the hotel. If you walk up the stairs to the first floor, the rooms are directly opposite you as you come—’
‘At the front?’ Melanie glances at Malcolm, who sighs heavily.
‘Yes.’ I force a smile but it has no effect on the pained expression on Mrs Ward’s face.
‘So no view of the sea?’
‘No, I’m sorry. We allocate the rooms according to the list the walking tour company sends us and I’m afraid …’ I shrug. ‘W was at the end of—’
‘Seriously?’ Malcolm Ward says. ‘That’s how rooms are allocated? In this day and age? I spent my entire childhood being last for everything because my surname is at the end of the alphabet.’
I glance at Katie, who looks like she’s wishing the ground would open up and swallow her.
‘It took us the best part of two days to get here,’ Melanie says. ‘We’ve come all the way from London. Malcolm was ever so excited about having a sea view. Weren’t you, Malcolm?’
He nods. ‘Gloria at the Hikers’ Friend practically guaranteed it.’
‘But you’ll have an amazing view of the mountains.’ I glance at the closed front door, willing David to walk through. When I first arrived he told me, in no uncertain terms, that he was the face of the hotel and he would be the primary point of call for the guests. I tend to their every need, he said, then added quickly, Well, almost.
Melanie leans into the desk, her pupils small and black behind her glasses. ‘Can’t you change it?’
‘I can’t really. All the rooms have been allocated. We are a very small hotel and we can only accommodate eight—’
‘I’ll swap.’ A woman in her mid to late sixties, with white hair cut short at the sides and as curly as sheep on the top, steps around Melanie. ‘If I’ve got a sea-view room.’
I search her face as she smiles warmly up at me.
‘That’s very kind of you.’ I return her smile. ‘What’s your name, please?’
‘Christine Cuttle.’
‘Like the fish?’ Malcolm comments.
‘Yes.’ Christine smiles tightly. She’s probably heard that a thousand times.
‘Thank you, Mrs Cuttle,’ I say. ‘I’ll just check the—’
‘Christine, please.’
‘Okay.’ I glance down at my screen. ‘You’re in luck,’ I tell Melanie. ‘Christine is down to take Room 1, which has a sea view.’
Melanie squeaks with joy and shares a look with her husband. She pauses, and glances back at Katie. Her smile slips. ‘You won’t be next to us any more.’
Katie shrugs. If anything she looks slightly relieved.
‘She’s only across the corridor,’ I say. ‘It’s a small hotel, all the rooms are very close together.’
Melanie’s pinched expression slackens. ‘Do you mind, Katie? This is your break as much as ours.’
Again the young girl shrugs. ‘I don’t care about views.’
‘And you’re quite sure,’ Melanie says to Christine. ‘About swapping with us? You really don’t have to, you know.’
Oh yes you do, her face and her tightly curled hands say. You do now you’ve offered.
‘I’m more than happy,’ Christine says. ‘I could never grow tired of looking at that landscape. It’s so beautiful here.’ She returns her gaze to me. ‘You’re very lucky to live here.’
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘I am.’
Having dispatched Christine, Melanie and Malcolm to their rooms I beckon the final guest, standing stiffly near the door, to approach reception. He avoids eye contact as he walks towards me, then draws to a halt about a foot from the desk. A loud crack of thunder breaks the silence, making both of us jump. Two seconds later lightning tears through the dark sky beyond the window and the rain, which has been falling lightly for the last hour or so, suddenly buckets down.
I laugh. ‘Welcome to Rum!’
The guest keeps his gaze fixed on the shiny expanse of desk that separates us. He’s younger than the others, I’d guess late thirties. His dark hair is thick and curly but it’s receding either side of his widow’s peak. Though he’s of average build his face is strangely fleshy, all cheeks and chin, with a long, wide nose. His eyes blink rapidly beneath the sheen of his wireless glasses.
‘Trevor Morgan.’ He holds out a hand and I raise mine to shake it.
‘No.’ He slaps his palm against the desk. ‘The key.’
‘Oh.’ I glance at the laptop, then twist round to the key rack. ‘You’re in Room 2, at the back of the hotel. If you go—’
‘I’ll find it, thank you.’ As he takes the key from my outstretched hand his eyes meet mine. He couldn’t have looked at me for more than a second, but the uncomfortable tightening in my chest lasts long after he slips silently up the stairs.
Fifteen minutes later, the front door opens and David strides in with a man and a woman around my age, both wearing rucksacks. The man’s tall, with a long hipster beard and dark hair, shaved around the sides and long and swept back on the top. The woman’s about five foot five with blonde wavy hair, a sturdy physique and a scowl on her face. Her expression couldn’t be more different from the man’s. He positively beams at me as he crosses the lobby, his heavy boots reverberating on the polished wooden floor.
‘Joe Armstrong.’ He holds out a hand. ‘You must be Anna. David told us all about you.’
I shake his hand and return his smile. ‘Has he now?’
‘All good!’ David calls, as he hangs his coat on a hook. ‘Well … mostly.’
‘Fiona Gardiner.’ The blonde woman squeezes herself between Joe and the wall.
‘Nice to meet you.’ I offer her my hand and she shakes it firmly.
‘Okay … um …’ I tap at the keyboard. The system is showing that they’ve been allocated separate rooms. ‘Mr Armstrong, it says here that you’re in Room 6, which has a view of the mountains. Ms Gardiner you’re in Room 3, with a view of the sea.’ I look back up at the guests. ‘You’re welcome to choose which of those rooms you’d like. I can cancel the second room. You won’t be charged twice, there’s obviously been some kind of mistake in the booking.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Joe Armstrong looks at me blankly. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
Fiona gives me an equally confused look and I feel the colour rise in my cheeks. David, heading into the dining room, chuckles as he opens the door. He knows exactly what I’ve done.
‘I thought you were a couple,’ I explain. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just when you walked in together I assumed—’
‘Oh, God no!’ Joe laughs heartily then catches the hurt look on Fiona’s face and quickly corrects himself. ‘Not that … Fiona’s lovely. I’m sure you’d make a wonderful girlfriend but …’ He runs a hand over his hair. ‘We’re not a couple. We don’t know each other. We only got chatting on the dock.’
‘It’s my fault, sorry.’ I shoot Fiona an apologetic look. ‘I’m new. I haven’t worked on reception before.’
‘Right.’ The edges of her lips rise but it’s more of a grimace than a smile. She holds out her hand. ‘If I could just have my key?’
‘Of course.’ I hand her the key to Room 3 and Joe the key to Room 6.
‘Can I take that for you?’ Joe says as Fiona adjusts her rucksack.
‘No, thank you,’ she says tightly. ‘I’m quite capable of carrying it myself.’
I turn back to the laptop as they plod their way up the stairs, Fiona leading and Joe following behind. As their footsteps reverberate on the guest corridor above my head, David pops his head out of the dining room door.
‘Sorry,’ he says with a laugh. ‘I could have corrected you but where would the fun be in that?’ His eyes flick towards the top of the staircase. ‘We’ve got a few interesting personalities this week. I think they’re going to keep us on our toes.’
Chapter 13
Steve
Steve turns up the collar of his coat, mentally cursing his lack of umbrella and phone as he passes yet another South London street that doesn’t contain a pub called the White Hart. Still, no Google Maps and no GPS is infinitely preferable to the alternative, a stretch inside for murder. So far, other than the burner phone in his desk drawer and one very short phone call, there’s no evidence linking him to Jim Thompson, and he intends to keep it that way.
‘Where the fuck is – ah!’ He stops at the entrance to a small, characterless back street, hurries down it and pushes at the door of the White Hart.
He raises his eyebrows as he walks in. Yet another old boozer that’s been transformed into a gastropub with colonial-style ceiling fans, stripped floors, an oak bar and a selection of craft ales. Fucking hipsters, he thinks as he walks up to the bar and orders a pint of Heineken. They like to pretend they’re knitting their own houses, serving food on dustbin lids and turning their backs on technology but they’re capitalist bastards at heart, just like the rest of us.
He takes a sip of his pint and casually glances around, looking for Jim. It’s been a while since he last saw him but he immediately recognises the balding bloke in the thick glasses sitting on his own in the corner, a newspaper spread on the table in front of him. They were unlikely cell mates, back in the day (a long way back in the day), Steve in for fraud and Jim in for GBH, but they shared the same scathing sense of humour, a similar background and the same moral code.
‘All right?’ He sets his beer down on Jim’s table and pulls out a chair.
Jim doesn’t immediately answer. Instead he carefully folds his newspaper, tucks it into his bag, then sits back and gives Steve a long look.
To his immense irritation Steve’s pulse quickens and his heart thuds in his chest. He’s got no reason to be scared of Jim. Well, he does, Jim’s track record more than speaks for itself, but they’re … acquaintances, if not exactly friends. And Jim did offer to help.
‘All right, dickhead!’ Jim says suddenly. Steve ducks, but not quickly enough to avoid Jim’s outstretched arm and his temple throbs from where Jim slaps it.
He shakes his head and smiles convivially, his pulse slowing. ‘I think we both know who the dickhead is.’
‘Anyway,’ Jim reaches for his pint, ‘I would ask how you are but I don’t think we need to go there, do we?’
Steve shakes his head.
‘For what it’s worth I’m sorry. Sounds like Freddy was a good kid. God knows you couldn’t shut up about him.’
‘Yeah.’ Steve keeps his eyes fixed on the other man’s face, his small, brown eyes like marbles behind his thick-rimmed glasses. He doesn’t want to think about being in prison and getting pictures and letters from six-year-old Freddy asking when he was coming home. Biggest regret of his life that was, missing so much of his son’s childhood.
‘So.’ Jim runs his thumbnail down the side of his nose and scratches it vigorously. ‘Nice as it is to see you, Steve, this can’t happen again. Us going for a beer I mean.’ His eyes flit from Steve’s to the barman, wiping down the optics.
Calm on the outside, nervy on the inside, Steve thinks as he takes a sip of his beer. I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to go back inside again.
He sets his beer back down, rests his elbows on the table and leans towards his ex-cell mate. ‘It’s been a while,’ he says, ‘since we spoke and I just want to check everything’s in place. That it’s actually going to happen.’
It’s the silence he can’t stand. The trial was less than six weeks ago and, after the initial furore from the press and the calls and visits from friends and relatives, it’s as though it never happened. Like Freddy never died. Everyone’s just getting on with their lives like nothing’s amiss. But something is very much amiss, and Steve seems to be the only one who’s noticed it.
‘Like I told you,’ Jim says, lowering his voice, ‘I’ve got someone in place up north.’
‘And …’ Steve feels a knot form in his stomach. He just wants it over with, quickly, so justice is done, so he can tell his boy he did him right. So he can sleep.
‘They’re biding their time, building up trust. No point storming in and fucking it up. If they can make it look like an accident, or suicide, they will. Easier all round that way.’
Steve’s chest is so tight he can barely get the words out. ‘And if they can’t?’
Jim shrugs and sits back in his chair. ‘What do you care? You want her dead. She’ll be dead.’
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