Walking in Darkness (20 page)

‘I’m fine, thanks. How are you, Theo? You look wonderful. Retirement obviously suits you.’

‘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.

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?’

He laughed. ‘Because politicians are human beings. There’s gold in them thar hills, sweetheart, and where there’s gold there is corruption.’

She shivered. ‘I hate politics,’ she said vehemently. ‘And politicians.’

Steve picked up his glass of after-dinner brandy again. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ He tilted the glass towards her then drank the rest of the brandy.

She frowned. ‘You hate politicians, too? But then . . . why are you a political reporter?’

‘Because I don’t trust the bastards,’ he coolly said. ‘Somebody has to keep an eye on what they’re up to. I wasn’t going to leave that job to people who didn’t hate them the way I do. If politicians had their way all reporters would be wide-eyed little optimists who take a naive view of Washington and the people who run to it. I like to keep them on their toes, make sure they know I’m watching them.’

‘Can you actually tell the truth on TV, though?’ she said shrewdly, and he laughed.

‘Honey, you hit the button. No, not often; but now and then I can slide the truth in sideways while my bosses aren’t watching.’

‘You’re a cynic,’ she said, not accusing him but thinking aloud and shivering slightly. She was no wide-eyed optimist, herself, but cynicism was the reaction of despair, of people who had no hope, no belief, no dreams. Sophie couldn’t live that way. She had to hope, to believe, to dream – why else was she here, flying to England, to look for a sister she had been told for years was dead?

‘Aren’t we all cynics? Reporters, I mean? We see the underbelly of society, not the glossy surface – how can we fail to be cynics? In any case, as I told you, my father was involved in politics all my life and I learnt young not to believe a word politicians said in public. They’re as dishonest as salesmen trying to make a pitch. All they care about is selling the product. The truth means fuck-all to them.’

Sophie laughed abruptly at the cheerfully aggressive tone of his voice. ‘I’m beginning to love America,’ she said, and he looked taken aback, then grinned.

‘Oh, yeah? Why, exactly?’

‘I like the way you say what you really think, out loud, and don’t care who’s listening! You aren’t afraid someone may overhear you, or that you may end up in a cell getting beaten up.’

‘Well, there are parts of America where that could happen,’ he drily said. ‘But it’s pretty safe to speak your mind in most states.’

‘Even Washington?’

‘Oh, in Washington they love you to speak your mind, it gives them a buzz – but not on TV, or in the press. At a dinner party you can throw caution to the wind. No voters to hear the dangerous truth in the houses of the rich and powerful.’

‘If you hadn’t become a TV reporter, what else might you have done?’ she asked, deeply curious about him.

‘Oh, when I was at university I used to act, I had brief spell of wanting to be an actor, but I wasn’t able to lose myself in a part, I was too self-aware.’ He leaned back and turned his head to watch her. ‘My mother was relieved. She hated the idea.’

‘You cared what she thought?’

He considered the question. ‘I guess I must have done. I certainly listened to what my parents thought. They’re not people you can ignore.’

‘Your family is a close one?’

‘I guess so.’ His offhand tone didn’t fool her. She could see he loved his parents and cared very much what they thought; she envied him. All her life she had missed that warmth and closeness.

A few minutes later she closed her eyes and felt herself slipping into a half-sleep. She had not slept well last night; she had been intensely nervous and kept waking with a start. On her return from dinner with Theo and Lilli she had had the strangest feeling that someone had been in her room. As soon as she walked into the room her instincts had quivered with warning, but nothing seemed out of place. In fact the room was neater than when she left it, so she had realized that a maid had been in there, re-making her bed, tidying the room. But what about the photographs Steve had given her? The photo of Anya as a baby had been on top of the pile. That could be sheer coincidence, of course. Maybe the maid had simply shuffled the photographs and Anya’s picture had just happened to land on top.

Well, it could have happened that way. But Sophie didn’t believe in coincidences that massive. She was rapidly learning not to trust anyone, or anything; even her own senses.

Don Gowrie was in conference with his people all the way across the Atlantic. First class was entirely occupied by members of his staff; the curtains had been closed off and security was stationed there throughout the flight to make sure nobody tried to eavesdrop or intrude.

‘And keep an eye out for Bross,’ they were told. His presence on the plane had been noticed at once.

‘We must be getting to them if they’ve sent him to tag along with us,’ Gowrie joked.

‘They’re worried,’ his campaign manager, Jim Allgood, had agreed. ‘Mr Ramsey still pulls in the party old guard, and that’s a lot of money going on you.’ But his face was set in a frown and he added, ‘But what bothers me is this – Bross stands out like a sore thumb, we all know the guy, and they know we do. They’re too smart for such an open play. So who have they got on our tail we don’t know about?’

They had all looked at each other, their faces guarded, the air full of paranoia.

‘Could be one of the press,’ Jeff Hardy, one of the speechwriters, suggested. ‘I don’t trust any of the bastards further than I could throw them.’

‘Not after what they said about your first novel!’ Greg Blake grinned, and some people laughed briefly before a scowl from Jim Allgood stopped it dead.

‘Can we not talk about your private lives, you two? And listen good, everyone – keep your eyes open for anyone who keeps turning up when you don’t expect them.’

There was a silence; everyone looked sideways at someone else, their faces blank.

‘Steve Colbourne’s around a lot, have you noticed that?’ offered Greg, not altogether seriously but just to say something. He felt compelled to rush in whenever a silence fell; silences embarrassed him. They felt unnatural.

‘Are you crazy?’ snapped Jack Beverley. ‘The guy’s a TV commentator. The more interest he shows, the better. His father’s a friend of Mr Ramsey.’ He looked for confirmation from Don Gowrie who nodded.

‘That’s right.’

‘I’d forgotten that,’ Greg said. ‘And Colbourne is good at his job. Gets good ratings. He writes well, too. Too well. It really gets up my nose. I want to despise the media, not wish I could use words as well as they do.’

‘Careful, Greg, you keep telling the truth this way and your career will be over,’ Jeff said, and got another scowl from Allgood.

‘Not funny, Hardy. One day you’ll say that in front of someone who’ll print it and then it will be you who’s out of a job.’

Jeff flushed and said nothing.

Brushing his untidy hair back from his face, Greg rushed in again to cover his friend’s silence. ‘Who’s the blonde with Colbourne today, anyone know? I noticed her at the press conference, couple of days ago. Well, I guess we all noticed her.’ He grinned round at them and got some uncertain, answering grins. Encouraged he talked on fast, ‘I just love those icy blondes, don’t you? The kind who give you the drop-dead look if you come within a foot of them.’

‘Now what does that tell us about you?’ mused Jeff, having recovered his cool. ‘You’re a sick man, Greg. Masochism stunts your growth, remember. Sadism is the only safe sexual perversion.’

There were stifled snorts among the others.

‘Hitchcock had one in every film he made,’ Jeff said.

‘Perversion?’

‘Icy blonde.’

‘You’re right, I’d forgotten. The icier the better, and it isn’t masochism, Jeff – guys like me and Hitchcock love to fantasize about making the ice melt.’