Chapter Twenty-One

Susie grimaced as she went into her room.

‘People pay to stay here?’ she asked, looking around, her nose crinkled. ‘I don’t know why they made it non-smoking. At least it would disguise the smell.’

I couldn’t argue with that. She had the room next to mine, both identical small spaces decorated in woodchip paper, with a single bed against a window and a narrow track of worn-out carpet leading to the door. It smelled musty, like too many sweaty feet.

‘It doesn’t look like he’s treating you that well,’ I said.

Susie sat down and started to lift up the blanket.

‘Don’t,’ I said quickly. When she looked up, I smiled an apology. ‘You’ll get a better night’s sleep if you don’t see what’s under there,’ I said. I pointed towards a door. ‘At least there’s a bathroom,’ and I stepped into her room to click on the light. An extractor fan roared into action and a yellow bulb cast a dusty light over a toilet and a small shower, the curtain stained with mould at the bottom. I conceded defeat. ‘If he sticks to his promise, maybe I’ll treat you to a night in the Savoy.’

Susie looked around, unimpressed, and then said, ‘I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t think he’d make you wait. Perhaps he’s getting scared. It’s a big change to his life.’ When I didn’t respond, she tried to sound more cheery. ‘So, what do we do for the rest of the evening?’

‘We separate,’ I said. ‘Claude’s made me wait, and so I’m going to look round a few old haunts, find a few old friends. What about you?’

Susie looked hurt for a moment as she got the hint that I was planning an evening alone. ‘An early night, I suppose,’ she said, looking down at her pillow.

‘Good,’ I replied, and then I turned to go.

I felt a twinge of guilt, but this was a business arrangement anyway, not a date. More than that, the plans I had for the evening couldn’t involve Susie. Or, at least not with her knowledge.

As I went into my own room, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. I pulled it out quickly, hoping it would be Laura, but saw a London number on the screen. I took a guess, and got it right.

‘Hello, Harry.’

‘Any joy?’ came the reply, his voice gravelly, interspersed with wheezes.

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to wait for Claude to show himself, and he seems shy at the moment. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.’ I clicked off the phone.

The room seemed suddenly quiet, though the noise of London still drifted in through the window I had opened: the sound of engines and car horns, shouts and bangs, a city always on the move.

I took a deep breath. I needed another drink, but I had something else to do first.

Frankie heard the rumble of the diesel engine as it came up the hill. He went to the window and looked out, and then jumped back when he saw the Golf. He remembered it from the day before.

He moved quickly to the floor, under the bed, his ski mask pulled back down. He looked up at the bed springs, and then across the room. There was nothing on the floor to make her bend down. He had unlocked the window and checked out the drop. He would have to jump out onto a small patch of grass or wait until she was asleep and then creep out.

He didn’t mind waiting. He was patient, and he had learnt to control his breathing so that no one would know he was there.

He went still as the engine turned off, his legs curled up so that his feet couldn’t be seen. Then he heard voices come into the house. A woman and a child. Frankie smiled to himself. She would come up the stairs soon, as she must have been at work. She was called Laura. He had found some bills in one of the drawers and some love letters in a small shoebox in the wardrobe. He had tucked some of those into his pocket. They would make for good reading later on.

He became aroused again. Would she be in her uniform, her shirt buttoned tightly? He waited for a few minutes, listening intently, before he heard soft footsteps on the stairs that turned into firm footfalls as she came into the bedroom. She was wearing ankle-high black boots, and the bed sank under her as she sat down to take them off. His breathing had slowed down so that it was impossible to hear. He knew he would be discovered only if he was sloppy or if she looked under the bed. But who ever looked under their own bed?

The boots were thrown to the floor and then he watched as she peeled off her socks. She went to the curtains to close them. She hadn’t noticed that the window was unlocked.

It was harder to control his breathing as her trousers dropped to the floor, and then her underwear. He extended his arm as she stood up, as he could tell she was facing the other way. He guessed she was unclipping her bra. He took a couple of quick photographs, the shutter silent, and then pulled his arm back in again.

She rummaged around for a towel and then went into the bathroom.

He clicked on the camera screen and reviewed the pictures he had taken. He had got her, naked, distracted; the private Laura McGanity. He liked her. From the photographs he had stolen from a drawer, she reminded him of his mother, from the way she brightened when she smiled, the dimples in her cheeks, her teeth bright. He remembered how protective his mother had been of him, and for him. She had told him that it was a bad world out there, with people who would laugh at him, or hurt him. Try to keep away from the outside world, she had told him. At home, no one would hurt him. His mother was gone, and he missed the way she would hold him, his head to her breast, whispering his name into his ear. My Frankie, my Frankie.

That’s why he loved his camera. He could look at the outside world but still stay hidden, still stay unhurt. He would try and get more pictures before he left, but he had no need to take any more risks now. He looked at the bed springs again. It was all about the wait now, for that moment when he could creep out undetected.

The shower stopped, and he realised that she would be coming back into the bedroom shortly. Frankie closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his breathing so that she would never know he was there.