Chapter Fifty-Two George is a hulking great bloke in his thirties with an ill-fitting plaid shirt hanging open over jeans, and stubble. As soon as I see him emerge from the lifts a few minutes later, I turn my back and pretend to be rummaging through my bag.
He pushes out through the door. I glance round at him and smile invitingly. He looks me up and down, then stares at the empty street. He has an unkempt brown fringe that lifts in the wind.
‘You seen a delivery guy?’ he asks, sounding irritated.
‘Oh, was he for you?’ I point vaguely along the road. ‘He rode off on his bike about thirty seconds before you appeared. Some courier service? I think he had a parcel with him. I guess he couldn’t wait any longer.’
‘For God’s sake,’ he mutters, and pulls a face, beginning to retreat back into the building.
‘Hang on,’ I say, and grab the door before it closes. He stares round at me in surprise, and I smile cheerfully, putting on a breathless little-girl-lost voice. ‘George, isn’t it?’
‘Erm, that’s right.’
‘Linda. Tempest Textiles. I’ve left my phone up in the office. Can you believe it?’
My heels clacking, I walk breezily past him and across the black-tiled vestibule, heading for the lift with purpose. As if I have every right to be there.
‘Had a good Christmas?’ I ask.
He follows more slowly, frowning. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t . . .’
‘You don’t remember me? Oh George, I’m wounded. We’ve met several times.’ I press the button to call the lift, and then burst out laughing at his blank expression. ‘I’m obviously not that memorable.’
George looks me up and down again, taking in my fuck-me heels, the PVC skirt, the skin-tight black leotard visible under my open coat. ‘I think I would have remembered you.’
I laugh. ‘You flirt!’
The lift arrives. We both get on, his gaze on my legs. ‘You’re fourth floor, yes?’ When he nods, I punch the ‘4’ button for him, then hit ‘2’ for myself and check my reflection in the mirrored wall. Ugh, my little tussle with Sharon has taken its toll on my lipstick, which is looking a bit smudged. And there’s a long scratch down one cheek.
No wonder he’s staring.
‘Party,’ I say, tweaking my short skirt.
His eyebrows rise. He hasn’t missed my scratched face. ‘Did it get rough?’
‘I haven’t gone yet. So who knows?’ I give him a dangerous smile. ‘Would you like to come?’
George takes an instinctive step backwards in the constrained space, his eyes widening. ‘No . . . no thanks. I need to get home to my wife.’
I pretend to study him with interest. ‘Pity.’ The lift stops at the second floor, and the doors slide open. ‘Well, this is me.’
‘Good luck with the party,’ George says awkwardly as I give him a little wave. ‘See you after the holidays.’
I saunter away from the lift, my hips swinging. The doors close.
At once, I return and watch the light display above the door as the lift rises to the fourth floor. Above, I hear the doors open and close again.
Then silence.
I turn to the staircase, and head up one floor. The stairs are chilly and deserted. Reaching the third floor, I swiftly locate the office of Jason Wainwright and check the door. It’s locked, unsurprisingly.
I knock, just to be sure. No reply.
The lock is a Yale.
I check the other offices. There are three suites on this floor. Jason Wainwright’s, and two that appear to be unoccupied. The office doors are locked, but the toilets and communal kitchen are both open.
I close the kitchen door and put a chair under the handle to prevent it from opening. Just in case. There probably isn’t a guard who patrols the office building at night. But better safe than sorry.
To my relief, my phone has several bars when I stand by the kitchen window. I hunt through my bag until I find the business card Bianca gave us at La Giravolta, then ring the number and stare out at the city lights.
It rings three times before someone picks up.
‘Pronto?’
A husky male voice. Rather gorgeous. Very Italian.
‘Hello. Are you Bianca’s brother, Giacomo?’
‘Yes, who’s this?’
‘I’m a friend of Bianca’s. From La Giravolta bistro.’
‘Is Bianca in trouble again?’
I smile.
‘No, it’s nothing like that. But I’m in a bit of trouble myself, and she gave me your number. She said you might be able to help me.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘I’ve locked myself out of my office.’
Slight pause. ‘Whereabouts?’
I tell him the building address, and he changes his tone, asks me to wait. I hear frantic whispering in the background. Definitely female. I wonder if it’s Bianca, or if he has a wife.
‘I’m sorry,’ Giacomo says, coming back to the phone. ‘It’s late, you know, and the kids need their bath.’
‘I’ll pay double.’
Another pause. More urgent whispering.
‘Okay.’ He takes a moment to write down my name – in a moment of inspiration, I tell him I’m Joyce Wainwright, the investigator’s late wife, which will fit the name on the door when he arrives – and the address and my mobile number. ‘I’ll meet you there?’
‘Thanks.’ I can’t resist adding, ‘Bring your tools.’
He laughs and disconnects.
I set my phone alarm to go off in forty-five minutes. That should be enough time for a quick nap.
I should really stay alert, in case someone comes along. But I’m a bit ragged with exhaustion now, and all I can think about is lying down. Sad old lady, or what? I check my reflection again in the darkened glass of the microwave door. Hair all over the place, which isn’t necessarily bad. But there are distinct shadows under my eyes too, and a weary look in my eyes.
I used to be able to pull all-nighters, no problem. But I suppose all that frenetic rolling about with Dominic in the early hours used up my reserves of energy.
I grin at myself, and flick back my messy hair. Too much sex is always an acceptable excuse for fatigue.
There are two shapeless fabric chairs in the dining area of the kitchen.
I study them, then pull down the window blind as far as it will go, which is only three-quarters of the way. I push the two fabric chairs together to make a rough sort of bed. Not desperately comfortable, but it will do for a nap.
Forty-five minutes later, my phone buzzes.
As I sit up on my makeshift bed, surfacing from a confused dream, my stomach rebels and I feel suddenly nauseous.
Bloody hell.
I groan, closing my eyes and clutching my belly. Something I ate? Though I haven’t eaten since breakfast, I realise. Low blood sugar, perhaps. No wonder I was so tired before.
I shake off the sickness with an effort and reach for my phone. It’s a text from Giacomo.
I’m outside your building. Where are you?
I text back, Down in five, and splash my face with cold water a couple of times, then pat it dry with kitchen paper. Finally, I reapply my lipstick, and blow my reflection a kiss.
I feel better after that, if a little unsteady on my feet.
Weird though.
It’s only as I’m heading down the stairs to let Giacomo in that I think of another, more horrifying possibility for my moment of sickness.
I can’t be. Am I . . . pregnant?
I push the thought away, unable to cope with it.
Downstairs, I open the front door to the building and Giacomo looks at me, toolbox in hand.
He’s broad-shouldered and broad-chested, but tall with it, like his sister Bianca. He looks strong, too. A guy who can handle himself. With thick black hair and the typical olive complexion of the Mediterranean region.
‘You okay?’ he says.
‘Bad tummy.’
He looks me up and down, incredulous, even a little mocking. I glare back at him without smiling. I’m seriously beginning to regret my outrageous outfit now. Though maybe he’s amused because I’m holding my heels in one hand rather than wearing them.
‘My feet were hurting,’ I say.
He shrugs. ‘No problem.’
The third floor is dark and silent. The lights come on automatically the second we leave the elevator.