He slumps down on the sofa. We’re in the lounge. I called him over as soon as I opened the door and I told him everything. The companies, the emails, the texts—everything. He sits there thinking, frowning, his mind racing.
“All right,” he finally says. “Okay. Erin, what does he know?”
I shrug, shake my head. I don’t know. There’s no way of being sure.
“No. Think about it, sweetheart. Stop, and think about it. What does he know?” He says it slowly, deliberately.
I swallow. Take a breath.
“He knows someone other than the plane people have the phone.” That much I’m sure of.
“Great, and what will he infer from that?” he asks.
“That we stole the phone, I suppose. That we either killed them or we robbed them. They seem like the two most probable explanations.” I look up at him.
He nods. “So he’s going to want to find us, isn’t he?” he says, thinking it through. “How can he find us?”
“Through the phone signal. Or through where we accessed the email account. They’re the only links,” I say.
“Okay. So, the hotel computer. The hotel computer room. And how will he know it was you on the computer? Rather than anyone else in the hotel?”
I see where Mark’s going with this.
“The CCTV footage in the lobby and hallway. The time codes, me walking toward the room, away from the room. Before and after the access time.” Shudder. Shit. Even though there weren’t cameras in the business center itself, I’m still on film going in there for anyone to see. We need to get rid of the footage.
I notice my sudden jump in logic. From making a mistake to actively committing a crime. Just like that. I wonder if that’s how it starts for a lot of criminals; I wonder if that’s how it started with Eddie. A mistake, a cover-up, and then a slow inevitable chain of events. Nothing like this has ever crossed my mind before, the impulse to get rid of the evidence. I have no idea how one would even go about getting rid of footage. It’s never occurred to me, of course, because I’m just an ordinary woman on her honeymoon, and aside from going over eighty on the motorway sometimes, I don’t even consider breaking the rules. Maybe in my mind sometimes, but never in reality.
“So that’s the only link to you personally, is it? That CCTV footage? Aside from that footage it could have been anyone in that room on the phone, on the computer?” Mark gives me an encouraging smile, not too much but enough.
“Yes, that’s the only link,” I assure him.
* * *
—
We go for a walk. We have no idea where they might keep the CCTV monitors and recording equipment, but we head for reception. It’s a pretty logical assumption that it’ll be in the room behind the reception counter. If not, we’ll have to keep an eye out for a security guard and follow him back to wherever he goes.
The plan is simple. Of course it’s simple, we’re not actually criminal masterminds. If there’s no one on the desk, then I’ll slip into the back room, find the video system, and delete as far back as I can. It can’t be that hard, right? If I can delete a whole month, so much the better. Cover our tracks completely, why not? If there’s someone in the back room, we’ll go with plan B.
There are two receptionists at the desk when we reach the main hotel. Mark takes my hand in his as we approach the lobby. He holds me firmly and leads me on, toward the library room. Plan B it is then.
Plan B is I have food poisoning and Mark wants to make a complaint. Hopefully, we’ll be ushered into the back room so we can check if the system is in there. If it is, we’ll need to get rid of the receptionist for a minute and deal with the footage. It’s not foolproof for sure but I’m a film grad and Mark’s an unemployed banker, so cut us some slack.
“Look sick,” he whispers. I tilt my head back and inhale noisily through my nose. I put my hand to my head and exhale slowly through my mouth. Like someone desperately trying to hold it together. I look around for a seat. Mark plays the concerned husband. Where do I want to go? What do I need? I am silent, I am pale. It must be bad, my illness. I sit gingerly down on a chair outside the hotel library. One of the receptionists glances up at us. Reads the situation. She throws a look to her colleague, who is slightly older, maybe her senior. The older woman nods, You can deal with it, then dips back into her paperwork. The younger receptionist makes her way over.
Here we go. My part here is easy, I just need to look distant and breathe deeply. Mark has the hard work.
He starts before she makes it to us.
“Excuse me. A little help here would be great if you’re not too busy?” His tone is curt, tight. He’s going to be difficult. A difficult customer.
The receptionist breaks into a dainty trot in order to get to us faster. Behind her the other woman, who can clearly see a shitstorm brewing, gathers up her papers and quietly heads off down the opposite corridor. I bet they get a lot of arseholes here.
“Sorry, sir, is everything all right here?” Her tone is warm, an American accent.
Mark looks annoyed. “No actually, no, everything is not all right, to be honest with you…” He squints at her name badge. “Leila.”
I see her sigh inwardly and steel herself. Credit to her, she keeps smiling.
“My wife and I are meant to be on a five-star honeymoon but we’ve been shut up in our room now for two days due to the food poisoning you’ve decided to give us. I don’t know what kind of outfit you think you’re running here but we’ve had just about enough of it.” This Mark is a genuine arsehole.
“I’m so sorry, sir! I wasn’t aware of the situation. The issue hadn’t been brought to my attention but I can guarantee you now that I will sort this all out for you and we’ll make sure that whatever needs to happen happens.”
“I appreciate that, Leila, and I know it’s not your fault as such, but you should have been informed, really, shouldn’t you? I raised this issue yesterday and no one has got back to us. Nothing has happened. This is supposed to be a luxury five-star resort but I honestly don’t know how you managed to get those stars if you (a) don’t communicate with each other and (b) ignore customers’ complaints when they don’t suit you. It’s disgusting! Look at my wife, Leila. Look at her.” His voice is raised now; it’s very loud. I think we can officially call this a scene at this stage. Leila looks down at me. Somehow I’ve started to sweat; it’s probably the stress of our plan but I’m guessing it looks pretty damn convincing. I stare up at her, dazed. She makes a decision.
“Sir, if you’ll just come with me, we’ll go somewhere a little quieter and perhaps I can fetch a glass of water for Mrs….?” Leila’s doing really well. Extremely professional. God, this is a good hotel.
“Seriously? For Christ’s sake, Leila. Roberts. It’s Roberts. Mr. and Mrs. Roberts. Bungalow six. Jesus fucking Christ.” Mark exhales loudly through his nose. A man contending with himself, staying just the right side of exasperated. Mark’s good. If the banking doesn’t work out, he could always be an actor.
“Mr. Roberts, of course! Well, if you would just come with me now, I’ll make sure we get this all handled for you. Let’s get you something to drink, Mrs. Roberts.” Leila beckons us to follow her. Mark hoists me tenderly from the chair, supporting my weight, his hand bracing me under my armpit. We follow.
The back room is bigger than I’d imagined. Open plan. There’s a door just off it that Leila leads us through. Into a plush, well-appointed meeting room. A special complaints room? More likely the VIP check-in room. For high-profile guests, the people that other people might want to stare at. I’m getting used to this world now, how it operates.
We sit. Leila turns the blinds on the windows that look back into the back room, slowly. As they close I catch sight of a black-and-white CCTV monitor and then it’s gone.
She sits down in front of us.
“Okay, first things first, Mrs. Roberts, can I get you anything? An iced water? Something sugary? Anything at all?”