“Maybe Nilsson was right? Maybe I am imagining things?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But it was what you were implying, right?”
“I’m just asking you to take a step back and look at yourself, Lo. Look at this rationally, I mean.”
I forced myself to keep a hold on my temper and smiled.
“I am rational. But I’m very happy to take a step back.” And with that, I opened my suite door, stepped inside, and slammed it in his face.
“Lo!” I heard from outside, and a thump on the door. Then a pause. “Lo.”
I said nothing, just slid the bolt and the chain across. No one was getting through that door without a battering ram. Least of all Ben Howard.
“Lo!” He banged again. “Look, will you just talk to me? This is really getting out of hand. Will you at least tell me what you’re going to say to the police tomorrow?” He paused, waiting for me to reply. “Are you even listening?”
Ignoring him, I threw my bag on the bed, stripped off my evening gown, and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door and turning on the taps to drown out the sounds from outside. When at last I stepped into the scaldingly hot water and turned off the taps, the only sound I could hear was the gentle hum of the extractor fan. Thank God. He must have given up at last.
I had left my phone in the bedroom, so I wasn’t sure what time it was when I climbed out of the bath, but my fingers were waterlogged and wrinkled, and I felt heavy with sleep, but in a good way, quite unlike the nervous, edgy exhaustion of the last day or two. As I cleaned my teeth, dried my hair, and belted the white bathrobe around myself, I thought of the good night’s sleep I would have, and the logical, carefully rehearsed story I would give to the police tomorrow.
And then . . . Christ. I felt almost weak with relief thinking about it. Then I would get a bus or a train or whatever bloody transport Trondheim possessed and get myself to the nearest airport and home.
When I opened the door to the cabin, I held my breath, half expecting Ben’s hammering and shouting to start up again, but there was no sound. I walked cautiously to the door, my feet silent on the thick pale carpet, and, lifting the cover to the spy hole, I looked out into the corridor. There was no one there. At least no one I could make out—in spite of the fisheye lens, I could only see part of the corridor, but unless Ben were lying on the floor beneath my door, he was gone.
I let out a sigh and picked up my abandoned evening bag to check the time on my phone and set the alarm for tomorrow. I wasn’t waiting for a call from Karla—I wanted to be up and off the boat as soon as possible.
But my phone wasn’t inside.
I turned the bag upside down, shaking it out but knowing it was fruitless—the bag was small and light, and there was no way anything heavier than a postcard could have been concealed inside. It wasn’t on the bed. Could it have slipped onto the floor?
I tried to think clearly.
I could have left it at the dinner table—but I hadn’t taken it out of my bag, and in any case, I had a clear memory of feeling it inside my evening bag during the argument with Ben. And I would have noticed its weight missing when I threw the bag on the bed.
I checked the bathroom in case I’d taken it in there on autopilot, but it wasn’t there, either.
I began to search harder, throwing the duvet onto the floor, pushing the bed to one side—and that’s when I saw it.
There was a footprint, a wet footprint, on the white carpet, very close to the veranda door.
I froze.
Could it have been me? Getting out of the bath?
But I knew that was impossible. I’d dried my feet in the bathroom, and I hadn’t walked anywhere near that window. I moved closer, touching the cold, damp shape with my fingertips, and I realized this was the print of a shoe. You could see the shape of the heel.
There was only one possibility.
I stood up, slid back the veranda door, and went out onto the balcony. There, I hung out over the rail, looking across to the empty veranda on the left of mine. The white glass privacy screen to either side was very high, and very sheer, but if you were daring and had a head for heights, and didn’t mind the possibility of slipping to a watery grave, you could just get over it.
I was shivering convulsively, my thin dressing gown no protection from the cold North Sea wind, but there was one more thing I had to try, though I was going to be very sorry and feel very stupid if it turned out I was wrong.
Carefully, I dragged the sliding glass door closed and let it click into position.
Then I tried to pull it back.