She waves a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, nothing. You wouldn’t get it.’
I hover there for a moment, before taking my seat to stop embarrassing myself. Natasha continues to giggle as I find myself clicking on the web browser. My first search is thankfully fruitless. There have been no reported hit-and-runs anywhere close to the area where I woke up last night. I check the websites and Twitter feeds from a few of the neighbouring police forces just in case, but there’s still nothing.
There’s unquestionable relief, those three words – ‘tampering with evidence’ – starting to fade when my breath is taken by the scrolling news strap on the police site.
Someone from the nearest town to where I awoke is missing. His name’s Tom Leonard, a teenager who went to work and hasn’t been seen since. There’s a picture of him in a running vest and a few lines saying that he’s a keen amateur athlete. He’s nineteen with short dark hair and the merest hint of stubble. He’s smiling, happy, a normal kid. He has the whole of his life ahead of him.
The real kicker is in the final line, however: Tom Leonard worked at the Grand Ol’ Royal Hotel.
Chapter Seven
The only thing that doesn’t stop me leaping from my chair is that Tom Leonard went missing before I’d even checked into the hotel. He was due at work yesterday morning – and I didn’t get there until late afternoon. I keep reading the name of the hotel, wondering if there might be two. There isn’t, of course. There’s not even a second hotel with a similar name.
I stare at Tom’s photo, wondering if I know him from somewhere – but he has one of those faces that could be anyone’s. His hair is slightly curly, his ears perhaps a little large – but it’s nothing unusual. We live a hundred miles apart, so he won’t be one of Olivia’s friends, either.
Something happened at the hotel on that day, though. I was there and then I wasn’t. Tom Leonard was supposed to be there – but he wasn’t.
For now, there’s only one thing for it – and that’s a cup of tea. I stand, waggling my mug and asking if anyone else in the office wants one. There’s a succession of shaken heads, so I nip to the small kitchen myself. It’s not really a kitchen, of course. The office isn’t big enough for that. It’s in the corner of the main area and more of a sideboard with a fridge underneath. The kettle hums but the only other noise in the office is the tapping of keyboards and Natasha quietly talking to Claire. There’s a moment in which the pair of them glance at me and then quickly turn away when they realise I’m facing their direction.
I might be watching – but I also feel watched.
It’s hard not to see conspiracies everywhere. Luke – if that is his real name – messing me around; Graham wanting to fire me; Dan moving my things; Natasha talking about me behind my back.
Or perhaps I’m looking to blame everyone else for my own failings?
I know I’ve been doing this job for too long. I’m going through the motions, caring about little other than the salary at the end of the month. It’s all about the money and nothing to do with a challenge. Sometimes, I think I should take some sort of online course, or perhaps quit and force myself to try a different career. If things were better with Dan, I probably would.
The kettle is still bubbling when I check my phone again. Luke hasn’t replied to my text, so I try calling. Once again there’s a pause and then nothing. No voicemail. Natasha giggles for seemingly no reason again and I wonder if it could be her. She set up a fake email and fake website, got hold of a pay-and-go SIM card and then… I don’t know. I end up wasting a few hours and look a bit stupid – but how does that benefit her?
I’m only a couple of sips into my tea when the yawns begin. I’ve not slept since waking up in the car a little after half-past-two – and it’s catching up to me. I sit at my desk, hiding behind the divider and trying to stifle the yawns. It’s the sort of tiredness that infects every part of a person, where the arms and legs feel floppy and useless. My eyes water and I find myself pinching the loose skin on the back of my hand to try to keep myself alert.
‘You all right over there?’
Natasha’s chirpy voice is loud enough that everyone else in the room can hear.
I tell her I’m fine and try to focus on Graham’s email. He’s forwarded the whole chain and it seems as if he and Declan have been going back and forth for a couple of weeks. I’m meeting the potential client at his office on a trading estate thirty miles or so away. I’ve got about three hours to sort myself out. I’ve never been there before but it all checks out, which is one step up from Luke and his cleaning company.
I was in earlier than I was supposed to be and figure no one will miss me. I tap Declan’s number into my phone, store the address in the maps app – and then tell everyone I’ll see them tomorrow.
* * *
Despite the tiredness from before, being in the car has woken me up again. The vents are blowing cool air and the radio is chirping with cosy local DJ voices and eighties pop hits. It’s when I reach the country roads that the twinge of anxiety returns. The hedges are tall, lining both sides of the lanes; and there are overgrown trees with branches dangling low, obscuring the signs. Everything’s in shadow, so dark in places that it’s like night.
I really don’t like these roads in the dark.
I turn the radio up louder, trying to focus on the voices of a man and a woman jabbering on about what they’re going to be up to that night. It doesn’t sound like much. One of them is going running, the other taking their kids to some football match.
My phone is acting as a satnav, telling me there’s another seven miles until I turn off these roads.
It’s a long seven miles. At one point, there’s a car coming towards me on the too-narrow carriageway. There’s only room for a car and a half, with frequent pull-in points. The driver is a young lad talking on his phone, not paying attention. He’s in the centre of the road and looks up when I beep my horn, swerving towards the verge, staring daggers as he continues to hold the phone to his ear. We avoid each other by barely centimetres.
Another half-mile and I think I see a fox off to the side. It’s skulking in the shadows, nose to the ground, looking for prey. There’s a flash of white and auburn but, when I get closer, there’s nothing – and I wonder if I imagined the entire thing.
When I finally get back into civilisation – street lights, shopfronts and, most importantly, people – it’s as if a weight has been lifted. The gasp of relief makes me realise I’ve been holding my breath intermittently. A red traffic light gives me a moment to compose myself to such a degree that it’s only the irritated beep of the car behind that makes me notice the light has gone green.
My phone directs me around a series of roundabouts until I’m in a concrete paradise. There are vast warehouses next to barely filled car parks. A crumbling, steepling chimney that’s a relic of a different age sits in the distance and there’s sign after sign warning of lorries that might be turning.
It’s the exact opposite of those country roads: flat open and grey – but this is equally as British. A vast expanse of factories and companies; anonymous and ignored.