I avoid eye contact with him, sign his PDA with a random squiggle and close the door. I hold the cardboard box in my hand for a few moments, feeling the weight. I’m not expecting anything. I put the box down on my kitchen table and look more closely at the address, which has been written in black marker pen. In the upper-right corner is a selection of stamps, postmarked with a picture of two ice skaters and some words I don’t understand. One stands, out, though: Bratislava.
I instinctively think about calling the police, worried about what might be inside. Something stills me, though. It’s something in the way my name and address have been written on the front of the box. Calmly, almost with kindness. I’m not the sort of person who thinks inanimate objects carry an aura, but I’m definitely starting to trust my instincts much more after recent events.
I take a small paring knife from the block and cut through the tape that holds the box shut. Carefully, I lift open the flaps to find my rucksack, wrapped in two thick layers of bubble wrap. Sellotaped to the outside of the bubble wrap is a note, written in the same black marker pen as was used to write the name and address on the front:
For Bradley. From Bratislava.
68
Martin da Silva turns down the volume on his Audi’s stereo as he always does just before turning off the engine. It was a force of habit, and he knew it, but it still didn’t stop him.
He opens the door and steps out into the cold, damp night air. It was much as he expected from a November night in Carlisle, but at least he’d go home tomorrow afternoon with a ten-grand Christmas bonus if he managed to complete the Granex deal at tomorrow’s meeting. He knew he would. He always managed to complete deals, and this one was a dead cert.
He’d get himself a new suit with the cash, he told himself. The Armani number he was wearing right now was at least two years old, and it was about time he treated himself. Thanks to inheriting his father’s Hispanic good looks, a smart designer suit was almost mandatory in completing his image.
He certainly wouldn’t tell Katrina about the bonus, he told himself. She’d only blow it on more Louis Vuitton shoes or handbags. A nice suit was one thing – he needed that for his professional image, and for other stuff besides – but what could his wife possibly do with twenty handbags?
Martin lifted his chin, exuding confidence as he walked towards the reception of the hotel, his leather-soled shoes clip-clopping across the tarmac as he swung his overnight bag beside him.
The automatic doors slid open as the warm air from the reception area rushed to meet him. Safely inside, the doors closed behind him and he approached the reception desk, waiting for a moment before pressing the buzzer.
A few seconds later, a young, slim woman appeared through a doorway. She can’t have been more than twenty-five, but it was always difficult to tell some women’s ages. Martin couldn’t help but raise one corner of his mouth in a suggestive smile as he watched her walk behind the desk, her eyes full of sparkle and youthful exuberance. She looked at him for a moment before speaking, glancing down at his wedding ring.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Martin moved his right hand over his left, covering his wedding ring.
‘Yes, I’ve got a reservation for tonight. Martin da Silva.’
The girl smiled and glanced over at her computer screen.
‘Ah yes. Here you are. Let’s just see what room you’re in . . .’
Martin gulped and swallowed as she leaned forward to get a better look at the screen, simultaneously giving him a better look down her blouse.
‘Right. We’ve got room 202. That’s up on the second floor. The only thing is, the TV’s on the blink. Doesn’t get Channels 4 or 5. But I presume that won’t be a problem if you’re only staying the one night . . . ?’
Martin smiled seductively. ‘Oh, I’m certainly hoping not.’
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I spent a lot of the second half of 2015 in hotels all around Britain. In between trying to grab snatches of time to continue working on my books, a few things struck me as being really odd about the whole situation. Being quite a private person, the fact that I was sleeping in a bed someone else had been in only hours earlier, just inches away from a complete stranger who’s separated from me only by eight inches of brick, was quite bizarre.
When you wake up in the room of a chain hotel which looks the same as every hotel room you’ve slept in for the past couple of months, it takes you a few minutes to even realise which part of the country you’re in. Everything’s the same, but somehow different. It’s quite an odd and depersonalising thing.
I’m always on the lookout for new book ideas and like to try and throw the ‘What if?’ line into everyday situations and see where my mind takes me. One evening, whilst I was getting ready for bed in my identikit hotel room in Glasgow (or was it Edinburgh? Or Harrogate? Or Stourbridge?) I threw a new ‘What if?’ into the mix. What if I turned around and there was a dead body in the bath? That was the spark that led to the plot for this book.
That’s perhaps the most exciting moment in the process of writing a new book – that spark that sets it all off and leaves you with a big beaming smile as you realise you’ve got the golden nugget at the heart of a new book. And that’s when the hard work begins!
I should just add a small caveat: my protagonist staying in a hotel is where the inspiration from real life starts and ends. I should just point out that we have no other similarities. Especially as my wife is reading this.
I hope you enjoyed reading the book as much as I enjoyed writing it. My psychological thrillers are proving extremely popular (especially since Her Last Tomorrow flew up the Amazon charts and became a bestseller), and I absolutely love writing them and coming up with new, horrifying scenarios for perfectly ordinary people.
If you’ve read Her Last Tomorrow, you might’ve spotted a couple of familiar characters popping up in the shop in Switzerland. Sorry. I couldn’t resist it.
If you know France, Switzerland, Austria or Slovakia at all, you’ve probably noticed that I don’t. Although I’ve based every location in this book on real locations, I must admit to some artistic licence where necessary and hope you’ll forgive me for it.
My thanks go to ?sterreichische Bundesbahnen, the Austrian train operator, for the information on travel between Innsbruck and Bratislava. Thanks also to the residents of Innsbruck for unwittingly allowing me to invent a petrol station and flyover.
I must also thank Lucy Hayward, for her eagle eye and pointing out a few daft errors in the manuscript before they got too far.
Huge thanks must go to my editor Jane Snelgrove and development editor Charlotte Herscher, and the team at Thomas & Mercer for the support they’ve given me and the sterling work they’ve done in publishing this book. Their forward thinking and innovation makes them a credit to the teetering publishing industry.
And last but certainly not least, the biggest thanks must go to my readers and members of my VIP Club, who are the whole reason I keep doing this. You guys rock.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR