Royston rose to his feet, screwed up the vinegary chip paper and chucked it in the litter bin. As he crossed the road towards the hotel, he thought about the girl Joel Hunter was planning to marry. On the surface she might seem whiter than white, but he wasn’t taken in; he reckoned there was a dark streak running through her. He’d been tipped the wink that she was involved with a Kellston villain called Nathan Stone, but as yet hadn’t been able to corroborate the rumour.

When he’d approached her in town, Sadie had been… what was the word he was looking for? Evasive, perhaps. Certainly not cooperative. Since then, things had moved on. Today’s news about the shooting at Eddie Wise’s funeral had stoked the fire, adding to his suspicions about her guilt; he was kicking himself now that he hadn’t bothered to make the trip to London.

Royston rubbed his hands together as he climbed the steps to the Bold, pushed open the door and walked inside. The place was deserted and it wasn’t much warmer inside than out. He strode over to the desk, leaned on the counter and dinged the bell. While he waited he gazed around the foyer at the faded wallpaper and slightly shabby furniture. The hotel, built in the Victorian era, had once been a splendid building and a fashionable place to stay, but its glory days were long over. Now they struggled to fill the rooms even in the summer months.

It was another few minutes before Derek Pugh, the man on night duty, shuffled out from the back. He was in his early sixties, grey and morose with a face like a slapped arse. ‘Ah, Mr Royston. I haven’t seen you in a while. What brings you here?’

‘I need some information.’

‘And what kind of information would that be?’

‘The useful sort. You had a girl staying here last weekend, Anne something. Early twenties, slim, short black hair. I’d like an address if you’ve got it.’

Pugh’s eyes turned sly. His tongue darted out and slid along his upper lip. ‘Not sure if I’m allowed to do that, Mr Royston. I think it’s against the rules.’

Royston leaned against the counter and held up a folded five-pound note between his fingers. He watched as the older man’s eyes flicked down towards the money. ‘Well, what do they say about rules? They’re there to be broken, right?’

Pugh, possibly hoping for an increase in the bribe, wasn’t immediately forthcoming. ‘The boss wouldn’t like it.’

‘There are lots of things your boss wouldn’t like, a copy of your criminal record being one of them.’ Royston always made a point of knowing other people’s business, of rooting around in the shadows; he was an expert on dirty laundry and skeletons in the closet. ‘I mean, what if he got to hear about those cautions you’ve had for —’

‘Aw, Mr Royston, you know I don’t do that any more. It’s all in the past.’

‘Of course it is. Still, people aren’t always quick to forget or forgive. Be a shame to lose a good job like this over something that happened years ago. Personally, I’m all in favour of second chances, but then I’m a liberal-minded sort of person.’

Pugh glared at him for a moment, but when he realised that his indignation was wasted, he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ‘I suppose it won’t do any harm, not just this once.’ He reached out for the fiver, but it was quickly snatched it away.

‘Anne something,’ Royston said. ‘Last weekend.’

With a sigh, Royston reached down under the desk, picked up a large red leather-bound book and placed it on the counter. He flipped back through the pages until he came to the right days and ran a finger down the short list of bookings. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no one by that name.’

‘Try the Friday.’

But Pugh shook his head. ‘Sure you’ve got the right hotel?’

All Royston knew was what the girl had told him at the party. ‘You don’t remember her?’ He gave the description again. ‘Young, in her early twenties, short black hair.’

‘Unless she came back after ten or left early in the morning I wouldn’t have seen her.’

Royston reached out for the book, but Pugh clamped his hand down on it. ‘I’m telling you there’s no one called Anne registered here.’

‘Any women at all, women on their own?’

Pugh went through the list again. ‘Just the one,’ he said. ‘A Mona Farrell. She booked in on the Saturday and left on the Sunday.’

‘Let me see,’ Royston said impatiently. This time Pugh gave in and let him take the book. He turned it around and stared at the name and the London address. Was it her? He flipped back through the previous week. Well, there were no other women booked in on their own. Maybe Anne was a diminutive of Mona. Or maybe… He had a sudden flashback to the party, to Sadie Wise dragging her friend away from him. She’d seemed on edge, nervous, alarmed even to find the two of them talking together. Maybe Anne wasn’t the girl’s name at all.

Royston scribbled down the Hampstead address and pushed the book back across the counter along with the five-pound note. ‘Let me know if she shows up again. I’ll make it worth your while.’

Pugh palmed the note and slid it into his trouser pocket. ‘Always a pleasure, Mr Royston. Have a nice evening.’

Royston left the hotel with a spring in his step and a good feeling in his guts. If ‘Mona Farrell’ and Anne were one and the same person then it could be the break he needed. Something was off and all he had to do now was follow the smell.

43

If it hadn’t been for the Christmas decorations springing up around town, Sadie wouldn’t have been aware of November passing into December. As she walked home from work, her gaze took in the shop windows with their artificial snow, plump red Santas, swags, garlands, trees and garish baubles. There had been a sudden explosion of glitter and glitz.

Despite the colourful show, she still felt devoid of any festive spirit. It was two weeks now since Eddie’s funeral and she’d spent the entire fortnight in a state of distraction, constantly worried that the police would turn up again. Instead of getting less fearful as time passed by, she was growing increasingly anxious, sure that they must be gathering evidence and the net was gradually closing around her.

To make matters worse, Mona Farrell had embarked on a campaign of letter writing. These letters, which came through the post almost every day, were long and rambling, often threatening, sometimes pleading and always thoroughly disturbing. If you don’t stick to your side of the bargain, then I’m going to tell everyone what you’ve done. Don’t think that I won’t. I don’t care if I live or die. I’ve got nothing to lose, you’ve got everything.

Included with the letters were more roughly drawn plans of the Hampstead garden with instructions on where to wait, where to go to and the exact position she should be standing in when she raised the gun and fired through the study window at Mona’s father.

This had all started on the Saturday after Eddie’s funeral. Joel had been working downstairs when the phone rang in the flat. As soon as Sadie had heard the voice on the other end of the line, her heart had sunk.

‘Why are you calling me here? I thought we’d —’

‘You haven’t been in touch,’ Mona had said peevishly. ‘It’s been over a week. What’s going on? You said you’d call.’

Sadie had taken a deep breath, pressing the phone close to her ear before delivering her answer. ‘I think it’s better if we don’t… if we don’t talk any more. I can’t do what you want me to do. I won’t. Do you understand?’

There had been a short silence. ‘You can’t renege on a promise.’

‘I didn’t promise anything.’

‘Yes, you did. Why are you doing this? It’s not fair. It isn’t.’