Silence. Broken by the sound of breathing from the other end of the line, slow breaths in and out.
‘Hello?’ I say again. ‘Who is this?’
The voice is precise, careful. Refined.
‘Have you figured it out yet, Ellen?’
I recognise the voice instantly, my stomach turning over.
Leon Markovitz.
I grab my mobile up off the bed. No missed calls. Plenty of charge. So why is he calling on the hotel landline? Before the question is even fully formed, the answer comes to me: to show he knows where I am. To show me he’s in control.
Nowhere is safe.
‘Figured what out?’ I manage to say.
‘What happens next.’
‘How did you find out where I am?’
‘You left a trail about a mile wide, Ellen. Not difficult to follow, not difficult at all. So how do you like the hotel? Nice view from the window?’
58
I reach over to pull the curtain aside. The car park below is a pool of deep shadows. A figure steps out of the darkness in the far corner, into the cone of half-light thrown by one of the street lamps. Dark clothes, a heavy coat, black hat and gloves. Mobile pressed to his ear. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t gesture at all. But he’s staringrightup at my room, directly at me. I step back from the window and hit the light switch, not wanting to be outlined against the dark, an unpleasant bump of adrenaline tingling in my stomach.
‘What do you want, Leon?’
‘We never finished our conversation the other day.’
I rub at the fading marks on my neck from our last encounter. ‘Because you hit me with a stun gun.’
‘Yes, apologies for that.’ His voice sounds loud and close, as if his lips are pressed right to the mouthpiece. ‘That wasn’t my intention. But I had to. You didn’t give me any choice. You attacked me, you were going to run off and tell the police.’
‘You were in my house!’
‘I was trying to help.’
‘I don’t need your help, Leon. Please just leave me alone and don’t call again.’
‘Listen to me for a minute: the person who broke into your house on Wednesday night. You were alone. He could have attacked you, made you give him what he was looking for. But he didn’t do that, he slipped away into the night.’ He pauses for a second and I can almost feel his hot breath on my ear. ‘Why do you think he did that?’
Is he talking about himself? I’ve heard about people who refer to themselves in the third person; it’s a sign of extreme narcissism, of dangerously large ego, an inflated sense of their own importance. The traits of a sociopath. And an associated trait: that they’re fluent liars.
‘I don’t know, Leon, whydidyou do that?’
A sigh comes down the line. ‘It wasn’t me. But somebody thought you weren’t going to be home on Wednesday night. He was spooked when he realised you were still in the house So he came back the next day when he knew you wouldn’t be there.’
I inch closer to the window so I can see out into the car park again. At least my room is on the first floor. Leon has moved closer, his dark outline visible among the shadows directly underneath my window. The ego that prompted him to call me on the hotel phone direct to my room – to surprise me, unsettle me, show me how clever he is – has also given me an opportunity, I realise. I pull up the keypad on my mobile and press nine three times, my thumb hovering over the greencallbutton. If I can keep him on the landline and somehow direct the police here, they might be able to arrest him before he can get away. Box him into the car park, where there’s only one way in and out.
I presscall, 999 on the display. I don’t put it on loudspeaker in case he hears it when the call connects.
‘I know about you, Leon.’ Matt Simms’s words come back to me:Total fruit loop. Psycho. You want to stay well away from him.‘I know what you’ve done.’
He ignores me. ‘Did you tell anyone your house would be empty that night?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No one. Not even my best friend.’
