Cook breathed deeply, calming himself, as he strolled through the foyer. Going over the top had felt only marginally more dangerous.
The foyer was as grand a place as Cook had ever been. It was cooler than the hot street. Something to do with the marble floor and high ceilings, he assumed. Like stepping into a cathedral – a space designed to intimidate.
There was a desk in front of him, manned by an elderly man in a uniform that looked vaguely naval. It matched the doorman. In fact, the men looked similar. Cousins, perhaps.
Cook slowed, but only enough to get his bearings. He was under scrutiny, and the slightest hesitation would reveal him. From hotels he’d been in before, he presumed the bar would be located close to the main entrance. The clientele might be different here, but they’d still like a drink.
An immaculately uniformed maître d’ intercepted him at the double doors that opened out into the bar.
‘I’m late for a meeting with General Blakeney,’ Cook snapped, walking past the maître d’. ‘Is he here yet?’
‘No sir,’ the maître d’ replied, stepping in front of Cook, an expert manoeuvre that spoke of years of guiding and blocking people who enjoyed going through life feeling like they were neither guided nor blocked.
‘I’ll need a table, somewhere quiet,’ Cook said, scanning the busy room. There was a bar in the centre. A U-shape, dominating the space. The rest of the large room was given over to small tables, white tablecloths and silver candlesticks. About as far as you could get from Cook’s local pub while still being recognisable as a place a man might get a drink.On either side of the grand room, huge chandeliers hung from the mirrored ceiling. Not something you’d want to be underneath in a raid. The whole space was a deathtrap. Perhaps it added to the sense of joie de vivre – if the patrons at the bar and seated at the tables were concerned about the prospect of sitting underneath several hundred pounds of glass, they were hiding it well.
‘Of course, sir,’ the maître d’ replied. ‘When the general gets here, who will he be looking for?’
Cook tapped his nose. ‘Careless talk,’ he said.
‘Quite right,’ the maître d’ said, with a discreet bow of his head.
The maître d’ led him to a table in the corner. To Cook’s satisfaction it was away from the windows.
Cook ordered from a young waiter. It didn’t take him long to return, gliding around the tables with a pint of beer on a silver tray.
‘Will you be staying with us, sir?’ the waiter asked.
‘No,’ Cook said.
The waiter pulled a slip of paper from his inside pocket, placed it on the table in a small leather folio.
‘Whenever you’re ready, sir.’
The waiter left, and Cook took a sip of his beer. He’d look at the bill once he’d enjoyed the drink. Cook knew his limitations, knew that when he saw the price it would make him angry, take away the enjoyment of the thing. Better to delay that reaction. For now, he was in, and he had a beer in his hand.
He could, of course, walk up to the front desk or the bar and asked about Ruby Reynolds, a girl from the docks who’d left her job as a waitress at the Lyons to come and try her luck at the hotel bar, but he had the strong impression that line of enquiry wouldn’t get him very far.
Better to do his own reconnaissance. See what he could find out.
That was the thing with reconnaissance, in his experience. Until you did it, you didn’t know what you might learn. But one thing was certain, if you didn’t do it, you wouldn’t learn anything.
54
He looked pleased with himself, Ruby thought. He’d been clever. Wanted to tell her about it. Like a little boy coming home from school.
He pulled a paper bag from his pocket and the smell made her stomach growl. A bacon roll. Still warm by the smell of it.
‘Brought you a present,’ he said. He put the bag on the floor by the door, took his coat off and hung it on the hook.
‘Got a job for you,’ he said, showing her the two postcards. Beach scenes from Southend.
The postcards were a good sign. Good for her. It meant he was worried. It meant somebody out there was looking for her, and he’d had to come up with a way to deflect them. But if she wrote them, telling everyone she was all right, she’d be putting the power right back in his hands.
‘Why would I do that?’
He held up the bag. The smell of the food made her stomach growl.
He took the bacon roll out of the bag. Looked at it. Took a bite.
