‘Yes,’ Cook replied.
‘I think I know where she is,’ the clerk said, sliding a key across the counter. ‘Give me half an hour and I’ll send her up. Room nine twelve.’
Cook had been right. She was here, and she was working. Not so surprising after all. Not many prospects for a girl growing up by the docks.
There was a queue for the lift. Cook was about to turn back, look for the stairs, when the lift announced itself with a bell, and the doors slid open. A lift attendant, even older than the man at the front desk, welcomed everyone in, as if he was bestowing some kind of gift on them.
The throng crowded in, and Cook found himself wedged between a tall dowager in a fur coat, diamond tiara setting off her perfectly styled hair, and a rather large man, straining at the seams of his dinner suit. As they jostled for position, Cook felt the unmistakable solidity of a gun, holstered on the man’s hip. A bodyguard, Cook presumed. Not a very effective one, if he’d allowed Cook to get between him and the dowager.
Cook was the last to leave the lift, and he felt the lift attendant’s eyes on his back as he walked slowly along the corridor. He was at the top of the hotel, practically up in the eaves. Infrequent windows in the corridor gave a view of the service alley.
The room was small. A single bed, a dusty chest of drawers. Didn’t look like the cleaners made it this far along the corridor. The kind of room given to a man with no luggage who’d come from the bar and found a girl he wanted to spend some time with.
Half an hour, the clerk had said. Cook took his shoes off and lay on the bed. The pillow smelt of cigarette smoke. Within seconds he was asleep.
58
Margaret found a place at the bar. There was a jovial atmosphere. The city was under attack, and damn the consequences – that kind of thing. Everyone seemed to be proposing toasts, and the champagne was flowing freely. Margaret had already had a nice Bordeaux with dinner, working her way through Bunny’s expense account, and then there’d been that chap from the Air Ministry who’d insisted on buying everyone whiskies. Something about a successful test flight of a new plane that didn’t need a propellor.
She was being watched, by a number of people. Some she needed to be worried about, others she could use. If she played her cards right, the latter could help with the former.
In a dark corner of the dining room, two men in cheap suits were literally making a meal of it. They’d dragged out their starters and main courses, and were now sipping coffee. No alcohol. A joyless meal for two men on a government expense account. Margaret suspected they had their hands full – the dining room was full of people who needed watching. But, one thing was for certain, she was on their list. One of the men was facing her, but every time he looked her way his eyes skipped past her. He was doing a pretty good job of not looking at her, but only a pretty good job.
At the end of the bar, another two young men had her in their sights. These two were more above-board. Pilot’s uniforms. Faces flushed with drink. Voices a little too loud. Oneof them had his back to her but the other one had caught her eye a couple of times. It was only a matter of time.
She pulled a cigarette out of her silver case, Bombay Shooting Club, first place, engraved on the cover. She looked to the barman, but before he could reach her with a light, a flame was flickering in front of her face. She lit her cigarette and nodded her thanks. The pilot who’d been watching her – ruddy face, Brylcreemed hair – winked at her as he snapped the lighter shut.
‘I’ve been watching you,’ he said.
Margaret didn’t respond. There was an etiquette, of course. He’d lit her cigarette and said something half polite, half provocative. She was meant to come back with something that would make her stance clear – either way. But she was tired, and she was more than a little drunk, and she hadn’t decided yet how she wanted the evening to end up. So she kept quiet. A signal in itself, she hoped.
‘Do you come here often?’ he asked.
‘Such a lot of questions,’ Margaret replied. ‘Didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to interrogate a lady?’
‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘You’re one of those European imports. Left a big fat castle behind and ran from the Boche.’
‘Something like that,’ Margaret said.
‘What are you drinking?’ he asked. Margaret looked at her glass. It was, in fairness, getting empty, and she did like the idea of another drink.
‘Champagne,’ she said.
The pilot caught the barman’s eye and ordered a bottle, as she’d known he would. He’d be expecting something in return, but he’d be disappointed. Still, she didn’t mind the company in the short term, and he seemed enthusiastic enough. His friend joined them, having seen how things were progressing.
‘I’m Todd,’ the first man said, holding out his hand.
‘Margaret,’ she said, shaking his hand.
‘This is Muggers,’ Todd said, nodding at his mate. ‘Muggers, Margaret.’ Muggers raised his glass and Margaret reciprocated.
‘Lady Margaret,’ she said. She didn’t often use the title, but sometimes it was useful. Changed the way people viewed her. Tipped the scales in her favour.
The barman delivered the new bottle and Todd did the honours. Three new glasses, spilling over the top of each. He was already drunk. Still, Margaret thought, if he’d been involved in the fighting, he deserved a night off.
‘Lady Margaret!’ Todd proposed. They chinked glasses. Margaret sipped hers and allowed herself a look at the table in the far corner. The men in cheap suits had ordered brandies. They’d have to lie about it on their expense form. Margaret winked as the one facing her flashed his gaze past her.
59
