Three men walked along the upper corridor. A strong family resemblance between them. Three brothers, most likely. They had to walk single file in the narrow space. The first man was broad-shouldered and tall. He had a squareness about his face. A boxer perhaps, or a professional rugby player. Either would account for his nose, flattened by repeated abuse. His arms were muscular to the point that he had to hold them out from his body, his hands brushing the walls in these cramped quarters. He wore the hotel uniform – dark-blue suit with gold brocade on the shoulders. Vaguely naval.
The second man was larger. His hands didn’t merely brush the walls, they knocked against them. His hotel uniform was stretched across his chest and shoulders, brass buttons struggling to keep the jacket closed.
The third man was larger still. He had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. The kind of man who’d have been advertised at a travelling fair – come and see the giant. He’d have been at home in the big top with both arms outspread, a pretty girl sitting on each arm. Here in the attic corridor he was like a caged animal. His hotel jacket was unbuttoned, the cuffs too short and even the shirt straining to contain him.
The three men walked quietly. Unhurried. They could have been technicians, sent to fix a faulty radiator – no sense of drama, just another day on the job.
They stopped outside Cook’s room. Without a word, each shrugged off his jacket and hung it on a window crank that could have been designed for the purpose. Three men – three jackets, each one fitting over the next like a Russian doll. The men rolled up their shirtsleeves, still no sense of drama. No fear, no concern. No excitement.
The shortest man knocked at the door. There was no answer.
He knocked again, stepped back slightly, giving himself room to manoeuvre.
No answer.
It happened sometimes. The room’s occupant would be busy, getting undressed perhaps. Sitting on the toilet. Having second thoughts.
The man was prepared. He had a large collection of keys on his belt. He unclipped the loop and felt for the right key, the one that opened all the doors on this floor. Then he felt in his coat pocket, a jangle of metal as he pulled something out. It took Cook a second to work out what he was seeing. Handcuffs.
Cook stood in the shadows at the far end of the corridor, around the corner. He’d allowed himself to peer around, watching the men as they stood at the door. It was dark in the shadows, but he didn’t want a sudden movement to alert them to his presence.
He watched as they unlocked the door and filed in, like so many clowns squeezing into a car at a circus.
As soon as the last man was in, Cook ran lightly to the door, careful not to make any noise. He stepped in behind them.
‘Can I help you?’ Cook asked. The first man to enter the room, the giant, emerged from the bathroom, ducking his head to avoid the door frame. The second man,medium-sized, stood by the wardrobe – perhaps people really did hide in those things. The third, the smallest, was still near the door, within striking distance.
‘We heard you was looking for a girl,’ the smallest man said, with a sneer.
‘I was hoping for someone a little more feminine,’ Cook said.
The man looked confused.
‘Who sent you?’ he asked, stepping forward with what he presumably thought was a menacing grimace on his face.
Cook looked at the three men, pretended to think. In his experience, it was always a good idea to show your adversaries you were on the same page as them. In this case, he guessed these were men who took a minute or two between thoughts. So he did the same.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘The girl’s not coming, is she?’
‘Quick thinking,’ the medium-sized man at the wardrobe said. ‘They said you was a bit clever. All that guff about meeting a general.’
‘Who you working for?’ the smallest man asked, now inches from his face.
Cook didn’t answer. He was thinking through the chain of events. He’d asked for Ruby, and instead he’d been given these three. Clearly he’d upset someone.
The smallest man put his finger in Cook’s face.
‘Who ... you ... fucking ... working ... for?’ he said, through gritted teeth. The middle teeth were stained black.
Cook grabbed the finger. A lightning-fast action that caught the man by surprise. Cook bent the finger back, feeling the cartilage snap. The man’s face screwed up in pain, but he held his ground.
‘I’m not who you think I am,’ Cook said, twisting the finger. The man gasped. ‘I’m not a punter up from thecountry, wanting a bit of the other. I’m not a decent man, with a wife and kids at home. I gave a fake name downstairs and if I kill you and disappear now, they’ll never find me. And I’m very willing to kill you, if you don’t tell me what I want to know.’
‘You’re going to take on all three of us?’ the giant asked.
‘Two of you, really. This one’s not going to be much help with his hand out of action. That, and the puking,’ Cook said, driving his knee into the man’s stomach. The man doubled over and went to the ground, moaning.
‘My question is,’ Cook asked, ‘who do youthinkI work for?’
