‘I retrace my steps,’ she said. ‘Go back to everyone I’ve spoken with. There’s always someone who didn’t tell you everything the first time.’
‘Where do you start?’ he asked.
‘At the beginning,’ she replied.
89
Margaret almost left it too late. Too busy gossiping with the dowager in the lobby, when she should have leapt on the opportunity as soon as it presented itself.
She waited impatiently in the lift while the attendant took them up. She’d asked for the second floor. But as soon as the doors opened she could see it wasn’t what she was looking for, so she made her apologies and asked for the third.
Margaret had spent a lot of time and energy trying to work out how to locate the room number of her go-between, the woman who’d sat behind her in the basement bar. She’d known she was American from her accent. Luckily for Margaret, it seemed there was only one American woman staying in the hotel. But how could she track her to her room?
Cook had unwittingly provided the answer, walking into the lobby and dripping water on the marble floor. River water, unless Margaret was very much mistaken.
The trail of wet footsteps had led to the lift. It would be a relatively simple matter to follow them to the room. As long as they hadn’t dried out.
It took until the eighth floor, the lift attendant getting increasingly annoyed. Margaret wasn’t about to lose any sleep over the happiness of a man who, only a day earlier, had been content to let two young men attack her.
Margaret followed the trail of damp footprints along the eighth-floor corridor. The pattern in the carpet made it hardto see every footstep, but each time she thought she’d lost it, she saw another one further ahead.
The damp footsteps ran out at Room 814. Margaret walked further on, just to make sure, but 814 it was. She put her head to the door and listened. She could just make out the woman’s voice, muffled as if it was in an interior room. The bathroom, most likely. If ever there was a man in need of a bath ...
90
The Lyons was quiet. The dinner service was ending, and the waitresses were ready for the end of the shift.
Cook ignored the protests of the waitress on the door and took a seat. Another young waitress approached him, but he pointed behind her, at the girl he’d talked with the first time. The time he’d come looking for Ruby.
She took her time about it, finished what she was doing at the till, then eventually joined him. She stood over him, her notepad out, ready for his order.
‘There’s something you didn’t tell me,’ Cook said.
‘No law against that,’ the waitress replied.
‘I wasn’t the only one who was asking about Ruby,’ Cook said.
‘Never said you was,’ the waitress replied.
‘You didn’t mention it,’ Cook said.
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘It was a young man. A soldier,’ Cook said.
‘See? You didn’t need me to tell you.’
‘I’ll buy you a cup of tea,’ Cook said.
The waitress looked around to see if she was about to get in trouble. Evidently, she didn’t see anything alarming, because she pulled out a chair and sat opposite Cook. She took a packet of cigarettes from a pocket in her apron and lit up.
‘When did he come in?’ Cook asked.
‘Came in a few days in a row, couple of weeks ago,’ she said. ‘Watching, he was. Watching out for her.’
‘But she was already gone,’ Cook said.
The waitress pointed her cigarette at him.
