The Second Stranger, page 6
The second buzz made me drop the phone. It spun end over end and I had to scrabble under Mitchell’s desk, fingers thick and clumsy as if still snow-gloved. The line of sight was such that whoever was hitting the intercom out there couldn’t see this display of terror, but if I wanted to retreat, following Gaines upstairs, I’d have to emerge and cross the lobby and be seen. I pocketed the phone, crossed my arms and ran my hot palms down the polyester sleeves of my jacket, trying to dry them. Hockey-stick memories made me jumpy. But the stick could be an advantage. I gripped the Midbow’s handle and worked to steady my hands, a familiar movement I’d done a thousand times out on cold Edinburgh Astroturf pitches. Those nights felt a long way away now.
Alex Coben, I reassured myself, returning from her walk, relieved to have made it back. Or someone else. A prisoner, cold and desperate. Gaines had arrived almost two hours ago so any new visitor had survived at least that long, with wind-chill driving temperatures to well below minus ten, no coat, no food, limited shelter. Hitting the intercom at the doors of a desolate and empty hotel was surely a final act of desperation. Chances were they were in no state to pose a threat; more likely they’d need immediate medical attention. I imagined someone staggering blindly in and curling into a helpless ball, frostbitten fingers screaming as they warmed up. I scooped up the first aid kit and took a second to steady my breathing.
When the third buzz came I was ready. I crossed from the office to the reception desk, took my seat, leant my stick against the desk and placed the kit down. ‘The Mackinnon,’ I said into the intercom. ‘it’s close-season at the moment. Can I be of any assistance?’
I had to give it to Gaines, the darkness worked in my favour. The only disruption to my view of the outside world was the evenly spaced blue dots of the reflected floor lights. The rest was dark enough for me to make out shape and movement.
There was someone at the intercom.
It’s surprising how much you can read from a silhouette. This wasn’t Alex Coben. This was a man, smaller than our first visitor, stooping close to the doors for shelter, the hood of a black jacket pulled low over his eyes. He wasn’t exactly casual – there was an urgency in his posture and movement – but neither did he look like a couple of hours in a blizzard had brought him to his knees. I found myself revising my frostbite scenario. He’d drawn back a little from the intercom, I noticed, and was squinting into the glass. The angle prevented me seeing his face.
I watched him lean in again, press a thumb to the intercom. His voice, when it came, was dry, tired and English. Flat-vowelled, northern. ‘Ma’am, I need to come inside.’
I cleared my throat. ‘I’m afraid we have a situation here. I’ve been given instructions not to let anyone in.’
‘Police officer, ma’am.’ His accent suggested that he called the hills between Leeds and Manchester home. Police came out pulleece. Ma’am was mamm.
Relief bloomed. A second officer, maybe Gaines’s partner – he hadn’t mentioned a partner but it’d been a three-car convoy, why hadn’t I asked about the other car? – had followed him down from the mountain road. I had to stop myself leaving my desk immediately, keys in hand. ‘OK,’ I said, suppressing joy and staying professional. ‘I’ll need some ID if I could. Hotel policy.’
The figure pressed a badge against the glass. A mugshot against white plastic; I was too far away to see it clearly, but even if I’d been able to it wouldn’t have mattered.
What the guy said next drove the air from me.
‘Gaines 4256. PC Donald Gaines, Police Scotland. There’s been an accident up on the mountain road.’
10
My thoughts tumbled through glue.
I spluttered, managed to croak, ‘Say again?’
‘PC 4256 Gaines, ma’am. There’s a situation I’m trying to deal with out here and I need some assistance—’ He was speaking calmly but the hiss between my ears made concentration almost impossible. Words drifted through the crackle, the sound of the wind distorting his explanation. ‘—and I’m afraid the situation is complicated, ma’am, by the fact that we no longer have the whereabouts of our detainee. I need to come in.’
My heart shrunk as small and tight as a hockey ball. ‘Detainee?’ I managed.
‘If I could come inside I can tell you everything you need to know. As things stand, the weather is making things problematic and I need to request backup, but I have no phone signal.’ He leaned back from the intercom, his face unreadably dark. He raised both arms to shoulder height, palms out in a questioning shrug, then leaned in again. ‘Also, ma’am, I’m in need of first aid. I sustained an injury when my vehicle collided. Open the door please.’
‘I can’t.’ I tried to ignore my prickling skin and put some steel in my voice. ‘What if you’re not who you say you are?’
There was a silence. I watched the figure considering his options; saw the shape step back from the building – lighter on his feet than Gaines – and crane his neck to check the upper storeys, hands on hips. Then he leaned in to speak again. ‘Ma’am, I’m putting my warrant card in the mail-slot here. It’s just my card. Come and collect it, then check it. I’ll stand where you can see me.’ He looked up expectantly. I guess I was slow to respond because he hit the button again. ‘I can’t harm you from out here. Just check the warrant card.’ He pointed.
We had a mailbox to the right of the doors. I had a key. It was a simple enough plan; I couldn’t think how it might go wrong, so I stood and crossed to the doors with my hockey stick. I tried to look natural, strong, upright, but my hips seemed to be floating above someone else’s legs. It took three goes to get the key into the lock and turn it, opening the chamber. There was nothing in the box except his card. The air inside was chill, like the decompression space between diving bell and ice-black water. I took the card. It was the size of a driving licence, the plastic cold to the touch.
I turned it over. It had been some years since I’d seen a police warrant card. There was a passport thumbnail of a slim-faced man with a high forehead, light hair and eyes a little too close together to be handsome. I looked through the glass. The man outside was standing in the centre of a churned circle of snow. The storm plucked at his coat so that he had to hold his hood back. The wind plastered his hair to his forehead, where a ragged gash had begun to scab over. An ugly bruise was colouring his temple and right eye. Very similar injuries to Gaines. Sustained in the same road accident, I guessed. I checked the card then looked again. It was an unsettling experience. The photo on the card was the kind of greyscale head-and-shoulders shot any decent printer could generate from a screen-mounted camera; the sort typical of temporary visitors’ pics slipped into lanyards in every civic building the country over. Images like these, I realised, rendered any idiosyncrasies inert, as if the face was a landscape whose interesting edges had been rubbed smooth by snow.
Outside, the man shrugged a little self-consciously, a smile tugging one corner of his mouth. He said, ‘It’s me,’ through a reassuring grin, then crossed to the intercom again. ‘Cold out here, ma’am,’ he said. His expectation of compliance was compelling; he simply waited to be obeyed, rubbing his gloved hands together then tucking them under his arms.
‘One second, officer,’ I said. ‘I have to check something.’ I turned and, without looking back, returned to the desk, placed the ID card on my keyboard and reached for the phone. Strange how context changes our opinion of someone. I wanted to speak to Jai. I dialled his room number, and when the door buzzed again, I ignored it. The phone rang three times and with each ring my heart dropped.
Then Jai picked up and I spoke through a rush of gratitude. ‘You’re OK. That’s a relief. We thought you’d disappeared.’
‘The basement started flooding,’ Jai said. ‘Wasn’t going to ruin my trainers. Anyway, I got the radios working and figured I had a better chance of good reception up here.’
‘Any joy?’
‘No. Then I bumped into Gaines, and he told me to stay in my room.’
‘When?’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Can you get him? He’s one floor above you looking for a phone signal.’
‘I know. He took one of the radios. Went up to try and raise help, maybe ten minutes ago. But he told me not to leave my room.’
‘Could you go and check, please, Mr Parik?’
‘Jai.’ There was a pause, a sigh. ‘OK. Hang on.’
I stared at the ID card and listened to indistinct sounds of movement. I heard Jai’s door click shut behind him. I hit the intercom button and said, ‘One moment, sir.’ The officer outside said something but I returned my attention to the phone.
Jai came back out of breath. ‘Can’t find him. I’m out of shape,’ he puffed. ‘Bought a rowing machine on Black Friday but what do you know, haven’t got round to using it. What’s up? What’s happening?’
I licked my lips. They were puckered and dry. ‘There’s a second stranger at reception.’
I could virtually hear Jai’s thoughts. When he next spoke, the levity was gone. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s another officer. He’s claiming to be PC Don Gaines.’
I listened to Jai breathe. ‘You’re kidding,’ he said. ‘I mean, you’re kidding, right?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve let him in?’
‘No. I need you to come down and help me decide.’
‘Gaines? For real? Wait there, I’m on my way.’
As soon as I replaced the phone in its cradle, our visitor buzzed the intercom again. I picked up. ‘Thanks for waiting,’ I said in my hotel-voice. ‘I just needed to check something.’
‘I understand. But this is an urgent matter, ma’am. Googling me won’t help.’
‘I wasn’t. Internet’s down.’
There was a pause at this. Outside, a vortex of snow tunnelled upwards. ‘I don’t suppose you have a working phone?’
‘The internal line works but our outside lines are dead. Sorry.’
I saw the guy rest his forehead against the frame of the revolving doors. ‘Right,’ he said. A squall of wind at the snow-bullied windows. He pulled his hood low, grounded his stance and braced against it. When it passed he hit the intercom again. ‘I would like you to let me in.’ I detected, beneath the surface of this patiently delivered request, the first signs of irritation.
‘I’m just waiting for a… colleague.’
I heard the lift announce itself and the doors part. Jai padded into the lobby. His hair was down and he had his Yankees cap on. ‘Where is he?’ I nodded towards the door. ‘Can I see him?’
I raised the ID and Jai crossed to take it. He studied it, then looked at the doors. ‘Are you going to let him in?’
I found myself raking my thumbnail across the Midbow’s grip, compulsively unpeeling it bit by bit, sticky glue smudged across my fingertips. I forced myself to stop, tried to think things through. ‘I mean – should we? I don’t think we have any choice. It’s a man in a storm and it’s sub-zero out there.’
‘Yeah, but does he check out?’
Something flared. ‘I don’t know! Black coat and hood, black boots, looks something like his picture… what do you think? He could be anybody.’
‘You mentioned a prisoner,’ Jai said. ‘It could be the prisoner.’ I nodded and Jai added unnecessarily, ‘What if he’s dangerous?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ve got this.’
‘A hockey stick? Are you serious? Porterfell has hundreds of high-supervision inmates. Guys serving long sentences.’ He thrust a finger in the direction of the door. ‘Out there could be one of them. I thought the cop had insisted on going to the gunroom. You went to the gunroom, right?’
‘I’m not licensed.’
Jai huffed in disbelief. ‘Does it matter? We have to be able to defend ourselves. Surely you told him that. Did he offer you a weapon?’
I told him about the demonstration, about Gaines’s insistence he only arm himself. ‘He took the key as well,’ I said, squirming inside. ‘So that no one else can access the guns.’
Jai gazed towards the revolving doors. I watched his Adam’s apple drop and climb as he swallowed. ‘We’ll have to go back and break in,’ he said. ‘You got some sort of crowbar? I could jemmy the door.’
Things felt like they were slipping out of control. ‘It’s high security,’ I said. ‘Solid. We can’t just wander out there and knock it down.’
He gave me a look, mouth half open. ‘Remie, it’s your last night. And there’s an escaped prisoner out there.’
‘We don’t know that for sure.’
‘I don’t like this.’
‘I don’t either, but we can’t leave that man in this storm,’ I said. ‘Ever heard of confirmation bias?’ Jai gave me a blank look. I found myself whispering, as if the officer outside might overhear. ‘The tendency to interpret information in a way that confirms prior beliefs,’ I told him. ‘Telling your story first doesn’t make it any more true.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘We know there aren’t two officers,’ I told Jai. ‘So one of the strangers is someone else. Gaines seemed real enough, but what if the guy outside,’ I said carefully, ‘is for real?’
A vein pushed at Jai’s temple. ‘He’s Gaines?’ he hissed, examining the doors, then turning to check the corridor behind him. The decorator’s trolley sitting in the black space leading through to the silence of the garden room; the kitchens; the bar. I had a sudden memory of the first Gaines and me, switching all the lights off as we travelled the hotel. Trailing darkness behind us. ‘And we’ve already let the wrong guy in?’
My skin was hot and my scalp tight. I nodded.
11
Jai ran a thumbnail up and down between his front teeth and stared at the floor, blinking. ‘We should bring him in and lock him up,’ he said. ‘Question him.’
I felt a prickle of anger. ‘Jesus, this night,’ I hissed, then drew in a deep breath, flooding my lungs and trying to re-centre. ‘If he’s police, we could get in trouble,’ I said, thinking of my flight, picturing a pair of uniforms frogmarching me back through the departure gates to the concourse.
‘We have to protect ourselves,’ Jai scoffed. ‘All we’ve got is a hockey stick.’
I stared at my companion. His suggestion felt wrong and I wrestled with it, trying to pinpoint my concerns. ‘What if the man outside is armed?’
‘Well, then he’s the cop,’ Jai said, before scowling and adding, ‘Unless he’s stolen the gun and the uniform.’
The buzzer came again. We looked across the lobby at the man in the snow. He was mouthing something at us. Indecision didn’t seem to be an option any more. I pressed the intercom button with trembling fingers. ‘I’m coming over to let you in, sir. But I’m going to be putting you in the office.’ I hefted my Midbow and turned to Jai. ‘Please come over with me.’
Jai swallowed and nodded. We crossed the carpet. My pulse throbbed as I unlocked the doors. Once again a figure pushed its way into the revolving quarter-circles and emerged, blue-skinned and rimed in ice, into the dark warmth of the lobby. Our second visitor was a sandy-haired, bearded man, late-thirties but looking older. His figure was slimmer than the night’s first visitor; slightly boyish, more my height and build. I took in a black storm jacket with button-down pockets, a thick stab vest, black trousers and police boots. He blinked grey eyes and pushed back his hood. The man had struck his head hard – or been struck, I noted – and his forehead was a puffy blue-black mess. Torn skin had bled and clotted, the skin around his eye and the bridge of his nose was already darkening. I held up the hockey stick.
He regarded the raised weapon expressionlessly. ‘PC 4256 Gaines,’ he said. ‘You are?’
‘We’ll need you in the office for a short while,’ I explained. My voice came out brittle. ‘I’ll leave you with a first aid kit and get you some food. But I’m afraid there’s something we have to do before we can…’ I couldn’t find a diplomatic conclusion and let the sentence hang, indicating the room with the glowing desk lamp.
‘I don’t understand. I have to contact colleagues and alert them to a situation we’ve got here.’
‘I need you in the office,’ I repeated.
The man widened his stance. ‘Ma’am. I’m a police officer. All due respect I have a job to do here.’
My pulse hummed as I wondered how to escalate. Thank God for Jai. ‘Sir. Miss Yorke here is just taking necessary precautions. You’re not our first visitor tonight. It shouldn’t take long to establish what’s going on. In the meantime, she’s right – we have to be careful and safe. You’ll just need to wait in the office.’
‘And you are?’
‘Jaival Parik, sir.’
‘We’ll be as quick as we can,’ I said.
The man folded his arms and jutted his chin as he regarded us. I got a strong smell of meltwater and diesel; imagined a smashed vehicle hissing in the snow, its gutted engine steaming. We held our positions in a silent stand-off. Eventually he conceded. ‘Have it your way.’
He unzipped his jacket as he walked, and began taking it off one shoulder, his back and neck taut with pain. I took in a white shirt tucked beneath a thick belt; no Don Gaines muffin-top here, this man was thin and muscular. Night-stick, empty shoulder-holster. Gaines One – the man I’d been thinking of as the real Don Gaines – had arrived without a weapon and told a story about its absence. Now we had a second officer in the same position.
I showed the man into the reception office, indicating the desk. He turned and sat, regarding us. The effect was of marked difference; the last man to sag into that chair, bleeding and grunting, had been a Don Gaines with fear pulsing off him in waves. This Gaines was lithe and neatly built, calm despite his injuries; possessed of a tight-jawed determination. ‘You’ve had another visitor? What do you mean by that?’
