Code Red Lipstick, page 7
“He was a kind man and tipped generously for information,” Mademoiselle Dumont said.
“What kind of information?”
“About Monsieur Bishop. He was particularly interested in him.”
Jessica caught her breath. She’d been expecting her to say she’d told her dad about a good local restaurant or something trivial like that.
“Sam Bishop? You talked to my dad about him?”
“Oui, mademoiselle. I told Monsieur Cole everything I know.”
Jessica couldn’t believe her stroke of luck. “What did you tell him?”
Mademoiselle Dumont remained mute until she fished out twenty euros from her purse. The maid grabbed the note and shoved it into her pocket as two elderly guests brushed past.
“This way.” She pushed the trolley along the corridors until they reached Room 126. She swiped her card and pushed open the door.
“The room’s been cleaned since Monsieur Bishop left, of course,” she said, “but no guest has been in here since. Management’s planning a refit of some of the rooms on this floor, including this one.”
Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of this before? Her dad had deliberately checked into the same hotel as Sam Bishop so it would make it easier to speak to employees without alerting suspicion. He always said cleaning staff were a valuable source of information, as they had a good idea of the guests’ habits. Sometimes they even peeked into their belongings.
She walked around the room, looking inside drawers and wardrobes. Mademoiselle Dumont was right: the room had been thoroughly cleaned and smelt of lemon air freshener. Sam didn’t appear to have left anything behind.
“So what did you tell my dad?”
“As I said, your father was a generous man.” Mademoiselle Dumont smiled patiently and waited, her eyes resting on Jessica’s handbag.
She pulled her purse out again and handed over fifty euros. Mademoiselle Dumont grinned as she pocketed the money.
“Monsieur Bishop left the room in a state as usual the morning he disappeared – clothes scattered everywhere, wet towels on the floor, his shaving kit in the sink. The man lived like a cochon, what you English call a pig, non? He’d been with us for six months and I don’t think he ever picked up a sock. Il était impossible.”
“That’s it?” Jessica slumped on to the bed. She might as well have thrown Mattie’s fifty euros out of the window. She’d hoped to find out something more interesting about Sam other than his poor personal habits.
“That’s why it was such a surprise to see Monsieur Bishop back in the room later that day,” she continued. “I’d never met him before. You see, he was always gone by eight a.m. and returned after I’d finished my shift.”
“When did you see him?”
“About three p.m. on October thirtieth.”
Jessica raised an eyebrow. How could she possibly be so precise?
“I’m not making it up!” Mademoiselle Dumont folded her arms crossly. “It was the day before my son’s birthday and I had to pick up his cake after I finished my shift. That’s how I remember it.”
“OK, I believe you. So what happened?”
“I was doing my afternoon rounds. Just as I got to his door, Mr Bishop came out with his bags. He gave me such a surprise.”
“Did you notice anything strange about him?”
“Not really. He looked shocked to see me too and excused himself. He got into the lift. I went into his room and found he’d packed everything up. That struck me as odd. He was our only long-term guest and housekeeping hadn’t told me he was checking out. After that, I never saw him again.”
“Did my dad ask you anything else?” Jessica said, peeling off a few more notes.
“He wanted to know if I ever saw any syringes or drugs lying around the room. I said absolutely not. I’d remember something as bad as that.”
This was an interesting snippet of information. AKSC had accused him of failing a drugs test. He’d either been careful not to leave traces of his addiction or the allegation wasn’t true. Could the French police have been covering something up, as Sam’s mum had claimed in her letter?
“I must get on with my rounds now,” Mademoiselle Dumont said. “I’m running late.”
“Of course.”
Jessica was standing up to leave when something beneath the wardrobe caught her eye. She knelt down and fished out a tiny scrap of paper. There were more pieces pushed further back but she couldn’t reach them.
“It’s rubbish the vacuum missed,” Mademoiselle Dumont said. “Here, let me throw it away.”
“I don’t think it is rubbish.”
Jessica looked closer. The paper had been intricately pleated and folded. She carefully tweaked it and a figure took shape.
“It’s a swan!” she exclaimed.
“Monsieur Bishop always made things like that,” Mademoiselle Dumont said. “He used to leave them scattered across the floor, along with everything else. Like I said, the man was a cochon. Some of the girls got fed up with picking up the bits every day, so they probably just brushed them under there.”
“I’ll keep it, if you don’t mind.”
“As you wish.” She led her out of the room and closed the door.
“One more thing.” Jessica fished into her bag and pulled out the copy of Sam Bishop’s photograph. “Is this the man you saw that day?”
She stared at the picture and shook her head.
“No. I already told your father, Monsieur Bishop was much older than this. He was a large man with dark hair. I also told that model all about him too. What was she called now? Laura? No, Lara. She said she was a cousin of Sam’s and was trying to find him while she was here for Couture Week. Très, très beautiful but a terrible tipper.”
Jessica stared after Mademoiselle Dumont as she wheeled the trolley down the corridor. Ohmigod. Lara Hopkins had been here too. Was that why she’d been strangled and Jessica’s dad was missing? They’d both discovered someone else had emptied Sam’s room. It certainly weakened the French police’s theory that Sam had gone on the run. If he had, he’d left with the clothes he was standing in and nothing else. But it didn’t explain who was in his room that day, removing all his belongings. What did the man with fair hair have to do with Sam and why did he have all his stuff?
She ran back along the corridor and down the stairs. The foyer didn’t have any CCTV cameras but the mystery man wouldn’t have left through the front entrance anyway. He’d probably found another way to slip out, unnoticed, maybe through the kitchens. That was where she’d go if she wanted a quick, discreet getaway. As she walked past the front desk, she noticed Mademoiselle Girard finishing a phone call. She was alone. Jessica had to make one final stab at getting info.
“Thanks for all your help today,” Jessica said breathlessly. “I don’t suppose you could do one more thing for me, could you?”
“That depends,” Mademoiselle Girard said. “What is it?”
“Can you call up some information on another guest for me?”
Mademoiselle Girard frowned and stared at her computer screen. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’d get into a lot of trouble if my manager found out.”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone. I need to find out about a man called Sam Bishop. My dad was trying to find him. Can you see when he last used his key card? It won’t take a minute. Please.”
Mademoiselle Girard hesitated and shot a furtive look over her shoulder. “You mustn’t tell a soul what I’m doing.”
Her long, scarlet nails tapped on the keyboard.
“I’ve already told the gendarmes this information,” she muttered. “He left his room at seven thirty a.m. on October thirtieth. He re-entered the room at two forty p.m. and departed again at three p.m. That was it.”
“Did he check out?”
Mademoiselle Girard shook her head. “The police arrived to question him the next day, but he hadn’t returned. His account was closed later that week.”
“Who closed it?”
“AKSC,” she replied. “The company had already paid upfront for the room and simply terminated the account. Now you must leave. My manager’s coming back from his break.” She nodded at the tall, dark-suited man walking towards them.
Quickly, Jessica pulled out the picture. “Is this Sam Bishop?”
“Oui, that’s him. Now please go before you get me into trouble.”
Jessica flashed a grateful smile and left. It had been worth taking the risk; it wasn’t cheap but it’d paid off. Outside, she hailed a taxi and jumped in. As it pulled away, she spotted Nathan and Margaret walking briskly into the hotel. She sank down into her seat. That was close. They hadn’t seen her.
She was one step ahead of them yet again.
Jessica laid out the green silk vintage tea dress she’d found in an antiques shop next to the metallic Stella McCartney number a stylist had loaned her. Which one would give her the confidence to get through tonight? Margaret had rung her room shortly after she’d arrived back after taking a detour past the café her dad had visited. That had drawn a blank. If only she’d hung around longer with the waiters, she’d have missed Margaret’s call, ordering her to attend an early dinner at a nearby restaurant. Had she and Nathan found out about Jessica’s trip? Mademoiselle Girard or Mademoiselle Dumont could have spilled the beans. She’d be in big trouble if they had. But wouldn’t they just pack her off to London straight away? Then again, it could always be a ploy to try and catch her out. They were good at mind games.
Next time – if there was a next time – she’d have to think of an excuse quicker. She plumped for Stella. Her designs had helped spur the British Olympic team on to win fistfuls of gold medals in London. Hopefully the designer’s shimmering shift dress would be a lucky talisman tonight and help her fly below MI6’s radar at dinner. She slipped on the crystal-studded silver Alexander McQueen pumps another Primus model had discarded in the agency. Her feet were too big for them, but they fitted Jessica perfectly.
She curled her eyelashes and then applied black liquid eyeliner and mascara. A dab of cherry lipgloss and she was done. She examined her reflection in the mirror. Perfect. Her armoury was just right. She’d look like a fashion-conscious teenager who was more interested in designer labels and a night out in Paris rather than one who was intent on defying MI6.
She grabbed her vintage black velvet evening bag and black sequin shrug and took one final look in the mirror. Something was missing. She slipped on her mum’s necklace, which she’d removed before she took a shower, and the blue crystal flower ring her dad had bought her for Christmas.
“You can do this,” she told her reflection. “Becky would tell you to put on an Oscar-worthy performance. You just have to get through tonight and you’re home free.”
She closed the door behind her, checking it had locked properly. She declined the concierge’s offer of hailing a taxi and instead followed directions to the Champs-Élysées. Walking helped calm her nerves until she approached the restaurant, which was tucked in between a couple of bars with outside seating. Her heart beat rapidly as she pushed open the door.
Blast.
She’d mistimed it. She’d dawdled but still arrived first. Maybe they were deliberately late, just to unsettle her. She wouldn’t put it past them. A waiter checked the reservation and showed her to their table at the back of the darkened room. He handed her a large menu and disappeared. She read the menu, nibbling her nails, which she’d painted in Chanel’s Blue Rebel. They’d never get the message.
She didn’t know how she’d get through the evening pretending nothing was wrong when she’d discovered such potentially explosive information about Sam. Who was the mystery man in his room that day? Could it have been Vectra, the terrorist Nathan had talked about, or one of his henchmen? Were Lara and Jessica’s dad targeted because they’d found out about him? How would she manage to keep a poker face for the next few hours?
She couldn’t. She rose to her feet, almost knocking over her water glass. She tried to catch her waiter’s eye. She’d get him to explain to Margaret and Nathan that she felt ill and had to leave early.
“Jessica!” Margaret weaved in between the tightly packed tables, dressed in a black velvet trouser suit. She smiled warmly, making dimples appear on her cheeks. Jessica had never noticed them before.
“I’m so glad you turned up. I thought you might have had second thoughts and thrown a sickie.”
“No, of course not.” Her cheeks reddened.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse Nathan. He has an urgent matter to attend to.”
“About Dad?”
“No. Something on the domestic front.”
She sat opposite and picked up a menu. If she’d found out about Jessica’s visit to the hotel, she wasn’t letting on.
“I’m starving,” Margaret said. “Shall we order?”
“Yes, please.” Jessica dived behind her menu, glad to avoid any probing questions. Just because Margaret hadn’t mentioned her visit didn’t mean she hadn’t discovered her secret.
“Nice nail polish, by the way,” Margaret said. “I love Chanel.”
Jessica sank down lower behind the menu. No way could she know the make. She was practically a hundred.
After a few minutes, Margaret opted for a rare fillet steak and frites with a half bottle of Pinot noir while Jessica ordered a plate of asparagus ravioli with a side salad and sparkling mineral water. As soon as the waiter disappeared, Margaret whipped out photos of her grandchildren. Ben was two and Matilda, four. Her eyes sparkled as she talked about them.
“They keep me young,” she said, chuckling. “Although you must think someone my age is positively ancient.”
“Not at all,” Jessica said.
“You’re a good liar!” Margaret threw her head back and hooted with laughter. “I can see why you’re so useful to your father. So why don’t you fill me in on what you’ve been doing today?”
Jessica smiled back. “Sightseeing.”
Margaret was far friendlier than yesterday, but Jessica had to keep her guard up. However, Margaret could prove useful to her. She topped up her empty wine glass as their waiter returned, carrying two large white plates.
“So have you found anything out about my dad yet?” Jessica asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Margaret said, slicing through the steak with a razor-sharp knife. Blood pooled on her plate. “The trail’s gone cold for him and Sam. Sorry.”
Jessica bit her lip as she prodded her ravioli with her fork. Her appetite had deserted her.
“But you’ll be glad to hear that I’ve managed to persuade my boss, Mrs T, to look at this from a whole new angle,” Margaret said. “I have a totally different theory to Nathan’s.”
Jessica looked up. “How do you mean?”
Margaret placed her knife and fork down. “I’ve known your father for a very long time. I don’t believe he’s a murderer or a traitor. I agree with you. I think he’s been set up, possibly by someone he’s crossed in the past. He’d have made plenty of enemies during his time with MI6. We all have.”
Jessica took a sharp intake of breath.
“It’s OK,” Margaret said, placing a hand on hers. “I’m on your side.”
Tears welled in Jessica’s eyes. “Thank you. I just needed to hear someone say that. What made you change your mind? You and Nathan seemed so certain yesterday.”
“The evidence against your father is a little too convenient for my liking, including the encrypted computer file you found.” Margaret examined the label on the back of the wine bottle before pouring herself another glass. “I’m still working on Nathan, but he’ll come round to my way of thinking.”
Jessica started to tuck into her buttery ravioli, which melted in her mouth. “Do you have any new leads?”
“Possibly.” Margaret chewed a piece of steak slowly.
“I can help,” Jessica insisted. “I speak French and Dad’s taught me a lot of useful stuff.”
“I know,” Margaret said, arching an eyebrow. “I read your file.”
“So you know I can handle myself.”
“I do, but there are too many risks, and realistically, I’m not sure what a teenager can achieve when we’re hitting a brick wall.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I shouldn’t really be telling you this, but we’re not sure if Vectra’s got Sam already or if either of them are still in Paris.”
“Why does he want Sam, anyway? He works for a beauty company.”
Margaret dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. After the waiter cleared away their plates, she ordered a crème caramel and Jessica a pot au chocolat.
“Truthfully, we don’t know what Vectra’s after, and that’s what worries us,” she continued. “Somehow we don’t think a terrorist wants to find a cure for the bags under his eyes or his crow’s feet.”
“Perhaps Sam’s created an explosive mascara or a face mask that detonates in thirty seconds,” Jessica suggested.
“I doubt it’s as James Bond as that. Sam was highly regarded at Cambridge and published research that could have piqued someone’s interest. We’re looking into that possibility.”
“Do you know what he was working on at AKSC?”
Margaret’s eyes gleamed as her dessert arrived. She dipped her spoon in straight away. “That’s where we’ve drawn a blank. Allegra Knight isn’t exactly forthcoming with us. Again, it’s highly confidential – we’re trying to get an agent planted in there, but it’s taking time.”
“That’s where I could help,” Jessica said eagerly. “AKSC held castings this week. A model from my agency’s been called back for a job. If I get a casting I could have a look around for you.”
“That’s an idea,” Margaret said slowly. “But you’re not trained up like our agents.”
