[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.Frau Werfel was not a woman to flap; she looked at his head with curiosity but nothing more.He explained, as best he could in halting German, that he had had an argument with Mr Green and had been knocked over by a moped as he chased after him across a busy road.When he had come to, Green was not there, and this was worrying because he was prone to fits of depression, was depressed at the moment, and may not have taken his medication with him.It was the best he could do.Frau Werfel nodded gravely, as if she didn’t believe him but understood these things all too well.Had she seen him? She had not, but she had been busy this afternoon and had frequently been downstairs in the basement.Would she mind letting Webster into the room? She looked carefully at his face, weighing him up.She would not.Webster thanked her and followed her up the two flights of stairs to Lock’s floor, watching her thick ankles in their sheepskin-lined boots as they went up step by step.As he walked down the corridor, which was gloomy and hot, he had a violent vision of opening the door to find Lock hanging by his neck, his new shoes twisting in space.He shook his head to clear the thought.There was no one in Lock’s room.Frau Werfel let him in and he made a show of looking in the bathroom for the medication.But the moment the door had opened he had noticed on the desk an envelope he was sure had not been there earlier.‘He seems to have taken it,’ he said, coming out of the bathroom, ‘which is good.Look, I’d go and try to find him but I have no idea where to look.His phone is turned off.I think I’ll wait here for him.I want to be sure to catch him if he comes back.’‘I could tell you when he comes back in.’‘But you’re busy, Frau Werfel.I don’t want to force you to be at your desk all evening.’She seemed ready to challenge him.But she merely nodded, wished him a good evening and left, closing the door behind her.The envelope was unmarked, off-white, small – the kind used for personal correspondence.It looked identical to the hotel stationery in the rack next to it.Webster took a sheet of paper from the rack and used it to flip the envelope over.It was not stuck down; the flap had been tucked inside.Webster tore the sheet of paper in two and using the two pieces to cover his fingers carefully pulled the flap back and out.There was a single sheet of paper inside, folded once.Still covering his fingers Webster removed it from the envelope and spread it out on the desk.It was a piece of Hotel Daniel writing paper.Its edges were a little bruised, as if it had been in the room a long time before being used.The paper was covered with an even longhand in royal-blue biro-ink.The script was regular but showed signs of flamboyance: a flourished tail to the ‘f’, the ‘g’ looping elegantly up into an ‘s’.Webster recognized the hand from the signatures on a hundred documents he had recently examined.Since my friend Dmitry Gerstman died I have been unhappy.I have lost a good friend.I lost my family long ago.In the courts and the newspapers I have lost my reputation.I have nothing.I do not want to continue.Webster read it again, and a third time, his heart beating heavily against his ribs.He read it once more but it yielded nothing new.He looked around the room to see if anything else had changed.Lock’s things were still in place: his old shoes with their water stains by the radiator, yesterday’s shirt hanging off the back of the chair by the desk.The bed had been made, and the bedside table tidied: on one side the two books, neatly against the wall; on the other the two bottles of Scotch and an empty bottle of gin, tightly together.The bottle of gin had not been there before, he was sure.Pulling his hand up inside the sleeve of his coat he picked it up by the cap.There was a trickle left in the bottom.Using a pen to dial, he called reception.Frau Werfel answered.‘Frau Werfel, this is Mr Webster in Mr Green’s room.Could I ask when you were not at reception over the last hour? I’m sorry but it might be important.’Frau Werfel gave a small harrumph to let Webster know that she had been very helpful but was beginning to tire of all this irregularity.‘I can’t say.Before you arrived I had been there for half an hour, I suppose, because some guests arrived at about half past four.’‘And did anyone else come in in that half-hour?’‘No one, Herr Webster.Is that all?’‘That’s all.Thank you very much, Frau Werfel.’ He longed to be able to do something.He did the one thing that was of any practical use and called Berlin’s central police station.He explained to them that his friend had gone missing and that he had just found what looked like a suicide note in his hotel room.The police asked him whether he had tried to call his friend.Yes, of course.Did he have any idea where his friend might have gone? No, none; he understood that there was little the police could do, but they could find photographs of Richard Lock on the Internet and perhaps circulate them to their patrol cars.The German policeman snorted and said yes, they could do that.He hung up and looked out of the window.The street below looked the same as before.He could tell from the snow on their bonnets that all the cars he could see were cold and hadn’t recently moved.There was no movement; only the snow falling thickly, round flakes dropping like rain, sometimes flurrying in a gust of wind.He drew the curtains and stood for a moment with his hands together, gripping the material, his eyes closed.This cannot be happening again.He had to speak to Hammer but didn’t want to leave the room in case by some miracle Lock returned.He took a risk and used the hotel phone on the desk.Even Malin’s people weren’t agile enough to have tapped these lines by now.In any case, it didn’t really matter.Let them hear it.‘Ike, it’s Ben.’‘Well?’‘I’m at the hotel.This isn’t a secure line.There’s a bogus suicide note and an empty bottle of gin that wasn’t here when we left four or five hours ago.’‘So there’s a pattern.’‘There’s a pattern.’‘Do the police know?’‘They know he’s missing and depressed.’‘OK.I just left a voicemail message for our fat Russian friend.Our favourite Etonian had a number for him.I didn’t want to involve the client yet.I don’t know which of his mobiles it is.I could try the client but I figured that he wouldn’t have any number we didn’t already have.’Webster grunted in agreement.‘What about Lock’s phone?’‘The signal’s dead.’‘Christ.’ Webster pinched his eyes closed with his free hand.‘The files?’‘They’re next.’ Hammer paused.‘I don’t know what else we can do.’‘There’s nothing else.’‘You OK?’‘No.I’m tired of making mistakes.’‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Hammer.‘When did Lock call Nina?’‘Yesterday morning.Marina the night before.’‘And by the afternoon there’s someone tailing him? That’s quick work.’‘I think they were PIs.Locals.’‘Locals don’t fake suicides.Not the ones I know anyway.’‘The Russians could have got here late yesterday.’‘That’s true.’Webster thought for a moment.‘Might be worth checking.’‘That’s not easy.’‘Have our travel-agent friend check for last-minute bookings.’‘What about private flights?’‘Yuri should be able to help.’‘OK.’ Hammer paused.‘What are you doing now?’‘I’m going to stay here and go quietly nuts.He may come back.If you need me call the Hotel Daniel and ask for Mr Green in room 205.’‘OK.Don’t do anything stupid.’‘OK.’There was nothing else to do.He sat on the bed and picked up Lock’s copy of Middle-march.The spine was broken about a hundred pages in and the book fell open naturally.Six hundred pages left.He wondered whether Lock would have the chance to finish it
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]