she walked towards the lifts. ‘I wish you to pass a good night.’
Kell checked his watch. 1.35 a.m. He gave Barbara another ten minutes to settle in and to familiarize herself with the hotel, then sent a text message initiating the final part of their plan.
Time check 1.45. Lobby green. You?
Barbara responded immediately.
Yes. Will be in position from 2. Good luck.
Kell was putting the phone back in his pocket when Pierre emerged from reception and asked if Monsieur Uniacke needed anything further from the bar.
‘Thank you, no,’ Kell replied. ‘I’m fine.’
‘And how is the wi-fi? Still working to your satisfaction?’
‘Completely.’
He waited until Pierre had returned to the office before texting Bill Knight.
Clear?
Nothing came back. Kell watched the clock on the laptop tick through to 1.57 and knew that Barbara would already be in position. He tried again.
Clear outside?
Still no reply. There was nothing for it but to proceed as planned and to hope that Knight had the situation under control. Kell disconnected the laptop from the socket in the wall, tucked it under his arm, took his now empty glass of mineral water to the reception desk and placed it on the right-hand side of the counter beside a plastic box filled with tourist brochures. Pierre was back in his chair in the office, drinking Coke, wallowing in astro-physics.
‘Could I check something?’ Kell asked him.
‘Of course, sir.’
‘What rate am I paying on my room? There’s a confirmation email from my office that seems lower than I remember.’
Pierre frowned, approached the desk, logged into Opera and clicked into the Uniacke account. As he did so, Kell lifted the laptop on to the counter and placed it approximately two inches from the bowl of potpourri.
‘Let me see.’ Pierre was muttering, squinting at the screen. ‘We have you on …’
Kell put an elbow on to the laptop, let it slide along the counter, and sent the bowl of potpourri plummeting towards the floor.
‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed in English as it exploded in a cluster bomb of petals and glass. Pierre reared back from the counter with a matching ‘
Merde!
’ of his own as Kell surveyed the delightful chaos of his creation.
‘I am so, so sorry,’ he said, first in English and then, repeating the apology, in French.
‘It doesn’t matter, sir, really it doesn’t matter. These things happen. It can easily be cleaned up.’
Kell, bending to the floor in pursuit of the larger chunks of glass, searched for the French phrase for ‘dustpan and brush’, but found that he could only say: ‘Do you have a vacuum cleaner?’
Pierre had now made his way out into the lobby and was standing over him, hands on hips, trying to calculate the best course of action.
‘Yes, I think that’s probably a good idea. We have a Hoover. I will clean everything up. Please do not worry, Monsieur Uniacke.’
‘But you must let me help you.’
Pierre dropped to the floor beside him. To Kell’s surprise, he even placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. ‘No, no. Please, you are a guest. Relax. I will fetch something.’
‘I think I saw one on the stairs on the way up to my room. Is that where you keep them? I can get it for you. Please, I’d like to help …’
It was the only risk in his strategy; that the night porter would be so concerned about the security of the front desk that he would accept a paying guest’s offer of help. But Kell had read his personality correctly.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I can fetch it. I know the cupboard. It’s not far. If you wait here …’
The phone pulsed in Kell’s pocket. He took it out as Pierre walked away. Knight had finally deigned to reply.
All clear out here Commander. Over and out.
‘Prat,’ Kell muttered, checked that Pierre had gone upstairs, and slipped behind the reception desk.
10
Barbara Knight had closed the door of her room, put the sausage bag on the floor outside the bathroom, poured a cognac from the
Kell checked his watch. 1.35 a.m. He gave Barbara another ten minutes to settle in and to familiarize herself with the hotel, then sent a text message initiating the final part of their plan.
Time check 1.45. Lobby green. You?
Barbara responded immediately.
Yes. Will be in position from 2. Good luck.
Kell was putting the phone back in his pocket when Pierre emerged from reception and asked if Monsieur Uniacke needed anything further from the bar.
‘Thank you, no,’ Kell replied. ‘I’m fine.’
‘And how is the wi-fi? Still working to your satisfaction?’
‘Completely.’
He waited until Pierre had returned to the office before texting Bill Knight.
Clear?
Nothing came back. Kell watched the clock on the laptop tick through to 1.57 and knew that Barbara would already be in position. He tried again.
Clear outside?
Still no reply. There was nothing for it but to proceed as planned and to hope that Knight had the situation under control. Kell disconnected the laptop from the socket in the wall, tucked it under his arm, took his now empty glass of mineral water to the reception desk and placed it on the right-hand side of the counter beside a plastic box filled with tourist brochures. Pierre was back in his chair in the office, drinking Coke, wallowing in astro-physics.
‘Could I check something?’ Kell asked him.
‘Of course, sir.’
‘What rate am I paying on my room? There’s a confirmation email from my office that seems lower than I remember.’
Pierre frowned, approached the desk, logged into Opera and clicked into the Uniacke account. As he did so, Kell lifted the laptop on to the counter and placed it approximately two inches from the bowl of potpourri.
‘Let me see.’ Pierre was muttering, squinting at the screen. ‘We have you on …’
Kell put an elbow on to the laptop, let it slide along the counter, and sent the bowl of potpourri plummeting towards the floor.
‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed in English as it exploded in a cluster bomb of petals and glass. Pierre reared back from the counter with a matching ‘
Merde!
’ of his own as Kell surveyed the delightful chaos of his creation.
‘I am so, so sorry,’ he said, first in English and then, repeating the apology, in French.
‘It doesn’t matter, sir, really it doesn’t matter. These things happen. It can easily be cleaned up.’
Kell, bending to the floor in pursuit of the larger chunks of glass, searched for the French phrase for ‘dustpan and brush’, but found that he could only say: ‘Do you have a vacuum cleaner?’
Pierre had now made his way out into the lobby and was standing over him, hands on hips, trying to calculate the best course of action.
‘Yes, I think that’s probably a good idea. We have a Hoover. I will clean everything up. Please do not worry, Monsieur Uniacke.’
‘But you must let me help you.’
Pierre dropped to the floor beside him. To Kell’s surprise, he even placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. ‘No, no. Please, you are a guest. Relax. I will fetch something.’
‘I think I saw one on the stairs on the way up to my room. Is that where you keep them? I can get it for you. Please, I’d like to help …’
It was the only risk in his strategy; that the night porter would be so concerned about the security of the front desk that he would accept a paying guest’s offer of help. But Kell had read his personality correctly.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I can fetch it. I know the cupboard. It’s not far. If you wait here …’
The phone pulsed in Kell’s pocket. He took it out as Pierre walked away. Knight had finally deigned to reply.
All clear out here Commander. Over and out.
‘Prat,’ Kell muttered, checked that Pierre had gone upstairs, and slipped behind the reception desk.
10
Barbara Knight had closed the door of her room, put the sausage bag on the floor outside the bathroom, poured a cognac from the
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