Forget Her Name(84)

I press the buzzer for Jason Wainwright, third floor.

Nothing.

No surprise there.

I hesitate, looking at the other name plates on the upper floors. Two accountancy firms and a Tempest Textiles, second floor. George’s Gardening Supplies is the only occupied office on the fourth floor.

I press the buzzer.

A moment passes, then to my relief there’s a crackle. ‘Hello?’ a male voice asks in a puzzled tone through the intercom. ‘Can I help you?’

I adopt a deep voice. And add a Scottish accent for good measure. ‘Delivery for George’s Gardening Supplies.’

‘A delivery? At this time?’ Puzzled pause. ‘I didn’t know there were any deliveries over the holidays.’

I grunt. ‘They work us like slaves, these corporate bastards.’

‘I’m not expecting anything.’

‘It’s marked urgent. And I need a signature.’

‘Oh, very well . . . hang on.’ The crackle stops, and for a few uncomfortable seconds I think I’ve lost him. Then George presses the intercom again, sounding weary but resigned. ‘I’ll come down to you. Wait there.’





Chapter Fifty-Two George is a hulking great bloke in his thirties with an ill-fitting plaid shirt hanging open over jeans, and stubble. As soon as I see him emerge from the lifts a few minutes later, I turn my back and pretend to be rummaging through my bag.

He pushes out through the door. I glance round at him and smile invitingly. He looks me up and down, then stares at the empty street. He has an unkempt brown fringe that lifts in the wind.

‘You seen a delivery guy?’ he asks, sounding irritated.

‘Oh, was he for you?’ I point vaguely along the road. ‘He rode off on his bike about thirty seconds before you appeared. Some courier service? I think he had a parcel with him. I guess he couldn’t wait any longer.’

‘For God’s sake,’ he mutters, and pulls a face, beginning to retreat back into the building.

‘Hang on,’ I say, and grab the door before it closes. He stares round at me in surprise, and I smile cheerfully, putting on a breathless little-girl-lost voice. ‘George, isn’t it?’

‘Erm, that’s right.’

‘Linda. Tempest Textiles. I’ve left my phone up in the office. Can you believe it?’

My heels clacking, I walk breezily past him and across the black-tiled vestibule, heading for the lift with purpose. As if I have every right to be there.

‘Had a good Christmas?’ I ask.

He follows more slowly, frowning. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t . . .’

‘You don’t remember me? Oh George, I’m wounded. We’ve met several times.’ I press the button to call the lift, and then burst out laughing at his blank expression. ‘I’m obviously not that memorable.’

George looks me up and down again, taking in my fuck-me heels, the PVC skirt, the skin-tight black leotard visible under my open coat. ‘I think I would have remembered you.’

I laugh. ‘You flirt!’

The lift arrives. We both get on, his gaze on my legs. ‘You’re fourth floor, yes?’ When he nods, I punch the ‘4’ button for him, then hit ‘2’ for myself and check my reflection in the mirrored wall. Ugh, my little tussle with Sharon has taken its toll on my lipstick, which is looking a bit smudged. And there’s a long scratch down one cheek.

No wonder he’s staring.

‘Party,’ I say, tweaking my short skirt.

His eyebrows rise. He hasn’t missed my scratched face. ‘Did it get rough?’

‘I haven’t gone yet. So who knows?’ I give him a dangerous smile. ‘Would you like to come?’

George takes an instinctive step backwards in the constrained space, his eyes widening. ‘No . . . no thanks. I need to get home to my wife.’

I pretend to study him with interest. ‘Pity.’ The lift stops at the second floor, and the doors slide open. ‘Well, this is me.’

‘Good luck with the party,’ George says awkwardly as I give him a little wave. ‘See you after the holidays.’

I saunter away from the lift, my hips swinging. The doors close.

At once, I return and watch the light display above the door as the lift rises to the fourth floor. Above, I hear the doors open and close again.

Then silence.

I turn to the staircase, and head up one floor. The stairs are chilly and deserted. Reaching the third floor, I swiftly locate the office of Jason Wainwright and check the door. It’s locked, unsurprisingly.

I knock, just to be sure. No reply.

The lock is a Yale.

I check the other offices. There are three suites on this floor. Jason Wainwright’s, and two that appear to be unoccupied. The office doors are locked, but the toilets and communal kitchen are both open.

I close the kitchen door and put a chair under the handle to prevent it from opening. Just in case. There probably isn’t a guard who patrols the office building at night. But better safe than sorry.

To my relief, my phone has several bars when I stand by the kitchen window. I hunt through my bag until I find the business card Bianca gave us at La Giravolta, then ring the number and stare out at the city lights.

It rings three times before someone picks up.