I've Got Your Number (3 page)

I’m building up a pretty good theory now. I could be Poirot. This is Violet Russell’s phone and she threw it away. For … some reason or other.

Well, that’s her fault. Not mine.

The phone buzzes and I start. Shit! It’s alive. The ring tone begins at top volume—and it’s Beyonce’s “Single Ladies.” I quickly press
ignore
, but a moment later it starts up again, loud and unmistakable.

Isn’t there a bloody volume control on this thing? A couple of nearby businesswomen have turned to stare, and I’m so flustered that I jab at
talk
instead of
ignore
. The
businesswomen are still watching me, so I press the phone to my ear and turn away.

“The person you have called is not available,” I say, trying to sound robotic. “Please leave a message.” That’ll get rid of whoever it is.

“Where the fuck
are
you?” A smooth, well-educated male voice starts speaking and I nearly squeak with astonishment. It worked! He thinks I’m a machine! “I’ve just been talking to Scottie. He has a contact who reckons he can do it. It’ll be like keyhole surgery. He’s good. There won’t be any trace.”

I don’t dare breathe. Or scratch my nose, which is suddenly incredibly itchy.

“OK,” the man is saying. “So, whatever else you do, be fucking careful.”

He rings off and I stare at the phone in astonishment. I never thought anyone would actually leave a
message
.

Now I feel a bit guilty. This is a genuine voice mail, and Violet’s missed it. I mean, it’s not
my
fault she threw her phone away, but even so … On impulse I scrabble in my bag for a pen and the only thing I’ve got to write on, which is an old theater program.
⁷
I scribble down:
Scottie has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful
.

God alone knows what
that’s
all about. Liposuction, maybe? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, if I ever do meet this Violet girl, I’ll be able to pass it on.

Before the phone can ring again, I hurry to the concierge’s desk, which has miraculously cleared.

“Hi,” I say breathlessly. “Me again. Has anyone found my ring?”

“May I please assure you, madam,” he says with a frosty smile, “that we would have let you know if we had found it. We
do
have your phone number—”

“No, you don’t!” I cut him off, almost triumphantly. “That’s the thing! The number I gave you is now … er … defunct. Out of use. Very much so.” The last thing I want is him calling hoody guy and mentioning a priceless emerald ring. “Please don’t call it. Can you use this number instead?” I carefully copy the phone number from the back of the White Globe Consulting phone. “In fact, just to be sure … can I test it?” I reach for the hotel landline phone and dial the printed number. A moment later Beyonce starts blasting out of the mobile phone. OK. At last I can relax a little. I’ve got a number.

“Madam, was there anything else?”

The concierge is starting to look quite pissed off, and there’s a queue of people building behind me. So I thank him again and head to a nearby sofa, full of adrenaline. I have a phone and I have a plan.

It only takes me five minutes to write out my new mobile number on twenty separate pieces of hotel writing paper, with
POPPY WYATT—EMERALD RING, PLEASE CALL!!!!
in big capitals. To my annoyance, the doors to the ballroom are now locked (although I’m
sure
I can hear the cleaners inside), so I’m forced to roam around the hotel corridors, the tearoom, the ladies’ rooms, and even the spa, handing my number out to every hotel worker I come across and explaining the story.

I call the police and dictate my new number to them. I text Ruby—whose mobile number I know by heart—saying:

Hi! Phone stolen. This is my new mobile number. Cn u pass to everyone? Any sign of ring???

Then I flop onto the sofa in exhaustion. I feel like I’ve been living in this bloody hotel all day. I should phone Magnus too and give him this number—but I can’t face it yet. I have this irrational conviction that he’ll be able to tell from my tone of voice that my ring is missing. He’ll sense my bare finger the minute I say “Hi.”

Please come back, ring. Please, PLEASE come back….

I’ve leaned back, closed my eyes, and am trying to send a telepathic message through the ether. So when Beyonce starts up again, I give a startled jump. Maybe this is it! My ring! Someone found it! I don’t even check the screen before pressing
talk
and answering excitedly, “Hello?”

“Violet?” A man’s voice hits my ear. It’s not the man who called before; it’s a guy with a deeper voice. He sounds a bit bad-tempered, if you can tell that just from three syllables.
⁸
He’s also breathing quite heavily, which means he’s either a pervert or doing some exercise. “Are you in the lobby? Is the Japanese contingent still there?”

In reflex, I look around. There are a whole bunch of Japanese people by the doors.

“Yes, they are,” I say. “But I’m not Violet. This isn’t Violet’s phone anymore. Sorry. Maybe you could spread the word that her number’s changed?”

I need to get Violet’s mates off my case. I can’t have them ringing me every five seconds.

“Excuse me, who is this?” the man demands. “Why are you answering this number? Where’s Violet?”

“I possess this phone,” I say, more confidently than I feel. Which is true. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.
⁹

“You
possess
it? What the hell are you—Oh Jesus.” He swears a bit more, and I can hear distant footsteps. It sounds like he’s running downstairs.
¹⁰
“Tell me, are they leaving?”

“The Japanese people?” I squint at the group. “Maybe. Can’t tell.”

“Is a short guy with them? Overweight? Thick hair?”

“You mean the man in the blue suit? Yes, he’s right in front of me. Looks pissed off. Now he’s putting on his mac.”

The squat Japanese man has been handed a Burberry by a colleague. He’s glowering as he puts it on, and a constant stream of angry Japanese is coming out of his mouth, as all his friends nod nervously.

“No!” The man’s exclamation down the phone takes me by surprise. “He can’t leave.”

“Well, he is. Sorry.”

“You have to stop him. Go up to him and stop him leaving the hotel. Go up to him now. Do whatever it takes.”

“What?”
I stare at the phone. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve never even met you—”

“Nor me you,” he rejoins. “Who are you, anyway? Are you a friend of Violet? Can you tell me exactly why she decided to quit her job halfway through the biggest conference of the year? Does she think I suddenly don’t
need
a PA anymore?”

Aha. So Violet’s his personal assistant. This makes
sense. And she walked out on him! Well, I’m not surprised, he’s so bossy.

“Anyway, doesn’t matter,” he interrupts himself. “Point is, I’m on the stairs, floor nine, the lift jammed, I’ll be downstairs in less than three minutes, and you have to keep Yuichi Yamasaki there till I arrive. Whoever the hell you are.”

What a nerve.

“Or what?” I retort.

“Or else a year of careful negotiation goes down the tubes because of one ridiculous misunderstanding. The biggest deal of the year falls apart. A team of twenty people lose their jobs.” His voice is relentless. “Senior managers, secretaries, the whole gang. Just because I can’t get down there fast enough and the one person who could help won’t.”

Oh, bloody hell.

“All right!” I say furiously. “I’ll do my best. What’s his name again?”

“Yamasaki.”

“Wait!” I raise my voice, running forward across the lobby. “Please! Mr. Yamasaki? Could you wait a minute?”

Mr. Yamasaki turns questioningly, and a couple of flunkies move forward, flanking him protectively. He has a broad face, still creased in anger, and a wide, bullish neck, around which he’s draping a silk scarf. I get the sense he’s not into idle chitchat.

I have no idea what to say next. I don’t speak Japanese, I don’t know anything about Japanese business or Japanese culture. Apart from sushi. But I can’t exactly go up to him and say “Sushi!” out of the blue. It would be like going up to a top American businessman and saying “T-bone steak!”

“I’m … a huge fan,” I improvise. “Of your work. Could I have your autograph?”

He looks puzzled, and one of his colleagues whispers a translation into his ear. Immediately, his brow clears and he bows to me.

Cautiously, I bow back, and he snaps his fingers, barking an instruction. A moment later, a beautiful leather folder has been opened in front of him, and he’s writing something elaborate in Japanese.

“Is he still there?” The stranger’s voice suddenly emanates from the phone.

“Yes,” I mutter into it. “Just about. Where are you?” I shoot a bright smile at Mr. Yamasaki.

“Fifth floor. Keep him there. Whatever it takes.”

Mr. Yamasaki hands me his piece of paper, caps his pen, bows again, and makes to walk off.

“Wait!” I cry desperately. “Could I … show you something?”

“Mr. Yamasaki is very busy.” One of his colleagues, wearing steel glasses and the whitest shirt I’ve ever seen, turns back. “Kindly contact our office.”

They’re heading away again. What do I do now? I can’t ask for another autograph. I can’t rugby-tackle him. I need to attract his attention somehow.

“I have a special announcement to make!” I exclaim, hurrying after them. “I am a singing telegram! I bear a message from all Mr. Yamasaki’s many fans. It would be a great discourtesy to them if you were to refuse me.”

The word
discourtesy
seems to have stopped them in their tracks. They’re frowning and exchanging confused glances.

“A singing telegram?” says the man in steel glasses suspiciously.

“Like a Gorilla Gram?” I offer. “Only singing.”

I’m not sure that’s made things any clearer.

The interpreter murmurs furiously in Mr. Yamasaki’s ear and after a moment looks at me.

“You may present.”

Mr. Yamasaki turns and all his colleagues follow suit, folding their arms expectantly and lining up in a row. Around the lobby I can see a few interested glances from other groups of businesspeople.

“Where
are
you?” I murmur desperately into the phone.

“Third floor,” comes the man’s voice after a moment. “Half a minute. Don’t lose him.”

“Begin,” the man in steel spectacles says pointedly.

Some people nearby have turned to watch. Oh God. How did I get myself into this? Number one, I can’t sing. Number two, what do I sing to a Japanese businessman I’ve never met before? Number three,
why
did I say singing telegram?

But if I don’t do something soon, twenty people might lose their jobs.

I make a deep bow, to spin out some more time, and all the Japanese bow back.

“
Begin
,” repeats the man in steel spectacles, his eyes glinting ominously.

I take a deep breath. Come on. It doesn’t matter what I do. I only have to last half a minute. Then I can run away and they’ll never see me again.

“Mr. Yamasaki …,” I begin cautiously, to the tune of “Single Ladies.” “Mr. Yamasaki. Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki.”
I shimmy my hips and shoulders at him, just like Beyonce.
¹¹
“Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki.”

Actually, this is quite easy. I don’t need any lyrics—I can just keep singing “Mr. Yamasaki” over and over. After a few moments, some of the Japanese even start singing along and clapping Mr. Yamasaki on the back.

“Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki. Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki.” I lift my finger and waggle it at him with a wink. “Ooh-ooh-ooh … ooh-ooh-ooh …”

This song is ridiculously catchy. All the Japanese are singing now, apart from Mr. Yamasaki, who’s standing there, looking delighted. Some nearby delegates have joined in with the singing, and I can hear one of them saying, “Is this a flash mob thing?”

“Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki … Where
are
you?” I mutter into the phone, still beaming brightly.

“Watching.”

“What?”
My head jerks up and I sweep the lobby.

Suddenly my gaze fixes on a man standing alone, about thirty yards away. He’s wearing a dark suit and has thick black rumpled hair and is holding a phone to his ear. Even from this distance I can see that he’s laughing.

“How long have you been there?” I demand furiously.

“Just arrived. Didn’t want to interrupt. Great job, by the way,” he adds. “I think you won Yamasaki round to the cause, right there.”

“Thanks,” I say sarcastically. “Glad I could help. He’s all yours.” I bow to Mr. Yamasaki with a flourish, then turn on my heel and head swiftly toward the exit, ignoring
the disappointed cries of the Japanese. I’ve got more important stuff to worry about than arrogant strangers and their stupid business deals.

“Wait!” The man’s voice follows me through the receiver. “That phone. It’s my PA’s.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have thrown it away, then,” I retort, pushing the glass doors open. “Finders keepers.”

There are twelve tube stops from Knightsbridge to Magnus’s parents’ house in North London, and as soon as I resurface from the underground I check the phone. It’s flashing with new messages—about ten texts and twenty emails—but there are only five texts for me and none with news about the ring. One’s from the police, and my heart leaps with hope—but it’s only to confirm that I’ve filed a report and asking if I want a visit from a victim support officer.

The rest are all text messages and emails for Violet. As I scroll down them, I notice that
Sam
features in the subject heading of quite a few of the emails. Feeling like Poirot again, I check back on the
numbers called
function and, sure enough, the last number that called this phone was
Sam Mobile
. So that’s him. Violet’s boss. Dark-rumpled-hair guy. And to prove it, her email address is samro xtonp a@whi teglo becon sulting. com.