Siren (16 page)

With the last of his mental clarity he tried again: ‘My mum will be getting so worried…’

Bijou cut his words off with a moist kiss that tasted of strawberries. She always tasted so good.

‘You don’t tell her anything, darling. Come away with me!’ she murmured. ‘Live! Love! In Paris we will drink champagne and have adventures and make love all day…’

She slid her silky hand into his pants and touched him, running those long, delicately painted fingernails through his pubic hair, then teasingly caressing his hardness one centimetre at a time. His mind turned to mush.

‘Oh, my lover,’ she whispered in his ear as she stroked him. ‘We will flee this place and live happily in Paris. You mustn’t contact anyone. Stay with me. Will you stay with me?’

He nodded, and licked his lips.

‘Stay with me…only me…’ she sighed, her lips gobbling up little portions of his naked skin, trailing lower, lower…

She unbuckled his belt. ‘
Je t’aime
,’ she whispered again, tugging at his pants and sending him into ecstasy.

The diaries. I have him.

It was already late and Makedde Vanderwall did not expect to sleep. She pulled into the garage of Loulou’s building, excited about what she’d soon be reading. In the passenger seat beside her was a satchel full of photocopies of Adam Hart’s every intimate diary entry for over a year. It weighed a tonne. Marian had insisted that she photocopy all 356 pages and leave the originals at the office in case they became of police interest. Mak was fairly certain that the past two hours spent photocopying on that clunky old machine were among the most tedious of her life. But now, finally, she had a night of reading ahead—reading Adam’s mind. She had been sleeping badly as it was, but tonight she fully intended keeping herself up with coffee. It was a pity, though, that some of the most recent pages appeared to be missing. She’d noticed at least three ripped paper edges, torn close to the binding, in the latest diary. Either Adam had felt confident to leave all but his final entries behind, or someone else had found the diaries and ripped the pages out.

Mak hauled herself and the satchel up the stairs.

Bugger.

A dozen long-stemmed roses were waiting just inside the front door.

She sighed and plonked the heavy satchel on the steps while she put the key in the lock and let herself in. With a sense of sadness, she saw the writing on the little card attached to the flowers. It was addressed to her, as she had feared. And she recognised the writing, too.
Building security is not so great here
, she thought. Someone must have let him past the front door. Her ex could be pretty good at talking his way into places when he wanted to.

Juggling the flower bouquet and heavy bag, she teetered down the hall and unlocked the door to Loulou’s apartment.

At the sound of the door a pleasant voice rang out. ‘Hello.’ Bogey emerged wet-haired from the bathroom in a T-shirt and tight black jeans. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have,’ he joked, seeing the bouquet.

Mak smirked.

‘Here, I’ll help you with your flowers.’ He searched around in the cupboards and found a water jug. He cut the roses down to fit, and when he was done they looked beautiful, each silken petal a wonderful luscious red. Their fragrance was intoxicating. It was a shame, because Mak was not sure she wanted them, considering who they would be from. She pocketed the card, not wanting to look at it.

‘I didn’t wake you, I hope?’ she said. It was after eleven.

‘No. I don’t sleep much, and rarely before midnight.’

‘You don’t seem to,’ she agreed and laid the photocopies of Adam’s diary on the kitchen benchtop. She began preparations to brew a large pot of coffee.

‘I’ll do that,’ Bogey offered.

‘No, it’s okay. You’re too kind.’ She realised she felt tense in his presence. Andy’s flowers had put her on edge. She’d always found Bogey attractive, though she’d never acted on it, and now she felt guilty enjoying his company. It was silly.

‘I’m glad you’re here. We haven’t really had a proper chance to catch up,’ she told him. ‘Things were pretty crazy when I saw you last.’ She had been living with Andy in Sydney, party-crashing the Cavanagh heir’s big thirtieth, and recovering from her motorcycle crash. ‘How are things with the shop?’

‘Going well. I think I’ll have a few pieces in a couple of galleries here later this year.’

‘That’s great news.’

‘And how are you? I heard that things in Canberra—’

‘Didn’t work out. Yeah. Andy and I split. It’s for the best.’ She found her eyes drifting to his flowers on the coffee table. She felt the urge to throw them out. ‘I’m sorry we lost touch when I moved.’

‘I understood. It’s okay. I just hope you’re okay. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know. You might want an extra set of eyes looking out for properties, or—’

‘Thanks. You don’t have to do that.’ Mak felt flat. It was as if Andy’s note was burning a hole in her pocket. ‘I insist on taking the couch tonight,’ she went on. The coffee was ready and she poured herself a cup. ‘I’ll be up for a few hours reading as much of this diary as I can.’

‘That bedroom is yours. I belong on the couch. I insist.’

Mak sighed.

‘Really. I insist,’ he reiterated. He looked at her over his vintage-style black-rimmed glasses, and she knew she could
not convince him otherwise. It didn’t seem right that she would be on the comfortable bed, working, when Bogey was stuck sleeping on a saggy pink couch.

‘It’s probably against regulations, or something, but I could help with the reading, if that would make it easier for you,’ he went on. ‘I have a pretty light couple of days coming up.’

Mak paused. It was tempting. She ran a hand across her forehead. ‘There must be something wrong with you,’ she finally said. ‘You are too…’
Perfect.
‘…nice.’ She took a large swig of hot coffee and felt her blood warm. ‘I’ll let you off this time, though.’ She smiled.

Hours later, Makedde’s last cup of coffee was cold and her eyes hurt. She sat perched on Loulou’s bed, riveted to Adam’s diary.

Absent-mindedly, she raised the cold, half-full cup to her lips, sipped at it with disgust, and set it on the floor. It was nearly two. She’d lost track of time.

Adam Hart, she’d discovered, was a young man who lived in his mind. As she’d suspected, he had written his every intimate thought in his diaries. Unlike his impossibly neat room, his journal was a swirl of ideas, disconnected thoughts and observations, things he’d read online or in textbooks, things he’d overheard at uni, things he had dreamed and imagined. For a beautiful-looking young man, who was obviously smart, he was surprisingly antisocial. He seemed to have few close friends, and kept mostly to himself. But he had a life rich with adventure in his mind, and his diary entries were filled with references to everyone from Jack Kerouac to Harry Houdini.

His mother—and Patrice—had been right about him being a teetotaller. He made mention of it in his diaries. He
didn’t smoke or do drugs either, and he felt alienated amongst those who did, particularly Patrice, his former girlfriend, whom he mentioned in several entries. From his diary it was clear that he could see the end long before Patrice broke it off with him, and he had tried to stop the inevitable. He complained that she accused him of being ‘uncool’ and a wimp.

Naturally, Mak had focused much of her attention on the most recent pages—the ones leading up to the missing pages. And she had hit the jackpot.

I took Mum’s pearls today and Grandad’s gold watch. I feel ashamed, but at least Grandad won’t miss it. Maybe he would even be happy for me? I’ll need it for money, perhaps, though I hope not to have to part with it. Still, I need to be prepared. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I don’t know what I’ll do for work. I don’t know if I’ll ever come home.

Adam was a runaway, as she had sensed. And he had stolen from his mother to fund his adventure. She would be mighty displeased. Or maybe she’d already known? If Mrs Hart wanted Mak to be able to do her job, she was going to have to start opening up about who her son really was.

It was too late to phone anyone, so Mak sent a text to one man she knew could help.

HI PETE. I NEED A LOOK AT SECOND HAND DEALERS BOOK. STOLEN PEARLS AND GOLD WATCH. ANY HELP? M

To Mak’s surprise, she got a reply only a minute later.

Oh shit, I woke him.

LUNCH AT 12? USUAL SPOT?

Oh no, not the usual spot
, was her first thought. Pete had no palate.

YES. MY SHOUT. THANKS, she replied.

If it was Adam who had ripped out his final diary entries, why had he not ripped out this admission of theft, Mak wondered.

Unless he had not been the one to rip the pages out at all.

It was five minutes past three in the morning when Luther Hand slipped into the quiet lobby of the sprawling Top Hotel Praha.

He scanned the vast reception desk and over-lit lobby area from under a grey ponytailed wig and the brim of a black fedora. His round glasses, with clear, non-prescription lenses, served only to alter his appearance. A tired-looking brunette receptionist worked the desk in an unattractive burgundy uniform. She was talking on the phone in the hushed tones of what sounded like a private call, and took no notice of him as he traversed the lobby. Through a small forest of potted plants, he noted a businessman sitting across from a woman who looked too finely dressed to be with him, both perched clumsily on curved leather seats, leaning in to one another. They appeared to have emerged from the hotel’s casino, and were now debating whether the evening’s festivities should conclude in a hotel room upstairs. Luther was all but unseen, and certainly unnoticed, as he made his way across the shiny, tile-patterned floor to the bank of elevators.

When the first elevator door opened, he noted that he was not alone. An older man stepped back against the elevator wall to let Luther enter. Hopefully, this would not pose any problems later. Luther could wait for another elevator, but knew he could just as easily encounter someone else. He had already been seen.

The doors slid shut as Luther pressed the eleventh-floor button, the trapped air smelling lightly of spirits, sweat and deodoriser. A circle of red already glowed around the number eight on the panel of buttons. The carriage began to ascend with the muffled sound of shifting gears and cables. His companion stared straight ahead like a wax figure, gripping his briefcase as if it held his life. Perhaps it did; nothing would ever surprise Luther.

People avoided looking at Luther Hand, and this man was no exception. Luther had cut an imposing figure since he was as a young boy, and he had become used to this effect. He was unusually tall—a full 30 centimetres taller than this stranger—and broadly built. It was also clear there was something amiss about his face. The surgery he had endured at a clinic in Kuala Lumpur some years before to try to correct his facial irregularities had not been altogether successful. His face was stretched, and his acne scars still visible. Even if one did not take in the detail, his disturbing presence was felt, the misshapen proportions of his face sensed in the peripheral vision. A type of human survival instinct made people avoid catching his eye. Professionally speaking, that was beneficial to all involved.

Recently though, Luther had privately begun to wonder if he was a man at all. Perhaps he was some kind of ghost.

When the doors opened for the eighth floor, the other passenger slipped out like water. Luther caught a glimpse of him slowing near his door and fumbling for his key, then the
doors closed and pulled the stranger from view. The elevator opened again on the eleventh floor, but Luther did not exit there. He travelled to the sixteenth floor before stepping out of the lift into a warmly lit corridor extending to his left almost to vanishing point.

Room 1602.

The hallway was empty, the guests tucked into their rented beds, sleeping soundly on bleached sheets that had enveloped a hundred other strangers. Luther turned right and walked several paces, nearing the east wing. Arrived at his destination, he listened briefly at the door. Room 1602 was quiet within. He pulled on his leather gloves, and checked his supplies with a speedy precision that barely required movement.

The keycard he had been provided with slid into the lock with ease, the mechanism opening with a faint whir. Within seconds Luther was inside the dark room, with the door shut behind him. The air was stifling. He knew the layout, and in the inky blackness moved straight to the king-sized bed near the window, where his two marks slept. They would barely have had time to register the noise of the door, let alone comprehend the light shining in their faces. Luther held his pocket torch in one hand and a Czech-made CZ-83 with its reshaped trigger guard and a long cylindrical silencer in the other. The man’s tired eyes opened to a squint, confused. Luther quickly confirmed the identity of the man as his primary mark, pressed the end of the silencer to his forehead and pulled the trigger.

Boff.

The sound of the shot was muffled, flat, final.

There was a small noise from the woman in the bed, like that of a yawning bird, as she flinched and began to come awake. ‘Hmmm?’

Boff.

Her hands clenched slightly, then released. Her head lolled to one side. She became still. A shot to the brain was a quick way to extinguish life.

Luther briefly pondered whether the man had seen the end coming, and whether or not he had let on to his wife that something was amiss—his wife, who now lay lifeless on the hotel bed like an angel in a growing halo of blood. He gently closed her eyelids. She was attractive, pale and feminine. The blood contrasted blackly against the white of her nightdress. She looked peaceful, Luther thought.

Someone in her husband’s agency had clearly wanted to simplify the employee structure. He had outstayed his welcome and his usefulness.

When will I outstay mine?

Lately his mind had become infected with such thoughts. They were fleeting, but unhelpful. He did not have the time or need to ponder such things. It was not his job to ask why names ended up on his list, what their stories were, whether what he was doing was morally right or reprehensible, or why both the man and his wife were on his list. And so he quickly pocketed the couple’s wallets and passports, turned up the heat on the thermostat, then gave the room one last thorough check, stopping only a moment to admire the quiet violence he had effected.

He left the man’s eyes open. Small specks of blood across his cheek picked up the colour of the blood vessels. They were already glassy and dull.

Luther flicked off his torch, and listened at the door with one ear that had been unwillingly trimmed at the top by the blade of a scalpel. It was quiet in the hallway, and confirming
as much through the peephole, he slipped back into the corridor.

Barely five minutes had elapsed.

He left the
Do Not Disturb
sign on the door and exited the hotel the way he had come. The receptionist had not finished her conversation. The couple on the couch had not finished their negotiations.

In the enormous Top Hotel Praha, the occupants of room 1602 would not be discovered for at least ten hours. The warm room would aid in their decomposition, and make the time of death harder to pinpoint. Despite the fictions peddled by forensic television shows, science could not yet fix the time of death more accurately than within the range of a few hours. When the slaughtered couple was found, there would perhaps be speculation that they’d been robbed, but any experienced investigator would see that they had been executed. Burglars did not shoot point-blank to the forehead while their victims slept. Burglars needed to be disturbed in order to kill.

Luther’s client had wanted to make a statement.

That’s the way it was. Some wanted death to appear accidental. Some wanted ostentatious acts of violence.

Whatever they wanted, Mr Hand could deliver. He slipped back into the Prague night, invisible, not really a man, a ghost.

When he returned to his accommodation, a blank message was waiting from Madame Q. He replied with the agreed single word: COMPLETE.

It was time to head back to Mumbai. He had a couple of days off. Maybe he could find someone to spend his time off with? Perhaps Ms Rosalay had a new girl who would not merely shake with fear in his presence.