Ian Hamilton - The disciple of Las Vegas

Ava got out of the shower and gently towelled off her damp body, which was still healing from the altercation in Las Vegas. She put on a clean black Giordano T-shirt and her Adidas track pants, then thought about dinner. The hotel was surrounded by restaurants, none of which she knew anything about. She called the concierge and asked for the best Italian restaurant in the area. He recommended Cibo, which was only a short walk from the hotel, in Russell Gardens.

When she got to the lobby, she saw that it was raining again. The concierge loaned her an umbrella and gave her directions to the restaurant. She crossed Kensington High Street, turned left, and walked north on Russell Road. About four hundred metres along she turned into the mews that was Russell Gardens.

Cibo was small and unassuming, its name simply written on a cloth awning that overhung a double window. When she stepped inside, she was quickly charmed by its intimate ambiance. The overwhelming aroma of garlic and olive oil washed over her and spiked her hunger.

She was led to a table near the back of the restaurant. The walls were covered with artwork, all of it original, the host said, and none of it traditional or stereotypically Italian. It looked to Ava as if the pieces had been chosen for their depth and wild colour. They were jarring and, it turned out, a suitable prelude to the meal.

She ordered fricco, wild mushrooms sauteed with potato and melted Asiago cheese, and a small plate of swordfish, tuna, and octopus marinated in thyme and olive oil. The waiter recommended Petrussa Pinot Bianco to accompany her food. She finished the first glass with the mushrooms and ordered a second with the fish. The food and wine were so good she thought a small plate of linguine aglio olio with one last glass of wine would be the perfect way to end her meal. But when she had finished the pasta, she noticed the man at the table next to hers eating some fish that looked succulent and smelled divine. He told her that it was monkfish baked with saffron. Ava ordered that as well, and finished a fourth glass of wine.

It was just past eight o’clock when she left the restaurant. The area was bustling; Ava was reminded that most Europeans ate dinner late, like the Chinese. The thought had barely crossed her mind when she spotted two Chinese men standing a few store windows ahead of her. They were glancing sideways in her direction.

Two couples were walking directly in front of Ava and two men were behind her. She moved closer to the couples and as close to the curb as she could get without stepping onto the street. The Chinese men were pretending to look in the window of an Indian restaurant. One of them was about six feet tall and looked beefy beneath a badly fitting raincoat. He had two earrings in his left ear. The other one was only slightly shorter and his hair was shaved into a mohawk, a style Ava knew was popular with some of the Chinese gangs. He wore a raincoat that hung loosely over jeans and designer running shoes.

As Ava drew near they turned away from the window and looked in her direction. She tipped her umbrella to the left to hide her face and pushed closer to the people in front of her. Just then the door to the Indian restaurant opened and a large group spilled out onto the sidewalk between Ava and the Chinese men. She quickened her pace, got in front of the couples she’d been following, and then slowed slightly so they covered her back.

It wasn’t until she reached Kensington High Street that she turned and looked back up Russell Road. There was no sign of the Chinese men. When she got to the hotel entrance, she stopped just inside the door and waited for five minutes, surveying the street. When she was convinced they weren’t following her, Ava returned the umbrella to the concierge, thanked him for his restaurant recommendation, and went directly to her room.

It was three o’clock in the morning in Hong Kong. She thought about calling Uncle and then dismissed the idea. What was she going to tell him? That she had seen two Chinese men on a street in London?

She flopped onto the bed and turned on the television. She thought about ordering another glass of wine from room service but decided she’d had enough. She made it through only fifteen minutes of Antiques Roadshow before falling asleep.

She dreamt about her father again. This time they were on a Caribbean island, having arrived on a cruise ship that had docked for the day. They disembarked and then separated to go shopping. When Ava returned to the wharf, there were six ships in the harbour and she couldn’t remember which one was hers. She raced from one to the next, begging the staff to let her board. No one would. Ava was left standing on the pier searching for her father, trying to find his face among the crowds gathered at the railings as the ships slowly pulled away.

She woke with a start, the sense of panic still clutching at her chest. Her cellphone was ringing. She looked at the bedside clock and saw that it was just past nine o’clock.

“Ava Lee,” she said.

“This is Roger Simmons.”

Ava sat upright. “Yes.”

“You do know who I am?”

“Of course.”

“We need to talk.”

“I was expecting your daughter to call me.”

“You have me instead.”

“Did she tell you — ”

“I don’t want to discuss any of this on the phone. I want to meet with you. Tonight, if possible. I don’t see any reason for putting it off.”

“I don’t either.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Fletcher Hotel,” Ava said without thinking.

“I live close to there, on Praed Street. Ten minutes away, no more than that. There’s a bar downstairs in your hotel called Alfie’s. Meet me there in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, I can do that. Will Lily be with you?”

“No, but a man named Hawkins will. He is my executive assistant.”

“Do I need to bring anything with me?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. My daughter described to me the material you have.”

“How will I recognize you?”

“I have red hair.”

“And I — ”

“My daughter described you. No need to add anything further.”

“Fifteen minutes, then.”

“Yes,” he said, and hung up the phone.

I should have insisted that Lily be there, Ava thought too late, her head still partially lost in sleep.

She sat on the side of the bed, gathering herself together. She was dressed in her most casual clothes, and that wouldn’t do for a meeting with a cabinet minister. She went into the bathroom, drank two glasses of water, and took some Tylenol. The clothes she’d worn that day were hanging on a hook on the back of the door. They didn’t look too wrinkled, and all she could smell was a lingering trace of her Annick Goutal perfume. She dressed quickly, put on a touch of mascara and lipstick, fixed her hair with the ivory chignon pin, and left the room.

Ava stood at the entrance of Alfie’s scanning the bar for a head of red hair. When she couldn’t find one, she asked for a table for three and was led to a secluded booth at the rear of the bar. She ordered a soda water with lime, sipping it while keeping her eyes locked on the front door. They arrived five minutes later. The man Ava assumed was Hawkins spotted her first and tapped Simmons on the arm; they walked towards her.

Lily Simmons was definitely her father’s daughter, at least physically. The minister’s hair was also red, almost ginger. He wore it parted down the middle and swept back on either side, the curls held in place by gel. He had a large face and his eye sockets receded like hers. His sharp cheekbones were accentuated by a long, pointed nose and a massive square jaw. He was a big man, easily six foot two, and he wasn’t carrying any excess weight. The belt around his waist was tightly cinched and his broad shoulders strained his grey suit jacket. He sauntered like an athlete, a man who had spent his youth playing rugby instead of tennis.