Stella Rimington - Dead Line

‘Is she going to this entertainment I’ve been hearing about?’

‘She didn’t say anything about it. So probably not.’

‘Okay,’ said Liz. She could talk with Hannah tomorrow. Just now all she wanted was to eat supper and look at the newspapers Peggy had bought in the town. She sank into the soft sofa in the living room and had just picked up the Guardian when the doorbell rang.

‘It’s probably Dave,’ said Peggy, as Liz started down the stairs. ‘I think he left his key in the hall.’

But when Liz opened the door she found Dougal, not Dave, standing outside.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, looking troubled.

‘Come in, Dougal. It’s no problem.’

They went upstairs, but Dougal refused to sit down, standing uneasily on the carpet in front of the fireplace. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Carlyle,’ he said again and Liz realised it was not the interruption of her evening he was apologising for, but something else he couldn’t yet bring himself to say.

‘What’s the matter?’ she said bluntly.

‘I just forgot,’ he said, looking anguished. ‘I don’t know how it slipped my mind.’

‘Dougal,’ Liz said sharply, ‘what is it?’

He looked at her in surprise; Liz realised he had been so consumed by guilt that he had assumed she must know its cause. ‘The man Kollek, of course. I saw him, that evening after I’d shown them around. He was by the equestrian centre. With Jana.’ He put his hand to his forehead. ‘How could I have forgotten?’

‘Steady on,’ said Liz. ‘Now sit down, Dougal, and tell me everything you saw.’ Behind him, she could see Peggy tactfully busying herself with supper. ‘Who’s Jana?’

‘She’s a waitress in one of the hotel restaurants. She’s Czech,’ he said, with a sudden softness to his voice that made Liz think that he must admire her from afar.

‘What did you see exactly? What were they doing?’

‘They weren’t doing anything – that’s not the point. I could tell from the way they were talking to each other that they knew each other.’

‘Are you sure about that? You couldn’t be…’

‘Imagining it? No way. I know Jana. There was something between them. I’m sure.’

Liz realised there was no point in grilling young Dougal. He’d made up his mind, formed some impression that couldn’t be verified, but which was quite likely correct -he seemed very certain. After a moment’s thought she asked, ‘Where is Jana now?’

‘At this minute, you mean? She’s in the trattoria,’ Dougal said. ‘She’ll be serving dinner there at least until eleven.’

Liz looked at her watch; it was eight fifteen. She wondered whether to wait until the dinner service was over, or get the girl pulled off her shift straight away so she could talk to her. There was a risk in waiting.

‘Dougal,’ she said, ‘is Mr Ryerson around?’

‘Yes. He’ll be in his office. He’s always there in the evening, in case there’s a problem.’

‘Tell me,’ she asked. ‘Is he in charge of the whole hotel? I mean, I know the restaurant will have a maître d’, but is Mr Ryerson in charge of him? If something goes wrong is it Mr Ryerson who gets called in?’

‘Oh yes. Once a guest came in drunk and Tony refused to let us serve him. When the guest cut up, Tony had to call in Mr Ryerson. He’s in charge of everything when there’s a real problem. It could be the golf course or the falconry centre – doesn’t matter. Mr Ryerson’s the one who decides. He likes to say “the buck stops here”.’

‘All right, Dougal. I’m going to go and find him now. And thank you very much for remembering this. It could be important.’

Dougal left, looking happier than he had when he arrived.

She looked at Peggy, who pre-empted her before she could say anything. ‘I’ll cook you some more pasta when you get back.’

Unless you were really ill – you couldn’t be sick over a customer – you never left your shift. Even in the rough informality of the Moravian tavern, her mother had taught

Jana a professionalism she had always stuck to. If you show up for work, you work.

So she had resisted at first when Tony, the maître d’, had asked her to leave her tables and go to Mr Ryerson’s office right away. He’d been insistent, and he cut her off when she’d started to object. ‘I’ll wait on your tables myself. Now go.’

She felt nervous as she approached the office, and part of her wanted to walk right past the door and head off… where? Back to Moravia, to a mother who would say I told you so for the next three, or even thirty-three years? No, she couldn’t do that, but she sensed trouble lay ahead behind the closed door.

When she knocked, Ryerson called out ‘Enter’ in a grim voice that didn’t bode well. She opened the door hesitantly, and felt more nervous still when she saw that Ryerson had someone with him. A woman, probably ten years or so older than her, but trim, attractive – and watching her closely with cool, green eyes.

‘Sit down please, Jana,’ said Ryerson, and she did, facing the two of them. ‘This is Miss Falconer. She’d like to ask you a few questions.’

Jana steeled herself. I have done nothing wrong, she thought to herself, hoping this simple mantra would help – and that it was true. Oh Sammy, she voiced silently to herself, not even sure if that was his real name, why aren’t you here? He had been so confident and knowing. Please God, let this not be about him, prayed Jana.

But it was. Jana knew as soon as the woman named Falconer began to speak. ‘We’re looking for a man,’ she said quickly. ‘We believe he stayed here at the hotel, and we have reason to believe you may have been in contact with him.’

‘Contact?’ asked Jana. She thought it best to play dumb for now, pretend she didn’t know why they had called her in, didn’t understand what this woman was getting at. ‘I am a waitress, so I see many people, miss. Is that contact?’

‘Of course,’ said Miss Falconer, with an easy smile Jana found disconcerting. ‘But we’re talking about close contact. I’m sure you know what that means.’

Jana decided to say nothing. Miss Falconer put a photograph down on the desk and pushed it towards her. ‘Have a look, please. Have you ever seen this man?’

Jana took her time, but she could see from a glance that the photo was of Sammy. She felt panic moving like an army of ants along her limbs. She was surprised to be pinned down so quickly and accurately. She said faintly, unable to put force in her voice, ‘I think I’ve seen his face. Was he a guest here?’

Miss Falconer ignored her reply and said flatly, ‘You waited on him two nights in a row when he first came here. He was alone, so it would be odd if you didn’t remember him, Jana.’

The use of her Christian name jolted her. She felt increasingly exposed. Sammy had said he would be nearby, but no one was to know – ‘hush-hush’ he had insisted. Now she tried to shrug.

‘The thing is,’ said the English woman, ‘we know you know this man. You were seen with him. And not in the restaurant.’

‘What do you mean?’ She wanted to sound indignant.

‘What was his room number?’ Miss Falconer asked sharply.

‘Four…’ and Jana kicked herself. She felt trapped. ‘It was only conversation. He had lived in Slovakia,’ she said, making up the first thing that came to mind. ‘He spoke Czech. So we talked, that is all.’

Miss Falconer smiled, but it was a knowing rather than a friendly smile. Yet her voice softened. ‘Jana, I know there are rules, and of course they have to be followed. Breaking them once isn’t the end of the world. But not telling me the truth now would be very serious indeed.’