The cab set off through the midnight darkness, and Mimi ran down towards the Tube station, praying that she would run across a lit taxi before she had to take the dodgy minicab option.
On Haverstock Hill, her luck came in. She leapt into the back of the cab and barked, “Park Lane Hotel,” to the driver, too jaded by his years of ferrying the souls of London to bat an eyelid at her strange attire and wild, unbrushed hair.
The hotel concierge was not so given to turning a blind eye, though, and when she asked him if a man called Stone had been in and if so where was he, he simply stared at her witheringly.
“I cannot give out private information,” he said.
Mimi huffed and tried to get John on his phone but it was switched off. Where’s this psychic link when I need it? How come it only works if he initiates it?
She wandered back outside and stood on the pavement, assessing which windows had lights on. Several were lit, but nothing gave away what might be happening in any of the rooms until a shadow passed across one of the first-floor picture windows. The tense stance of whoever it belonged to seemed to Mimi to be a substantial clue. This was where John had gone. He was meeting somebody about something—but who, and what?
Somehow she needed to get past the concierge and up to the first floor. How was she to do this?
She walked around the corner into a side street, looking for the service entrance or any potential loophole. The heat of the night might lead to a few accessible windows if she was lucky.
She flattened herself to a wall, hearing voices in the darkness, then she discerned a light coming from an open door. Some of the staff were leaving for the night. This could be a chance. In the pocket of her linen jacket was a broken necklace she had been meaning to get mended, an expensive costume piece of green beryl and gold. She hurled it hard towards the side of the open door. It clattered against a window and fell to the ground with a satisfying jingle, distracting the
pair of young men who had just left the building.
“Wossat, Mikey?”
“Come and have a look. A necklace. Where’s that come from then?”
The pair stood scratching their heads and frowning at the jewellery. By the time they were squinting around the yard for the source of the strange token, Mimi was inside the staff corridor, making her way to the service elevators.
Few people were around after midnight. The bar and restaurant staff were on their way out, and the cleaners and maids would not arrive for another six hours. Mimi found the lifts and went up from the lower basement to the first floor, where she had seen that shadow.
Stepping out onto the plush carpeting of the landing, she tried to orient herself. Which room would it be? If the lifts were on the rear left-hand side of the hotel, then she must be close. She estimated that it was either 104 or 105—but she couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
Treading carefully, wishing her heart would stop making that loud bumping noise, she approached each pristine white wood door, putting her ear up against the polished handles. If only they had old-fashioned keyholes instead of these new swipe card arrangements, she lamented. So much better for eavesdropping purposes. Whoever invented the new system wasn’t a journalist, that was for sure.
The whole floor was ominously silent and Mimi began to wonder if she had the right Park Lane hotel when suddenly, something made her stiffen—the sound of a glass, heavy, perhaps a whiskey tumbler, smashing against a wall. Room 105 it was.
She crouched on the floor, trying to get her ear against the minute gap between the bottom of the door and the carpet, and then caught her breath at the sound of John’s voice, filtering weakly through the space.
“Well, that’s how you Russians do things, isn’t it? The vodka glass in the fireplace. Or have I been misinformed?”
“That is not a fireplace.” The man’s accent was heavy, but not incomprehensibly so.
“No. And for a fire you need fuel. Which is what I’m here for, as you know. So?”
“You shouldn’t have come. It’s late, John. We need our sleep. This is bad manners. We thought you British liked good manners.”
There was a silence. Mimi could imagine John’s look of scorn. Manners, indeed.
“I need the ore,” he said quietly. “I have the money. Why wait?”
“Why the hurry?” the Russian countered.
“I don’t want somebody else getting their hands on it. I’ve got the money now, so I want it now. That’s not so hard to understand, is it?”
“It’s easy to understand, John. You want it urgently. You need it. I’m thinking the figure we agreed was too low. You know how the market works, eh, supply, demand? I want another ten thousand.”
“Another ten thousand? Fine, I can make that in an hour on the markets. But give me the ore now.”
“You’re pushy. I’m tired. I don’t want to talk about this right now. Come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is too late.” John’s voice had risen.