Part of him wanted to tell the police all of this. But part of him still trusted his wife . . . despite everything. After all, she had stuck by him through his own unfortunate actions. The Christmas Party Incident. That stupid bitch Samantha had never been able to handle her drink. What the fuck did she think was going to happen when she got in that lift with him? If it hadn’t been then, it would’ve been back in his room. Or hers. He wasn’t fussy.
It’s not as if it was the first time he’d done it.
He used to laugh when Cat told him about Ginny and Tristan, her sister crying over Tristan’s latest infidelity. Tristan had wanted to be caught, that was clear. Another item for the psychopathy collection. Paul had always been far more discreet. If only bloody Samantha had been the same, instead of freaking out and running to HR as soon as she got into work on the Monday.
God, he was so damn tired.
‘We’re here,’ Cat said, knocking him right out of his daydreams. She seemed to have found some energy since the trucker picked them up, although her face was looking a bit puffy from a recent bout of crying.
She was peering at the sign on the wall.
He grabbed on to the railing next to the steps. He really needed to sit down. A wave of tiredness had hit him hard. A heavy weight was pressing him down towards the ground. He needed to try and stay alert. Needed to make sure he knew exactly what was going on. Cat sat down on the step, and he lowered himself down too. ‘What now?’ His voice was ragged, hoarse. His breathing laboured. He needed medical attention.
Cat stood up and wiped a hand across her face, smearing mud and tears. She walked carefully around him, peered closely at the sign next to the door. ‘There’s a phone number here. For emergencies.’
Paul laughed, but it was that cough again. It hurt his chest.
‘We don’t have phones, remember?’
Cat sighed. Walked away from him, glancing up and down the street. ‘Something must be open.’ She paused. ‘I could go to the hotel.’
Paul shook his head. ‘Not sure that’s a good idea, is it? You said we need to stick to the plan.’
Cat was hesitant. Unsure. ‘Yes, but . . .’ Her eyes travelled over him. His injuries. His pain. Did she care? He wasn’t sure anymore. ‘I could go somewhere else. Get help. We need assistance now, not in three hours . . .’ She walked further away from him, taking in the street filled with closed shops, hotels still sleeping, no public phones in sight. She started to walk slowly along the street.
Paul’s chest tightened, fear gripping him. He pulled himself to his feet. Called out, his voice barely a rasp. ‘Don’t leave me here, Cat. Please.’
We need to stick together, he thought. But he knew he’d already lost her.
Forty-Six
He climbed down the stairs carefully, avoiding the couple at the bottom that he’d smashed up earlier to stop them from going upstairs. He went through to the front room, where the morning sun was streaking through the filthy window.
The place was a mess.
He’d heard the struggle from upstairs, but he hadn’t been able to see what was going on. Then he’d heard the voices, heard their plan.
The floor was covered in blood.
Even if there was anything to clean it up with, was there any point? If they sent up any rescuers they’d be sure to find the mess. Then they’d send Forensics, and it would be game over.
He walked back into the kitchen. There was an old broom in the corner. He opened the cupboard under the sink and it fell off its hinges. He shoved it away. A family of beetles scurried out and disappeared into the gaps in the floorboards.
He took the broom and went into the front room again. He brushed a pile of leaves over the blood. Then he took the broom and tossed it back into the corner in the kitchen. There was no point in what he’d just done, but somehow it made him feel better.
He disliked mess.
He wasn’t happy that the blonde and the man had left the place like this. But they’d panicked. Made stupid choices.
He could relate to that.
But it would all be OK soon enough.
He thought about the blonde again. Wondered if she had made it down the mountain, and what she had planned for her companion now.
Forty-Seven
SUNDAY EVENING
Paul shifted in his seat. He glanced up at the clock. 5 p.m. Jesus. He couldn’t believe they’d been there all day, pacing about, saying next to nothing to the police. Watching those stupid fish swimming round and round. Waiting for these people from the embassy to come and help them out of this mess.
His various aches and pains had dulled, somewhat. Probably due to the strong painkillers that the police had given him from their first-aid kit, and that he’d swallowed without question. After all, Cat had been quite insistent that they had to stay here and not go to the hospital to be checked out. He’d been surprised to find that there were two interview rooms at the back of the station, but he hadn’t been surprised when they’d eventually asked to interview him and Cat separately. They might not have been under arrest, but he could tell that the police had been suspicious the whole time – especially with them refusing to speak until the embassy reps arrived. He knew Pigalle had been watching them. He had a strong feeling that the man didn’t like him, and he didn’t know why.