the spare room: the third drawer down, in a manila folder marked P ROPERTY S ALE . Go round there and take a look.” He stared at Sergeant McMahon, trying to appeal to the man’s sense of fair play.
“Okay. Okay, I’ll have a little word with Nathan Corbeau. I’m sure he’ll let me see the necessary paperwork, and all this will be cleared up. In the meantime, I suggest you and your family check into the Collingwood Hotel. It’s a nice place, reasonable rates, and right here in town. So you don’t have to go back out there to Oval Lane. Do we understand each other?”
Robert looked down at his hands. They were clenched tightly into fists, the knuckles white. He looked back up again, at McMahon, and nodded once. “Yes, we understand each other,” he said, in a hoarse whisper.
He felt empty. Not even his fear remained.
1:00 P.M.
They found the Collingwood Hotel with ease. It was situated a few hundred yards along from the police station, and had a huge vacancy sign hanging above the door.
“Looks cosy,” said Sarah, not even glancing at the place. It was the first thing she had said since they left the station, and Robert decided to go with the flow and see where it went.
“Yes,” he said, pulling on the handbrake. “I’m sure it’ll be fine until all this crap gets cleared up.”
“Why are we staying here, Dad? Who were those awful people?” Molly’s voice was strained; she was on the verge of cracking. He could tell. He could always tell.
“Don’t you worry, love, we’ll be fine. All we have to do is prove we bought the house, and then they’ll be out of there. Sergeant McMahon is looking into it now.”
Sarah let out a long, slow breath. When he glanced at her, he saw her eyes were closed. Her lips were pinched shut. Despite the somewhat hardened expression, she was beautiful. He had never stopped thinking so, even as she lay in a north London hospital bed, her face swollen with bruises and those full lips shredded by her attacker’s cheap gold rings.
“We’ll be fine,” he repeated, but this time to Sarah, to his wife.
She did not respond to his assurance.
“Come on, then. Let’s make the best of this, eh? A night or two in a hotel won’t kill us.” These false high spirits were making his head ache. His eyes began to water. He gripped the bridge of his nose between two fingers, squeezed, and then quickly got out of the car. He heard the car doors open and then slam shut behind him, but did not turn around to watch as the others followed him. Instead he kept squeezing his nose as he walked toward the hotel entrance, his vision wavering and his legs refusing to move properly.
Several stone steps led up to an old-fashioned revolving door. Glass doors flanked the central entrance, and Robert chose the left one, but the kids hit the revolving door and giggled as it spun them around and spilled them into the lobby. Sarah used the right-hand door; Robert could not help but take it as a form of silent rebuke.
Behind a high check-in desk there sat an old woman with headphones in her ears. She took off the headphones as Robert approached the desk, smiling distractedly. “Hello there,” she said, turning off the iPod she had pulled from the breast pocket of her white blouse. “Sorry. I was listening to the football.”
“I was wondering,” said Robert, bellying up to the desk. “Could we check in for two or three nights?”
The old woman consulted the large leather-bound book on the desk, looked back up, and nodded. “Room 216 suit you? Second floor. And it’s a family room with a nice view of the town square.” She held out a pen and rotated the guest book so he could sign. The page was empty; no other names adorned the fine-ruled page.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to carry your own bags. Our porter is in hospital having his gallstones removed.”
Behind him, Connor giggled. Molly shushed him.
“That’s fine. We don’t have many bags.” He
“Okay. Okay, I’ll have a little word with Nathan Corbeau. I’m sure he’ll let me see the necessary paperwork, and all this will be cleared up. In the meantime, I suggest you and your family check into the Collingwood Hotel. It’s a nice place, reasonable rates, and right here in town. So you don’t have to go back out there to Oval Lane. Do we understand each other?”
Robert looked down at his hands. They were clenched tightly into fists, the knuckles white. He looked back up again, at McMahon, and nodded once. “Yes, we understand each other,” he said, in a hoarse whisper.
He felt empty. Not even his fear remained.
1:00 P.M.
They found the Collingwood Hotel with ease. It was situated a few hundred yards along from the police station, and had a huge vacancy sign hanging above the door.
“Looks cosy,” said Sarah, not even glancing at the place. It was the first thing she had said since they left the station, and Robert decided to go with the flow and see where it went.
“Yes,” he said, pulling on the handbrake. “I’m sure it’ll be fine until all this crap gets cleared up.”
“Why are we staying here, Dad? Who were those awful people?” Molly’s voice was strained; she was on the verge of cracking. He could tell. He could always tell.
“Don’t you worry, love, we’ll be fine. All we have to do is prove we bought the house, and then they’ll be out of there. Sergeant McMahon is looking into it now.”
Sarah let out a long, slow breath. When he glanced at her, he saw her eyes were closed. Her lips were pinched shut. Despite the somewhat hardened expression, she was beautiful. He had never stopped thinking so, even as she lay in a north London hospital bed, her face swollen with bruises and those full lips shredded by her attacker’s cheap gold rings.
“We’ll be fine,” he repeated, but this time to Sarah, to his wife.
She did not respond to his assurance.
“Come on, then. Let’s make the best of this, eh? A night or two in a hotel won’t kill us.” These false high spirits were making his head ache. His eyes began to water. He gripped the bridge of his nose between two fingers, squeezed, and then quickly got out of the car. He heard the car doors open and then slam shut behind him, but did not turn around to watch as the others followed him. Instead he kept squeezing his nose as he walked toward the hotel entrance, his vision wavering and his legs refusing to move properly.
Several stone steps led up to an old-fashioned revolving door. Glass doors flanked the central entrance, and Robert chose the left one, but the kids hit the revolving door and giggled as it spun them around and spilled them into the lobby. Sarah used the right-hand door; Robert could not help but take it as a form of silent rebuke.
Behind a high check-in desk there sat an old woman with headphones in her ears. She took off the headphones as Robert approached the desk, smiling distractedly. “Hello there,” she said, turning off the iPod she had pulled from the breast pocket of her white blouse. “Sorry. I was listening to the football.”
“I was wondering,” said Robert, bellying up to the desk. “Could we check in for two or three nights?”
The old woman consulted the large leather-bound book on the desk, looked back up, and nodded. “Room 216 suit you? Second floor. And it’s a family room with a nice view of the town square.” She held out a pen and rotated the guest book so he could sign. The page was empty; no other names adorned the fine-ruled page.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to carry your own bags. Our porter is in hospital having his gallstones removed.”
Behind him, Connor giggled. Molly shushed him.
“That’s fine. We don’t have many bags.” He
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