Fractured(72)

‘Your key?’ the man continued, as though coaxing the answer out of a child in class.

‘Um, oh, of course, my key,’ I replied, and opened my bag to pretend to look for a key I didn’t have.

The guard’s smile widened a little as he reached across the desk and handed me a front door key, attached to which was a large silver fob. His voice was kindly as he continued, ‘You always ask us to keep your key to Mr Randall’s apartment for you at reception, Miss Wiltshire,’ he explained, in a gentle paternal tone. ‘You say it saves you having to carry it around with you all the time.’

I reached out to take the proffered key, noting thankfully there was a number engraved in the silver-plated fob.

The guard hesitated as though unsure as to whether his next comment was entirely appropriate. ‘We all hope you’re feeling better now, Miss Wiltshire. We’ve missed seeing you around here recently.’

‘Umm, thank you. That’s very kind of you.’

My fingers fastened around the key and I smiled at both men, realising for the first time that the younger of the two appeared somewhat agitated. His eyes kept darting from me to the key and then back towards his older colleague. Something was bothering him about letting me have the key but I didn’t intend to hang around long enough for him to voice his concern.

I turned and began to head back towards the lifts once more, hearing as I did some hurriedly whispered comment and responding exclamation from the men at the desk.

I pressed the call button on the lift.

More urgent whispering; they were clearly in a quandary about something. An instruction was given, followed swiftly by the sound of a telephone keypad being sharply punched. Another exclamation and a quickly heated muttering between the two.

Where was the damn lift? I heard them try the phone again at the precise moment that the carriage pinged to announce its arrival. I just caught the words ‘still engaged’ as the doors slid open and I entered the lift.

‘Miss Wiltshire,’ hailed the older man, getting up from his seat and beginning to leave his desk. But he wasn’t fast enough and the doors glided to a close before he was even halfway across the foyer.

Matt’s flat turned out to be on the top floor, and I could only hope that his phone line had remained engaged throughout the time it took me to reach his doorway. I think I knew by then what had been worrying the security men in reception and why they had not wanted me to reach his flat without alerting him first.

Luck was clearly with me, for when I reached the front door there was no sign that my visit had been announced. From within the apartment I could hear the vague strains of music, but no voices at all in conversation.

I drew in a deep breath to steady my nerves, momentarily deafened by the loud beating of my heart, and slid the key into the lock. The door opened onto a vast, wooden-floored loft-style apartment, elegantly decorated in black and white leather. The source of the music lay to my left; the slow seductive strains of jazz emitting from an expensive hi-fi system.

On a large, low, rectangular glass table stood an open bottle of wine, beside which were two half-empty glasses. To one side of the huge leather settee was the telephone, lying off the hook beside its base. Good luck with making that warning call, guys, I thought wryly, surprised at the bitter taste suddenly in my throat. The room was empty of all occupants.

For several moments I stood rooted to the spot, then from far away at the rear of the apartment I heard a voice, followed by what sounded like a soft peel of laughter. I didn’t move. I knew the answer to the question now. Knew it from the evidence before me in the room. Had known it, if I were being completely honest, even before I left the café and hailed the cab. Did I really need to pursue it further to its inevitable and ugly conclusion?

My feet began to take me in the direction of the voices. Apparently I did.

The door was open, well, why wouldn’t it be? They thought they had the place to themselves. I entered the room silently, seeing more than I wanted to of their entwined bodies, before some latent sense alerted them both to my presence. Their reactions were completely different: Matt jerked back as though electrocuted, immediately disengaging his hold on the woman in his arms. Cathy, on the other hand, moved with precise deliberation, her eyes unreadable as she slowly reached down to pull up a sheet to cover her naked breasts.

We remained motionless in that way for what could only have been a second or two, but it felt like an eternity, frozen in a hideously tawdry tableau.

I had thought I would say something but all speech was momentarily stolen from me. It was, surprisingly, Cathy who was first to break the silence.

‘Well, this is all horribly familiar.’