Someone from the hotel had brought her black coffee and brandy and she had drunk the latter, allowed the coffee to get bitter and cold.
The trolley and its contents were where she had left them, towards the centre of the room.
Frank Carlucci had arrived back from the pool a little after Resnick, unaware that anything was wrong. Immediately, Cathy had rounded on him, shouting, where in God's name had he been, why the fuck was he never there when she needed him? Once, hard, she had pounded her fist against the meat of his shoulder and Frank had lowered his head, eyes closed, bracing himself for her to strike him again.
"Can't someone, for Christ's sake, get me some fresh coffee up here?" she had said, turning away, letting her hands fall by her sides.
Since then she had been quiet, almost controlled, patient while Resnick made calls, issued orders, people came and silently went.
Conversations were held in hushed tones beyond the door.
Handling the edges carefully with gloves, Resnick held the note towards Cathy Jordan's face. It had been typed on an ill-fitting ribbon, black shadowing into red: How do you like this? The only misbegotten child you're likely to have.
Cathy read it slowly, again and again, tears filling her eyes until she could no longer see. Blindly, she moved towards the bathroom, banging her shin against the low table laden with magazines. When Frank went to help her, she pushed him angrily away.
The two men looked at one another, Resnick replacing the note inside its envelope.
"What kind of a sick bastard does something like this?" Frank asked.
"I don't know," Resnick said. All the while thinking, this weekend the city is full of them, writers, film makers, people for whom thinking up things like this is meat and drink.
"Frank," Cathy said, coming back, tiredness replacing the shock in her eyes, 'would you be a sweetheart, see what's happened to that coffee? "
Sure. "
As Frank picked up the phone, Mollie Hansen appeared in the doorway and Resnick motioned for her to stay where she was, walking over and leading her into the corridor outside.
"I only just heard," Mollie said. Her face, usually unblemished and even, was beginning to show signs of strain.
"I'm not sure I know everything that happened."
Concisely, Resnick told her all she needed to know.
"How's she taking it?" Mollie asked.
"She's angry, upset, pretty much what you'd expect."
"And those threatening letters she had do you think this is the same person?"
"It's possible. As yet there's no way of knowing. At first sight, the note doesn't seem to have been written on the same machine. But that might not mean a thing."
"And you don't imagine…"
What? "
"Well, that business with the paint. This couldn't be another stunt to get publicity for their cause?"
"Vivienne Plant and her friends? I don't know. I'd have thought she'd have had a photographer on hand, at least. But we'll talk to her, all the same."
"Good." They were standing near the lift doors, opposite a lithograph of trees and a beach, shaded pink.
"Can I talk to her? Cathy?" Mollie asked.
"From my point of view, no reason why you shouldn't. But you might leave it a while longer. Give her some time to settle down."
Mollie sighed, looked at her watch.
"I suppose so. It's just she's got this interview this evening with Sarah Dunant. If she isn't going to be able to go ahead with it, I ought to let Sarah know."
"Why don't you give her half an hour?" Resnick said.
"I can let her know you're around. If she says she wants to talk to you now, I'll let you know."
"Fine," Mollie smiled tiredly.
"Thanks."
Behind her, the lift shushed to a halt and Lynn Kellogg stepped out, Kevin Naylor immediately behind her. "Thought you could use a little help," Lyim said. Resnick nodded his thanks and set them both to work.
Susan Tyrell stood in the centre of the kitchen, door open to the garden, whisking meringue and wondering how long it had been since she and David had made love. Probably it had been Christmas, that squeaky bed in her parents' spare room, several bottles of cheap champagne and some good port enough to stir a little life into David's libido. Even then, he had called out the name of some movie star at the point of climax. His and not hers. Hers had been an altogether quieter, more private affair, later.
Since then it had been a cuddle last thing at night, those long moments before falling into sleep, David's last waking act to turn away from her arms.
"Why do you stay with him?" her friend, Beatrice, had asked.
Susan had sat there like a contestant on Mastermind, stumped for the right answer.
"This damned festival," Tyrell said, coming into the kitchen, cell phone in his hand, 'is getting more like a Quentin Tarantino screenplay every day. "
Terrific, Susan thought, blood and gore and bad seventies pop songs, continuing to stir the meringue as he relayed the events at the hotel.
"You are coming to the show this afternoon?" Tyrell asked.
"Oh, yes, I expect so."
"You should. Aside from one screening at the Electric in 1982, Dark Corridor hasn't been shown in this country since the fifties. And Curtis himself hasn't set eyes on a print of Cry Murder since he was still in the States."
"Really?" Susan said with barely feigned interest. The meringue was just stiff enough now to cover the pie. She could have got into an argument about rarity not always equalling quality if the damn films were any good, why hadn't some enterprising programmer shown them? – but she lacked the energy.
Umpteen eleven- to eighteen-year- olds, nine till four, Monday to Friday, she knew well enough to reserve her strength for what really mattered.
Back at the hotel, Lynn Kellogg and Kevin Naylor were questioning as many of the staff and guests as they could find. Resnick had phoned Skelton and arranged to meet him back at the station to make his report; he had promised to talk with Cathy again later. Frank sat in the chair before a silent television, watching a ball game that, for all its apparent similarities to baseball, he just didn't understand.
Cathy Jordan lay on the bed, fully dressed, staring up at the ceiling with blank, blue eyes.
Thirty-four "I guess when I married Frank, that was more or less my last chance.
Kids, I mean. Oh, we talked about it, back and forth, you know. Frank he would have been keen, keener than me, if you want to know the truth, but, well, the time never did seem right. This book to be finished, that book; another damn tour. In the end, I suppose the idea just ran out of steam. "
Cathy Jordan had wanted to get away, clear her head, and Resnick had brought her to Wollaton Park, green slopes and a golf course, ornamental gardens round an old ancestral pile and down below where deer were grazing, the lake they were walking around.
"You have kids?" Cathy asked.
Resnick shook his head.
"But you're married, right?"
"I was. Not any more."
"I'm sorry." She laughed.
"I say that, sorry, automatically, you know, without thinking. Truth is, half the friends I've got are divorced and most of the others wish they were, so…"
They emerged between brightly coloured rhododendron bushes at the far end of the lake, a middle-aged couple walking amongst other couples who were exercising their dogs, simply enjoying the sunshine. Here and there, men sat transfixed beside fishing rods, immovable as stone.
"Mostly, now, I never think about it. Kids, I mean. Then something happens like today well, never like today, 192 not, thank God, exactly like that and somehow it starts up again…" Her voice trailed away and it was a good few moments before either of them spoke. A pair of Canada geese skidded noisily on to the water, scattering blue.
"I guess it gets easier, right? I mean, the point finally has to come, you accept it: I am not going to be a parent."