‘Rooms 395 and 399, please.’
‘Quite a packet, I bet,’ she went on.
Matt picked up the keys, said goodnight to the porter and guided her towards the lift.
‘My, aren’t we masterful?’ she murmured, glancing shrewdly at his face. ‘Don’t misinterpret my little confession.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
In the lift, Matt pressed the button for the third floor, but as the doors were closing a man dashed towards them and squeezed in. ‘fa, danke, danke,’ he breathed, his face flushed. Beads of sweat rolled across his bald head. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, carefully unfolded it and wiped them away.
Fran grinned at Matt mischievously. The tip of her tongue played across her lips. Her foot tapped the floor. ‘Gute Nacht,’ she said to the sweating man as they went out.
Matt followed her along the quiet corridor of closed doors. When they came to her room he turned the key in the lock, then stood hesitating on the threshold till she caught his hand and drew him gently inside.
As they kissed he thought of Helen. And Jenny. He hated the idea of hurting either of them, yet Fran belonged in the picture too. Somewhere.
She broke away from him and put her hand to his cheek. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ He kissed her again.
She kicked off her shoes and reached behind for her zip, but he took hold of it, easing it the full way down till her dress slipped from her shoulders. She stepped out of it and threw it across a chair. He fumbled with the rest of her clothes but she laughed and told him to get his own things off. Then she lay there on the bed, naked, watching him.
‘That’s better, we’re the same height now,’ she whispered when they were lying side by side, his hand wandering over her hips, her belly, her small breasts, the pale freckles spreading down from her neck.
He raised himself on his elbow and looked down at her, kissing her face, her lips. Her straight, dark brown hair tumbled about her head on the pillow. Gently she guided him and he felt himself being drawn into her; it was like a return home after all those months. They made love quietly, unhurried, as if exploring the experience afresh, then gradually with greater intensity and—
The phone rang shrilly, cutting into the moment.
They looked at each other, shocked. It rang a second time. Fran rolled from beneath him and sat on the edge of the bed.
‘Who can it be?’
Matt looked at her uncertainly. ‘Cy? Changed his mind?’
She took the receiver. ‘Yes?’ Trying her best to sound sleepy; putting on an act. Her expression changed. She looked taken aback. Scared. ‘It’s for you. Jenny.’
The childish voice was hard and clear through the crackles on the line. ‘I hope I haven’t disturbed you in the middle of sex,’ she said unemotionally. ‘I thought I should tell you Mummy is dead. If you’re interested.’
‘Jenny, how…?’
‘The worms are eating her.’
Before he could question her properly she’d rung off. He stared at the phone, unable to believe her; yet something terrible must have happened to make her behave that way. He dialled the number, answering Fran’s urgent questions with half-phrases.
‘We’ll see what Helen says.’ But the line was engaged.
‘She’s left it off the hook more likely,’ Fran observed. She reached for her handbag and began to finger through her address book. ‘Who else can we ring? Frank’s number’s here.’
‘You get dressed while I call him,’ Matt said, taking the booklet from her. Frank was the solicitor who paid Helen to type his case notes; he had three children of his own, including a daughter of Jenny’s age. ‘If he can’t go round himself, at least he might get in touch with the Westport police. It’ll take us hours to drive back there, even at this time of night.’
He let the number go on ringing till Frank’s irritated voice answered. When he heard who was calling, he sounded even more annoyed at being dragged out of bed.
Matt told him quickly about Jenny.
Yes, he would go round there right away and see what was wrong. It was perfectly in order for Matt to ring him — what else were friends for? Now he was not to worry. Everything would be looked after till Matt got back.
Fran was ready by the time he’d finished the call. He pulled on his clothes, went to his own room for his still unpacked bag, and then checked out. He’d been on the point of warning Frank to watch out for the worms when he went to the cottage, but then thought better of it. Jenny was probably inventing the whole thing.
The hotel had its own underground car park which was dimly lit and filled with silent rows of cars. Their footsteps echoed loudly; the few words they spoke were whispered back at them from odd corners. Fran watched him, concerned, as he unlocked the passenger door.
He took her into his arms and kissed her, holding her close. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not your fault.’
‘I don’t believe for one moment that Helen is dead, but Jenny’s obviously going through some sort of crisis. I only hope Frank can manage.’
‘You realize he’ll charge you for it — personal services? Come the end of the month, his account will be in the post. He’s known for it.’
The London traffic at that time of night was sparse but erratic; cars shot away from the lights, swerving across the lane unpredictably, skidding around corners without warning. Matt was relieved when he reached the motorway. He kept up a steady eighty, his headlights eating into the blackness.
‘It can’t be the worms,’ he commented after a very long silence. ‘They could never get out of their tanks, not by themselves.’
‘Let’s wait till we get there,’ she said.
Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder as if to reassure him. But he continued to turn it over in his mind. He could see no reason why anything should have gone wrong. Not with the worms.
In his rear mirror he spotted the headlights of another car and dropped his speed slightly just in case the police were on the prowl. At this time of night they had no one else to pick on.
‘You were saying the worms are back in the sewers,’ Fran started. ‘You rang Angus?’
‘This afternoon. Told me it was like a massacre last autumn. They used traps, flame-throwers, poisons, even mice with cyanide on them. According to him there wasn’t a single worm left anywhere in the sewers. Not anywhere.’
‘And then?’
‘Slowly they came back.’
‘Since when?’
‘He spotted the first about four or five weeks ago. Their numbers have been building up every day. Big brutes, he said. He also mentioned if we want any, we’d better get there quickly. The men are threatening a strike if the worms aren’t exterminated properly.’
He slowed down to turn off the motorway into the network of B-roads which would take him to Westport. The other car sped past him; it hadn’t been the police after all.
By the time they arrived it was almost four o’clock. Lights were on in several houses and Matt thought he heard a shot from somewhere in the distance. Entering the lane leading up to his own cottage, his headlights picked out the shape of a man hurrying off in another direction. He didn’t recognize who it was.
‘Oh Christ,’ he muttered to himself, gripping the wheel. ‘Oh Christ, they’ve got out.’
Fran’s fingernails dug into his shoulder. ‘What are we going to find?’ she whispered. ‘Matt…?’
‘You’d best stay in the car till I fetch you some boots. They could be anywhere in the long grass, on the path…’ He drew up behind the police Rover, leaving his headlights on. The doctor’s car was parked a little farther up the lane. Every window of the cottage was lit. ‘Pray God, Jenny’s all right.’