Yes, this was it: 227. A couple came out of the room opposite, talking about the breakfast they were about to eat. They glanced back at Hepton, who stood hesitating outside Devereux’s door, then went on their way.
Hepton was about to knock on the door when he saw that it wasn’t properly closed. There was the slightest of gaps, but he couldn’t see into the room. Suddenly a sickening sensation hit him in the pit of his stomach. He leaned back into the corridor, brought up his foot and kicked open the door with the heel of his shoe. The room was dark, a crack of daylight coming through the closed drapes. And there was a funny sweet smell, like the gas he’d been given once as a child in the dentist’s chair. He found the light switch and flipped it. Devereux was in bed, naked. Another figure, fully dressed, was crouched over him, holding a hypodermic syringe into his upper arm. The face had jerked upwards to look at Hepton.
One side of it was scarred by long white water blisters, edged with redness.
It was Harry.
‘Oh Christ...’ Hepton whispered, the hair prickling on his neck.
Harry’s lips twisted into a delinquent smirk as she looked down at the prone body and saw that the syringe was empty. She retracted it, then seemed to examine Devereux’s blank face before turning her attention to Hepton. But by then it was too late. Hepton had grabbed the door handle and pulled the door tightly shut. He locked both hands around the handle. He had her now. He had trapped Harry! He looked up and down the corridor, but it was empty. Still, soon someone would appear from a room, ready for breakfast, and he would order them to telephone Parfit. The main thing was—
‘Hello, Martin.’ The voice was faint, lacking any trace of emotion or feeling. Hepton resisted the temptation to place his ear against the door, the better to hear her words. He remembered Jilly’s flat, the bullets splintering past him through the wood panelling. ‘Long time no see,’ Harry continued. ‘I’ve just been tidying up a little.’
His voice was firm. ‘Where’s Jilly?’
‘You should be dead by now. You know that, don’t you? You’ve turned into a real challenge, Martin. I enjoy a challenge. I’ll enjoy killing you.’
‘I asked where Jilly was.’
‘Does it matter? We’ve got her. If you want her alive, quit now.’
‘Quit what?’
Her laughter was as cruel a sound as Hepton had heard. ‘Just quit,’ she said. ‘You know what I mean.’
He looked around him again. There was still no one in the hallway. His arms were aching from holding the door closed, yet Harry had not yet attempted to open it.
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ he said.
‘Do what?’
‘Murder Devereux.’
‘Orders,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’
‘Orders from Villiers?’
‘Ah, you know about Villiers. Yes, I’d forgotten that. Stupid man. He should have been more careful. But no, not Villiers. These orders came from overseas. Someone’s been keeping tabs on Mr Devereux, someone besides your friends and you.’
‘Oh? Who?’
‘It doesn’t matter. But the Americans have been getting nervous, so they asked—’
‘All that matters is that the coffin gets buried,’ said Hepton.
His words had their effect. There was silence from behind the door.
‘Too many people know now, Harry,’ he went on. ‘Too many for even you to be able to shut them all up. You can’t bury it.’
She laughed again. ‘I don’t see anyone stopping us. I see a lot of mice chasing their own tails and squeaking, only no one’s paying attention to them because no one wants to pay attention to them. Because what we’re doing is for the best.’
‘Who’s we, though? You and Villiers? The chiefs of staff? Who?’
‘Bigger than that, Martin. Much, much bigger. Coffin.’
‘But what does that mean?’
‘It’s an acronym, of course. You know how the armed forces and the bureaucrats love acronyms.’
An acronym: the letters standing for other words. ‘What’s it an acronym for? I never was much use at crosswords.’ He realised that she’d hooked him. He was interested, despite himself. But her voice had become faint, as though she were moving away from the door, forcing him to bring his head closer.
‘I’m going to kill you, Martin,’ she said, ‘the way I should have done right at the start in your flat. Don’t think I didn’t consider it. I could have put it down to a burglary. But it seemed messy at the time. It still isn’t a necessity, not now we have your friend Miss Watson. But I’m going to do it anyway.’ Her voice was very faint now. Hepton kept his head and body clear of the door, expecting a shot. None came. Then he heard the sound of exhausted breathing from along the corridor.
A thickset man had just reached the landing from the stairs. He was pausing at the top, trying to regain his breath. He stared along the corridor and saw Hepton.
‘What do you think you are doing there?’ he called. Then he started moving forward, quickly for his size. ‘This is Mr Devereux’s room.’
‘I know,’ Hepton said. The man moved towards the doorway, but Hepton gripped his arm with one hand and pulled him back, keeping the other tight on the door handle. ‘There’s a murderer in there,’ he said.
The man’s eyes widened; not in shock, Hepton realised, but in mild surprise only.
‘A murderer?’ The accent was difficult to place. Mediterranean? Eastern European?
‘That’s why I’m holding the door shut. She’s still in there.’
‘A she? And her victim?’
‘He’s in there too. Will you go for help, please?’ Hepton was becoming exasperated. Who bothered to ask questions when a killer was around? But the man made no sign of moving. He seemed deep in thought. Then, his eyes on Hepton, he reached into his trouser pocket and produced a tiny gun, so dainty that it might have been a trick cigarette lighter. It might have been, but Hepton thought otherwise.
‘Help has arrived,’ the man said. He took two paces back from the door and pointed his gun at it. Hepton knew instinctively what was expected of him now. He released his grip on the handle, stepped back and gave the wood a mighty kick. The door flew open and the man crouched lower, still levelling the gun... But apart from Devereux’s corpse, the room appeared empty. More than that, it felt empty. Hepton studied the scene. He couldn’t imagine Harry hiding under the bed or in the wardrobe. The windows were double-glazed, impossible to open, so there was no escape route there. Which left only the bathroom. He looked at his new-found accomplice, who nodded in understanding. Together they walked to the bathroom door, the man pausing only quickly, expertly to check for any sign of a pulse in Devereux’s wrist. There was none.
The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and Hepton glanced into the white-tiled room. A thick splash-proof curtain had been drawn across the shower. He pushed open the door and pointed to the curtain. The man aimed his pistol again, and Hepton yanked the curtain aside. The cubicle was empty. Hepton exhaled noisily and raised his eyes to the ceiling, where they stayed.
‘Look,’ he said. The man looked up too, and saw that the ceiling was a false one, with one small section pushed aside to reveal a dark gap.
‘You think she has escaped?’ the man asked in a whisper.
Hepton considered. No, the ceiling would not support a body’s weight, and besides, where could it lead? Nowhere. He dashed back into the room and looked around. The wardrobe door was open now. Inside, the suits and shirts had been pushed along on their railing to allow a body to squeeze into the space. He placed his head in the wardrobe. He could smell soap: Harry’s soap. He ran to the door and looked down the corridor, but there was no sign of her.