Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

sculpture hanging from the ceiling, and a massive desk. There’s another, smaller desk outside,

which I guess is where Violet used to sit. By the window is a sofa, which is where Sam ushers

me.

         “The meeting’s not for twenty minutes. I’ve got to catch up with some stuff. Make

yourself comfortable.”

         I sit on the sofa quietly for a few minutes, but it’s quite boring just sitting on a sofa. At

last I get up and wander to the window, gazing down at all the little cars whizzing over the

bridge. There’s a bookshelf nearby with lots of business hardbacks and a few awards. No photo

of Willow, though. Nor is there one on his desk. He must have a photo of her somewhere,

surely?

         As I’m looking around for it, I notice another doorway and can’t help peering at it

curiously. Why does he have a door? Where does it lead to?

         “Bathroom,” says Sam, spotting me. “Do you want to use it? Go ahead.”

         Wow. He has an executive bathroom!

         I head inside, hoping to find some amazing palace of marble—but it’s quite normal

really, with a small shower and glass tiles. Still. Your own bathroom inside your office. That’s

pretty cool.

         I take the opportunity to redo my makeup, brush my hair, and tug my denim skirt back

into place. I open the door and am about to step outside when I realize there’s a soup splash on

my shirt. Shit.

         Maybe I can get that off.

         I dampen a towel and give it a quick rub. No. Not wet enough. I’ll have to lean down and

get it right under the tap.

         As I’m bending down, I see a woman in a smart black trouser suit in the mirror, and I

jump. It takes me a moment to realize I’ve got a reflected view of the whole office, and she’s

actually approaching Sam’s glass door. She’s tall and imposing-looking, in her forties, maybe,

and is holding a piece of paper.

         Her expression is fairly grim. Ooh, maybe she’s the CEO with bad personal hygiene.

         No. Surely not. Look at that perfectly crisp white shirt.

         Oh my God, is this Willow?

         I suddenly feel even more embarrassed about my soup stain. It hasn’t come off at all; I’ve

just got a big wet patch on my T-shirt. In fact, I look hideous. Should I tell Sam I can’t come to

the meeting after all? Or maybe he has a spare shirt I could borrow. Don’t businessmen always

keep spare shirts at the office?

         No, Poppy. Don’t be ridiculous. And, anyway, there’s no time. The woman in the black

suit is already rapping at his door and pushing it open. I watch in the mirror, on tenterhooks.

         “Sam. I need a word.”

         “Sure. What is it?” He looks up and frowns at her expression. “Vicks, what’s up?”

         Vicks! Of course this is Vicks, head of PR. I should have realized at once.

         I feel I already know her from all her emails, and she’s just as I imagined. Sharply cut

sharp brunette hair, businesslike manner, sensible shoes, expensive watch. And right now a look

of massive stress on her face.

         “Only a handful of people know about this,” she says as she closes the door. “An hour

ago I had a call from a mate of mine at ITN. They’ve got hold of an internal memo from Nick,

which they’re planning to splash across the ten o’clock bulletin.” She winces. “It’s … it’s bad,

Sam.”

         “Memo?” He looks perplexed. “What memo?”

         “A memo he apparently sent to you and Malcolm? Several months ago now? When you

were doing that advisory work with BP? Here. Have a read.”

         After about ten seconds, I peep round the side of the ajar bathroom door. I can see Sam

reading a printed sheet, an expression of shock on his face.

         “What the fuck—”

         “I know.” Vicks lifts her hands. “I know.”

         “This is … ” He seems speechless.

         “It’s a disaster,” Vicks says calmly. “He’s basically talking about accepting bribes. Put

that together with the fact he’s on a government committee right now … ” She hesitates. “You

and Malcolm could be compromised too. We’ll need to look at that.”

         “But … but I’ve never seen this memo in my life!” Sam finally has found his voice.

“Nick didn’t send this to me! He didn’t write these things. He would never have written these

things. I mean, he sent us a memo which began the same way, but—”

        “Yes, that’s what I gather from Malcolm too. The memo he received wasn’t word for

word the same as this one.”

        “Not ‘word for word’?” echoes Sam impatiently. “It was totally fucking different! Yes, it

may have been about BP, yes, it may have raised the same issues, but it did not say these things.”

He hits the page. “I don’t know where the hell this has come from. Have you spoken to Nick?

        “Of course. He says the same thing. He didn’t send this memo, he’s never seen it before,

he’s as baffled as we are.”

        “So!” Sam exclaims impatiently. “Head this off! Find the original memo, phone your

friend at ITN, tell them they’ve been sold a pup. The IT guys will be able to prove what was

written when; they’re good at that stuff—” He breaks off. “What?”

        “We’ve tried.” She exhales. “We’ve looked. We can’t find an original version of the

memo anywhere.”

        “What?’ He stares at her. “But … that’s crazy. Nick must have saved it.”

        “They’re searching. Here and at his Berkshire office. So far, this is the only version

they’ve managed to find on the system.” She taps the paper.

        “Bullshit!” Sam gives an incredulous laugh. “Wait—I have it myself!”

        He sits down and opens up a file. “I would have put it …” He clicks a few more times.

“Here we are! You see … here it is—” He breaks off, breathing hard. “What the—”

        There’s silence. I can hardly breathe.

        “No,” expostulates Sam suddenly. “No way. This is not the version I received.” He looks

up, his face baffled. “What’s going on? I had it.”

        “Not there?” Vicks’s voice is tight with disappointment.

        Sam is clicking frantically at his computer again.

        “This makes no bloody sense,” he’s saying, almost to himself. “The memo was emailed

over. It came to Malcolm and me on the system. I had it. I read it with my own eyes. It has to be

here.” He glowers at his screen. “Where the fuck is that fucking email?”

        “Did you print it out? Did you keep it? Do you still have that original version?” I can see

the hope in Vicks’s eyes.

        There’s a long silence.

        “No.” Sam exhales. “I read it online. Malcolm?”

        “He didn’t print it out either. And he can only find this version on his system. OK.” Vicks

sags a little. “Well … we’ll keep trying.”

        “It has to be there.” Sam sounds adamant. “If the techies say they can’t find it, they’re

wrong. Put more of them on it.”

        “They’re all searching. We haven’t told them why, obviously.”

        “Well, if we can’t find it, you’ll just have to tell ITN it’s a mystery to us,” says Sam

energetically. “We refute it. We make it crystal clear that this memo was never read by me, never

written by Nick, has never been seen before by anyone in the company—”

        “Sam, it’s on the company system.” Vicks sounds weary. “We can hardly claim that no

one in the company has ever seen it. Unless we can find the other memo—” Her phone bleeps

with a text, and she glances at it. “That’s Julian from legal. They’re going to go for an injunction,

but … ” She gives a hopeless shrug. “Now that Nick’s a government adviser, there’s not much

chance.”

        Sam is peering at the sheet of paper again, a frown of distaste on his face.

        “Who wrote this crap?” he says. “It doesn’t even sound like Nick.”

         “God knows.”

         I’m so rapt that when my phone buzzes I nearly expire in fright. I glance at the screen and

feel another jolt of fright. I can’t stay hiding here. I quickly press talk, and hurry out of the

bathroom, my legs wobbly.

         “Um, sorry to disturb,” I say awkwardly, and hold out the phone. “Sam, it’s Sir Nicholas

for you.”

         Vicks’s expression of horror almost makes me want to laugh—except she looks as

though she wants to strangle someone. And that someone could be me.

         “Who’s she?” she snaps, eyeing the stain on my T-shirt. “Is this your new PA?”

         “No. She’s … ” Sam waves it off. “Long story. Nick!” he exclaims into the receiver.

“I’ve just heard. Jesus.”

         “Did you hear any of that?” says Vicks to me in a savage undertone.

         “No! I mean, yes. A bit.” I’m gabbling in fright. “But I wasn’t listening. I didn’t hear

anything. I was brushing my hair. Really hard.”

         “OK. I’ll be in touch. Keep us posted.” Sam switches off the phone and shakes his head.

“When the hell will he learn to use the right number? Sorry.”

         Distractedly, he puts the phone down on the desk. “This is ridiculous. I’m going to speak

to the techies myself. If they can’t find a lost email, for fuck’s sake, they should all be fired.

They should be fired anyway. They’re useless.”

         “Could it be on your phone?” I suggest timidly.

         Sam’s eyes light up for a moment—then he shakes his head.

         “No. This was months ago. The phone doesn’t store emails beyond two months. Nice

idea, though, Poppy.”

         Vicks looks as though she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Again—who’s she? Does

she have a pass?”

         “Yes.” I hurriedly produce my laminated card.

         “She’s … OK. She’s a visitor. I’ll deal with her. Come on. We need to talk to the

techies.”

         Without a word in my direction, Sam hurries out into the corridor. A moment later,

looking absolutely livid, Vicks follows. I can hear a stream of low-pitched invective coming

from her as they walk off.

         “Sam, when exactly were you planning to tell me you had a fucking visitor in your

bathroom, listening to our fucking confidential crisis? You do realize my job is to control the

flow of information? Control it?”

         “Vicks, relax.”

         As they disappear from view, I sink down onto a chair, feeling a bit unreal. Yowzer. I

have no idea what to do now. Should I stay? Should I go? Is the meeting with the CEO still

going to happen?

         I’m not exactly in a hurry to go anywhere—but after about twenty minutes of sitting there

alone, I start to feel distinctly uncomfortable. I’ve leafed through a magazine full of words I

don’t understand, and I’ve thought about getting myself a coffee (and decided against it). The

CEO meeting must surely be off. Sam must be tied up. I’m gearing myself up to write him a note

and leave, when a blond guy taps at the glass door. He looks about twenty-three and is holding a

massive rolled-up piece of blue paper.

         “Hi,” he says shyly. “Are you Sam’s new PA?”

         “No. I’m just … er … helping him.”

         “Oh, OK.” He nods. “Well, it’s about the competition. The ideas competition?”

         Oh God. This again.

         “Yes?” I say encouragingly. “Do you want to leave Sam a message?”

         “I want this to get to him. It’s a visualization of the company? A restructuring exercise?

It’s self-explanatory, but I’ve attached some notes.”

         He hands over the rolled-up paper, together with an exercise book full of writing.

         I already know there is no way Sam is going to look at any of this. I feel quite sorry for

this guy.

         “OK! Well … I’ll make sure he sees it. Thanks!”

         As the blond guy heads off, I unroll a corner of the paper out of curiosity—and I don’t

believe it. It’s a collage! Like I used to do when I was about five!

         I spread the whole thing out flat on the floor, anchoring the corners with chair legs. It’s in

the design of a tree, with photos of staff stuck onto the branches. God only knows what it’s

supposed to say about the structure of the company—I don’t care. What’s interesting for me is

that under each photo is the person’s name. Which means I can finally put faces to all the people

who have sent an email through Sam’s phone. This is riveting.

         Jane Ellis is a lot younger than I expected, and Malcolm is fatter, and Chris Davies turns

out to be a woman. There’s Justin Cole … and there’s Lindsay Cooper … and there’s—

         My finger stops dead.

         Willow Harte.

         She’s nestling on a lower branch, smiling out cheerfully. Thin and dark-haired, with very

arched black eyebrows. She’s quite pretty, I grudgingly admit, although not supermodel

standard.

         And she works on the same floor as Sam. Which means …

         Oh, I’ve got to. Come on. I’ve got to have a quick peek at the psycho fiancée before I go.

         I head to Sam’s glass door and peer cautiously out at the floor. I have no idea if she’ll be

in the open-plan area or have her own office. I’ll just have to wander round. If anyone stops me,

I’ll be Sam’s new PA.

         I grab a couple of files as camouflage and cautiously venture out. A couple of people

typing at their computers lift their heads and give me an uninterested glance. Skirting the edge of

the floor, I glance through windows and peer at names on doors, trying to catch a glimpse of a

girl with dark hair, listening out for a whiny, nasal voice. She has to have a whiny, nasal voice,

surely. And lots of stupid, made-up allergies, and about ten therapists—

         I stop dead. That’s her! It’s Willow!

         She’s ten yards away. Sitting in one of the glass-doored offices. To be honest, I can’t see

much of her except her profile and a hank of long hair hanging down the back of her chair and

some long legs ending in black ballet pumps—but it’s definitely her. I feel as though I’ve

stumbled on some mythological creature.

         As I approach, I start to tingle all over. I have a dreadful feeling I might suddenly giggle.

This is so ridiculous. Spying on someone I’ve never met. I clutch my folders more tightly and

edge forward a little more.

         There are two other women in the office with her, and they’re all drinking tea, and

Willow is talking.

         Damn. She doesn’t have a whiny, nasal voice. In fact, it’s quite melodious and

sane-sounding—except when you start listening to what she’s saying.

         “Of course this is all to get back at me,” she’s saying. “This whole exercise is one big

Fuck You, Willow. You know it was actually my idea?”

        “No!” says one of the girls. “Really?”

        “Oh yes.” She turns her head briefly and I catch sight of a sorrowful, pitying smile.

“New-idea generation is my thing. Sam ripped me off. I was planning to send out exactly the

same email. Same words, everything. He probably saw it on my laptop one night.”

        I’m listening, completely stunned. Is she talking about my email? I want to burst in and

say, “He couldn’t have ripped you off; he didn’t even send it!”

        “That’s the kind of move he pulls all the time,” she adds, and takes a sip of tea. “That’s

how he’s made his career. No integrity.”

        OK, I’m completely fogged now. Either I’m all wrong about Sam or she’s all wrong

about him, because in my opinion he’s the last person in the world you could imagine ripping

somebody else off.

        “I just don’t know why he has to compete with me,” Willow’s saying. “What is that with

men? What’s wrong with facing the world together? Side by side? What’s wrong with being a

partnership? Or is that too … generous for him to get his stupid male head round?”

        “He wants control,” says of one the other girls, cracking a chocolate biscuit in half. “They

all do. He’s never going to give you the credit you deserve in a million years.”

        “But can’t he see how perfect it would be if we could get it fucking right? If we could get

beyond this crappy bad patch?” Willow sounds impassioned. “Working together, being together

… the whole package … it could be sublime.” She breaks off and takes a gulp of tea. “The

question is, how long do I give him? Because I can’t go on like this much longer.”

        “Have you talked it through?” says the third girl.

        “Please! You know Sam and ‘talking.’ ” She makes quote marks with her fingers.

        Well. I’m with her there.

        “It makes me sad.” She shakes her head. “Not for me, for him. He can’t see what’s in

front of his face and he doesn’t know how to value what he has, and, you know what? He’s

going to lose it. And then he’s going to want it, but it’ll be too late. Too late.” She bangs her

teacup down. “Gone.”

        I’m suddenly gripped. I’m seeing this conversation in a new light. I’m realizing that

Willow has more insight than I gave her credit for. Because, if truth be told, this is just what I

feel about Sam and his father. Sam can’t see what he’s losing, and when he does it may be too

late. OK, I know I don’t know the whole story between them. But I’ve seen the emails, I’ve got

the idea—

        My thoughts stop abruptly in their tracks. Alarm bells have started to ring in my head.

First distant, but now getting loud and clangy. Oh no, oh no, oh God.

        Sam’s father. April 24. That’s today. I’d completely forgotten. How could I be so stupid?

        Horror is rising up in me like chill water. Sam’s dad’s going to pitch up at the

Chiddingford Hotel, expecting some lovely reunion. Today. He’s probably on his way already.

He’ll be all excited. And Sam won’t even be there. He’s not going to the conference until

tomorrow.

        Shiiiiit. I’ve really messed up. I’d forgotten all about it, what with all the other

emergencies going on.

        What do I do? How do I solve this? I can’t tell Sam. He’ll go absolutely mad. And he’s

so stressed anyway. Do I cancel the dad? Send a quick rain-check apology email? Or will that

make everything even worse between them?

        There’s only one tiny ray of hope. Sam’s dad never sent any reply, which is why I forgot

about it. So maybe he never even got the email. Maybe it’s all OK—

         I suddenly realize I’m nodding emphatically, as though to persuade myself. One of the

girls with Willow looks up and eyes me curiously. Oops.

         “Right!” I say out loud. “So … I’ll just … Good. Yes.” I hastily turn on my heel. If

there’s one thing I don’t want, it’s being busted by Willow. I scurry to the safety of Sam’s office

and am about to grab the phone to email Sam’s dad, when I see Sam and Vicks marching back

toward the office, apparently in the middle of a blazing argument. They look a bit terrifying, and

I find myself backing hastily into the bathroom.

         As they stride in, neither of them even notices me.

         “We cannot release this statement,” Sam is saying furiously. He crumples the piece of

paper he’s holding and throws it in the bin. “It’s a travesty. You’re completely shafting Nick,

you realize that?”

         “That’s not fair, Sam.” Vicks looks prickly. “I’d say it’s a reasonable and balanced

official response. Nothing in our statement says he did or didn’t write the memo—”

         “But it should! You should be telling the world that he would never say these things in a

million years! You know he wouldn’t!”

         “That’s for him to say in his own personal statement. What we cannot do is look as

though we condone these kinds of practices—”

         “Hanging John Gregson out to dry was bad enough,” says Sam, his voice low, as though

he’s trying to keep control of himself. “That never should have happened. He never should have

lost his job. But Nick! Nick is everything to this company.”

         “Sam, we’re not hanging him out to dry. He’s going to release his own statement. He can

say what he likes in that.”

         “Great,” says Sam sarcastically. “But meanwhile his own board won’t stand by him.

What kind of vote of confidence is that? Remind me not to hire you to represent me if I’m ever

in a spot.”

         Vicks flinches but says nothing. Her phone buzzes, but she presses ignore.

         “Sam—” She stops, then takes a deep breath and starts again. “You’re being idealistic. I

know you admire Nick. We all do. But he’s not everything to this company. Not anymore.” She

winces at Sam’s glare but carries on. “He’s one man. One brilliant, flawed, high-profile man. In

his sixties.”

         “He’s our leader.” Sam sounds livid.

         “Bruce is our chairman.”

         “Nick founded this fucking company, if you remember”

         “A long time ago, Sam. A very long time ago.”

         Sam exhales sharply and walks a few paces off, as though trying to calm himself. I’m

watching, agog, not daring even to breathe.

         “So you side with them,” he says at last.

         “It’s not a question of siding. You know my affection for Nick.” She’s looking more and

more uncomfortable. “But this is a modern business. Not some quirky family firm. We owe it to

our backers, our clients, our staff—”

         “Jesus Christ, Vicks. Listen to yourself.”

         There’s a sharp silence. Neither of them is looking at the other. Vicks’s face is creased

and troubled-looking. Sam’s hair is more rumpled than ever, and he looks absolutely furious.

         I feel a bit stunned by the intensity in the room. I always thought being in PR sounded

like a fun job. I had no idea it was like this.

        “Vicks.” The unmistakable drawl of Justin Cole hits the air, and a moment later he’s in

the room, wafting Fahrenheit and satisfaction. “Got this under control, have you?”

        “The lawyers are on it. We’re just drafting a press statement.” She gives him a tight

smile.

        “Because, for the sake of the company, we need to be careful that none of the other

directors are tainted with these unfortunate … views. You know what I’m saying?”

        “It’s all in hand, Justin.”

        From Vicks’s sharp tone, I’m guessing she doesn’t like Justin any more than Sam does.77

        “Great. Of course, very unfortunate for Sir Nicholas. Great shame.” Justin looks

delighted. “Still, he is getting on now—

        “He is not getting on.” Sam scowls at Justin. “You really are an arrogant little shit.”

        “Temper, temper!” Justin says pleasantly. “Oh, tell you what, Sam. Let’s send him an

e-card.”

        “Fuck you.”

        “Guys!” Vicks sounds close to the edge.

        I can totally understand now why Sam was talking about victories and camps. The

aggression between these two is brutal. They’re like those stags who fight every fall until they

wrench each other’s antlers off.

        Justin shakes his head pityingly—his expression changing briefly to surprise as he clocks

me in the corner—then saunters out again.

        “That memo is a smear,” Sam says in a low, furious voice. “It’s planted. Justin Cole

knows it and he’s behind it.”

        “What?” Vicks sounds at the end of her tether. “Sam Roxton, you do not go around

saying things like that! You’ll sound like a conspiracy nutter.”

        “It was a Different. Fucking. Memo.” Sam sounds like he’s beyond exasperation with the

whole world. “I saw the original version. Malcolm saw it. There was no talk of bribes. Now it’s

disappeared from the whole computer system. No trace. Explain that and then call me a

conspiracy nutter.”

        “I can’t explain it,” says Vicks after a pause. “And I’m not even going to try. I’m going

to do my job.”

        “Someone did this. You know it. You’re playing right into their hands, Vicks. They’re

smearing Nick and you’re letting them.”

        “No. No. Stop.” Vicks is shaking her head. “I’m not playing this game. I don’t get

involved.” She walks over to the wastepaper basket, retrieves the crumpled statement, and

spreads it out.

        “I can change a detail or two,” she says. “But I’ve spoken to Bruce and we have to go

with this.” She holds out a pen. “You want to make any small amendments? Because Julian is on

his way right now to approve it.”

        Sam ignores the pen.

        “What if we find the original memo? What if we can prove this one is a fake?”

        “Great!” There’s a sudden edge to her voice. “Then we release it, Nick’s integrity is

saved, and we throw a party. Believe me, Sam, I would like nothing more than that. But we have

to work with what we have. Which, right now, is a damaging memo we can’t explain away.”

Vicks rubs her face, then screws her fists in her eyes. “This morning I was trying to cover up that

embarrassment with the drunken post-guy,” she mutters, almost to herself. “I was worried about

that.”

         She really shouldn’t do that. She’s giving herself bags under her eyes.

         “When does the statement go out?” says Sam at length. All his tempestuous energy seems

to have dissipated. His shoulders have slumped and he sounds so low I almost want to go and

give him a hug.

         “That’s the one bright ray.” Vicks’s voice is softer now, as though she wants to treat him

gently in his defeat. “They’re keeping it for the ten o’clock, so we have a good six hours or so to

play with.”

         “A lot can happen in six hours,” I volunteer timidly, and both of them jump as though

scalded.

         “She’s still here?”

         “Poppy.” Even Sam looks taken aback. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you’d still be here—”

         “She heard all that?” Vicks looks like she wants to hit someone. “Sam, are you out of

your mind?”

         “I won’t say anything!” I say hurriedly. “Promise.”

         “OK.” Sam breathes out. “My mistake. Poppy, this isn’t your fault; I was the one who

invited you. I’ll find someone to escort you out.” He leans his head out of his office door.

“Stephanie? Borrow you a sec?”

         A few moments later a pleasant-looking girl with long blond hair arrives at the office.

         “Can you take our visitor down, sign her out, sort out the pass, all that?” says Sam.

“Sorry, Poppy, I’d do it myself, but—”

         “No, no!” I say at once. “Of course. You’re tied up, I understand—”

         “The meeting!” says Sam, as though suddenly remembering. “Of course. Poppy, I’m

sorry. It was canceled. But it’ll be rearranged. I’ll be in touch.”

         “Great!” I muster a smile. “Thanks.”

         He won’t. But I don’t blame him.

         “I hope it all works out well for you,” I add. “And Sir Nicholas.”

         Vicks’s eyes are swiveling madly in her head. She’s obviously paranoid that I’m about to

spill the beans.

         I don’t know what to do about Sam’s dad. I can’t possibly tell Sam now—he’ll explode

from stress. I’ll just have to get a message to the hotel or something. And then bow out.

         Like maybe I should have done in the first place.

         “Well … thanks again.” I meet Sam’s eyes and feel a strange pang. This really is the last

goodbye. “Here you are.” I proffer the phone.

         “No problem.” He takes it from me and puts it down on his desk. “Sorry about all this—”

         “No! I hope it all … ” I nod several times, not daring to say any more in front of

Stephanie.

         It’s going to be odd, not being in Sam’s life anymore. I’ll never know how any of it turns

out. Maybe I’ll read about this memo in the papers. Maybe I’ll read an announcement about Sam

and Willow in a wedding column.

         “Bye, then.” I turn and follow Stephanie down the corridor. A couple of people are

walking along with overnight bags, and as we get into the lift they’re in mid-conversation about

the hotel and how crap the minibar is.

         “So it’s your conference today,” I say politely as we arrive at the ground floor. “How

come you’re not down there?”

         “Oh, we stagger it.” She ushers me out into the lobby. “A whole bunch of people are

already there, and the second coach is leaving in a few minutes. I’ll be on that. Although actually

tomorrow’s the main event. That’s when we have the gala dinner and Santa Claus’s speech. It’s

usually quite fun.”

        “Santa Claus?” I can’t help laughing.

        “It’s what we call Sir Nicholas. You know, a silly in-house nickname. Sir Nick, St. Nick,

Santa Claus—it’s a bit lame, I know.” She smiles. “If you can give me your security pass?”

        I hand over the laminated card and she gives it to one of the security personnel. He says

something about “nice photo,” but I’m not listening. An odd feeling is creeping over me.

        Santa Claus. Wasn’t that bloke who called Violet’s phone going on about Santa Claus? Is

that a coincidence?

        As Stephanie leads me across the marble floor to the main doors, I’m trying to remember

what he said. It was all about surgery. Incisions. Something about no trace—

        I stop dead, my heart thumping. That’s the same phrase Sam used just now. No trace.

        “OK?” Stephanie notices I’ve stopped.

        “Fine! Sorry.” I shoot her a smile and resume walking along, but my mind is wheeling.

What else did that guy say? What exactly was it about Santa Claus? Come on, Poppy, think.

        “Well, bye! Thanks for visiting!” Stephanie smiles once more.

        “Thank you! ’ And as I step outside onto the pavement, I feel a jolt inside. I have it:

Adiós, Santa Claus.

        More people are coming out of the building, and I step aside to where a window cleaner

is swooshing suds all over the glass. I reach into my bag and start scrabbling around for the Lion

King program. Please don’t say I’ve lost it, please—

        I haul it out, and stare at my scribbled words.

        April 18: Scottie has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful.

        April 20: Scottie rang. It’s done. Surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff. Adiós, Santa

Claus.

        It’s as though the voices are playing back in my mind. It’s as though I’m listening to

them again. I’m hearing the older drawl and the young, reedy voice.

        And suddenly I know without a shadow of a doubt who left the first message. It was

Justin Cole.

        Oh. My God.

        I’m quivering all over. I have to get back in and show these messages to Sam. They mean

something, I don’t know what, but something. I push the big glass doors open, and the concierge

girl immediately appears in front of me. When I was with Sam she waved us through, but now

she smiles remotely at me, as though she hasn’t just seen me walking along with Stephanie.

        “Hello. Do you have an appointment?”

        “Not exactly,” I say breathlessly. “I need to see Sam Roxton at White Globe Consulting.