“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. Poppy Wyatt.”
I wait while she turns away and makes a call on her cell phone. I’m trying to stand there patiently, but I’m barely able to contain myself. Those messages are something to do with this whole memo thing. I know they are.
“I’m sorry.” The girl faces me with professional pleasantness. “Sam is unavailable right now.”
“Could you tell him it’s urgent?” I shoot back. “Please?”
Clearly restraining a desire to tell me to go away, the girl turns and makes another call, which lasts all of thirty seconds.
“I’m sorry.” Another frozen smile. “Mr. Roxton is busy for the remainder of the day, and most of the other staff are away at the company conference. Perhaps you should phone his assistant and make an appointment. Now, if you could please make way for our other guests?”
She’s ushering me out of the main doors. Make way clearly means piss off.
“Look, I need to see him.” I duck round her and start heading for the escalators. “Please let me go up there. It’ll be fine.”
“Excuse me!” she says, grabbing me by the sleeve. “You can’t just march in there! Thomas?”
Oh, you have to be kidding. She’s calling over the security guard. What a wimp.
“But it’s a real emergency.” I appeal to both of them. “He’ll want to see me. ’
“Then call and make an appointment!” she snaps, as the security guard leads me to the main doors.
“Fine!” I snap back. “I will! I’ll call right now! See you in two minutes!” I stomp onto the pavement and reach into my pocket.
And then the full horror hits me. I don’t have a phone.
I don’t have a phone.
I’m powerless. I can’t get into the building and I can’t ring Sam. I can’t tell him about this. I can’t do anything. Why didn’t I buy a new phone earlier? Why don’t I always walk around with a spare phone? It should be the law, like having a spare tire.
