At last I cautiously unbolt the door, make my way out, and peer round the corner. From where I’m standing I can see the entrance to the big function room. A crowd has already gathered and I can hear laughter and lots of loud talking. People are still coming down the corridor in a steady stream. I recognize the girls from PR … a couple of trainees … Oliver Swan, a senior partner. They all head into the party, taking a glass as they do so.
The corridor’s clear. Go.
With trembling legs I walk straight past the entrance to the function room, toward the lifts and the door to the stairwell. Within thirty seconds I’m safely through the door and walking as quietly as I can down the stairs. No one ever uses the stairs at Carter Spink, but still.
I reach the eleventh floor and peer out of the glass panel in the door. I can’t see anyone. But that doesn’t mean there’s no one there. There could be a whole crowd of them, just out of my line of vision.
Well, that’s a risk I’ll have to take. I take a few deep breaths, trying to psych myself up. No one will ever recognize me in my green-and-white waitress gear. And I even have a story if anyone challenges me: I’m on this floor to place this bottle of champagne in Mr. Saville’s room as a surprise.
Come on. I can’t waste any more time.
Slowly I push the door open, step out onto the blue carpeted corridor, and exhale in relief. It’s empty. The whole floor is pretty much dead. Everyone must have gone up to the party. I can hear someone on the phone a few yards away—but as I start nervously walking toward Arnold’s office, all the surrounding workstations are empty. All my senses are on red alert.
The crucial thing is to use my time efficiently. I’ll start with the computer and take it from there. Or maybe I should start with the filing cabinet. Have a quick look while the computer is warming up. Or I’ll search his desk drawers. His BlackBerry could be in there. I hadn’t thought of that.
Suddenly I can hear voices behind me, coming out of the lifts. In panic, I pick up my pace. I reach Arnold’s office, wrench the door open, slam it behind me, and duck down underneath the glass panel. I can hear the voices getting closer. David Elldridge and Keith Thompson and someone I don’t recognize. They pass by the door, and I don’t move a muscle. Then they’re receding into the distance. Thank God.
I let out my breath, slowly rise to my feet, and peep through the glass. I can’t see anyone. I’m safe. Only then do I turn around and survey the office.
It’s empty.
It’s been cleared out.
Bewildered, I take a few steps into the room. The desk is empty. The shelves are empty. There are faint squares on the walls where framed photos have been taken down. There’s nothing in this office apart from one piece of industrial tape on the floor and some drawing pins still stuck into the pin board.
I can’t believe it. After all this effort. After making it this far. There’s nothing to bloody search?
There must be boxes, I think in sudden inspiration. Yes. It’s all been put into boxes to be moved, and they’ll all be stacked outside. I hurry out of the office and look around wildly. But I can’t see any boxes. No crates. Nothing. I’m too late. I’m too fucking late. I feel like punching something with frustration.
“Excuse me?”
I freeze. Shit. Shit.
“Yes?” I turn round, pulling my hair over my face and gazing firmly downward.
“What on earth are you doing here?”
It’s a trainee. Bill … what’s his name? He used to do occasional bits of work for me.
It’s all right. He hasn’t recognized me.
“I was delivering a bottle of champagne, sir,” I mumble in my best drag-queen voice, nodding to the bottle where I left it on the floor. “Surprise for the gentleman. I was just wondering where to put it.”
“I’d just leave it on the desk,” says Bill curtly. “And you shouldn’t be in here.”
“I was just going back. Sir.” I dump the bottle on the desk, bow my head, and scuttle out. Bloody hell. That was close.
I head to the stairwell and hurry up the stairs, flustered. It’s time to exit this building, before anyone else sees me.
The party’s still in full swing as I creep out of the stairwell door and hurry toward the room where I left my clothes. I won’t bother to change. I can always mail the waitress gear back—
“Trish?” Jan’s voice hits the back of my head. “Is that you?”
Fuck. Reluctantly I turn round to face her. She looks hopping mad. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Um … serving?”
“No, you haven’t. I haven’t seen you in there once!” she snaps. “You’re not working for me again, I can tell you. Now, take these and pull your weight.” She thrusts a plate of tiny little éclairs into my arms and pushes me roughly toward the doors of the party.
