Long Time Lost by Chris Ewan

Author:Chris Ewan [Ewan, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780571307500
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2016-05-02T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Forty-Three

The three-star hotel Miller selected was one of many similar places only a few streets away from the train station, on the corner of a doglegged alley. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and removed enough cash to cover a couple of rooms for the night.

‘Here,’ he said, pressing the cash into Kate’s hand. ‘Check us in, get some rest, take a shower. Do whatever you need to do. Oh, and do me a favour. Check yourself in under a different surname, OK?’

‘Why?’

‘Variety. Try Grant.’

‘Why Grant?’

‘Because it’s not Ryan and it’s not Sutherland and I can remember it. Grant was my old headmaster.’

‘How long will you be?’

‘Not long. Don’t go out before I’m back. Lock your room and don’t let anyone else inside. I’ll bring food with me.’

Kate peered in through the yellowed glass in the door to the hotel reception.

‘What if they’ve followed us here?’

‘They haven’t.’

‘But you’re worried about my name, which suggests you’re worried that they could track me down. And what if they find you?’

‘They won’t. They’re on their way to Prague or Arles already. They have no idea where I’m going.’

‘Neither do I.’

Miller stepped closer, lifting her chin. ‘I’ll be back soon, I promise. OK?’

Kate held his gaze, then fixed a wry smile on her face and shrugged her shoulders before stepping away and entering the hotel.

Miller waited across the street next to a pavement restaurant, faking interest in a menu board that featured aged colour photographs of the meals on offer. He counted off four minutes and declined two attempts by a waiter eager to get him to sit.

When he was finally satisfied that Kate wasn’t going to reappear, and that nobody had followed her in, he turned and broke into a jog.

*

He was back in under an hour, by which time darkness had fallen and trade at the restaurant had picked up. The terrace was filled with sunburnt English couples, overweight men in football shirts and teenage backpackers. The night was humid, the air perfumed with the scent of charred pizza dough and sun lotion.

Miller walked into the hotel and approached the woman on duty at reception. She was late fifties or early sixties, short and stocky, with a swollen, pouched face and a matted wig that looked about as tired as her attitude.

Miller told her a friend had arranged a room for him and she scanned his duplicate passport without a great deal of interest before using a biro to enter his name and passport number into a form on a carbon-copy pad, having him sign it and passing him his tear-off receipt along with a room key. Letting the receptionist note down his passport details was a risk, but not a big one. The hotel facilities were basic and Miller didn’t get the impression she was likely to upload his information to a computer database that could jeopardise his stay.

His room was on the second floor of the hotel, immediately opposite an antique caged elevator, and when he let himself in, he found that it was already occupied.

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