Shadow Box (30 page)

At 6 a.m. I started to get twitchy. Sharpie was always on the dot. At 6.15 a.m. a new anxiety came over me; he’d fled, or done a runner, thinking me dead. By 6.45 a.m. I was asking the desk if Mr Sharp had checked out. They had no one of that name.

“Try Mr Pasternak?”

“No, Mr Pasternak hasn’t checked out.”

I waited five more minutes, then decided to walk up to the fourth floor. I listened outside Sharpie’s room. Quiet. I knocked gently. Nothing.

Louder. Nothing.

I waited.

An old cleaner trundled along the corridor pushing a trolley of towels. She looked Mexican or Puerto Rican.

“Buenos di
á
s,”
I said.

She stopped and looked at me.

With a mixture of signs and rusty Spanish, I told her I’d left my key inside. She looked impassive, but a ten-dollar bill released her passkey.

“Muchas gracias, señora,”
I said as she pushed Sharpie’s door open for me.

It was dark. I crossed the room and opened the curtains. The bed had not been slept in. I started to feel like a fool. I switched on the lights and opened the closet, but Sharpie’s bags were still there. Hanging up were a couple of shirts, and inside a Gucci bag was a new pair of shoes. Expensive taste, Sharpie had.

I went to the bathroom and switched on the light. The door was heavy as I opened it. The bath was full, so I dipped my fingers in the water, which was cold. I felt the door move behind me and turned to see the weight of Sharpie’s body swinging it shut.

I shouted something out loud. I don’t know what.

He was hanging by the dressing-gown hook attached to the back of the door. His leather belt was tight around his neck, the skin red and blue where the rough edge cut in. His mouth was open in a wide “O” that seemed to shape a silent scream, fat tongue lolling out obscenely. His eyes bulged, ready to pop from his purple face, staring down at me accusingly.

I felt paralysed, but forced myself to take out my iPhone and take a picture. I closed my eyes and pressed the button.

Then I grabbed the door handle to exit, trying to avoid the corpse, but made it no further than the toilet bowl, where I vomited out my shock and horror convulsively. I went back into the room, wiping my mouth, tears streaming from my eyes, and searched frantically through his bags for anything incriminating or confidential. There was nothing, not even a phone or passport. Either Sharpie was super-cautious about where he kept his things or someone else had been in. Shaking, I went through the drawers: nothing there, either.

I could hear the sounds of the hotel coming to life in the corridor; doors being slammed, papers being delivered. I realized I needed to get out. Being found in here with Sharpie’s body would have taken some explaining. Only the little Mexican woman had seen me come in. I put a tag on the door and, checking the corridor, closed it behind me. “Do Not Disturb.”

I checked out.

The hotel staff would have seen me with Sharpie in the bar, so I would probably be number one on the list of people they would want to talk to when he was found.

I swerved my favourite diner and walked a few blocks away to another, where I ordered food that I couldn’t eat and sipped weak, sweet coffee while I considered my next move. I had my exit plan: I could change my air ticket to that evening.

I texted Anna.

SS dead. For real. I’m coming back. Dets to follow.

It was still early. I was terrified and traumatized. I had a day to look for Sophie Kelly. And I had Cheryl Kelly’s phone.

I looked through the names, many of them Russian-sounding, ending in
-
ov
and
-
ev
. I was sure there would be a number for Sophie somewhere on there.

I tried
Sofia.

It rang. New York ring tone.

“Hi.”

“Hi, is Sophie there?”

“This is
Sofia
, who’s this?” The accent was American, the voice unfamiliar.

“I was looking for Sophie Kelly?”

“No, I’m Sofia Greenberg, you have a wrong number.”

“Sorry. I’m looking for Sophie Kelly, Cheryl Kelly’s daughter?”

The phone went down.

I tried several others,
S
s and anything that might be cryptically linked to Sophie or Kelly. I got a series of wrong numbers and voicemails. Dead ends. I stared at the phone’s contact list.

Petrina.
It rang a bell, so I called it.

“Hi, is Sophie there?”

The voice on the other end was weary, foreign-accented. Tired and vulnerable.

“No, this is Petrina. Sophie’s asleep.”

My pulse began to race.

“I have a message from her mother, Cheryl.”

“We had a party last night. What time is it?”

“Sorry, eight-thirty, a bit early … it’s just Cheryl asked me to deliver some flowers. She’s sorry she didn’t make the party.”

“Oh, sure, who is this?”

I was thinking fast.

“Kieran, I’m a colleague of Peter Pasternak.”

“Well, I have to go out at ten o’clock. I’ll leave Sophie a note that you’re swinging by.”

“Thanks. Oh, Petrina, can you just remind me of the address? I can’t read Cheryl’s writing…”

She paused momentarily, then reeled off an address uptown: 3F, The Ormonde, West 70th and Broadway.

“Thanks,” I said. “Her writing makes it look like 8E – I would never have found it.”

“No problem,” she said.

It had only taken an off-guard, sleepy and hungover Russian princess to lead me straight to Sophie Kelly.

I gulped my coffee and took a cab to the Upper West Side, where I could disappear into well-heeled Manhattan, trying to shake off the nightmarish vision of Simon Sharp’s dead body.

I bought flowers that cost me an arm and a leg and walked up Broadway to kill a little time.

I found the block on the corner of West 70th. It looked French, turn of the century, old by New York standards, but the balconies and red blinds that decorated the frontage looked more attractive and welcoming than most New York brownstones.

I waited on the street, and at ten-fifteen, a fashionable fifteen minutes late, I saw a dyed-blonde, leggy girl in Lady Gaga heels teeter out and allow the doorman to hail her a cab. Petrina, I was sure.

I was still well dressed and, waving the flowers, slipped by the concierge with a nod and a wink. I fitted in, as I had at Le Bernardin. I went up to the third floor. I rehearsed over and over again what I was going to say once I saw her. I imagined the door opening, imagined the passionate embrace that would surely follow.

I pressed the buzzer and waited.

“Hello?” London voice.

“Flowers for Sophie Kelly,” I said. American.

“OK,” she said. “Coming.”

Stupidly, I held the flowers in front of my face as I waited outside the door.

I heard double locks being opened. The door opened and Sophie Kelly stood there, looking at the flowers. I dropped them away from my face.

“Hi, Soph,” I said. “Surprise.”

She was wearing a dressing gown, still towelling showerwet hair. She’d lost a lot of weight. Too thin, I thought. I waited while she stared at me for a couple of beats, then she dropped the towel and screamed.

I held my hands up trying to silence her; dropped the flowers, grabbed her forearms and edged her back into the room. I closed the door for fear of other residents hearing her screams and coming to her aid.

“Please, Sophie,” I said, soothing, “I know it’s a bit of shock.”

“You’re dead! You’re
dead
, you bastard,” she screamed, shaking my hands off her. “How could you do this to me?”

I realized that my approach might have been wrong.

I should have tried to contact her first, but I was running out of time. If I was honest with myself, for months, despite telling Sharpie otherwise, I had secretly felt like a knight in armour on a quest to find and rescue the princess. It had kept me going.

As Sophie slapped me in the face, I realized it had never occurred to me for a millisecond that the princess might not actually want rescuing. That she might never want to see the knight in shining armour again.

“How are you here? Why? You ruined my life, you complete arsehole!” She reached for a cigarette from the glass table. There were empty bottles all over it and a mirror and a razor blade that betrayed evidence of dusty white lines of cocaine. Her hand shook as she lit and inhaled deeply on a Marlboro. She had never smoked much when I knew her.

“I survived being shot,” I said. “Your dad asked me to come and find you.”

“
Dad
asked you?”

“He knew I was the only one he could trust.”

“After what you did to him?”

“It wasn’t just me,” I said. “It was an inside job. The Irish and the Russians are closing in on him. Since he’s been inside, they’ve all been eating away at his businesses in the UK and Spain. I’ve been over there as well. I’ve been looking for you for months.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have bothered,” she said. She was calming a little but still shaking, glancing at me warily as if making sure that I was really me and not someone from a dream – or a nightmare. “I have a new life here.” She waved her arms at the vast, high-ceilinged apartment flooded with morning light. An impressive collection of modern American art hung on its white walls.

“Courtesy of Mr Bashmakov, I imagine?”

She nodded.

“Alexei’s looked after me,” she said defensively.

“Of course he has. He’s been keeping you safe and out of the way while he muscles in on your old man’s business.”

“He hasn’t! He looks after Dad’s stuff while he’s … away.”

“You
sure
?” I asked.

Sophie had always been very good at turning a blind eye to Tommy’s business affairs, seeing only what she wanted to, but I could see doubt creeping over her – or perhaps what knowledge she did have was becoming crystal clear.

“All I know is that he’s been very good to us.”

“Us?”

“Mum’s here too,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “I’ve seen her.”

“Did she see you?”

“Yes, I had a drink with her last night. And a man called Peter Pasternak. Do you know him?”

“Of course I do,” she said. “Peter’s our interior designer. He did this flat. He works for Alexei. He’s a friend.”

“You met him in Spain, right?”

“How did you know?” she asked, surprised.

“He told me.”

“Peter told
you
?”

I nodded.

“So, how come you know Peter?” she asked.

I took a deep breath, the memory of Sharp’s strangled body fresh in my mind.

“I’ve worked with him for a while.”

Now she looked really confused.

“Worked? What? Interior design, art?”

“No,” I said. “Peter Pasternak is actually a British intelligence agent called Simon Sharp.”

“You’re mad!” she said. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No, I’m afraid not. And I’m also not joking when I tell you that he’s dead.”

“No, he’s not. I only saw him…”

“Last night.”

“How do you know?” Her face was white; she reached for another cigarette with a shaky hand.

“I saw his body this morning. Someone tried to kill me, too.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. But I guess your sugar daddy might have had something to do with it.”

“Alexei? No. He loved Peter. I need a drink.”

“Bashmakov doesn’t love anyone he suspects is double-crossing him,” I said.

She went to the fridge. I watched her go. She returned with a bottle of cold vodka and poured some into a used wine glass. She didn’t offer me anything, but I didn’t mind. Then she picked up a small ivory box from the table and took out a plastic sachet of white powder, tipped a little onto the mirror on the table and began to chop at it with the razor blade. Her hands were trembling.

“Cocaine?
You
, Sophie? Smoking and drinking neat vodka in the morning?”

She shrugged. “It’s been a stressful time. I’ve changed, Eddie, and so have you. You should go. Forget about me. Go, and carry on doing whatever it is you do.”

“This is what I do.”

She ordered the powder into two neat lines and took a twenty-dollar bill from the box and rolled it into a tube. She leant over and sniffed one of the lines into her nostril, then pushed the mirror over to me.