The Disappearance of Katie Wren (24 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Hotel

“What do you mean, a
hotel
?” I ask, shocked as I stand at the reception desk. “This can't be a hotel! My daughter is staying with friends here! This is where she's living!”

The receptionist stares back at me, and it's clear that she's not entirely sure what to say. A phone is ringing on the desk next to her, but she makes no move to answer.

“This is the Kensington Havermere Hotel,” she stammers finally, forcing a smile even though there's utter confusion – perhaps even panic – in her eyes. “I'm sorry, but I think perhaps you've made some kind of mistake. We don't rent out apartments or anything like that. It's a hotel.”

“My daughter's name is Catherine Wren,” I continue. “Sometimes she goes by the name Katie, or Kate. Can you
please
check to see if she's staying here?”

“I'm really not supposed to just -”

“Look her up!” I hiss, leaning across the counter. “I spent the night on a train coming here! It's now five in the morning, and my daughter gave me this address. Either you can check whether she's staying here, or you can sit there and wait while I call the police! I'm sure your other guests would love to come down and find several officers making inquiries here in the foyer! And believe me, I will lie if that's what it takes to get them here! I refuse to be ignored!”

She hesitates, before turning to her computer and starting to type. She seems extremely nervous, but I don't suppose I can blame her. After all, I've rather swept in here like a storm, demanding information. Drumming my fingers against the top of the counter, I watch as she continues to type and click, and it's clear that she's being thorough in her search. Deep down, however, I'm already braced for bad news.

“I'm really sorry,” she says finally, “but there's nobody by that name staying here.”

“What about her friends?”

“What are their names?”

“Scott something,” I tell her. “She mentioned someone named Scott over the phone, I'm sure of it.”

The receptionist starts typing again. She's clearly very keen to get rid of me, and I watch as she clicks between various screens.

“I'm very sorry,” she says after a moment, turning to me, “but we have no -”

“I'll be back,” I reply, picking up my bag and hurrying to the door. It's patently obvious that Katie isn't here, and that she deliberately gave me a false address, but I can't understand why she'd do such a thing.

By the time I get back out to the front of the hotel, the sun still hasn't risen. The night air is freezing, and the only other person nearby is a doorman who looks rather bored.

“Excuse me,” I stammer, hurrying over to him, “but I wonder if you can help me. I'm looking for a house somewhere in London. All I know is that it's opposite a building site. Or perhaps not a building site, but somewhere that's having work done. There's a red crane. Do you happen to know the place I'm describing?”

He stares at me as if I'm a madwoman.

“Never mind,” I mutter, stepping past him and making my way along the pavement. I don't even know where I'm going, but I feel certain that Katie must have given me a false address that's far,
far
from wherever she's actually staying.

Reaching the street corner, I stop and lean back against the wall, trying to get my breath back. Even though it's so early in the morning, there are already plenty of people around, and several buses are roaring along the road. I feel as if the whole of London is shouting at me, and I know that the noise will only get louder in a few hours' time once everybody else is awake. I could scream, but I doubt anybody would even notice.

“Get your morning paper here!” a man calls out.

Turning, I see a scruffy-looking gentleman holding up a rolled newspaper. After a moment, he notices me staring at him.

“Morning paper, love?” he asks. “Can't rely on the internet for all your news. For one nice shiny pound, you can get this good old-fashioned printed paper with proper standards. Come on, what do you say? Help a fella out? Where'd we be without proper journalism, eh?”

***

Huge swathes of tarpaulin are flapping in the morning breeze, pinned up to cover gaps in the building's walls. The sun is finally rising in the distance, although its light is filtered through the tarpaulin's scratched surface, and long, fuzzy shadows are cast across the abandoned office.

I'm trespassing, committing a crime, but right now I don't care. Setting my suitcase down, I make my way across the vast open space and look around, hoping against hope that I'll spot someone. After all, I've already tried a couple of addresses and other buildings, and I haven't been able to track Annabelle down. It's almost as if she's disappeared from the face of the planet. If she's not here, I'm honestly not sure where to try next.

Just as I'm about to give up hope, I reach the next corner and look toward the tarpaulin sheets in the distance, and I spot a figure on the floor. My initial instinct is to turn and run, in case I've come across some raging mad rough-sleeper, but I know I have to be brave. I can hear slow, restful snores rising into the air, so at least this poor soul is fast asleep. Keeping close to the wall, I make my way around the edge of the space until I reach the far end, and now finally I can see the face of the sleeping figure. I feel a rush of relief as I spot her features.

It's her.

“Annabelle?” I say tentatively. “Annabelle, it's me.”

I wait, but she doesn't respond.

“Annabelle?”

I step forward, worried about startling her.

“Annabelle, please,” I continue, “I need you to take up. It's me, it's Winifred Wren and -”

“Fuck!” she exclaims, suddenly sitting bolt upright and staring straight at me.

I instinctively step back.

“What the...” She pauses for a moment, before looking down at the front of her jacket and starting to brush some dust away. She seems genuinely startled, although after just a few more seconds she gets to her feet and mutters something under her breath. She's a little unsteady on her feet, but I don't think she's drunk. Instead, she appears to be rather confused, as if she hasn't been disturbed for quite some time.

“You're not an easy person to track down,” I tell her. “Your old number isn't working anymore.”

“I lost my phone,” she says cautiously.

“The landlord at your apartment didn't seem too happy to even hear your name.”

“I don't exactly have a steady job.”

“And your -”

“I get it!” she adds, interrupting me. “Things are a little down right now, but they'll pick up. I'm just working on a few things.”

She pauses, and I can't help noticing that she's lost weight since the last time I saw her. She looks gaunt, and rather pale, and she walks with a noticeable limp as she turns and heads over to a pile of papers and books in the corner. If anything, she seems annoyed by my arrival.

“I'd almost given up finding you,” I continue, “but then I remembered that you told me about this place. It's the office where you worked when you first came to London, isn't it? You said you sometimes came back here, so I thought it was worth checking. I must admit, this is the first time I've ever broken my way into an abandoned building.” I turn and look around at the empty, cavernous old space, before turning back to her. “So this used to be a newspaper office, did it?”

She mumbles something, but I can't quite make out the words.

“I need your help,” I tell her.

She crouches down and opens one of the many folders on the floor.

“I know this is going to sound almost impossible,” I continue, stepping closer, “but my daughter... Katie has disappeared again. I got her home, and then she came back to London, and now I can't find her. Something's wrong, and the police were as non-committal as usual.”

“So?” she asks. “What -”

Suddenly she starts coughing, and she sounds worse than ever. She turns away from me and leans against the wall, but it takes a moment before she manages to get her breath back.

“What do you want from me?” she continues finally, gasping for air. “The last time we spoke, you didn't exactly approve of my methods. In fact, I believe you threatened to accuse me of stalking if I ever contacted you again. Funny, that, since
you're
the one suddenly breaking into
my
home.”

“This is your home now?”

“Hard times call for desperate measures. I'll get back on my feet.”

“But it's so cold here,” I point out. “And damp.”

“So?”

“So you'll catch your death!”

“You're not my mother, so back off.”

“I just...”

I pause for a moment, and it's very clear that Annabelle is in a bad way.

“And in case you didn't hear,” she adds, taking some photographs from the folder and then getting to her feet, “our mutual friend Mr. Timothy Ashford-Clarke was executed at Kentonville Prison.”

“I believe he was murdered by -”

“He was
executed
,” she continues, limping toward me. “That's the only word for it. They didn't put a noose around his neck. They didn't stand him against a wall and shoot him. Instead, they put him in a high-security prison and then they made sure everyone heard rumors that he'd been abusing and killing young women. That's a pretty effective way to make sure someone ends up dead, and the best part is that they can blame whichever hot-headed fellow inmate drove the screwdriver into Tim's neck.”

I flinch. “That's not -”

“So don't tell me he wasn't executed by the people who turned him into a scapegoat,” she adds. “They didn't even have to bother with putting him on trial. Another innocent man is dead because of those assholes. Just like Harry Plume, just like everyone else who ever got in the way of the untouchable Knott's Court. If you're still gonna insist that my view of the world is so wrong, there's really no point in you being here. I can't help you if you refuse to open your goddamn eyes, Winnie.”

I pause for a moment, and I can tell that she's serious.

“Katie is missing again,” I say plaintively, holding back tears. “She gave me an address, but when I went there I found that it was actually a -”

“I found her,” she replies, handing the first photograph to me.

I open my mouth to ask what she means, before seeing that the picture shows an image of Katie walking up some steps toward a dark door.

“When was this taken?” I ask.

“Two nights ago.”

“Where?”

“Where do you
think
, Winnie? Come on, don't play dumb. You recognize that place.”

“I'm sure I don't.”

“I'm sure you do!”

I stare at the picture, and slowly I realize that Katie appears to be heading up toward the door at the front of Knott's Court. She's glancing over her shoulder, as if she's worried about being seen, but she isn't looking directly at the camera.

“I just happened to be watching the place when she showed up,” Annabelle continues, handing me another photo that shows Katie going through the open front door. “I've been keeping tabs on those assholes, but I've gotta admit, I didn't expect Katie to appear again. Although when she did, I figured you wouldn't be far behind. Forgive me for not offering you anything to eat or drink, but I'm kinda just scraping along right now.”

“This isn't possible,” I whisper, staring at the photo. “Why would she do this?”

“Because she was at Knott's Court before,” she replies, handing me another photo. This one shows Katie disappearing into the house, with the door starting to swing shut. “Because Tim never had her locked away in a basement. That was a complete set-up, he was an innocent man to the end. Katie was at Knott's Court last time, then she was sent home to you because they wanted the heat to die down, and now she's willingly gone back to them.”

“Why?” I ask. “Why would she have lied to me?”

Annabelle hands me the rest of the photos, which are just shots of Knott's Court from various angles.

“I don't understand,” I continue, trying desperately to keep from panicking. “Katie would never -”

Suddenly I see that one of the photos shows a wide shot of the street, including the building opposite Knott's Court. I freeze as I see that this particular building looks to be in a state of terrible disrepair, with one side already pulled away and the rest held up by scaffolding. Sure enough, a red crane rises high above the place, and I can tell that this is the building that I saw through Katie's bedroom window during our most recent video calls.

“She's living there,” I whisper.

“No shit,” Annabelle mutters. “Told you.”

“She's actually
living
at Knott's Court.” I stare at the photos for a moment longer, before my trembling hand lets them fall to the ground. “What in the name of all that's holy is she -”

“Your precious little Katie hasn't necessarily been telling you the truth about everything,” Annabelle replies.