9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev by Unknown Page B

lifted the bag above the windscreen and let the slipstream
     whip the remaining powder away. Giving the bag a last shake, he released it and saw
     it sail to the street in the rearview mirror.
    He turned into the Park Plaza Hotel and pulled up in front of the entrance. He switched
     off the engine and closed the zip on the holdall, hiding the handgun from view. A
     concierge appeared.
    “May I help you, sir?”
    Bishop held out the car keys. “Two cases in the trunk,” he said. He motioned to the
     holdall. “I’ll take that. Park it up for me, please, and close the hood.”
    Bishop stepped out of the car, holdall in hand.
    “Oh,” he said. “Please will you fill up the tank and then park her up? This should more than cover it.”
    He held out two hundred-dollar bills.
    The concierge took them and made them disappear into his grey suit.
    “Certainly, sir,” he said. “And which grade of parking would you prefer? Standard
     or executive? Executive is in a more secure area and includes a complete valeting
     service. It, ahem, costs a little more, of course. . . .”
    “Executive, naturally,” said Bishop.
    “I shall see to it, sir. Enjoy your stay at the Park Plaza.”
    “Oh, I will,” said Bishop. “Please arrange for the keys to be delivered to my room.”
    He stepped into the air-conditioned, marbled opulence of the hotel lobby and approached
     the desk. The clerk, a pretty woman of Asian origin, looked up and smiled.
    “I’d like to check in,” said Bishop. “I’ll be paying cash up front.”
    “Certainly, sir,” said the woman. “How long will you be staying with us?”
    “Oh, a week initially. With perhaps an option to extend.” He didn’t add, if there’s anyone left alive to take more money from me .
    “And what grade of room would you be interested in? I can offer a special rate on
     our standard twin?”
    “No, thanks. I want your most expensive available room.”
    The woman didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, then you’ll want our Ambassador Suite,” she said.
     “Fortunately, sir, we have such a room available due to a late cancellation. Illness.”
     She coughed and, for a fleeting moment, her mask of professional efficiency slipped.
     Bishop caught a glimpse of haunted eyes and sensed the fear coming from her like a
     rotten smell.
    “Yes,” he said. “I hear there’s a lot of it about.”
    He handed over a small fortune in cash and refused the woman’s offer to summon a concierge
     to show him to his room.
    The Ambassador Suite was larger than Bishop’s Melbourne flat. It offered stunning
     views of the city skyline, now lit up as night-time took hold. He dropped his holdall
     onto a thickly padded armchair and hunted for the room service menu. He rang down
     and ordered a lavish meal.
    He then placed a call to the airport. It took a while to be put through to the person
     he wanted to speak to—apparently there were a lot of staff off on the sick—but he
     was connected eventually.
    “Hello,” he said. “This is Troy Bishop. Reference ACJ319/4708 . . . Yes, I’d like
     the aircraft safety-checked, fuelled and ready to go, please . . . Yes, fully fuelled,
     including the extra tanks . . . Europe . . . Stocked for forty passengers . . . No
     . . . Not sure precisely when. But within the next few days . . . Yes, please . .
     . Usual account. Be sure to do a thorough job.”
    He replaced the handset, a satisfied grin on his face. Then he kicked back and settled
     down to wait.

Chapter Eight
    O ut of almost two hundred pupils, only eight turned up for school in Penmawr on Wednesday
     morning. Out of more than twenty members of staff, only four showed up: Tom, one other
     teacher, one teaching assistant and the headmaster.
    Tom trod the echoing corridor towards his classroom, feeling a sense of disassociation.
     The corridors were normally alive at this hour with running feet and laughter and
     chit-chat and the bellows of teachers ordering pupils to walk, not