Mapping the Edge by Sarah Dunant Page A

don’t mind, I think I’d like to go to the airport straightaway.” He said nothing. The silence grew. It was almost as if he hadn’t heard her. “I need to sort out the ticket,” she added lamely.
    â€œThe ticket is ready,” he said quietly. “I asked them when I called.”
    â€œYes, but I . . . well, I’d like to get there early.”
    In a world where good deeds hadn’t been squeezed out by suspicion his care might have been read as kindness. She risked being rude, she knew that, but she needed to be out of there.
    â€œI see. Very well.” And his voice was mild.
    He got up and moved to the other side of the room, to a sideboard with a phone on it. He turned to her as he picked up the receiver. “You are sure you can’t stay longer? You don’t look so well yet. You could lie in the sun, go for a swim in the lake. I still have some of her things. Her costume would fit you, I am sure.” He paused. “I would be happy to have you as my guest.”
    He’s a man on the edge of middle age who misses his wife too much, who yearns for company and doesn’t know how to get it. It didn’t have to be sinister. It could simply be sad. The world is full of sadness. Be polite, Anna thought to herself. Be polite and don’t let him know how much he scares you.
    â€œI’d love to. Next time,” she said evenly. “Next time I’d love to stay.”
    He went back to the phone. He said hello a couple of times, then sighed and started punching the buttons in an irritated kind of way. He turned to her. “I’m sorry. The telephone. It is not working. It happens sometimes at this time of day. Not enough people to pay the workmen the right bribe. I will try later. If not, the taxi I booked this morning will be here at four.”
    Only this time there was something in his voice that sounded different. The lie seemed to leak like a spreading stain across the stone floor. She felt panic like a swarm of fireflies in her stomach. She thought about walking out of the front door. Without her holdall she could move as fast as he could. Probably faster. There must be a road somewhere. And where there was a road there would be cars, drivers . . . But she had forgotten he still had her handbag. Tickets, passport, money. She wouldn’t get anywhere without them. He was saying something . . .
    â€œ. . . the car.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI said, if it is so important for you to get there now I will take you in the car. But I have to get it out from the garage.”
    â€œEr . . . well, thank you, I mean—” She fumbled, caught again between his solicitude and his creepiness. “That’s very kind. I—”
    â€œIt’s not a problem.” He cut across her, definitely cooler this time. “You get ready. I will get the car.”
    â€œIf I could have my bag?”
    He frowned. “Your bag?”
    â€œYes, my handbag. You took it last night. It had my address book in it. To call my home?”
    â€œYes, but I put it with you in your room.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œUnder the bed,” he said rather impatiently. “I saw it this morning there when I picked up the note. You didn’t find it?”
    She hadn’t. But then she hadn’t looked that well, had simply pulled the covers over and left it at that, assuming he still had it in his care. She felt her legs go weak. She didn’t want to go back into that room again. She stood for a moment, not knowing what to do.
    He walked past her toward the door. For a moment she thought he might offer. “I’ll get the car and meet you outside in five minutes.” And he turned on his heel and left.
    She waited till she had heard the front door open and slam closed, then made her move quickly, out into the corridor, up the stairs and into the room. She tried to find a way to wedge the door open, but there