No Tomorrow by Tom Wood Page B

When was she last in? If she had planned to go away, why would she arrange to see me?”
    â€œI don’t think it was planned,” the male receptionist said. “It’s probably just the office bug.”
    The woman added, “She was in on Thursday, but we haven’t seen her since then.”
    Victor made a big deal of sighing. “This is extremely frustrating.”
    The man said, “Sir, I am very sorry. When she does come back to the office I’ll of course let her know you came in today. Can I take your name?”
    He said the alias he’d signed in with.
    The receptionist made a note of it. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
    Victor raised an eyebrow. “Anything
else
? No, that’s everything.”
    The receptionist’s smile never faltered. “You have yourself a lovely day.”

Chapter 17
    G isele lived in southeast London in a top-floor apartment of a converted Georgian town house. The building had once been two residences of wealthy Londoners with three aboveground levels and a semi-subterranean one. Like many similar houses, these two had long ago been converted into flats for the city’s ever-expanding populace. The facade was painted cream and kept clean and bright. A U-shaped driveway of loose gravel provided access from the quiet street. A small garden and huge oak tree sat in the middle of the curve. Four cars were parked on the driveway. All were well maintained. Norimov hadn’t known if his daughter owned a vehicle, but Victor saw that she did. It was a maroon Volvo. Less than three years old. It was the only one of the four cars that did not have tire-width grooves in the gravel leading up to it because it hadn’t been used in more than a week.
    He would have liked to have examined it more closely but he was illuminated by the sodium orange of streetlamps, and an observer inside could see him from behind blinds or net curtains without his knowledge. It was only sevenp.m. but sunset had been more than an hour ago. Lights were on in most of the windows. Gisele’s were dark, as were a few wherein the occupiers were still at work or commuting from it. Londoners worked long hours.
    Victor wore a charcoal business suit, sky blue shirt, and no tie. A suit was his preferred outfit, for many reasons, for the majority of situations his work put him in. He spent most of his time in cities where suited men were common and anonymous. A suit also provided an instant air of respectability. A man in a suit rarely seemed suspicious. If that man was running, he would appear late, not fleeing. Police wouldn’t stop that man near a crime scene unless they knew who they were looking for. Security guards would not check closely when that man flashed credentials. Civilians would be more easily convinced of that man’s lies.
    And when that man was seen within a building where he didn’t belong, residents would believe he had reason to be there.
    I’m an estate agent,
Victor said inside his mind as he approached the front door.
I’ve been asked to value Miss Maynard’s flat.
    Broad steps led up to the two front doors—both painted in a fiery red—one leading to the flats on the left, the other to those on the right. Victor veered to the right-side door. The garden flat had its own entrance at the side. The buzzer fixed to the right of the main front door had three buttons and numbers corresponding to each of the aboveground flats. The door had a dead bolt. He’d have preferred not to have to pick it with people inside the building but he couldn’t afford to waste time waiting until midmorning, when most would have left for their day jobs.
    He reached into a pocket and took out two of the paper clips that Dmitri had sourced. Victor had cut, bent and manipulated them using the multitool, forming a torsion wrench and rake. He inserted the wrench into the bottom of the lock and applied gentle