donât want our suppliers to think weâre a bunch of amateurs.â
âI donâtââ
âI know youâve got the best interests of the business at heart, Pete. And Iâm not saying youâre wrong.â He paused, in a way that seemed theatrical, though Marie could see that he was lighting a cigarette. âBut we need to get our ducks in a row. Do a bit of digging. If there is a grass, then, yeah, we dispose of him. Quick and clean. Take him out.â Another pause. âIâve no problem with that.â
Marie suddenly realized that she was wearing only her thin evening gown and its silly, largely decorative jacket to protect her from the cold. Even so, it wasnât the temperature that sent a chill down her spine. It was the clinical language. Dispose. Take him out. She was finally beginning to recognize the reality that she was dealing with.
She pulled her useless jacket more closely around her shoulders and moved another step or two, watching the three men. She was reminded, grotesquely, of a bunch of middle managers discussing a redundancy. Except that in this world, termination had a more literal meaning.
Up to now, though she hadnât realized it, this had felt like a game. Like another of Winsorâs exercises. It was hard. It was a challenge. But there were no real consequences. If she failed, it might set her career back a notch or two. Maybe cause her a bit of feminist embarrassment.
But of course it was much more than that. She was dealing with people who, if they thought she was a threat, wouldnât hesitate to deal with her. Take her out. Dispose of her.
Jesus. For the first time, she began to wonder whether she was really up to this.
âWhat do you think, Jake?â she heard Kerridge say. âYou OK with that?â
Morton had taken a step or two backwards, she thought, as if he were trying to disassociate himself from the other two. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on her part. Sheâd liked Jake, maybe even been attracted by him. She didnât want to think that he was really part of all this.
âItâs the sensible way,â he said. âWe donât want any more screw-ups.â
And that was it. That was all he said, leaving her in the air. Not knowing whether he was really on board or just going through the motions. She knew what she wanted to believe, but she wasnât sure what she really did.
She heard no more of what the men said, because there was a sudden sweep of headlights from beyond the car park entrance. She glanced at the luminous face of her watch. Nearly midnight. This would be the first of the taxis arriving to ferry guests home.
She was about to slip back along the edge of the cars when the taxi pulled into the car park, turning to the left to arc round towards the hotel entrance. She was caught momentarily in the full blaze of its headlights, dazzled by the glare. She stopped, breathless, feeling like an unprepared actor gripped centre-stage by a spotlight. She was sure, in that moment, that everyone could see her. Kerridge and his cronies. The taxi driver. The clustered smokers.
Then the lights swept by and she was back in darkness. Kerridge, Boyle and Morton were tracking back towards the hotel now, apparently oblivious to her presence. Beyond the car park, lower on the hill, she could see the flicker of more cars arriving.
She paused by the car park fence, safe now in the night, waiting for her heart to stop pounding.
Shit, she thought. Iâm really not cut out for this.
âHave you any real grounds to think so?â Salter had asked a few days later when sheâd first brought up her thoughts about Morton. She remembered Salter slumped back in the hotel armchair, his feet propped up on the coffee table. It was impressive, she thought, the way he managed to sound simultaneously both scathing and uninterested. As if he couldnât quite be bothered to tell her what a stupid
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