Jeff? It doesn’t sound like Jeff? But a lot of people are putting all of their communications through AI filters these days, so who knows? She replies.
Jeff?
Opposite her, Mum and Dad are now singing about a showgirl called Lola. How do they know the words to these things?
No, it is Henk. Henk van Veen, in case you know more than one Henk, which is possible. Where are you? I can help you. You want help?
Henk? The man who has profited the most from these murders? What on earth can she reply?
Where’s Jeff, Henk?
She shouldn’t have kept this phone. But she needs to keep the number, for when Jeff finally breaks cover and needs to contact her.
I heard Jeff died. Did you hear that? I don’t know. I don’t think Jeff can die.
Steve raises his chin an inch in her direction. “You messaging your friends?”
“I’m trying to find out who wants to kill me,” says Amy.
“It probably is one of your friends,” says Rosie from the sofa.
Are you trying to kill me, Henk? You’ve made a bad job of it so far.
What’s the play here?
I am not trying to kill you, Amy. If I was trying to kill you, you would be dead! LOL (Laughing Out Loud)!
“Who is it?” Steve asks, obviously seeing her look.
“Henk van Veen,” says Amy.
“Jeff Nolan’s old business partner?” says Steve.
Amy nods. “And best mate. Very Dutch. Jeff warned me about him before he went missing.”
“You shouldn’t use your phone on a flight,” says Steve.
“Sure,” says Amy. “God forbid I should put us in danger.”
Amy decides to reply to Henk. See if she can draw him out.
You know where I am, Henk. You just hired the wrong guy to follow me. And I’ve got a hundred thousand dollars, which I’m guessing belonged to you in the first place?
Amy looks at Steve. If Henk really is trying to kill her, he might well succeed. And if he does kill her, who’s to say that Steve won’t get caught in the cross fire too? She shouldn’t have brought him out here.
A new song starts playing, “Take On Me.” Finally one she’s heard.
And now she really looks at Steve. There is something in his eyes she hasn’t seen for a long time. He turns down the spliff that Rosie hands to him, but with a smile on his face that looks real. He and Rosie are singing along. Rosie is up and dancing, and Amy gets the feeling that Steve would get up and join her if the seat belt lights weren’t still on. There is another ping on her phone.
Is someone trying to kill you? I am very sorry to hear that. I am about to meet an old client of yours and it made me think of you. I am always looking for good people to join me at Henk Industries. Can we talk?
Can we talk? That again? No, Henk, we cannot talk. Amy slides the SIM card from her phone, takes some nail scissors from her bag, and cuts it into small pieces. Jeff will find a way of reaching her. She instantly feels freer. Just her, Steve, and Rosie against the world now.
Amy is half expecting Steve to tell her she’s not allowed to take scissors on a plane, but she sees that he is too busy preparing his falsetto for the chorus of “Take On Me.”
The chorus begins, and the three of them belt it out together, as the shape of St. Lucia comes into view in the Caribbean Sea far below.
43
Afew years ago Max Highfield would have felt out of place in this room. But now Max doesn’t feel out of place anywhere. He’s earned the right to go where he chooses, when he chooses. Even if sometimes he’s not allowed to wear his trainers. Max can’t help worrying that the porter just put his trainers behind a reception desk, rather than putting them in a locker or, better still, a safe.
The library has floor-to-ceiling shelves, floor-to-ceiling windows, a temple to dark oak and green leather and books. There are writing desks along a side wall, circular tables covered in new books and thick magazines. The light is provided by three huge chandeliers and a succession of brass reading lamps. It’s so big that Max thinks he could strip the whole lot out and have room for a swimming pool, gym, and sauna complex if this were his own house. And he could call his complex “The Library” to show that he is a reader.
Henk is hidden away behind the medical periodicals, filling the corner of a large, green leather sofa, a book open in his hand.
The only other person in the library is a woman in her eighties, reading a book on the philosophy of grief. She clocked him as he came in, though—he can always tell.
Max takes a deep armchair opposite Henk. Henk puts down his book and nods toward it.
“Spinoza,” says Henk. “Have you read him?”
“Spinoza?” says Max. “No. Good?”
“Not bad,” says Henk. “Not bad. And, in my view, without Spinoza, we have no Kant, we have no Goethe.”
“No,” agrees Max.
“Do we even have George Eliot, I wonder?” Henk asks. “Do we have Middlemarch without this Dutch genius?”
