to think once more of the name. He was disgusted with himself.
Climbing out, he dried his now deflated body. He started at the feet, between the toes, and worked up to the ankle, calf, shin, thigh. Order made things make sense. He threw on a robe and headed downstairs.
In the lobby an army of cleaners was out in force, touching his things and moving them around in a way that was impossible to watch. He took his seat for a late lunch and checked his watch. Still no sign of Lana.
After a light spread of sashimi and mineral water, Cole cleaned his teeth twice, harder than usual so that his gums bled. Then he called round his drivers to see if anyone had taken his wife out that morning on an urgent work matter. They hadn’t. Nobody had seen her.
Cole found his housekeeper out on the terrace.
‘Louisa, have you seen Lana today?’
The dark-haired woman paused in mopping the tiles, thought a moment then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I haven’t.’
Cole ran a smooth hand over his chin. ‘When did you last see her?’
Louisa wrung her hands in her apron. ‘Yesterday, Mr Steel.’
Cole watched her carefully. ‘That’s all.’
He went back inside and stood for a while, hands on hips, thinking what to do. A flicker of anxiety danced in his gut. Something was the matter.
If his wife didn’t want to come to him, he’d simply have to go to her.
At the top of the back stairs Cole knocked gently and waited. There was no answer. He buzzed, listening for movement.
‘Lana?’ he called. Perhaps she was in the bathroom, couldn’t hear.
‘Lana.’ He said her name more forcefully. ‘Open this door.’
Still nothing.
He leaned his face against the wood and tightened his jaw against the cool, hard surface. Only quiet.
After a moment he dropped to his knees and drew to one side the gold leaf covering the keyhole. It was just possible to glimpse the fabrics of her bedroom, the apricot florals of a bed that was perfectly made. And perfectly not slept in.
Like a leopard, he pounced.
Turning from the door he flew down the stairs at startling speed, his bathrobe flying out behind him like a cape. In his own quarters he pulled aside a Man Ray print, reached into a narrow tunnel that could just accommodate his arm and drew out a plain, dark brown box. Inside was a collection of keys, each individually labelled. One was bigger than the rest and it was this he extracted: the skeleton key. He had never had cause to use it before.
He returned to his wife’s rooms with shaking hands and inserted the key into the lock. As it turned, he closed his eyes. He had never accessed Lana’s private space–it was as alien as unlocking a stranger’s house.
Inside, he was surprised at how neat she kept it. There was very little about the place that was personal, no photographs or pictures, no diary at her bedside, nothing that said who she was. The surfaces were clear except for a number of ragged books stacked together on a far shelf. They were all fiction; paperback novels whose pages were well thumbed. He scanned their spines. Mostly classics, none of which he’d read himself.
He yanked open her bedside drawer. Inside was a notebook with nothing written in it, though it looked like several pages had been torn out, then under that was a large white envelope. He lifted one corner and saw a face he recognised. It was a copy of the Las Vegas Reporter, with that hotelier St Louis on the cover. With grim satisfaction he applauded her: she was a hard worker, his wife, reading up on her premiere before sleep.
‘Lana?’ he called again, just to be safe. It wouldn’t do if she discovered him.
In the bathroom he warmed to his cause, fancying himself the private detective. The window was open a crack and he pulled it shut, securing the latch. Her cabinet yielded little–just a handful of half empty tubs of face cream, some packs of aspirin and a tube of toothpaste. There was a stout brown glass bottle with the lid screwed on tight. He turned it round in his hand, finding no label. Removing the cap, he tipped out a couple of white tablets and touched his tongue to their surface. Painkillers. For some reason he felt disappointed.
Then, just as he turned to go, the trash can caught his eye.
With a bare foot he pressed on the cool metal lever and the top eased open. Inside, screwed up tight, only just visible from where it had been hidden under a drift of paper, was a small paper bag. It had the air of having been concealed in a great hurry. He bent to pick it up.
When he first pulled out the white box, he didn’t understand what it was. He opened it and shook its contents, knowing it was somehow significant but not being able to work out why.
Then it dawned.
Cole reeled backwards on to the toilet, his mind hot.
It was a joke, it had to be, a practical joke. His head darted this way and that, like a bird’s, searching the room for the set-up, thinking he must have been Punk’d.
He knew he hadn’t.
How had she …? It wasn’t possible. This was some kind of sick mistake.
Hopelessly he attempted to process it, flipping through a catalogue of possible explanations, looking for something, anything. But there was no getting away from it-the facts were right here, heavy in his hand.
Cole dropped the box with a light smat that belied its significance. He sat very still, his chest rising and falling, his breath strangled.
How could she have done this to him? How could she?
Cole picked up the box and calmly returned to his rooms, locking the door quietly behind him. He got dressed in a series of thick, methodical movements.
After that he made two phone calls. The first was to Lana: he was a fair man, he would give her a chance. Her cell was switched off. Calmly he hung up and placed a second call.
‘Marty, it’s me. My wife is gone.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘Find her.’
Lana had chosen to fly direct from LAX. She boarded an ordinary plane, with no entourage, no security or bodyguards. In a baseball cap and dark glasses she was something of a conspicuous figure, but moved quickly through the airport so that by the time she was recognised, it was already too late. The aircraft was only half full, so she was able to sink into her seat, look out the window and go, for the most part, unnoticed.
On the plane she slept, plunging so fast into a deep, sudden unconsciousness that each time she woke it felt like hours had passed, not minutes.
She sipped a bottle of water and tried not to over-think what she was doing. It was foolish; a hasty, ill-considered, selfish plan. But she didn’t know what else to do. Every time she reached for a solution it was like running trapped in a dark grid of streets, every avenue a dead end. This was her only lifeline.
Placing
