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  She thanked the woman behind the post office counter and made her way back to the guest house to begin her evening shift. When she’d first started the long sessions serving meals and cleaning bedrooms, her feet had ached all day long; now, she was used to it. She walked along the narrow street past tourists and hikers. It amused her that they called these pretty little hills mountains, and it made her miss the Slovak border, where she could stand on the summit of Gerlach and see all the way to the Baltic Sea. But it was a pretty little town none the less.

  Her shift went by quickly, as always, and an American couple left a ten-pound note under a dish, which she slipped into her pocket. She didn’t have a chance to thank them, but she’d catch them at breakfast. On the next table, a man in his fifties stared at her bottom and was chided loudly by his wife.

  ‘Close your mouth, Derek,’ she said, her accent crisp, like the Queen’s. ‘I don’t know why we have to be served by people who can’t even speak the bloody language.’

  ‘Because, my dear, English people won’t demean themselves to do service work any more,’ retorted the husband. ‘And incidentally, I think her English is very good, certainly far better than your Polish.’

  Gabriela hid her smile and the wife fumed. They left no tip.

  ‘Gabriela, can you come to see me when you’re done here, please. I have a proposition for you. Ten p.m. in my office.’ It was a command not a request from Mrs Joliffe, and it made Gabriela nervous. Neither of her roommates had been at work for the last four days, and she assumed they’d taken some time off: a luxury indeed. It meant she had no one to turn to for advice.

  She took a deep breath and willed herself calm. It was only a proposal; she needn’t accept. Besides, it could be something as inoffensive as asking her to be a part-time receptionist. That would be nice.

  ‘Of course, Mrs Joliffe,’ she said.

  She spent the rest of her shift worrying about what the woman could want with her. If she was in trouble, or had brought the guest house trouble in some way, she would just take off and not come back. Her hands shook slightly as she cleared her last table and went into the kitchen to tidy up.

  Chapter 5

  Just over half a mile away, one of Gabriela’s roommates was sitting on top of a fat man in his seventies. He moaned and groped her small breasts as she rode him, and she was glad that she’d done a line of average-grade cocaine in his bathroom before they’d started. Her skin glistened and he grabbed her waist as she bounced up and down. It was bloody tough going, she thought; she’d spent twenty minutes sucking him off just to get a spark lit, and now she was getting sore. He pulled at her nipples and she pretended to enjoy it.

  ‘Oh yes… yes…’

  She felt him get a little harder and thanked God for small mercies; maybe it would be over soon. She’d seen his little blue pills beside the bed and hoped he’d taken two. She’d get two hundred quid for this evening’s efforts. It was worth every penny.

  That new girl was an idiot, she decided, her mind wandering. Why would you serve meals all day when one fuck could earn you ten times the money? Little Miss Perfect, they called her. Well, she’d have to get her hands dirty at some point; no one stayed clean forever.

  The exertion was like a workout. Come on, old boy, she thought. He was a sweet man, and a regular. He also paid her cut to Darren. If Darren found out, he’d kill her, but she knew that Mr Day would never tell. The old man had bought her a diamond necklace and she’d got four hundred quid for it at a jeweller’s in Kendal. Today he’d given her some pearl earrings, though they wouldn’t be worth as much.

  Her English was improving, just not in the way her mother imagined. Maybe she wouldn’t go back to Poland. Darren could be aggressive, but not if she did as she was told. He’d told her that once she’d proved herself, he’d take her to a big party where loads of rich men paid to have a pretty girl on their arm, but that she had to be ready; he had a reputation to uphold.

  Mr Day stopped thrusting.

  Anushka looked at him. His mouth was open, gasping for air, and his hand clutched at his chest. She slipped off him and rushed to the bathroom to get a glass of water. As she came back into the bedroom, her hands were shaking and water spilled from the glass. Mr Day looked panic-stricken and she felt an urge to flee, but at the same time she knew that she should try and help him. She suddenly became aware of her nakedness, and she grabbed a jumper from a chair and threw it on. The old man was making rasping noises and trying to speak. She knelt next to him and helped him sip some water, but he began to cough and his breathing worsened. She touched his brow; it was cold and clammy. He slumped against her and she recoiled, her heart pounding in her chest. Then his eyes widened and he began convulsing, as if fighting for life itself.

  He was dying. Right in front of her, of all the fucking times to do it. She pushed him away and stood up, looking around the room as if that would give her answers. ‘Always clean up after yourself,’ Darren had instructed her. She bent over Mr Day, who was no longer moving, removed the condom from the end of his flaccid penis and put it into her handbag. She looked at his face for a fleeting moment. His eyes were wide and staring, accusing her. The realisation only galvanised her, and she hardened her resolve once more.

  She picked up the Viagra, the baby oil and the feathers she’d used to arouse him, and quickly got dressed, throwing the old jumper into her bag as well; he wouldn’t need it any more. A laptop on the table caught her eye: it could be worth something, she thought, grabbing it and putting it on the floor while she continued her search. The noise of his breathing had stopped and Anushka didn’t need to be a medic to work out that he was probably dead already. She rifled through his jacket and found a huge roll of cash, which she placed in her own pocket. She opened drawers and saw some car keys, which she left, and a ruby ring. Jackpot. It reminded her of the rings rich Russian ladies wore back home. Finally she leant over Mr Day’s corpse and removed his Rolex.

  She sprayed herself with deodorant, put on her coat and found her phone. She desperately wanted a shower, but first she called Darren.

  ‘Nush? What’s up?’

  ‘It’s Mr Day, Darren. I think he’s had a heart attack.’ She felt a little sick as she said the words out loud, and she wondered how quickly she could replace him with someone as generous.

  ‘What the fuck! You rode him too hard!’ Darren laughed, and Anushka felt stupid and very alone.

  ‘Nush? Nush? You there?’ He was serious now.

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly.

  ‘OK, I’ll sort it. Fuck, this is the last thing I need tonight. I’ll get over there myself to clear up.’

  ‘Are you going to move him?’ Anushka felt a wave of panic travel upwards from her abdomen.

  ‘What the fuck else am I supposed to do? You fucked him to death, I can’t have anything leading to you, because that would lead to me, and I’m not sure you would keep your pretty little mouth shut. Like I said, I’ll clear up, but Nush?’

  ‘Yes?’ She knew what was coming.

  ‘If I hear one word, I’ll slit your throat.’ He hung up.

  He didn’t mean it, she was sure. He just enjoyed scaring her.

  Anushka gathered the stolen items and left the room without looking back, her mouth very dry. If Darren was planning to clear up, that meant he wanted to make it look like it had never happened, and that was a good thing because it protected her. But she’d also compromised him, and that wasn’t so good. She’d just heard him say that he was going to get rid of a body, as cool as that, and that must mean he’d done it before, many times.

  There was no one around as she headed towards the hotel exit; there never was in this place, except the odd girl like her. She was still wearing her whore kit under her clothes – crotchless pants and a bra with nipple holes in it, hold-up stockings that were now ripped, and stiletto heels – and she felt dirty and cheap. She stank of baby-oil-fuelled sex. She pulled her coat tighter around her, holding on to the laptop as if that would
give her some comfort, and put her head down as she clacked along the pavement. Thank God it was dark.

  She used the back entrance of the guest house and found her room deserted. She had no idea where Roza was. She’d had a job yesterday in the same hotel but she hadn’t been back since and Nush was getting worried. She’d have to speak to Darren about it.

  She quickly undressed and stuffed the dirty clothes into a laundry bag, then stepped into the shower and stood for a long time under the warm stream. Her nipples stung and she was sore between her legs. She scrubbed her nails and brushed her teeth, wanting to remove all traces of Mr Day. She couldn’t help wondering what Darren would do with his body. What about his wife? He had grandchildren too; he’d spoken to her of them. She felt overwhelmed.

  The reality of what she was doing assaulted her, and fear washed over her. She was playing a dangerous game, in a foreign country, with men she didn’t know. She’d found herself here in pursuit of a new life, that was all. But it hadn’t gone to plan. Sure, she was luckier than most in the sense that she hadn’t been forced here and held against her will like so many she’d heard about. She fancied that she was in charge, she called the shots, and she alone decided who she slept with. But she was getting deeper and deeper, and she doubted if she had what it took to keep men like Darren off her case. She thought of her mother, and how far she was from the girl who’d waved goodbye seven months ago.

  She stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around herself, sinking to the bathroom floor. She stayed there for a long time, head on her knees, wishing she was someone else, somewhere else.

  * * *

  After taking Anushka’s panicked call, Darren Beckett had become engrossed in a new game he’d bought for his Xbox. He smoked more weed and looked at his watch occasionally, promising himself that after the next assassination on the screen, he’d leave for Ambleside to clear up after the girl.

  When he woke, it was morning, and by then it was too late. A cleaner had entered Mr Day’s room to perform her morning duties and found him dead on the bed, just where Anushka had left him. The police had been called and were on their way.

  * * *

  Anushka was working the breakfast shift in place of Roza, who still hadn’t returned, when she heard the siren whizz past the hotel. It made her jump as she served kippers to a Japanese couple, and a wave of nausea overcame her. Unable to stop herself, she projectile-vomited into the woman’s kippers, and again onto the floor. Guests stared aghast as the sick dripped off the table. Anushka fled the room.

  The Japanese woman froze with her hands in the air and her husband began standing up and sitting down, as if part of some rhythmically challenged freak show. Gabriela ran over to their table and began apologising and trying to clear up the disgusting mess with towels. She assumed Anushka had a hangover. It was common for her roommates to spend the night out, and she suspected both of giving in to the temptation of dirty money. They’d get them all kicked out. Mrs Joliffe would be livid.

  * * *

  Out on the road, Constables Martin and Coombs used the blues for effect. The guy was already dead, but they didn’t get to stop traffic often and they wanted to secure the scene. The medics were already there and had pronounced life extinct, but no one could speculate about cause until the scene had been sealed and processed by forensics.

  Colin Day was well known in these parts, and the gossip would start quickly. He’d been mayor ten years ago, and had personally overseen the sponsorship that had led to the new visitors’ centre and the development of the waterside promenade along part of Windermere. He was a governor at King Charles Secondary School and appeared regularly in the Westmorland Gazette fund-raising for various charities. On top of all that, he was a reputable hotel owner and had made a name for himself running a series of tanning salons across Cumbria – an all-round good guy.

  Martin and Coombs parked on double yellows. A small crowd had gathered. They entered the Thwaite Hotel and were met by the manager, who introduced himself as Kevin Cottrell. His hands shook and his face was white; the constables doubted he’d seen a dead body before.

  ‘How many guests are staying at the hotel at the moment?’ Coombs asked.

  ‘Mr Day was our only guest,’ Cottrell replied.

  The officers looked at one another. A Lakes hotel with one guest was unheard of. Coombs made a note, his suspicions roused.

  ‘Have you any bookings due to check in today?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir.’ The manager looked decidedly uncomfortable and Coombs added to his notes.

  ‘The cleaner is still here, yes?’

  ‘Yes, she is. She’s in the kitchen having a cigarette. I bent the rules on this occasion.’ Cottrell tried a smile.

  Martin turned to Coombs and nodded, understanding passing between them. They’d worked together for four years and used a series of signals that would baffle most people.

  ‘I’ll come with you to see her,’ Martin told the manager.

  ‘And I’ll go to the room,’ Coombs said.

  Martin took out his pad so they could compare notes later and produce a comprehensive report for the crime unit; should it turn out to be a crime, of course. At this stage, their minds had to be open. Cottrell stood awkwardly between the two officers.

  ‘You can show me the room first,’ Coombs said. Cottrell was thankful for something to do, and hurried upstairs with Coombs close behind him. The hotel was a little run down, and Coombs noted that it could do with a few quid spent on it. He wondered if Mr Day was struggling for money. He also wondered why he was staying in a hotel when everyone knew he owned a luxurious pad of his own. Maybe things weren’t right at home.

  He sent Cottrell back downstairs before entering the room. A forensics officer greeted him. Colin Day lay on the bed; he looked as if he was asleep. Coombs had seen dead bodies before and he wasn’t overly fazed. It was always a shame, no matter who they were. The guy was naked and the forensics officer walked around the bed, looking for injuries or signs of foul play, while another officer searched the room. Coombs guarded the door and watched.

  After a few minutes, the second forensics officer beckoned to his colleague. He had found a small old-fashioned video camera on top of the wardrobe, pointing towards the bed. The red light indicated that it was switched on but out of battery, and Coombs wondered if it had been used recently, and why.

  Chapter 6

  At the Penrith and Lakes Hospital, a female police officer guarded the room of the young woman found near Greenside lead mine. The woman, who looked to be in her early twenties, had been put on intravenous fluids and had undergone a blood transfusion. The hospital had confirmed to the police that she was definitely recently post-partum, but her blood, as well as that of baby Dale, had been sent to be tested for a match.

  Meanwhile Dale continued to thrive and delight the maternity ward. He had a mass of black hair and fed greedily from the bottle. In two days he’d gained four ounces already.

  ‘I’m taking him home,’ one of the nurses said.

  ‘No you’re not, I am,’ another retorted.

  A few reporters remained outside, hoping to move their story along. Most of them were local, but a few nationals were also interested, more in the mother than in Dale. For Carl Bradley, reporter for the Manchester Evening Star, the story could turn into the scoop that might get him noticed. He’d managed to get inside the hospital posing as a visiting relative and had been astounded at the lack of security. Of course, he couldn’t get access to the mother, but he could work out who the female nurses were and accidentally be in the same pub after work. Carl was a player, and he’d found the perfect profession for it: give a woman the right attention and she soon opened her mouth as well as her legs.

  After a few goes, he’d found Tania. Apart from having large eyes and full lips, Tania had attended the mother on several occasions, and after a few white wines in Wetherspoon’s on Southend Road, where all the medical staff seemed to gather, she was only too happy to tel
l him what she knew. The nurses were like a tribe and obvious to spot. The girls who lived in the hospital residences were the easiest: freshly moved out of mummy and daddy’s and looking for some independence, only too happy to let a stranger pay for a few drinks in turn for a cheeky kiss. Carl wagered that Tania might offer more than a kiss, and he’d chivalrously oblige, because he was that kind of guy.

  The story was potentially bigger than he’d first thought. The young woman didn’t appear to understand English and babbled in some foreign language that the nurses couldn’t tell from Swahili. Everyone had an opinion: some said French, others Italian.

  ‘Haven’t they had a language expert in?’ Carl asked casually.

  ‘Don’t ask me, I wouldn’t know. There’s so many different languages spoken on the ward as it is, I wouldn’t notice if it was an expert or a cleaner.’ It seemed to be beyond Tania’s faculties to appreciate that it was foreign workers that kept the NHS afloat. ‘God, they’re everywhere, aren’t they? Hotels, McDonald’s, pubs, buses; you can’t go anywhere now and hear an English voice. It’s disgusting. It’s not too bad in here, though,’ she conceded, gesticulating to the bar staff, who were mainly British students.

  ‘Well, I’m in modern foreign languages at Lancaster University, so I can’t really say much, can I?’ Carl lied easily.

  Tania was instantly impressed. ‘So are you a professor or something? I thought they were old and boring.’ She giggled.