SS Glasgow Castle 13 Chapter Thirteen

The afternoon found me in Kross's bathroom, conducting a thorough investigation that included the inside and back of the water tank. I found nothing there. I moved on to examine the contents of his bathroom cabinet; I'd learned this advanced search technique from a woman who claimed she could instantly decipher a man from his cabinet contents (she dove into people's lavatories the way a cat dives into a garbage can). But all I discovered was a small bottle of Bayer's Aspirin, Dettol, and cotton wool.

I did not expect to uncover a bag of cocaine, or maybe some pharmaceutical drug that would turn out to be the standard treatment for manic schizophrenics. But I did hope to find some kind of clue that would tell me more about the kind of man he was. All I found out was that Kross enjoyed own-toothbrush-and-shaving-gear status with the Sharon in Vancouver - he'd left his behind - which felt slightly rea.s.suring.

I re-emerged into the living room, blinking at the yellow glare from the western window. I had already had a look around the big room, and knew that Kross's laptop was missing (which didn't distress me – I was far from being a computer ace, and he was bound to use a pa.s.sword anyway). I spent a couple of extra minutes circling the room with the African statuette in my hand – I really liked it, it was simply good art. There were miscellaneous odds and ends here and there - telephone book, a notebook-sized blank writing pad, BIC pen, roll of scotch tape, a few magazines (two about firearms!) and a couple of paperbacks (both thrillers).

In desperation I started going through the phone book, looking for numbers circled in red etc. but gave up fairly quickly, feeling stupid and helpless. I was becoming increasingly convinced I wouldn't find anything of any interest in Kross's flat. He wouldn't be so generous with the key otherwise, would he? What an inspired move on his part! Giving me that key was an excellent way to convince me of his candor, and that the treasure was for real.

I searched the kitchen next, getting nothing except maybe a quick taste of things to come when I poked my hand behind the fridge and a f.u.c.king big spider ran out along my arm. I hit it with my other hand so hard that I hurt myself, and spent a grisly couple of minutes was.h.i.+ng off its mashed remains in the kitchen sink. When I opened the fridge and saw the aguardiente - a lethal-looking clear liquid in a plain, heavy bottle topped by a twist cap.

That left the bedroom. I hadn't felt particularly guilty about poking around in the public and semi-public parts of Kross's flat, but the bedroom - that definitely was private s.p.a.ce. I hesitated for quite a while. Then I consulted the statuette - I picked it up, and looked into its eyeslits, and it said yes. I had a final, brief hope that the bedroom door would be locked, absolving me from further action. But it swung freely upon turning the doork.n.o.b, and I stepped inside.

It was dark in there, thanks to the drawn curtains and a huge, ancient wooden wardrobe that took up almost an entire wall. The wardrobe was complemented by an equally ancient chest of drawers. There was no bed, and for a silly moment I imagined Kross reclining in mid-air, as practiced by all the top witch doctors.

I crossed to the window, pulled the curtains back, and noticed an evil-looking hook screwed into the wall right next to the window, at hip height. I turned round and immediately saw the netting of the folded hammock. It hung from another hook screwed into the opposing wall. It had been hidden from view by the wardrobe. I found the hammock disturbing. A strong preference for sleeping in a hammock might not rate as an item on a psychiatrist's checklist, but like other eccentricities it did raise a tiny question mark.

I felt myself frowning as I ran an eye over the rest of the room. There was a small table - actually an ancient card table, its top was inset with green felt. There was a big, ugly wooden chair that undoubtedly ranked as an antique on my youthful continent. I walked up to examine it, and noticed a very long black hair hanging from the top backrest bar. It couldn't be Kross's, and it certainly wasn't mine. It looked a lot like Donna's hair, only it was longer. It put me on alert, and before opening any drawers I carefully scanned them for hairs strategically trapped between the drawer lip and the chest frame, a technique meant to reveal secret prying: I remembered reading about it in one of Ian Fleming's James Bond novels.

I opened the bottom drawer first, as recommended by all secret agents. The bottom drawer was empty; so was the next one. The third one up contained maybe half a dozen T s.h.i.+rts in white and olive green, and around ten spotlessly white jockey underpants. The top drawer contained socks: around a dozen pairs of knee-length hose.

I opened the ancient wardrobe next. The contents consisted of the pair of camo pants that I'd seen him wear while jogging, two pairs of jeans (one blue, one black), a pair of dark grey flannels, six or seven long-sleeved s.h.i.+rts (white and light blue), a couple of sweats.h.i.+rts (black, grey) and the grey cable-knit sweater that he'd worn during our drinking session. A thin fistful of ties hung from the clotheshook on the inside of the wardrobe door: all were black. There were no suits or jackets. I wondered about that for a little while; it was odd that he didn't own any.

I closed the wardrobe, feeling exasperated that I'd failed to find anything that would tell me more about Kross. Then I had a brainwave: I lay down on the floor, and looked under the chest of drawers and the wardrobe.

The wardrobe had a curvy, curlicued wooden skirt; I couldn't see a thing. I gritted my teeth and thrust my hand into the darkness. I touched wood, and almost instantly encountered something. It felt like a small rectangle of stiff, thick paper, fastened to the underside of the wardrobe with a piece of tape. I memorized its exact location, and pulled it free.

It was a business card. The front identified Mark Kross as a Consultant with Vanguard Security Services of 5, Ash Lane, WC1, London, England. The logo - a blade cutting through darkness - could equally well represent a manufacturer of lawnmowers. I decided I would call the phone number listed and ask a couple of discreet questions, but when I turned the card over I changed my mind.

The back of the card featured a single word, written in blue capital letters:

GOTCHA!

It was painfully obvious that he'd left it there for me.
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