Tooth arrived back in his hotel room shortly after 1 a.m., tired now and getting increasingly angry. Angry with the rain, angry with the goddam cold, angry that he had totally failed to find what he was looking for. And angry he had got a splinter in his finger putting the window boarding back.
He ordered steak and fries, coffee and a bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon from room service and stood by the window, looking down at the lights of Brighton seafront and the black water of the English Channel beyond.
While he waited for his meal and drink to arrive, he was planning to return to Jodie Bentley’s house and make a search of every inch of the property. The memory stick could be anywhere. The bitch might have it with her, of course, that was a possibility. He’d searched plenty of residences and offices in his time. He knew all the places where people hid stuff, thinking they were being clever, like fake books, bathroom cabinets, sock drawers, on top of kitchen cupboards, in empty containers, under floorboards. Mostly when people hid stuff, there were indications.
You’d see the tiny indent in a floorboard where a screwdriver had been inserted. The books not entirely flush. Clothes stacked a little bit too neatly at the back of the drawer.
But tonight, nothing. Nada. Goose eggs.
After the room-service guy had delivered his tray and departed, Tooth hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door then, standing on a table, taped over the smoke detector.
He sat down at the table and poured himself a large whisky, then using the coffee cup saucer as an ashtray, lit a Lucky Strike, flipped open the lid of his laptop and googled ‘Organza’, adding, ‘cruise ship’.
Moments later an image appeared of a sleek white liner with a single, rectangular funnel.
He typed the words ‘Itinerary, March’.
The ship had sailed from Dubai yesterday, bound for Mumbai, India, due to arrive in three days’ time. The itinerary carried on for months, the ship steadily making its way to Cape Town, then up the west coast of Africa, then across to Ascension Island and on to Rio de Janeiro. It was a round-the-world cruise.
But there was no way Jodie Bentley would be staying on it for all that time.
He looked at the different legs and journey times. If she disembarked in Mumbai, she could be home in four days. If it was Goa, that would be six days at least before she’d be back. It looked like he had a minimum of four days to occupy himself in this freezing, wet hellhole. Four days to search her place again, if there was any point.
He stared at his meal, the room filled with the smell of it, and wished he was back home in the sunshine, on his boat with Yossarian, the trawl lines stretched out behind him, catching healthy food for them both.
He drained his glass, refilled it and lit another Lucky Strike. A printed sign warned him there was a £250 fine for smoking in this room.
As he dragged on his cigarette, he began to form a plan.
He turned back to his laptop.