Sleep. C.L. Taylor

6, which has a view of the mountains. Ms Gardiner you’re in Room 3, with a view of the sea.’ I look back up at the guests. ‘You’re welcome to choose which of those rooms you’d like. I can cancel the second room. You won’t be charged twice, there’s obviously been some kind of mistake in the booking.’

      ‘I’m sorry?’ Joe Armstrong looks at me blankly. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

      Fiona gives me an equally confused look and I feel the colour rise in my cheeks. David, heading into the dining room, chuckles as he opens the door. He knows exactly what I’ve done.

      ‘I thought you were a couple,’ I explain. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just when you walked in together I assumed—’

      ‘Oh, God, no!’ Joe laughs heartily then catches the hurt look on Fiona’s face and quickly corrects himself. ‘Not that … Fiona’s lovely. I’m sure you’d make a wonderful girlfriend but …’ He runs a hand over his hair. ‘We’re not a couple. We don’t know each other. We only got chatting on the dock.’

      ‘It’s my fault, sorry.’ I shoot Fiona an apologetic look. ‘I’m new. I haven’t worked on reception before.’

      ‘Right.’ The edges of her lips rise but it’s more of a grimace than a smile. She holds out her hand. ‘If I could just have my key?’

      ‘Of course.’ I hand her the key to Room 3 and Joe the key to Room 6.

      ‘Can I take that for you?’ Joe says as Fiona adjusts her rucksack.

      ‘No, thank you,’ she says tightly. ‘I’m quite capable of carrying it myself.’

      I turn back to the laptop as they plod their way up the stairs, Fiona leading and Joe following behind. As their footsteps reverberate on the guest corridor above my head, David pops his head out of the dining room door.

      ‘Sorry,’ he says with a laugh. ‘I could have corrected you but where would the fun be in that?’ His eyes flick towards the top of the staircase. ‘We’ve got a few interesting personalities this week. I think they’re going to keep us on our toes.’

       Chapter 13

       Steve

      Steve turns up the collar of his coat, mentally cursing his lack of umbrella and phone as he passes yet another South London street that doesn’t contain a pub called the White Hart. Still, no Google Maps and no GPS is infinitely preferable to the alternative, a stretch inside for murder. So far, other than the burner phone in his desk drawer and one very short phone call, there’s no evidence linking him to Jim Thompson, and he intends to keep it that way.

      ‘Where the fuck is – ah!’ He stops at the entrance to a small, characterless back street, hurries down it and pushes at the door of the White Hart.

      He raises his eyebrows as he walks in. Yet another old boozer that’s been transformed into a gastropub with colonial-style ceiling fans, stripped floors, an oak bar and a selection of craft ales. Fucking hipsters, he thinks as he walks up to the bar and orders a pint of Heineken. They like to pretend they’re knitting their own houses, serving food on dustbin lids and turning their backs on technology but they’re capitalist bastards at heart, just like the rest of us.

      He takes a sip of his pint and casually glances around, looking for Jim. It’s been a while since he last saw him but he immediately recognises the balding bloke in the thick glasses sitting on his own in the corner, a newspaper spread on the table in front of him. They were unlikely cell mates, back in the day (a long way back in the day), Steve in for fraud and Jim in for GBH, but they shared the same scathing sense of humour, a similar background and the same moral code.