“How do I know you’re a real policewoman?” asked Yolanda, irritated by the attitude.

PC Whelan passed her ID card across the desk. “Satisfied?” As though Yolanda were an unreasonable nag and not a responsible member of hotel staff concerned about guests’ privacy.

The ID looked legitimate. Damn. Now Yolanda had no choice but to tell her. “There’s a woman called Kate Zilber in 419.”

“I need the key to that room,” said PC Whelan. She held out her hand, nearly whacking Yolanda in the face with it, and made repetitive flicking movements with her fingers as if to say, “Come on, hurry up.”

“No,” Yolanda told her. “I’m sorry. Why do you need the key?”

“With respect, I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

A man in the waiting area, no more than four feet from the reception desk, lowered his copy of the Daily Telegraph and said, “However, if you did explain, you’d stand a better chance of getting the key, so . . .”

Yolanda recognized the man whose check-in process earlier in the day had taken fourteen years. She’d nearly started crying, he’d asked so many questions. Mr. . . . Some weird name beginning with a “U.” Undalis or something. No, Uskalis. U-s-k-a-l-i-s. Nice of him to intervene on her behalf, but what was he doing reading his paper in reception when he had a far more comfortable room to go to? Now that she’d noticed him, Yolanda realized he’d been sitting there for a long time.

“Thank you, sir,” said PC Whelan. “I think I know how to do my job.”

“I’m not sure you know how to do it very well,” said Uskalis. His voice sounded different. Not only his voice, but his manner too. “In your position, I’d have had the key in my hand in a matter of seconds,” he said. “You still haven’t got it.”

Yolanda, bolstered by his support, decided to hold out for as long as she could. He was quite right. This policewoman was rubbish at dealing with people. With all the training courses these days for anyone who had to deal with the public, how did she get away with being so brusque and rude? “Can I speak to someone and check you’re who you say you are?” she asked PC Whelan.

“You’ve seen my ID.”

“Why do you need to get into Nicki Clements’s hotel room?” asked Mr. Uskalis.

This was getting weirder by the second. “There is no Nicki Clements,” Yolanda told him. “Her name’s Kate Zilber.”

“Actually, her name’s Nicki Clements,” said Uskalis. “Is she in some kind of trouble?”

“I’ve been told she is,” said PC Whelan.

“What kind of trouble?”

“I’ve no idea. The message I picked up wasn’t exactly clear.”

“Trouble should be good enough, right?” Uskalis turned to Yolanda. “One of your guests is in danger. Are you going to let us in?”