“It can’t be. The hospital doesn’t order pickups for us.” Anna is certain the National Health Service doesn’t run to such luxuries. “It’s probably one of the other conference delegates. There are some Scandinavians just landed. It’s probably for one of them.”
But her words are wasted as Bella was already marching up to the driver. “I think that’s for us,” she says.
“Ma’am, what was your flight?” he answers in a soft, melodious voice that should be doing voice-over commercials. Perhaps it was. Perhaps in LA everyone has two jobs. The one they do and the one they hope to do.
Bella turns, looking expectantly at Anna, who dutifully gives her flight details.
“Thank you, ma’am. My name is Frank and I am your driver for this evening. The car is this way.” Frank motions his hand in a direction. “Please, ma’am, let me take your bags.”
Anna has been in plenty of dodgy countries where someone would quite happily pose as a driver to steal your possessions, but Bella has no such caution. She hands her bag over and, after a moment, Anna follows suit.
“Maybe it’s from the airline,” Bella suggests. “A thanks for attending to that heart attack.”
A more wary Anna catches up with the driver. “Who booked you to pick us up?”
“No idea,” he says as they exit the automatic doors. “I just get sent a list of pickups.” The sun has long since disappeared, but the night air is still sultry, a reminder of the sweltering heat of the daytime. Anna breathes in, but this air is redolent with aircraft fumes and car exhausts. The driver heads across a concourse and leads them to a big black SUV.
Anna is slightly comforted. If the car had been a beat-up, ancient jalopy, she would have turned around and headed straight back to the terminal. But this sleek, shiny monster is worth ten times her measly belongings. Perhaps Bella is right.
Frank puts their cases in the rear and settles into the driver’s seat. Anna climbs into the passenger side. At least one of them should be within arm’s reach of the steering wheel and door buttons. Although this is America – any kidnapper worth their salt will have a gun. And a gun ensures immediate compliance.
“Where to?” he asks.
Anna gives the name of the chain hotel she booked.
“Would you like to stop somewhere first? A club on the Strip, maybe? Santa Monica pier, perhaps?”
A decade earlier and Anna might have been tempted. But she is whacked. Even Bella doesn’t demur when Anna replies, “Just the hotel, please.” The brief brush with US immigration must have scared her friend.
Frank seems disappointed. “What about I take you the scenic route?”
Anna looks at Bella, prepared to make the sacrifice if her friend is keen, but Bella shakes her head.
“No, thanks,” Anna says. “Just the hotel.”
“Okay.” Frank fiddles with his phone for a minute before he looks up. “There is water in the door pockets if you need to hydrate.”
Still suspicious, Anna shakes her head. Bella, though, reaches for a bottle, unscrews the cap, and takes a large gulp, even as the driver starts signalling to pull away from the airport. Anna sits back in the leather seat and lets him drive. She turns her face to look out of the window. They pass barren streets and apartment blocks, their facets a mosaic of lights. Vacant parking lots and shops shuttered for the night. Stark telegraph poles and a never-ending tangle of cables.
Suddenly they are on the interstate. Acres of asphalt unbroken by any occasional palm. Brutal stretches of concrete to the side and overhead. The air conditioning blasts to bring the temperature to bearable levels. The radio is tuned to an easy-listening pop station, but Anna blanks it out. Her brain is too tired to function properly, but she does not want to sleep. Not until they are safe at the hotel.
A gentle snort from the rear tells her Bella has no such caution. Anna turns her head to see a golden head nodding gently with the big car’s motion. She is not sure if she envies Bella’s carefree nature or scorns it. The rhythm of the road, the gentle thump of the wheels all try to lull her to sleep, but she resists.
She takes out her phone and messages her family –En route to hotel– and receives only a couple of thumbs-up emojis in return. It is late enough in Los Angeles to make it workday time in England. Her father and elder sister, Eleanor, will be up at work and planning the week ahead, but the rest might still be in bed. She checks her email, but there is nothing other than spam. Eventually, she remembers her book and opens the Kindle app on her phone, returning to the windswept hills of Dorset and the discovery of another body.
She lifts her head as the car veers to the right to exit the interstate. The palm trees return and she breathes a sigh because she thinks she recognises the road. A few minutes later, and the car is pulling up in front of a tall building, all stone cladding and glass. Bright lights illuminate the entrance way.
“Ladies, we are here,” Frank announces. He exits the car and rounds the front, but Anna has already opened her door before he arrives. He grabs the rear door instead and a bleary-eye Bella looks out.
“Is this it?” she asks. Anna nods.
Frank has moved to the rear to extract their luggage. He accompanies them into the foyer carrying their suitcases. Anna feels around in her bag for her envelope of cash. She extracts a bill and passes it to him with her muttered thanks. He slips it into a pocket and disappears.
Only one receptionist is on duty, and she is engaged with another couple. Anna and Bella wait. When the couple take their room keys, nodding to the concierge, Anna motions Bella to go first. She looks around as she waits. The foyer is grander than the hotel room rate suggests. Near the plate glass frontage, low seats in unnatural colours for leather are set around coffee tables. There are no occupants, unsurprising given the hour, although the bar at the far end does have some small groups.
Another clerk appears, as if silently summoned, and Anna steps forwards. Intent on trying to untangle the fast-spoken patter delivered in an unfamiliar Mexican accent with her tired brain, Anna does not realise Bella has disappeared until she turns to move off herself. She shrugs off the moment of irritation. There was no reason for her to have waited. The hotel has twenty-five storeys. They are unlikely even to be on the same floor.
While the concierge gives another stream of incomprehensible speech in which she only deciphers the word “breakfast”, she leans down and grabs the handle of her suitcase. Her rubber-soled slip-on trainers squidge on the shiny terrazzo floor as she heads to the elevators. Her normal policy of stairs on the way up, elevator down, is temporarily suspended. For a start, she is on the twentieth floor and she has been awake for over twenty-four hours.
