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‘I know, she told me,’ she said, very aware of him and trying to hide it. She turned to smile at the nurse. ‘Thank you for taking care of me.’
‘Not at all, my pleasure.’
Bianca stood up. ‘Well, I’ll follow your instructions and go back to my apartment and get some sleep. Goodnight, Nurse Santos.’
She walked out of the door and Gil came after her. ‘I’m afraid you can’t just yet.’
She stopped and faced him, frowning. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The police have asked to talk to you tonight—don’t worry, they’re coming here to interview you. I told them you were in a state of shock and they won’t talk to you for long, but you must see them tonight. They have a pair of suspects picked up after another attempted mugging. This time they knocked the man out; he’s still unconscious so your evidence could be very helpful to them at this stage. You can talk to them in my office. It’s on this floor, at the far end of the corridor. Not far to walk!’
She couldn’t refuse. Reluctantly she followed him to a door which bore a brass plate with the word ‘manager’ on it. Gil ushered her inside and followed, closing the door.
She paused to look around, taking in the large, leather-topped mahogany desk, with its bank of telephones, a pile of papers on a leather-framed blotter, a silver-framed photograph and behind the desk a leather swivel chair.
‘This is where you work?’
He nodded. ‘Would you like something to drink while we wait for the police?’ He gestured to a modern cream-covered couch on one side of the room. ‘We’ll be more comfortable over there.’
She didn’t like the sound of that, but he took her elbow and steered her to it.
‘Would you like a brandy? It might calm you down.’
‘No, thank you. I’d much rather have some orange juice—if you have any.’
He nodded and opened a cabinet on the wall, which held a mini bar; he got out glasses and poured her chilled orange juice, poured himself some whisky and added a dash of soda. ‘Ice?’ he asked over his shoulder.
‘No, thank you; it waters the juice down.’
He carried the glasses over and sat down beside her, handing her the juice.
She sipped, anxiously watching out of the corner of her eye as he swallowed a mouthful of whisky. He was sitting far too close; his knee was touching hers. She could hear the clock ticking on the wall, hear the intake of her own fast breathing.
She felt his eyes wandering over her and her alarmed glance shot to him and away again. She tried to think of something to say but her mind had frozen; her body was entirely in control of her.
Any minute he was going to touch her. She knew it. She wanted it, which was worse. But she was terrified.
When someone knocked on the door she almost jumped out of her skin. Her orange juice shot over the rim of her glass and fell on her skirt. She frantically rubbed at it, trembling.
‘My God, your nerves are shot to hell, aren’t they?’ Gil Marquez said, staring, then he called out something in Spanish and the door opened.
Two Spanish policemen stood there. Gil got up and put down his glass, went over to shake hands with them, speaking to them in deep, grave Spanish. Bianca struggled to pull herself together, grateful for the fact that he stood between her and the policemen.
By the time she had to face them she was more or less in control of herself again and was able to answer their questions calmly enough.
They did not stay long. Clearly, her replies were disappointing to them; they had hoped she could give them a good description of the faces of the two men, but she had never seen their faces, and could only guess at their height and weight, and describe the bike they had been riding.
After asking her to go down to the police station next morning to attend an identity parade, they left, and she immediately told Gil that she wanted to go back to her apartment.
He didn’t argue this time; he walked her to the lift and took her down to the ground floor. As they went out of the exit into the garden they walked past the blonde German woman Bianca had met in the bar that evening. Freddie didn’t notice Bianca, but she did do a double-take as she spotted Gil Marquez.
‘Gil! There you are! We had just given you up. What happened to you? You were supposed to be having a drink with us. Did you forget?’
‘I’m sorry, Freddie,’ he said, kissing her lightly on both cheeks several times, French style, ‘Something urgent delayed me.’
‘Fine sort of brother-in-law you are!’ Freddie teased him. ‘Well, come on, let’s go into the bar now and have a nightcap, then I’m off to bed.’
Bianca kept on walking, feeling faintly sick. Brother-in-law, Freddie had said. He was her brother-in-law. He couldn’t be Karl’s brother—Karl was German, and his surname was Schwartz. Gil was Spanish and his surname was Marquez. That could only mean he was married to either Freddie’s or Karl’s sister.
