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The thick woven cotton was quite tightly wedged into the crease and Nina had to tug hard to get the crumpled folds to emerge, staggering back as the cover finally sprang free, bringing with it a small, dark object that bounced onto the floor.
When she picked it up, she discovered she was looking at a polished black leather card case with a tiny gold catch. She popped it open. Tucked behind a leather strip in the lid was a platinum credit card bearing the name of Ryan Flint…no, not one, but two platinum credit cards, two bank smart cards and an unmarked magnetic swipe card that was obviously some kind of security key.
Nina’s gaze fell to the bottom of the case, and she lifted out one of the thick, pale cream cards embossed with stark black lettering.
Ryan Flint
Pacific Rim Galleries
Honolulu, Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland
Nina’s eyes widened, her body going rigid, her hand clenching around the card, the sharp corners digging into her damp palm. Sweat bloomed across her body and she suddenly found her breathing locked into a frightening rhythm of shallow, uneven gasps, acid searing the back of her tongue. She slumped down on the couch, fighting for oxygen, retaining just enough presence of mind to push her head down between her denim-clad knees.
Ryan Flint.
Pacific Rim Galleries.
Blackness hazed the edge of her vision and she fought to push the encroaching nightmare back. The blood pounded in her skull and gradually the suffocating tightness in her chest eased enough for her to suck in a deep, reviving breath. Blindly, she pushed the little leather case back where she had found it, forcing it deep out of sight, and blundered for the door.
She ran across the springy grass between the two houses, stumbling as she mounted Ray’s uneven wooden steps, her head bobbing unevenly on her shoulders as she looked around for the old man, unable to make herself call out. Her throat felt swollen, grated raw, and she had no saliva to help her swallow. There was a pain in her hand and she looked down, surprised to see her fist still tightly clenched. It took a monumental effort to force her fingers to unfold and she stared at the mangled card in the centre of her palm.
The peeling front door stood open as it usually did when Ray was home and Nina walked inside on stiff legs, not stopping until she had reached the kitchen and the battered grey telephone fixed to the wall next to a corkboard smothered in children’s crayoned drawings and letters.
As if she were standing outside herself, Nina watched her hand reach out and unhook the receiver. Smoothing out the card on the chipped Formica bench with her other hand, she stared at it with glassy green eyes.
Ryan Flint. Pacific Rim Galleries.
She began to punch in the telephone number, not even registering the fact that the number she was dialling was several digits different from that printed on the corner of the card.
‘Good morning. Pacific Rim Galleries. Ryan Flint’s office. May I help you?’
The professional trill sent a shudder down Nina’s spine and she swayed, almost dropping the receiver.
‘No…that is, I…’ Nina struggled to overcome the numbing of her tongue.
‘I’m sorry. This is Mr Flint’s private line. Did you want the main gallery?’
Nina moistened her bloodless lips. ‘I—could I speak to Ryan, please,’ she said in a dry husk completely unlike her usual cool, clear tone.
‘I’m afraid Mr Flint isn’t here at the moment. Can I put you through to his personal assistant?’
‘Uh…no. When will he be back?’
‘Not for at least two weeks, I’m afraid. Mr Flint is on holiday.’
‘Oh…well, perhaps I’ll call him at home, then.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t give you that number. It’s unlisted—’
‘I know.’
The bright professional voice became a little more friendly and confiding. ‘I’m afraid you won’t get hold of him at home for the next couple of weeks, either. I understand he was going away and didn’t want to be disturbed. He did say he would check messages on his mobile, although currently it appears to be switched off.’
More likely buried in mud at the bottom of a ditch, Nina thought with a mirthless smile.
‘In case you don’t get in touch with him, would you like me to tell him you called? If you’d just give me your name—’
