Read Online Flashback (The Saskia Brandt Series Book Two) by Ian Hocking - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ian Hocking
Tags: Science-Fiction, technothriller
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an afterthought, swiped her knickers from the kung fu wooden man.
Midway down the landing, she strained to look at the entrance space. Its coats were bulky enough to conceal her caller, and the scattered shoes might obscure his feet, but she felt certain that she was alone in the flat with Cory.
She took careful seconds over the final steps and let her rucksack slip, easy doing it, to the floor. A riser creaked behind her. She looked up. Nobody there. Just cooling wood. She put her eye to the spy hole and checked the outside hall: empty.
She texted:
I’m here. Where are you?
Jem looked at the door and its array of locks. Her doubt rested on the warning about Cory. He had not convinced her that he was the father of Saskia, but, then, there was not a great deal to know about Saskia, as the woman herself had said on countless occasions over the past month.
Her phone vibrated again.
From behind her came the sound of a footstep. She turned time-lapse slow.
Cory’s white cane had fallen across the lowest riser. Jem blew out her trapped breath and replaced the cane among the umbrellas.
The phone felt wet in her grip.
You’re close. Look for an envelope.
Why is his cane down here when he’s up there?
Faster now, she played the glowing screen of the mobile across the black trainers, a pair of Birkenstocks, her own boots, and found nothing. Then she remembered that, two days before, when she and Saskia had returned from their shopping trip, Saskia had asked her to collect her post from the box in the lobby. Had there actually been any post? Jem could not remember either finding any or giving it to Saskia. She reached now into the outer pocket of her duffle coat and withdrew two items of junk mail. The first announced that Saskia had won a lottery and the second that she had been selected for a limited-offer credit card. The latter was dusty and dented. It had been redirected three times. The sender was ‘Proctor Prospects’ and its exterior read, ‘We deliver same day, next working day, and last week!’ Jem flexed the envelope. There was something stiff inside.
She ripped it open and fanned the contents across the floor. The covering letter was dated December. There was nothing in that, or the enclosed leaflet, or the fake credit card, that could be a message from her mysterious correspondent – but, as she looked, a handwritten message appeared near the foot of the leaflet. It read, ‘Hold on, Saskia – D.’ Jem blinked and looked again. It was gone.
A white light pulsed on the floor and she reached towards it, expecting another text. But the phone was already in her hand. This radiance came instead from the credit card. Bemused, Jem touched it. The card was warm. She looked close and saw the long number slide away. The coloured sections parted. It became a pale tile.
Text scrolled across the centre.
Please attach the earpiece.
‘There is no earpiece,’ she whispered. ‘Who are you? Where are you sending these messages from?’
Lower your voice. Where is Saskia?
‘Stop asking me that. Saskia’s dead.’
The text scrolled away. Absurdly, Jem felt that the card was thinking.
How?
‘Her plane crashed.’
Where did it crash?
‘I’m leaving.’
She rose and tugged on her boots. But before she zipped them, curiosity returned her eyes to the card.
WAIT.
‘What?’
We can help each other.
‘How? Who says I need help?’
I know what you want.
Jem paused. The world bled brightly from the edges of the door and through its spy-hole. Behind her, Cory might have been on the topmost riser, watching. She whispered, ‘Her system?’
I will show you, but not here. It’s not safe.’
Jem stood. She was coiled again, set for release. Berlin was out there and ready to absorb her like an electric current, earthed, escaping to everywhere.
Chapter Eleven
The Angleterre Hotel was not far from Potsdamer Platz. Jem approached it carefully, sizing up the silver roof and the facade brimming with glass. She felt
Midway down the landing, she strained to look at the entrance space. Its coats were bulky enough to conceal her caller, and the scattered shoes might obscure his feet, but she felt certain that she was alone in the flat with Cory.
She took careful seconds over the final steps and let her rucksack slip, easy doing it, to the floor. A riser creaked behind her. She looked up. Nobody there. Just cooling wood. She put her eye to the spy hole and checked the outside hall: empty.
She texted:
I’m here. Where are you?
Jem looked at the door and its array of locks. Her doubt rested on the warning about Cory. He had not convinced her that he was the father of Saskia, but, then, there was not a great deal to know about Saskia, as the woman herself had said on countless occasions over the past month.
Her phone vibrated again.
From behind her came the sound of a footstep. She turned time-lapse slow.
Cory’s white cane had fallen across the lowest riser. Jem blew out her trapped breath and replaced the cane among the umbrellas.
The phone felt wet in her grip.
You’re close. Look for an envelope.
Why is his cane down here when he’s up there?
Faster now, she played the glowing screen of the mobile across the black trainers, a pair of Birkenstocks, her own boots, and found nothing. Then she remembered that, two days before, when she and Saskia had returned from their shopping trip, Saskia had asked her to collect her post from the box in the lobby. Had there actually been any post? Jem could not remember either finding any or giving it to Saskia. She reached now into the outer pocket of her duffle coat and withdrew two items of junk mail. The first announced that Saskia had won a lottery and the second that she had been selected for a limited-offer credit card. The latter was dusty and dented. It had been redirected three times. The sender was ‘Proctor Prospects’ and its exterior read, ‘We deliver same day, next working day, and last week!’ Jem flexed the envelope. There was something stiff inside.
She ripped it open and fanned the contents across the floor. The covering letter was dated December. There was nothing in that, or the enclosed leaflet, or the fake credit card, that could be a message from her mysterious correspondent – but, as she looked, a handwritten message appeared near the foot of the leaflet. It read, ‘Hold on, Saskia – D.’ Jem blinked and looked again. It was gone.
A white light pulsed on the floor and she reached towards it, expecting another text. But the phone was already in her hand. This radiance came instead from the credit card. Bemused, Jem touched it. The card was warm. She looked close and saw the long number slide away. The coloured sections parted. It became a pale tile.
Text scrolled across the centre.
Please attach the earpiece.
‘There is no earpiece,’ she whispered. ‘Who are you? Where are you sending these messages from?’
Lower your voice. Where is Saskia?
‘Stop asking me that. Saskia’s dead.’
The text scrolled away. Absurdly, Jem felt that the card was thinking.
How?
‘Her plane crashed.’
Where did it crash?
‘I’m leaving.’
She rose and tugged on her boots. But before she zipped them, curiosity returned her eyes to the card.
WAIT.
‘What?’
We can help each other.
‘How? Who says I need help?’
I know what you want.
Jem paused. The world bled brightly from the edges of the door and through its spy-hole. Behind her, Cory might have been on the topmost riser, watching. She whispered, ‘Her system?’
I will show you, but not here. It’s not safe.’
Jem stood. She was coiled again, set for release. Berlin was out there and ready to absorb her like an electric current, earthed, escaping to everywhere.
Chapter Eleven
The Angleterre Hotel was not far from Potsdamer Platz. Jem approached it carefully, sizing up the silver roof and the facade brimming with glass. She felt
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