Page 116 of A Murder is Going Down

‘One thing that’s driving me crazy: how did Elena and Michael rig the lift to break down in your story?’ Marianne asks. For someone desperate to get out of here,she’s tapping the brakes. ‘Neither of them seems like the type – a special needs teacher and an actor who are somehow able to tamper with a lift? You might want to come up with something more convincing in the final edit.’

‘The lift never broke down. Elena just pressed the emergency stop button.’

‘But her friend, uh, Sarah called the lift technician and he said it was an electrical fault,’ Marianne says.

I can’t suppress my smile, because shewaspaying attention. ‘The number on the control panel was for a burner phone. When Sarah called, she was talking to Michael.’

‘Who was already long gone?’

‘Exactly.’

I reach into my bag and pull out a stack of paper fresh from the printer. There’s a USB stick too, which I press into Marianne’s hand.

‘If the writing is bad, even a decent plot won’t be enough,’ she says.

‘It’s not bad.’

Another long pause.

‘I’ll read it. That’s all I’ll promise.’

‘That’ll do for now. My number’s on the last page.’

I push the intercom button for the last time (unless something goes seriously wrong in the next twenty seconds, which, I’ll tell you right now, it doesn’t). ‘Take us down.’

The lift starts to move and Marianne just about swoons.

Marianne steps out of the lift like an Olympic athlete ascending the podium. (Told you it’d be fine.)

The building manager, Hap (or Harold, if you’ve never belted a backhand towards his face), is standing nearby, texting on his phone. There’s a crowd of people in the foyer of the building, some dressed in high-vis, others in corporate wear.

‘Marianne,’ Hap says, looking horrified to see her. ‘Were youin there?’

‘Hap.’ Marianne looks briefly like she might snog him, she’s so relieved. ‘You’re here.’

‘There’s a problem with the lift.’ He clicks his tongue. ‘But you know that, clearly. You weren’t stuck in the lift this whole time, were you? I was told it was empty.’

‘Yes, we were in there for – I don’t even know – an hour? I’ve missed my lunch meeting.’

‘We?’

By now, I’m already slipping out the front door, shrugging on a jacket and tucking my hair up under a cap. Marianne has my real name and my number – she knows where to find me if she wants to make a thing of it (although good luck to her proving I had anything to dowith anything). But I don’t want to stick around to deal with any of it now.

‘There was a girl,’ I hear her say as the door closes behind me.

Yusef will be out by now or at least on his way, but I don’t look around for him as I hit the footpath. I’m not running – that’s too suspicious – but I’d be right at home in one of those Olympic walking events, except for the fact that I’m fully clothed instead of wearing the tiny bits of Lycra favoured by the pros.

It takes me ten minutes to reach our agreed destination: a café with a slightly tattered awning outside and the best almond croissants in Sydney. I would have been here in half that time except I took a few deliberate wrong turns just in case. Massive surprise: nobody was following me, but, hey, I got my step count up.

The barista behind the counter doesn’t look up as I come in. He’s too busy giving the coffee machine the kind of look I’d personally reserve for people who watch YouTube on public transport without their earphones. Only two tables are occupied, one by two older ladies with coffees and cake and the other by a young mum with a laptop in front of her and an empty pram beside her. It’s this table I approach.

‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘Is this seat taken?’

The woman looks up and her expression cracks into a smile. ‘You made it.’ Aggie – but you can call her Elena ifyou like – grips her walking stick to stand up, hugging me with her free arm. ‘So?’

‘It’s done,’ I say. ‘I think she went for it. We’ll find out, I guess. Did I beat him here?’

‘Yeah, but he’s out of the building. Stopped off to change his clothes, just in case. You know what he’s like.’