Page 28 of The Stranger in Room Six

A text pings through at midnight.

The top boss is getting twitchy. This isn’t just your head on the line, it’s mine too. So find something, or else.

I toss and turn all night with worry until, the next morning, I hear a voice outside my door. A hoity-toity tone that can only belong to one person: Mabel Marchmont.

She’s telling someone how she’s decided to go to the afternoon concert ‘even though I don’t usually care for them’.

Bingo! I’ve been waiting for the old crone to leave her room so I can go snooping. It’s got to be there somewhere, hasn’t it?

None of the residents’ rooms lock, in case there’s an emergency and the carers need access. In theory, anyone could break in and go through your things, which is awkward if, like me, you possess a gun. So, when I quietly leave Room Six, I take my Colt 45 with me.

Mabel is clearly very tidy, I have to say.

Her clothes are neatly hung. There’s no paperwork, no bundle of letters, no mementoes.

No photographs, even. Nothing that gives any kind of clue about Mabel’s past, apart from a creepy old doll that must have been made years ago.

It sits on a chair, staring at me glassily. Gives me the fucking freaks.

I’m rummaging through a drawer when the door swings open.

‘What are you doing in here?’ asks the carer at the door.

‘What do you mean? This is my room.’ I reply boldly. If there’s one thing you learn in this business, it’s to think fast.

‘This is Miss Marchmont’s room. You must have got lost.’

I put on my frail voice. ‘Oh dear. Really? I seem to be getting more and more confused.’

‘That’s all right, love. Let me help you back.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. When we reach my door, I insist that I’ll be fine on my own. I hide my gun under a floorboard I’ve managed to loosen, then sink down onto my bed and heave a sigh of relief.

My phone pings again. This time it’s a voice message, robotic as if it’s been funnelled through some AI system.

‘This is a firm deadline. If you don’t find that list by July 12, expect to be replaced.’

July the 12th is the barbecue they’ve all been going on about here. Why then?

But it’s the final word of the message that freaks me out. Replaced. We all know what that means in this business: missing without trace.

I’ve got to find those bloody names. No matter who gets in my way.