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The last shift
At ten to ten, Vera Senn removed the word WELCOME from the reception desk and put the sign in its drawer. Underneath it the varnish was darker, protected from forty years of elbows and sunlight. She rubbed the rectangle with her sleeve, then stopped. There would be an inventory in the morning. The new owners could decide what counted as damage. Outside the glass entrance, rain stitched the darkness to Salt Mere. The causeway would disappear at twenty to eleven and show itself again at ten past six. Bellweather Hotel officially closed at six. For ten minutes the building would belong to nobody who could reach it. Vera had accepted the last shift because she knew where everything was. It was the explanation she used when people asked, and lately nobody had asked twice.
At forty-seven, she had medium-brown skin and short black hair with a white streak above her left temple. Her charcoal cardigan had an unravelled cuff; beneath it she wore an indigo wool dress that had survived three different reception uniforms. Her brass wristwatch was six minutes fast, so she used the lobby clock. Maud Pell, the housekeeper, had left at half past eight with the remaining staff. She would meet Vera at the mainland barrier when the morning crossing opened, their last shared journey home. Vera was the only employee still here. On the desk stood a green-shaded lamp, the old handwritten register and a brass service bell. All the keys had gone into labelled envelopes except one: a long brass key on a tag stamped 12. It had been waiting beneath WELCOME.
At ten past ten, a man appeared beyond the rain-streaked doors. He did not knock. He stood with a flat brown leather case against his chest until Vera lifted the latch, as if he would not enter a house that had not invited him. His burgundy overcoat was wet across the shoulders, his cream scarf tucked carefully inside it. Silver ran through his receding dark curls and his short beard. On his olive face was the exhausted politeness of someone who had rehearsed an unreasonable request. "Adrian Rook," he said. "I'm fifty-eight now. That may make a difference." Vera knew the surname. He looked at the key. "My husband is expecting me."