365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 229

Day 229 – Write a little every day

…

Write a Little Every Day, Without Hope and Without Despair: The Ultimate Mantra for Creative Resilience

“Write a little every day, without hope and without despair.”

Attributed to the brilliant Danish author Isak Dinesen (pen name of Karen Blixen, author of Out of Africa), this single sentence is perhaps the most liberating piece of writing advice ever committed to paper.

In a modern creator economy obsessed with viral hits, massive word counts, and relentless hustle culture, Dinesen’s words feel like a cool breeze on a fevered brow. They strip away the performance, the anxiety, and the delusion, leaving behind the pure, quiet act of creation.

Let’s unpack this profound philosophy and explore how it can completely transform your relationship with your craft—whether you’re writing a novel, building a blog, or working on any long-term creative project.

The Anatomy of the Mantra

To truly understand Dinesen’s advice, we need to break it down into its three core components: consistency, the surrender of false hope, and the banishment of despair.

1. “Write a little every day…”

The first rule of Dinesen’s philosophy is deceptively simple: consistency over intensity.

Many aspiring writers fall into the trap of the “binge and burn” cycle. You wait for the muse to strike. You clear an entire weekend, chug espresso, write 5,000 words in a manic haze, and then—exhausted and drained—don’t write another word for three weeks.

Dinesen advocates for the compound interest of creativity. Writing 200 or 300 words a day might not feel like much, but over the course of a year, you will have a draft of a book. More importantly, showing up daily builds a creative identity. You stop identifying as someone who wants to write and start identifying as someone who writes.

2. “…without hope…”

This is usually the part that makes people double-take. Without hope? Isn’t hope what keeps writers going?

Dinesen isn’t telling you to be a pessimist; rather, she is warning you against the toxicity of conditional motivation.

Hope that this sentence will be a masterpiece.
Hope that this chapter will go viral.
Hope that this book will get a six-figure book deal and land you on the bestseller list.

When you write with hope (in this specific, transactional sense), your self-worth becomes tethered to the outcome. If the writing is hard today, you feel hopeless. If the external validation doesn’t come, you want to quit. Dinesen urges us to detach from the result. Write because it is what you do, not because you are hoping the universe will grant you a reward for doing it.

3. “…and without despair.”

Just as we must let go of frantic hope, we must also release despair.

Every writer knows the voice of despair. It whispers: This is garbage. You have nothing to say. Everyone else is better than you. Why bother?

Despair paralyzes. It turns a blank page into a terrifying monolith. Dinesen’s antidote to despair is radical acceptance. Some days your writing will be brilliant; other days it will be clunky and mediocre. Both are a normal part of the process. By refusing to despair over a bad writing session, you keep the door open for tomorrow’s session. You remove the emotional drama from the craft.

Why Modern Creators Need This Philosophy More Than Ever

We live in an era of metrics. Every tweet, blog post, and video comes with a dashboard tracking views, likes, and shares. It is easier than ever to fall into the trap of writing for the algorithm rather than writing from the soul.

When you apply Dinesen’s “without hope and without despair” rule to the digital age, it acts as a powerful shield:

Algorithm changes? Without hope, without despair. You keep writing.
A piece bombs and gets zero engagement? Without hope, without despair. You keep writing.
A piece goes viral and your inbox is flooded? Without hope, without despair. You keep writing.

This mindset keeps you grounded. It reminds you that the work is the reward, and the validation (or lack thereof) is just noise.

How to Apply Isak Dinesen’s Wisdom Today

If you want to integrate this legendary writing advice into your daily routine, here are three practical steps to take right now:

Lower the Bar: Commit to a ridiculously small daily goal—say, 150 words or 15 minutes. Make it so easy that you can do it even on your worst days.
Separate Creating from Editing: When you sit down to write your daily quota, turn off your inner critic. Do not judge the quality. Just get the words on the page. You can fix bad writing; you cannot fix a blank page.
Audit Your Motivations: Notice when you are writing for applause versus writing for the joy of expression. Gently steer your focus back to the simple act of putting pen to paper (or fingers to keys).

Final Thoughts

Writing is a marathon through a fog. You rarely know where you are going, and the destination is always changing. But if you can learn to put one foot in front of the other—to write a little every day, without hope and without despair—you will not only survive the journey; you might just find joy in the mist.

What did you write today? Let’s keep moving forward, one small word at a time.

…

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right

Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence after being so indifferent for so long.

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable and calls on an old friend for help in finding her.

After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.

But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.

What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 227/228

Days 227 and 228 – Writing Exercise

…

In my opinion, security was only as good as the people charged with maintaining it.

I had a security Chief, and he had minions. I was not interested in the who, only that when he told me the house and grounds were secure, they were.

If you were to ask me, total security was impossible. No one could be relied on to be one hundred percent focussed on the job, not when there were so many distractions.

I didn’t expect miracles. I simply expected a modicum of professionalism.

In that I was disappointed.

…

I lived alone.

I never used to, but sadly the woman I married was not who I expected her to be.

Discreet.

I didn’t mind if she had other friends, so long as it never became public. Even then it might not have bothered me, but it being a business rival, and involving stolen secrets, that was a step too far.

We did not part amicably.

And I don’t think I would ever trust another woman with any part of my life other than as an amiable acquaintance.

Thus my life, as described in a recent Sunday newspaper magazine article about me, was reclusive and a ‘frightful waste of an eligible bachelor’.

It was the last thing I considered myself to be, but it didn’t stop certain people from extolling the virtues of their unmarried daughters, or my friends from finding some available friends of theirs as a blind date.

They said it was a shame I didn’t have, at the very least, a full-time companion to accompany me as a plus one.

I actually thought that myself.

It was, in fact, the very reason I was still awake at two in the morning, staring at the ceiling and asking a rhetorical question: what was wrong with me?

And it was quiet enough to just hear a slight bump, like a book falling onto the floor.

Or it could have been my imagination.

Or it could have been once the clod hopper security guards doing his rounds in the dark.

Not for the first time.

I was awake anyway, so I must as well go down and see what was going on. I’d been meaning to talk to Jameson, my head of security, and the guards assigned to the night shift.

I changed into gym clothes and shoes and, keeping the lights off, did my best to creep downstairs, remembering to avoid the fifth, eleventh and twentieth steps because they creaked.

The door to the study was ajar. That was not how I left it. Obviously the security guard had come and gone without shutting the door after him.

I was going to pull it shut when I decided I would go in, finish some business and then try to get some sleep.

I stepped in, shut the door behind me and switched on the light.

It was a surprise – no, more of a shock – to see I was not alone, and my companion was not a security guard but an intruder. Dressed in black from head to foot.

There was only one way in and out: the door. The windows didn’t open, though I had been contemplating changing that.

My eyes might have been playing tricks, but I swear my intruder was a woman.

She looked at me. Surprise, but not fear.

Did she have a companion somewhere? I would have to be careful. I said, “Give me one reason I shouldn’t call the police.”

“I haven’t stolen anything yet.”

It was a woman. Youngish.

“What were you after?”

I couldn’t believe I was having a conversation with a thief who might turn violent at any moment.

“Not sure yet. Something of value. You’re that rich you wouldn’t miss it.”

“What if it had sentimental value?”

“You people don’t have hearts, just bank vaults. You wouldn’t know what sentimental is.”

“And you do?”

“It comes with being poor.”

I looked her up and down. Nothing about her screamed poorhouse. I recognised the outfit as being one the women wore at the gym I visited once a month. They were not inexpensive clothes she was wearing.

I shrugged. “Do you want me to give you a million pounds so you can become one of us, the un-sympathetics.”

“That would be a cop out and wouldn’t count.”

“Would you like me to find something worth a million pounds to leave with and become one of us?”

“The fence wouldn’t give me face value. It would have to be worth a lot more, but even then I’d get screwed over the interpretation of what its value is.”

“I could come with you…”

She laughed. “I see what this is. You keep chatting while the security or police come. I’d better go.”

“Empty-handed?”

“Shit happens. Especially to me. Your security is shit too. I’d sack the lot of them and get someone who knows what they’re doing.”

“Like you?”

“You’re annoying, you know that?”

“It’s been said. Call me in the morning; we can talk about a job.”

She simply shook her head and barged past me on her way out.

The aroma of lavender lingered long after she had gone.

…

It was probably the most honest conversation I’d had with someone under the age of 50. I was still sitting behind the desk in my study, trying to imagine what it was she was after.

It was not just random objects worth money.

She had been sent to get something specific. It meant she would be back to try again. Or someone else who wouldn’t leave without it.

At eight, I went out to the cottage just inside the front gate where the head of security lived and ran his operation. He had been recommended to me, and when interviewed had talked the talk

Now I had a breach.

I knocked; he seemed surprised to see me.

“Sir? You up and about early.”

“What happened last night?”

He was about to say nothing but must have caught the edge of my tone.

“I heard there might have been a breach in the main house. This morning the monitors are down, and a quick check shows some of the leads have been cut. No alarms were disabled or triggered. How did you know?”

“I had a conversation with a possible cat burglar last night. I checked, and she hadn’t taken anything, but had she not dropped something on the floor, I would not have discovered her in the house.”

He invited me in, and we went to the control room.

His man was idly watching about ten screens.

“When was this?” He asked.

“About half past one in the morning.”

There were more cameras than screens. The operator ran through the camera feeds from one in the morning to two, in fast-forward, and when he got to camera 16, overlooking the area that led up to the patio that adjoined mt study, a blurry figure in dark clothing was barely discernible against the dark background.

It was as if they knew the limitations of the system.

You would not have seen it unless you were looking for it, and four hours into the night shift, your attention wandering towards the land of nod. But odd, no alarms went off

It explained how the intruder got into my study.

And earned a termination notice for the night operator, and an apology. It would have been moot if I’d been killed.

“I’ll see that it never happens again.”

I just glared at him and went back to the manor house.

…

I had breakfast in the drawing room, also a reading room, and where I took friends and relatives when they visited. It was much more informal than the room we used for formal guests

This morning it was just Elsie, the breakfast server, and I, though I preferred to put food on my own plate, let her pour the coffee, and let her scowl at me when I did let her do her job.

“I heard there was a prowler.”

News travelled fast in a house like mine.

“A charming young lady cat burglar. I asked her if she wanted a job.” I took a plate back to the table, and she followed with the coffee. I waited until she poured a cupful.

“Why would you?”

“She circumvented our security system.”

“Anyone could.” Then she realised what she said. “Sorry, I didn’t quite mean it like that.”

She did, but I’d let it pass. Elsie was prone to speaking before thinking, sometimes an endearing quality. The housekeeper, Mrs Jones, wanted to let her go, but I liked her, so she stayed.

A knock on the door. Abigail, one of two personal assistants, put her head in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a caller who says she wants to finish what you started earlier this morning.”

The cat burglar. Now that was a surprise. She came over and gave me the cell phone. Both women left the room.

“Miss Burglar,” I said, “What can I do for you?”

“You mean what you said earlier?”

“Subject to a satisfactory interview, yes.”

“Where do I meet you?”

“Back here. Only this time, don’t try to break in. I have a front door; you can knock on it, and someone will answer it.”
–
“Later, then.”

She disconnected the call.

My first thought, she needed better access to steal whatever it was she needed to. It meant she was not doing this because she wanted to, but because she had to. Which meant someone had leverage.

My day just got less boring.

…

Just Jennifer arrives shortly before lunch, driving a beat-up Mini, a more modern version of an old Morris Mini I once drove.

She parked it with a flourish outside the front door, scuffing up the gravel surface and incurring a few wrathful remarks from the head gardener, a rather irascible Irishman called O’Rafferty.

She came to the front door, and Riley, the head of the household and head butler, answered it. He did not suffer fools gladly, nor any others.

He had an old blunderbuss which he used to threaten church hawkers and door-to-door salesmen. I had to bail him out of jail once.

He escorted Just Jennifer to the lunch room, which was still the drawing room used for all daytime meals, and afternoon high teas.

He announced her as Just Jennifer, told her to enter, and then closed the doors behind him. Elsie was standing by the servery, fully aware of who Just Jennifer was.

Just Jennifer looked around the room, at Elsie in her finest morning servery clothes, the array of food and then me.

“This is ridiculous. Do you know how many starving people there are?”

“Within the 10-mile radius of this house, yes. We provide meals for as many who ask, as well as school lunches for every child who wants one. Whatever is not used is given to several nearby homeless shelters where staff volunteer their services. I visit them when I can.”

I said that not for the idea of getting acknowledgement; very few people were aware of what we did, and I preferred to keep it that way. Someone once told me I couldn’t save the world, but I could help those nearby.

“I’m disappointed,” she said.

Surprising. ‘Why?”

“Because I wanted to believe you were a heartless bastard.”

“It’s a free world.”

“Actually, it isn’t.”

I shook my head.

“Sit down and tell Elsie what you want, and she’ll get it for you.”

“I can do it myself.”

“That’s what I said, and Elsie took it badly. She likes her job, and she’s very good at it. And gets more appreciation than she did when she worked in a snobby men’s club in London.” I looked over in her direction, and she made a face that was less than the scowl she wore five minutes ago.

Just Jennifer sat and told Elsie what she would like.

Elsie served her first, then poured me a fresh cup of tea, then went back to her station.

“Is this what it’s like all the time?”

“No. Sometimes I go down to the London residence. Sometimes I go away for the weekend, you know, a change of scenery.”

“Why aren’t you married?”

“What woman could put up with all of this?”

“I could.”

“For about a week, yes. A month tops. Then you slowly go mad. You love the idea of it. That novelty wears off very quickly, once the media get a hold of you and then never let you alone.”

“If I work for you?”

“They’ll just ignore you. Maybe as the hired help some enterprising reporter will offer you a large sum of money to betray me.”

“How big a pile?”

“A hundred to a thousand pounds. They seem to think that’s a lot of money to someone like their impression of impoverished employees being taken advantage of.”

“What sort of job would you give me, given you know my talent? And how much?”

“Are you looking for a job?”

“Since I failed last night, yes. How quick people are to condemn you after one failure.”

“We live in a fickle world. The job: personal bodyguard, which means basically all day, every day. The pay: you get to live and eat free wherever we go, a dress allowance because you have to look the part, and an offshore account where you can deposit money for your retirement. A lot of money. I am buying your discretion.”

“No time off?”

“When nothing’s happening, yes, plenty of time off. Which happens more often than not. You have to sign an NDA, and not break it. Everyone who works for me does.”

“Nothing bad; I have a line I don’t cross.”

I would like to see that line because breaking and entering and stealing seemed pretty bad to me.

“Nothing bad. I hire an assassin to take care of those problems.”

She looked horrified.

“I don’t, but it’s a thought. Some of those reporters cross lines and get away with literal murder. I guess it goes with the territory. You need time to think?”

“Over a second sandwich, perhaps.” She looked at Elsie and nodded.

…

I didn’t believe for a moment she had come for a job, or that her one mistake had cost her her reputation.

She had come on a pretext, and hoping I’d be foolish enough to show her around. It wasn’t the first subject she broached, but it came after the second sandwich.

And I hated to admit I liked her audacity. Whatever she had been looking for, she had run out of time and needed a second visit. And a list of possible places.

After all, I did have three separate safes in different places, scattered about the manor house, excluding a smaller one in my room. I kept a gun there.

Just in case.

But as for what she was after, I couldn’t guess. I was surprised I hadn’t got a call from Proctor, head of the London residence, about any break-ins.

I spoke to the lawyers earlier, and he said that it was probably an art thief, and that there were several canvases that were worth a lot to private collectors.

It had to be that.

I took her on a tour of the house and showed her the art collection, including the expensive pieces, but she didn’t seem that interested, or acted the part very well. I did notice the surreptitious glances at the internal CCTV cameras and security within the house. Maybe later I would ask her where the pitfalls were.

We ended up back in the drawing room, now cleared and back to being just a drawing room.

Abigail was waiting for me, a pensive expression meaning there was a problem.

“Can I have a private moment?”

“Is it top secret stuff?”

I knew what it was about, and it wasn’t.

“Not particularly.”

“Then don’t worry about Jennifer. What is it?”

“Your plus one for tomorrow night. Miss James is unable to get back in time from Santorini. Shall I tell them you will be going alone?”

“Who can resist the Greek Islands in Summer?”

I looked over at Jennifer, who was trying her best to appear like she was ignoring us. “Fancy going to a boring party.” I looked at Abigail. “Whose birthday is it again?”

“Lord Berenson.”

“Ah, yes. Lady Berenson had been trying to get me to take an interest in Tabitha.”

“It’s about time you settled down.”

“You are starting to sound like my mother.”

“She asked me to look after you.”

“And you have.” I turned back to Jennifer, who was now looking at us. “Care to go as my plus one. It’d give you an excellent look at how the job would work, or not.”

“A plus one is not a bodyguard.”

“It is if you don’t want anyone to know you’re a bodyguard.”

Abigail simply shook her head. “Let me know what you decide.” And left.

“Who is she?”

“My principal private secretary, and de facto mother, apparently. Are you interested in going? We’ll have to get you a dress because it’s a proper to-do, and dancing. You do dance?”

“What sort of dancing?”

“Stuff an orchestra produces. There’s no dangling disco balls and loud thumping noise that passes for music. The cream of society will be there. If you decide not to stay with me, you can research other wealthy prospects.”

“I’m done with that.”

“Are you in or out?”

“One night to test the water. See if I like it or hate it.”

“Great.” I picked up the phone and called Abigail.

…

I wasn’t sure what sort of game I was playing, only that it could end badly.

But it wouldn’t be any worse than the last time I was disappointed, given that I was the subject of the deception.

Maybe I wanted to unmask her.

Maybe I liked what I couldn’t have.

Maybe I was just tired of the life I was pretending to lead. I understood now why my father collapsed under the weight of responsibility, trying to be everything all at once, and ending up master of nothing.

It was easy to say that I had to be an example to everyone. That I learned quickly was impossible.

That I wanted to marry a simple girl with simple tastes and live in a simple house … no, none of that was possible. Not when you have millions of people perched on your shoulders waiting for you to stumble.

My older brother ended his own life buried under the pressure of expectation, and my sister disappeared to New Zealand, leaving me the mess to clean up. My parents died of natural causes, way before they should have.

I looked around the room and remembered that morning before my brother died, looking every bit the normal, self-controlled businessman who could absorb any amount of pressure and come out smiling.

I had no idea what he intended to do, only that a call from the police the next morning saying they had found him dead in his apartment. An overdose. He had never taken drugs in his life. At least not that I ever knew about.

I closed my eyes, then opened them.

Just Jennifer was still there. Looking a million pounds in the dress Abigail had ‘found’ and sent for a fitting.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Jennifer had tried not to show any feelings until the dress arrived. One look, I thought, and she was hooked. It was like Cinderella at the ball.

“It’s a peek into a world I could never be a part of. All I’ve ever seen is the photos in magazines.”

“The photos lie. That world is full of bitter and nasty people who look down on everyone. Well, most of them. You don’t get to be as wealthy as they are without smashing a few heads along the way.”

“Do you?”

“I represent old money. My forebears smashed the heads for me. I just direct where it goes, the custodian till the next generation.”

“You have no children.”

“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of relatives who want me dead so they can claim the inheritance.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’ll have your bodyguard close.”

“They fix up a room for you?”

“It’s bigger than my flat, and that’s just the bedroom. It’s like living in a fairy tale.”

I thought that too when I was old enough to realise where I’d landed.

It was late, and it had been a long day. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

…

Sleep wouldn’t come.

Trying to think about exactly what Jennifer was after was doing my head in.

I had hoped that keeping her close she might let something slip, but she had dodged all my questions so deftly I had to admit she might be smarter than me.

I had even considered the possibility she was an assassin hired by the obscure members of the family to kill me so they could get their hands on the inheritance.

The idea of inviting her into my room seemed just a little too forward, and a typical male thing when it came to considering a relationship, much the same as some would after a night in a pick-up bar, something I would never do.

My brother was one who fervently believed that was where he would find the woman of his dreams, rather than the austere and matronly types our mother found for us. Nobility, she said, must marry nobility, her being the daughter of a Count.

I agreed with my brother, only I didn’t have his confidence, or his nerve to simply ask a woman if she wanted to have sex with him.

If she did come in, what would I do? It was as much on my mind as why she was here.

Closer to just before dawn, I was lying in the dark, looking at objects just barely illuminated by the glow of the digital numbers on the clock.

The door cracked a little before it opened just enough to let a slim body pass. It closed again, silently.

I hoped death would be swift and silent.

Her white nightdress attracted the green light of the clock, enough to show part of her. She stopped beside the bed, between the clock and me and looked down.

“You’re awake, aren’t you?”

Of course. She had been listening for rhythmic breathing.

“How can I possibly sleep with you just down the corridor?”

“It should be easy. I don’t mean anything to you.”

“Except as a plus one. Why are you here? To drive a dagger into the devil’s heart?”

“I thought we established you were heartless?”

I reached out and took her hand in mine. I could feel a slight tremor, though that could have been me as much as her. It has been a while since the last time I was this intimately involved. Or not.

She didn’t pull her hand away.

“Really, why are you here?”

“Morbid fascination. I didn’t come to steal anything. I just wanted to see your house, the life you lead, the person you are, not what they write about you in the media. You frightened me when you found me. I thought you would call the police and have me arrested. You didn’t. That’s when I knew I had to see you again. I’m nobody.”

“Well, later today you’ll be somebody. If you want to be somebody. I’m not joking when I say that your life could change dramatically, and not for the better. There’s always a cost; it’s whether you want to pay it. I have no choice. You do.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“There’s a lot of that going around. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Let me stay for a bit. I’m sure I heard ghosts rattling in the corridor.”

“It’s possible. I’ve heard a few strange things in my time here. Probably my disapproving parents. Sure. There’s room for four in this bed.”

She pulled back the covers and slipped in. There was space between us.

“I’m not carrying a hidden weapon. It’s not possible in this nightdress I was given, and I don’t bite. I reserved that for my sisters who were horrible to me for a long time.”

“Are you a car burglar?”

“Not a very good one. You were my first victim. And probably my last. I’m thinking of taking up a career of being a plus one. I’ll let you know how that goes. Tomorrow, or perhaps it’s now, later today.”

She rolled over, facing away from me, then moved closer, then took my hand and held it closer to her.

“Good night.”

The only thought I had was that if she had come to kill me, I’d be dead now. Either from a knife, but more likely from having a heart attack.

It was an interesting thought.

…

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.