by Ray Timms
Gent bought a couple of check shirts, a pair of walking boots, two pairs of cargo pants and a Safari hat. Next stop was in a hardware shop where he bought a yellow hard hat, a hi-vis jacket, a pair of surveyor’s boots, and a measuring tape– the kind that you wind in on a reel. Coming across a catering supplier, Gent purchased a chef’s outfit and a waiter’s uniform. On the way back to his hotel he stopped off at a gift shop and picked up a couple of wigs and a phone selfie stick.
On the steps leading up to the hotel’s revolving doors, carrying his bags of shopping, Gent nodded to the doorman in the green and gold uniform of the Grand Hotel. Inside the lobby Gent instinctively checked his surroundings. There was a noisy gaggle of Japanese tourists waiting for a tour bus to take them on a tour of the city. A busboy with a trolley loaded up with suitcases was waiting for a lift. A waiter was serving food to four people seated in the lobby. He figured they were Americans. Only the Yanks would sit in a five star hotel in the kind of attire you would find at a rodeo.
Seven years ago the Grand had completed a major refurbishment that sought to recreate the Victoriana splendour of yesteryear. The designer went for leather chairs and sofas and mahogany tables. Etched mirrors and brass fittings were at the heart of the refit. Gent, casting his eyes round the lobby, was on the lookout for anyone that looked out of place. A cop he would spot a mile off. Over at the check-in desk an elderly Japanese tourist was trying to make the desk clerk understand that he wanted a wake-up call. A woman at his side, presumably, his wife was keeping an eye on their suitcases. A bellboy hovering nearby was hoping to earn a tip for hauling their luggage up to their room. Queuing behind the Japanese man and waiting to check-in was a family of four Germans. The husband and the wife he guessed were in their mid to late forties, the boy with them, presumably their son, was aged around ten. The daughter, if that’s what she was, had to be around six. The wife was studying one of those freebie maps that highlighted the tourist hotspots. The Hitman was thinking that at some time in the future he might come back himself and do the tourist stuff. Over to his right, behind a scattering of coffee tables and leather chairs the floor to ceiling windows framed by heavy brocade drapes overlooked Princes Street. A man, he could have been a salesman rinsing his expenses account, was sitting by the window and reading the Times newspaper. At another table, a waiter was talking to some Americans who had a problem with their bill. Gent studied the skinny guy sitting on his own over by the far wall. The suit he was wearing could have been his dead father’s. The Council might have cut his hair. He’d seen a few of these characters before, hotel thieves, hoping to snatch a bag or a laptop. As if he was trying to make it last all morning the guy was sipping a Scotch and water and pretending to be reading the Daily Mail.
Staking out his third hotel in two days, the minute he saw the stranger come through the revolving doors carrying three carrier bags with store names on them, Jimmy Ross was thinking that this could be the man that DI Guardo had asked him to look out for. Frank said he had the ability to spot someone who looked out of place and this guy did. Why would someone dressed as if he was on holiday go out in Scotland’s capital city and buy builders equipment? The guy looked like someone who’d never been on a building site, let alone worked on one, nor for that matter did he look like a chef, so why the bag of catering clothes? Keeping his eyes averted, Jimmy sipped his Scotch and water and carried on pretending to read his newspaper. Ross knew instantly the man had clocked him. He thought about calling Frank’s mobile and then changed his mind. What if this wasn’t the guy? Making a scene in a famous hotel could blow his bonus. It was while Jimmy was ruminating on this that he saw the guy step inside one of the two lifts. Jimmy had to lean forward to see the lift lights glow amber and then stop on the fourth floor.
Gent stepped out the lift on the fourth floor. Room 413 was located at the far end of the corridor. With each step, the original varnished oak flooring creaked under his weight. Once inside his room, Gent tipped the contents of his bags out on the bed and then tried on the outfits. He checked his appearance in the mirror. He was mostly happy with his outfits but the cheap wigs would need a hat.
Hotel Busboy, "Hammy", Hamish McCoy, growled under his breath when he saw Jimmy Ross sitting in the lobby and trying to look like he fitted in. The last time he’d seen his old cellmate had been two years ago when they both stood in the dock having pleaded not guilty to charges of burglary. Jimmy got to spend eighteen months in Saughton gaol and he got twelve. At one time they were mates and would hang out together. Then Hamish wised up and worked out that it was only when he went out with Jimmy Ross that he got into trouble. Jimmy, hanging about in this hotel meant he was thieving. Once a thief always a thief, his mum would tell him, warning him about the bad influence that the ex-cockney had on him. Christ he’d only had this job four weeks and ex-cons don’t get too many breaks.
‘Jimmy!’ Hamish snarled out the side of his mouth, sidling up to him, whilst looking back at the reception desk hoping his boss wasn’t watching him. ‘What the hell are you doing in here? Get out before you get me fired. I know you Jimmy Ross. You are hanging about in here looking to nick stuff.’
Genuinely surprised to see McCoy working in a hotel, Jimmy Ross was stung by that remark.
‘Bloody hell, Hammy! It’s nice to see you too. Talk about give a bloke a chance! First of all, I am not here nicking stuff. If you must know I happen to be working. Not that you could be bothered to ask.’
Now Hamish felt bad. ‘Sorry Jimmy, but you know how hard it is for us ex-cons to find work. I can’t afford to lose this job. Anyway, what’s this work you say you are doing?’ Hamish sounded sceptical.
‘I don’t want to tell you too much cos I don’t want you to get involved. You could get hurt.’ Jimmy said, with his eyes scanning the movement of people. ‘Anyway, what’s with the green and gold monkey suit? You wearing it for a bet?’
‘Why do you think I’m wearing it, dopey. It aint cos it’s the in-thing in Edinburgh.’ Hamish said, sarcastically having decided that all that talk about him looking for the hotel shooter was another of Jimmy Ross’s bullshit stories. ‘I happen to be a waiter here.’ (This was an exaggeration; his actual job title was Busboy.) ‘The money’s crap but if I get enough in tips I can pay the rent on the hovel that I live in. Not that you’d know about actual work!’
‘Hammy, that hurts, me hearing you say things like that, accusing me of chawing. I promise you, I’ve changed. I don’t do all that thieving any more…’ Jimmy took hold of Hamish’s tie and pulled his head down.
‘Ow! Jimmy let go.’
Jimmy wasn’t listening. He had one eye fixed on the lift lobby. He lowered his voice. ‘You wont believe this Hammy but I am working for the Old Bill.’
Hamish’s face registered incredulity. He extracted his tie from Jimmy’s fist and straightened up. ‘Yeah right… you really think I am going to believe that?’
Jimmy shrugged. ‘Like I care what you choose to Adam and Eve? It happens to be true.’ Jimmy then had a thought. ‘Hamish, how’d you like to earn a swift twenty quid?’
‘Doing what?’ Hamish said, not trusting his old mate. ‘If it means us breaking the law you can go to hell.’
‘On me muvvers life Hammy, this is kosher police business. Look.’ Jimmy gave McCoy the business card that Frank had given him.
‘My God Rossy,’ Hamish said after he turned the card over and read what DI Guardo had written on the back. ‘Jeez, if someone had told me that Jimmy Ross was working for the coppers I would never have believed it.’
The look on Jimmy’s face was grave. ‘Yeah, well I may yet regret it.’
Jimmy, still watching the lifts in case his man came back down, said. ‘Sit down, cos I don’t want anyone listening in.’
‘Jeez Jimmy. I’m on duty. I can’t sit down.’ Hamish said, looking over at the front desk. He couldn’t see his boss, Mr Turner, who was most likely in the back office. ‘Just tell me what you want me to do.’
‘D
o you have one of them door passes that gets you in any of the bedrooms?’
‘Yeah why?’ Jimmy said warily.
‘There is a guy staying here,’ Jimmy said not taking his eyes off the lifts, ‘who’s well built, looks like he works out, dark hair, got a ring on his right pinkie. I think he has a room on the fourth floor. I need you to get me into his room.’
‘Jeezus. I knew it. Jimmy. You can’t help yourself can you?’ Hamish said about to walk away. ‘You think I am stupid Jimmy? If I was to let you into his room you’d nick his laptop, his wallet and anything else that wasn’t screwed down.’
When Hamish went to walk away Jimmy grabbed hold of his tie again and bent him double so that he could whisper in his ear.
‘No Hammy,’ Jimmy said in earnest. ‘I swear to God, this is kosher. I am working under cover. I just need to get in his room so that I can check him out, that’s all. I swear to you. I just need to make sure that he’s the guy.’ ‘
‘What guy?’
‘The guy that he is looking for.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The he is DI Frank Guardo, the man who is paying me to look for the guy.’
‘You aint said who this guy is and why it has to be you that has to find him. I aint doing this blind Jimmy. I need you to tell me what you are up to.’
‘If I tell you, don’t freak out yeah?’
‘Why should I freak out Jimmy?’ Hamish said, frowning. ‘I aint gonna freak out.’
‘Cause I am looking for the man who was on the news a couple of days ago and is suspected of shooting dead the two Italians.’
‘Jeez you idiot.’
‘I thought you said you wasn’t going to freak out?’
‘I aint, but Jeezus, Ross, you can’t seriously expect me and you to hunt down a killer?’
‘Not us Hammy, just me.’ Jimmy said, grimly. ‘I want you to stay out of it, but I can’t do this without your help Hammy.’
Hamish tried to look away from that pleading look on his face that always got him hooked. Shit!
Taking in Jimmy’s clothes Hammy said. ‘That’s not a good look Jimmy. Where the hell did you get that suit?’
‘I shoplifted it from the British Heart Foundation charity shop. While an old lady volunteer wasn’t looking I slipped the suit on in the changing room and walked right out the door.’
Hamish tutted and shook his head in disgust.
‘Don’t give me that look,’ Jimmy complained. ‘When I am finished with it I am going to hand it back and tell them it’s a donation. Now are you in, or am I forced to do this alone? Oh, and if the worst was to happen… you know?’ Jimmy made a gun out of his hand and pointed it at his head and then said, ‘Boom – splat!’ He pretended the back of his head was blown off. He gave Hamish the doe-eyed look that always drew him in to his scams. ‘Be sure to tell Sheryl I died a hero.’
Hamish groaned.
Earlier that morning, suited and booted Jimmy had been about to leave the house when Sheryl quizzed him: ‘Why you wearing a suit and a shirt and tie?’ He told her: ‘an old mate offered me cash for a little light security work.’ It wasn’t too far off the truth.
Sheryl had planted a kiss on his cheek and then handed him a packed lunch.
The guy that Jimmy had spotted earlier, crossing the lobby, who took a room on the fourth floor was only a possible suspect. Jimmy was going to need to get inside his room and rummage through his belongings to know for sure if this was the guy that Frank was looking for. If the guy checked out as just another punter, Jimmy would move on. There were another three hotels on his list.
Hamish was not happy about what Jimmy had said: “Tell Sheryl I died a hero.” That got to him. What if he refused and then Jimmy was to get killed? Could he live with himself? How was he going to tell Sheryl? This was different though. This wasn’t like a Launderette break-in or a bag snatch at the airport, this was the two of them, tracking down a killer! Jimmy could be obstinate. To get out of this Hamish thought he’d try a different tack.
‘Why don’t we meet up after I finish work and then talk about it? ‘We could go get a few bevvies and maybe score with a couple of chicks?’
‘If you want to chicken out Hammy, just say so. I wont hold a grudge. Being scared is nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘Who said I’m scared?’ Hamish fumed.
‘Well you are, aren’t you?’
‘No!’
‘Yeah you are.’
‘Ok. I’m in. Satisfied?’
‘Hey, Hammy,’ Jimmy said putting an arm around his friend.’ No pressure eh? You don’t have to do this.’
‘No, I wanna do it.’ Hamish said, straightening his back. ‘What do I have to do?’
‘You don’t even have to come up to his room. You lend me your door pass – I will slip into his room – and in two seconds, I will root through his gear and then once I know who he is I am out of there having left everything as I found it. The geezer won’t even know I was in there – then I come right back down and hand you back your pass.
‘And this is just so you can find out who he is?’ Hamish said, frowning.
‘Yeah. I told you. I need to check the guy out.’
‘For Chrissake Rossy, if all you need is the man’s name, I can get that from the register. We just need to wait until no one is at the front desk.’
Jimmy shook his head. ‘Hammy, you are such plonker, you know that? If this guy is the shooter he’s hardly likely to have booked under his real name. In our partnership, I do the thinking yeah?’
‘Yeah, like in the past when it was your thinking that always got us nicked.’ Hamish reminded him. ‘If I were to agree to do this, I want thirty quid and for you swear that you wont nick anything from his room.’
‘Cross my heart.’ Jimmy said, with a pained look. ‘Okay, give me your door pass. When I come back down I will hand it back and weigh you out a pony. We got a deal?’
‘Thirty quid, that’s a pony yeah?’
‘Yeah, a pony.’ Jimmy lied. (It was twenty-five pounds.) We just have to wait for the geezer to leave the hotel.’
Hamish could see a problem. ‘What if he walks back in while you was up there?’
It was a fair point. As if he had already thought of that, Jimmy said, ‘I already thought of that. I need you to wait here in the lobby and watch the front entrance. If he does come back you go straight over to the staff phone on the wall, and you ring his room number.’
‘I don’t have his room number!’
‘Not yet you don’t, dummy, that’s your next job.’ Nodding with his head Jimmy said. ‘There’s no one at the desk. Go take a peek in the register and find out his room number. He was the last man to check in and I know he took a room on the fourth floor because I watched the lift lights stop on that floor.’
Trying to look inconspicuous, Jimmy watched Hammy sidle up to the unmanned reception desk and then glance down at the open register.
Hammy noted the room number and then went straight over to Jimmy.
‘He’s booked in room 413 under the name of Mark Lawson,’ Hammy said. ‘When you come out the lift you turn right and it’s at the end of the corridor on the left.’
Jimmy was quite happy hanging about in a posh hotel. Especially with Hammy serving him up free drinks and free nosh. If this was a proper job, bring it on. Taking the job seriously, pretending to be reading the Times newspaper Jimmy was watching for the guy to step out the lift.
A little after two that afternoon, having slept for an hour, Gent thinking he would go do a little reconnoitring, stuffed his Berretta M9 inside his waistband, checked the bathroom, and then stepped out of his room into the deserted corridor. He closed the door behind him. Next he plucked a strand of hair from his head and with a little spit he stuck it across the doorjamb. He could have used any number of hi-tech spying devices but this worked and it only took him two seconds to set up.
Descending in the lift, Gent was thinking about the skinny hotel thief he’d seen earlier.
He wondered if the guy had had any luck.
Had he not been paying attention, Jimmy might easily have missed the man from room 413 who stepped out the lift dressed like a regular tourist with a camera slung around his neck and a guidebook in his hand. The guy had miraculously grown a full moustache. His hair, beneath a NY baseball cap was now ginger.
Hidden from view behind his newspaper Jimmy grinned. He waited ten minutes and then caught Hamish’s eye. Throwing aside his newspaper, Jimmy got up from his chair and headed for the lift lobby. On the way, he brushed against Hammy and took the passkey out of his hand.
Hamish wasn’t taking his eyes off the revolving doors entrance. Anxiously, he kept glancing over to the wall phone. What if someone decided to use it the minute the man walked back in? Hamish was thinking. Stop worrying; the man had only been gone five minutes. Jimmy will be in and out of his room inside fifteen, what’s there to worry about?
After stepping out of the lift, Gent turned right. Walking across the lobby looking noticeably calm Gent first looked for the thief and then saw him in the same chair over by the far wall still hiding behind his newspaper. Clearly, he’d had no luck stealing someone’s bag.
Out on Waterloo Place, occasionally checking his map for effect, sidestepping tourists blocking the footpath, Gent made his way along Princes Street. Five minutes after he left the Grand Hotel, outside Waverley rail station, he stopped dead in his tracks and looked back. He was thinking about the hotel thief. Then he thought about the Busboy who seemed to have been paying the thief a little too much attention. Was the scruffy guy an undercover cop? Using his elbow he felt the reassuring lump of his gun in his waistband. He turned full circle pawing at his chin. Then as if he just came out of the starting blocks, brushing people aside, Gent hurried back the way he just came.