Chloe- Never Forget

by Dan Laughey

  73 Grove Lane, Meanwood. Sant rang off without a thank you.

  He ran from the canteen to his office, found Holdsworth at her desk and told her to call out two cars from the emergency fleet: one directed to Mia’s student flat, the other to Tony’s address. Then he sprinted out of HQ, almost barging over an old lady with a Chihuahua, before jumping into his Fiesta and hitting the accelerator hard.

  He weaved through shopper traffic to the suburbs of Meanwood. In the meantime Holdsworth called to say that the uniforms at Mia’s flat had knocked on the door. Nobody was home. In his desperation Sant told Holdsworth to tell the officers to force entry. He knew the order would go nowhere without formal clearance from some pen-pushing bigwig, but it was all he could think of right now.

  The Fiesta swerved and skid-turned through side streets into Grove Lane, almost toppling onto its side as it rounded the last corner. Not troubling to park anywhere close to the curb, Sant hurried through the loose-swinging gate and banged on the door.

  Then he called out: ‘Tony! Open up or I’ll smash the doors in!’

  He wasn’t waiting around for an answer. Five seconds later he picked up a loose stone from the rockery and hurled it at the front-room window. He let his Grenson heel do the rest before diving through the gap he’d created and rolling on the carpet below, not caring about cuts to arms and legs.

  ‘Tony!’

  No reply. But someone up above was making a noise. He ran up two flights of stairs to the top-floor bedroom and tried the door. It was locked. He took a run up, arched his shoulder and thrust the full force of his momentum into solid wood. The door remained upright but the cheap lock had snapped under the pressure. He pressed down the handle and opened up, at the same time flinging his frame away from the door in case whoever was in there had a welcome gift in the form of a flying projectile.

  He picked himself up. No-one had fired. Stepping carefully over the threshold, he saw her lying face down on the floor. She was still. And then she moaned. It was the best gift he could have hoped for. Though gagged and viciously tied up, Mia was alive and well.

  He ungagged her, removed her shackles, then hugged her tight to his chest, her tears wetting his shirt. As they embraced, he examined the cord he’d untied. It had been cut from the same length of rope found on the body of Marie Jagger/Susan Smith/Sheila Morrison.

  After several minutes he lifted Mia to her feet and gently guided her to the bathroom. Next he rifled through Tony’s wardrobe and grabbed a clean towel. Then he called Holdsworth and told her they were safe.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked Mia after she’d washed her face with cold water.

  ‘I’ll survive,’ she said hoarsely.

  ‘Did Tony Gordon do this to you?’

  She nodded once. ‘Carl, there are things I’ve been meaning to tell – ’

  He put a finger to her chapped lips and told her those things could wait. Right now she needed to recover; to try and cope with her ordeal and – God willing – emerge as someone resembling the bubbly individual he’d got to know.

  ‘Do you remember the inquisitive reporter at the news conference?’

  ‘How could I forget? It was you, wasn’t it?’

  She smiled. ‘How long have you known?’

  Sant looked at his watch. ‘About fifteen minutes.’

  They laughed together to release the stress and strain.

  ‘I’m sorry. I should’ve been straight with you from the moment I dropped those library books on your head.’

  ‘Enough,’ he whispered, kissing her forehead softly. ‘You don’t owe me an apology. All that matters is…’ But he stopped relaying his thoughts. He didn’t want her to live in fear of the fate she might have endured.

  He stayed with her for a while, and when the time felt right he left her in the capable hands of an experienced female officer and trauma specialist. Then he spoke to one of the forensic technicians who’d searched the property. No-one else had been found – alive or dead.

  Not much else had been found either, but two objects being held by the gloved technician struck a loud chord. The first was an iPad, the YouTube app appearing on the screen with one touch of the home button. It was clear that Tony had been searching for tutorials on how to use a firearm. And the gun appearing in the most recently searched training videos was a Glock 17: the gun Dr Wisdom had considered the likely murder weapon in the multiple bus shootings on account of its high-capacity magazine.

  Also of circumstantial interest was an open tab on the iPad’s browser showing the specifications of the switchboard mechanism for the passenger doors of a Volvo-manufactured double decker (read: how to escape from a moving bus after you’ve shot the driver in the head). Tony is a clever chap, thought Sant. Not only can the man search the web for the most obscure knowledge; he can plan for every eventuality. The wonders of the web and the knowledge that lies therein! But knowledge is power, and power in the wrong hands spells destruction.

  The second object of note was a much simpler affair: Tony’s diary. Sant didn’t have time to read it, but the entry for the 20th of April said it all: HERR HITLER’S BIRTHDAY. Rothwell had said as much.

  Before walking out to his car he took one more look at the grieving woman he’d known for such a short time, though it felt longer. It was Mia’s turn for a course of psychological support; it was pay-back time as far as she was concerned, and for Sant it was pay-back too.

  From now on, the bullseye in his viewfinder was Tony Gordon.

  Capstick clenched his fist and smacked the palm of his other hand, cursing himself for letting Mosley go. He was resigning himself to a return trip to his Punto and a shiny parking fine when he marked the punk through a melee of pedestrians. He clung on to that vision for dear life, jostling into others and receiving a few knocks for his trouble, like the lone rugby player forcing his way through a ruck of his own making.

  He tracked Mosley over the crossing straddling Quebec Street and Aire Street, then saw him entering the station concourse. Mosley was on his own by now. Capstick shook his head. Surely the punk wasn’t about to pick a personal fight with the travelling army of EDL thugs who’d gone the same way? But instead of heading for the train platforms, Mosley walked half way along the concourse to a glass door sandwiched between two shops and pressed a button. A buzzer sounded and he went in.

  Capstick followed the trail to the glass door. Now he saw that it was a side entrance to the Queens Hotel. He pressed the button, the buzzer sounded accordingly, and he stepped through the door into a carpeted corridor which eventually brought him out into the art-deco grandeur of the hotel’s foyer. The Queens Hotel, unlike the Vic, was undeniably a hotel.

  Capstick surveyed the opulent surroundings and realised he’d finally lost Mosley for good. Unsure what to do, he approached a bespectacled receptionist tapping away at a keyboard and showed her his badge.

  ‘Hello there, I’m a detective –‘

  ‘Like Poirot?’

  Capstick stared at the spectacles. ‘Er, yes… I’d like information about a man with spiky hair wearing a studded leather jacket who passed this way. Did you see him?’

  The receptionist suppressed a giggle. ‘Well now, detective, he did stick out like a sore thumb, didn’t he?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The punk.’

  He glanced up at the elaborately frescoed ceiling. ‘Sure. Where did he go?’ She pointed to a pair of lifts and winked conspiratorially. ‘Any idea which floor?’

  ‘Eight, of course.’

  ‘Why of course?’

  ‘He’s the usual chocolate thief, isn’t he?’

  ‘Chocolate thief?’

  She smiled back in sympathy before explaining: ‘The eighth floor is for VIP guests – and they’re very important enough to require a healthy platter of Belgium chocolates situated within easy reach of the lifts. Sadly, the occasional scally gets wind of the fact and helps himself to a bagful of the treats. We’ve informed the police but I suppose you lot have prio
rities. Unless that’s why you’re here.’

  ‘You’re sure he went to the eighth floor?’

  ‘I saw it for myself,’ she said, pointing out two chic landing indicators fixed to the wall above each of the lifts.

  ‘Thanks – oh, and if you’re considering a career change,’ he said without a trace of sarcasm, ‘I’ll put in a word with the Old Bill.’

  She gave him a flirtatious beam followed by a sergeant major salute.

  Capstick took the lift to the eighth floor, grabbed a handful of Belgium’s finest from a silverplated tray, then pretended to be the sort of upmarket gent one would expect to frequent such luxury. And the pretence seemed to be working when a fresh-faced housemaid greeted him with a welcome, sir and curtsied in turn. I could get used to this, he mused.

  It was early evening by now and he guessed that most of the rooms were uninhabited, their occupants preparing to dine in the ballroom restaurant. Whoever Mosley had come to visit, however, had let him in. There was no sign of him along the corridors. Capstick was briefly at a loss about what to do. Then he thought of the maid and retraced his steps.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Did you see a man with a spiky hairstyle just now?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He knocked at the far room on the left and went in.’

  ‘Did he use a key?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Thank you kindly,’ he smiled. Simple, he thought, how random bods with beady eyes can do the detective work on your behalf. He reached into his pocket for a tip, realised he had no money and shuffled awkwardly away.

  Wary of creaking floorboards, he approached the room tentatively before tilting an ear against the door. At first he could hear nothing above the hum of traffic below, but gradually he discerned voices. One was almost certainly Mosley’s; the other more distant.

  After making a note of the room number, he took the lift down to the foyer where the receptionist was still industriously working her keyboard.

  ‘I need a little more information if you don’t mind.’

  ‘What kind of intelligence?’ she whispered with a grin.

  ‘Room 856 – who’s staying there?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to – ’

  Capstick put on his best smile. ‘This is a police matter and I’d be forever grateful.’

  ‘You won’t tell my boss, will you?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  She bashed more keys and looked up. ‘856 is in the name of Oliver Mosley.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘That’s what it says here.’ She swivelled the screen towards him.

  ‘I assume he didn’t check in today?’

  She tapped some more and nodded. ‘Why are you so surprised, detective?’

  ‘No reason,’ he replied, though privately he was trying to figure out why a man would book a hotel room only a mile from his home and not stay there. He kept those ponderings to himself though. It would be remiss of him to reveal classified secrets to a stranger, even if she was pleasing to the eye.

  ‘How much does a VIP room cost?’

  ‘You’ve got me overflowing with curiousity.’ She tapped away furiously. ‘Two-hundred pounds per night standard rate,’ she snapped back, ‘though web offers work out cheaper.’

  Capstick thanked her and was starting back to the lifts when she called from behind, an expression of wonder adorning her face.

  ‘You may be interested to know,’ she whispered again, ‘that Mr Mosley must be VWO as well as VIP.’

  ‘VWO?’

  ‘Very Well Off.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, not everyone can afford a two-hundred-pounds-a-night club room for five consecutive weeks.’

  Capstick raised his eyes. ‘Five weeks?’

  ‘Look here.’ She rotated her screen again. ‘Checked in on the 9th for two weeks initially. Then a further three weeks were booked commencing the 23rd.’

  ‘And I take it the first two weeks were paid for?’

  She nodded. ‘At the cost of nearly three thousand quid. Perhaps I should get to know this Mr Mosley,’ she laughed, ‘or perhaps not if you police are after him.’

  ‘Can you do me a favour and promise not to tell anyone about our conversation? Not even your boss?’

  ‘My lips are sealed,’ she said, zipping them with a swipe of her hand.

  Capstick wandered out of the hotel and reached for his phone in proud anticipation. His boss would be pleased with his shadowing exploits. But the inspector gave a typically underwhelming response.

  ‘Well done, partner. You’re a better detective with each passing day. Don’t let many more days pass before you get good at it.’

  Capstick signalled to Sant as he entered the hotel’s white-stone façade, then filled him in on developments. The main matter up for discussion was how to get access to room 856.

  ‘Suppose we just knock, sir?’ suggested Capstick. ‘Play it straight.’

  Sant shook his head. ‘If Mosley is hiding someone in there, they’ll be on their guard – and not expecting impromptu visitors. I’ve got another idea. Let’s ask your friend about room service.’

  The receptionist almost broke her keyboard informing them that the occupant of 856 had requested room service twice – on both occasions for extra towels. On the second occasion there was a specific request for the same maid to supply the towels: a long-serving employee called Natasha. And Sant and Capstick were in luck – Natasha was on the late shift. A porter showed them to the housekeeping quarters.

  She was a mature woman with a girlish voice who’d worn down, like antique furniture, to a condition demanding urgent restoration.

  ‘I done nowt wrong,’ she shrilled, squinting at their badges.

  Sant took a seat opposite her while Capstick dug into a box of minty crisp chocolates intended for coffee service.

  ‘Natasha, if I may?’

  The maid eyed the inspector cagily. ‘You may,’ she said after some deliberation.

  ‘We have a small request.’

  ‘Requests are my business, duck, so fire away.’

  ‘Before we get to the request,’ Sant went on, ‘what can you tell me about the guest in 856? I believe he or she asked you to bring towels a few days back.’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘I recall now – polite young lass she is. Why she asked for me personally I don’t know.’

  ‘Can you describe her?’

  ‘Let me think. Can’t be older than twenty, tall, dark hair. Oh, and dark eyes – charming eyes – eyes that’d melt butter.’

  Sant nodded in approval. ‘Now this is our request. We’d like you to take some towels, just like before, but this time we’re going to accompany you so that we can have a word with the guest – after you’ve gone.’

  ‘Umm, it doesn’t sound proper to me, duck. No, I don’t like it. Not one bit.’

  ‘I appreciate your concerns, Natasha love, but this is a serious police matter and it’s vital we get access to 856 swiftly.’

  The maid looked glum. ‘I still don’t like it. I know what some of you lot get up to. I’m not saying you two are bullies, yet there are plenty of rotten apples what do your job.’

  Sant opened his arms wide. ‘Natasha love, you can trust us all day long. Isn’t that right, Detective Constable Capstick?’

  ‘One hundred per cent,’ Capstick confirmed, swallowing a minty crisp.

  She looked them over for what felt like a millennium before letting out a sigh and grabbing a pile of towels from the fresh laundry cupboard.

  ‘You’d better follow me,’ she muttered, and so they did.

  On Sant’s advice they took the stairs. Two minutes later they passed the platter of VIP chocolates – Capstick averting his eyes in case temptation got the better of him – before pausing for breath outside 856. Sant gave Natasha the signal to knock.

  No response.

  He signalled again. She knocked harder.

  ‘Who is it?’ came a delayed reply from within.

 
; Sant and Capstick stood tight to the wall either side of the door, out of sight of the peephole.

  ‘It’s Natasha from room service, duck. Thought you might like fresh towels seen as you requested ’em last time.’

  A long delay. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all, Sant said to himself.

  At last the voice returned.

  ‘I don’t need any extra, thank you.’

  Sant whispered a comeback in the housemaid’s ear.

  ‘Not a problem, duck,’ she called through the door. ‘I’ll leave ’em out here anyway seen as I’m on leave next week and know how much you like me to service you.’

  Sant shook his head. She couldn’t have made it up. It sounded as genuine as his Rolex. But he needn’t have worried. Moments later came the click of the latch. Bingo!

  The door came ajar a fraction and through the gap flowed softly spoken phonemes: ‘Thank you – I’m most grateful – ’

  That was as far as the pleasantries got. Sant cut across Natasha’s outstretched arm, wedged his left shoe firmly between the foot of the door and the floor, and leant weight to his left shoulder as he barged through the opening.

  Those phonemes were soft no more.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ screeched the butter-melting eyes, bejewelled nose and flawless face of Miss Chloe Lee.

  9

  IN THE NAME…

  Your name is Frank Tanner.

  Former Police Constable. Collar number 2977.

  Something else you’ve remembered. The reason you left the force.

  Everyone assumed you’d retired because of the gunshot wound. A big fat pension awaited you. A FAT pension, all for you, Francis Algernon Tanner. Why not get away and live a relaxing life; a life free of risk, free of danger?

  …OF LOVE…