Death on a Dirty Afternoon (The Terry Bell Mysteries Book 1)
Page 19
'Who is it?' he calls.
'Room service.'
Shit. Think logically. Is the guy a cop? Unlikely - he wouldn't be packing a weapon unless he was wearing one of those SWAT team vest thingys. And he definitely would not be bearing gifts. So he can only be here for one of two reasons: either he's come to apologize for being an arsehole, or he's looking for Palfreyman. Okay, so he's not here to apologize, since he couldn't possibly know who Relic is, let alone which room he's in, so it must be the latter. And that can't be good.
He stands for a moment, eyes darting around the room. An Uzi 9mm would be handy right now (if he had a clue how to use one). He wants to turn up the volume on the TV, but that might alert the guy. Come on, Rel, think! He scoots into the bathroom, searches around frantically - why are hotel rooms never fitted out with things that are actually useful? He yanks one of the bath sheets down from the shelf. Something else catches his eye and with no real thought as to what he might do with it, he picks it up. Quietly sliding the bathroom door closed, he wraps one end of the towel round his left hand. A quick check through the spy hole again, then he carefully turns the key, leaving the lock in the open position, grateful it isn't one of those fancy electronic ones he'd have to actually open himself. He slips quickly round the corner by the bed so he's out of sight, and gripping the loose end of the towel with one hand, he takes a breath and calls out 'Come in, I'll be out in a minute.'
The door doesn't open immediately. There's no rushing of feet/face against the wall/handcuffing/reading his rights etc. He resists the urge to start counting, listens for the swish of the carpet, the creak of the hinge. Then it comes - the soft slap of the lock clicking back into place. A pause, then three quick strides and the bathroom door hammers back on its runners, a fractional pause as the guy clocks no-one's in there and a second later the man is right next to him, turning, staring, his mouth dropping open, the gun coming up. Relic catches the hint of recently-smoked cigarette on his breath, notices the fleeting lack of understanding in Window Man's rather beautiful grey eyes, sees the words forming on his lips: What the fu...?
To be fair, the guy couldn't have planned for this. In whose universe would the moron with the big feet from the restaurant be standing here in front of him instead of Palfreyman? This fact alone is more of a surprise than the towel that’s suddenly flung around him, pinning his arms, propelling him backwards against the dressing table. He drops the gift-wrapped box, staggers backwards, striving to lift the gun, but the moron is right up against him.
Window Man's head hits the wall with a loud crack and he finally manages to get one hand free and push against the wall in an effort to stand up. That's when the moron's hand comes flying towards him out of nowhere, ramming the toothbrush into his eye socket.
The high-pitched scream is so unexpected that Relic lets go, but the noise is over almost before it's begun and the man drops to his knees, convulsing violently. A jet of thick red stuff spurts out of somewhere and Relic jumps back, startled, but then it's over and his attacker is sprawled in a lifeless heap on the floor.
Relic sits down heavily on the edge of the bed. His breath coming in short bursts, heart banging so loudly it'll be a wonder if they don't hear it down at reception. Oh Christ. Oh Christ. Then he realizes the noise isn't his heart at all - it's someone banging on the door. Or is it the wall? He struggles to focus. It's the wall. Pissed-off neighbours. He can live with that.
Jumping up, he turns the TV off, listens for doors banging, footsteps in the hall. He starts counting one, two, three, four, five, six...the banging stops. He grabs the dead man's hands and pulls him across the floor to the bathroom, dragging him over the tiles to the bath. Why do they always make these places so bloody small? He grasps the man around the waist and hauls him up onto the edge of the bath, pulling at his trousers to get the legs over. Heaving the whole sorry mess into the tub, he tugs the shower curtain across. Listens again. Nothing.
Relic moves over to the mirror and looks at himself. Surprisingly calm, considering.
Then he throws up.
Tandoori puke.
Nice.
Swishing water round the bowl, he examines his own torso for marks, blood, scratches, incriminating evidence. His face is hemorrhaging sweat, but amazingly, there seems to be little outward indication of the trauma he's just experienced. He steps back into the room, notices the long smear of blood on the rug between the dressing table and the bed. Could've been worse.
Back in the bathroom, he grabs a hand towel, soaks it in cold water and gets to work mopping up the sticky mess that's somehow managed to smear itself up the side of the dressing table. For a minute or two, he seems to be just spreading the stuff around and the temptation to throw up again is persuasive. Gradually the stains begin to clear and after rinsing the towel a couple of times, you'd never know a bloke had just been killed in here.
Except for the bloodstain on the rug.
Carefully, he pulls it to one side. At least it hasn't had time to seep through to the carpet. Rolling it up, he stuffs it into the bath with the body.
Relic sits on the bed. Considers the fact that he's just murdered someone.
Murder.
Is that what it was? Oh, come on, Rel, the guy was trying to kill you. Wasn't he? He goes back to the bathroom. Moving the shower curtain, he leans over the dead guy and goes through the pockets. Pulls out everything the guy has and takes the interesting assortment through to the bedroom.
Laid out on the white duvet, these five items seem harmless enough (apart from the gun, obviously). He begins to go through the wallet, then has a sudden thought. Where did the guy keep the gun? There's no holster of any kind on his body. What do people do with guns? Could it have been in his pocket? He picks up the weapon. It's heavy and too big for an ordinary jacket pocket - it'd weigh you down quite noticeably. So where had the guy kept it until he’d needed to use it?
The possibility of an accomplice pops into his head. Maybe there's someone waiting in a car somewhere, or even in the corridor? No, the noise would have had them in here by now. So if there isn't an accomplice nearby, where did the guy keep the gun?
Okay, let's work through this. The attacker knew which room it was, so he must have sweet-talked the receptionist. Then he comes up here and what? Maybe listens at the door? Hears the TV? Knocks? Etc etc. So he must have a bag of some sort.
Relic picks up the gun and goes to the door. Listens. Looks through the eye hole. Opens the door. And there on the floor to the right, is a black leather shoulder bag. He stares at it. Steps out into the passage and looks around. Clear. He picks up the bag and shuts the door. Locks it.
As he turns back to the bed, he notices the gift-wrapped box, sticking out from under the dressing table. He picks it up. Shakes it. Too light to be a bomb (like he would know) so it must have been for the benefit of authenticity - a gift for Mr Palfreyman. There's a gift tag on it: You'll just die for these! xxx Yeah, very funny. He rips it open. Thorntons. His favourites.
He's half-way through the chocolates when he remembers the wallet. Like everything else this guy has, it's an old one, well-worn, though good quality. There's a few notes (eighty quid) a couple of first class stamps and two identical business cards. The familiar silhouetted image almost makes him laugh. He flips one out and turns it over. The other side's blank. Not really a business card, then.
The chocolates and a carton of orange juice from the mini-bar are enough to give him a boost. He puts the gun into the black bag and searches through the outside pockets and the two inside zip sections. There's a cable for an iPhone, but nothing else. Next he checks through the wallet - two hundred pounds in cash, a Tesco Clubcard and several bank cards in the name of Jim Morrison. Then there's a mobile phone, a business card for something called Cash To Go Ltd and a set of keys. The keys are the most interesting item, as the guy obviously has a car somewhere. And if the keys are here, there won't be another bod sitting in the car. Probably.
He checks his watch. Nearl
y ten-thirty. In theory, he could stay here until Sunday morning, so long as no-one pops in and finds the body in the bath. Which reminds him. He goes back to the door and hangs the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle. Doesn't mean the hired help won't come in, but it makes him feel better.
He does his mental list thing again. What are the problems here?
1. There's a body in the bath
2. Someone's trying to kill me
The challenge of trying to move the body is too much for him to think about now, so he concentrates on thorny issue number two. The look of surprise on the guy's face signifies that it wasn't Relic Black he was expecting to blow away here tonight, but the man whose identity Relic is currently engaged in stealing - the lovely Mr Palfreyman. So that begs the questions - how did he know Palfreyman'd be here, and was Morrison working alone?
Relic ponders on the latter concern for a couple of seconds, then groans inwardly. Of course there's someone else - if this guy was a professional he must have been hired. Which means that sooner or later, whoever is actually behind this will find out that Morrison (if that's his name) is dead and Palfreyman is still alive. More to the point, they're going to find out about Relic Black.
He picks up the mobile. Clearly, Morrison's not new to this sort of thing, so it's doubtful he'd be stupid enough to keep significant information on his phone, but it's as good a place to start as any. The device is a two-year-old iPhone, so getting through the pass code is a picnic - Relic's done this so many times it's like sleepwalking. He goes to switch the phone off, keeping a finger on the top button, makes like he's calling the emergency services, then before the call goes through, cancels it, presses the Home button and lets go the power key at the same time. The device flashes white then black. He taps the Home button twice and bingo, he's in.
Flicking through the contact list, he initially finds nothing to give him any clues (like there'd be an entry for 'Hit Man's Boss'). Then there's the obligatory Mum and Dad, a Khim (wife, sister?) plus numbers for Chinese, Indian and Italian takeaways and several pubs. Sounds like a regular guy. Except that most of the numbers aren't local. Well, some of them are, but there are dialing codes for contacts in Glasgow, Edinburgh and London. He checks the photo album - there are only three images and they're all of Carl Palfreyman: Carl on his boat, Carl at the bar, Carl smiling for the camera. Looks like they were downloaded to the phone rather than taken with the phone's built-in camera. More worryingly, since Relic has access to just about everything Carl-related, he's already seen these particular images - taken last July in some tropical island resort, if he remembers correctly. Which begs another question - did Morrison, or whoever, also have access to Carly's laptop?
He checks for recent calls - Morrison phoned someone named Flood at 5.23pm. The text messages are more interesting - there are four from Flood (three demanding that he answer his damn phone), and then a brief texting conversation asking for and confirming the address of the hotel, in case things turn to crap. Well, got that right.
He puts everything in the bag and zips it up. Rubs his face. Stretches. Decides to try and get some sleep.
He sets the generic alarm clock.
Doesn't bother cleaning his teeth.
###
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Colin Garrow
Books by this Author
Death on a Dirty Afternoon
The Watson Letters - Volume 1: Something Wicker This Way Comes
The Watson Letters - Volume 2: Not the 39 Steps
How the World Turns (and Other Stories)
Girlfriend Interrupted (and Other Fictions)
Stage Plays
Love Song in Sixteen Bars
Towards the Inevitability of Catastrophe
The Body in the Bag
Non-Fiction
Writing: Ideas and Inspirations (or How to Make Things Up)
Books for Children
The Architect’s Apprentice
Mortlake
The Devil’s Porridge Gang
The Hounds of Hellerby Hall
The House That Wasn't There
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About the Author
Colin Garrow grew up in a former mining town in Northumberland. He has worked in a plethora of professions including: taxi driver, antiques dealer, drama facilitator, theatre director and fish processor, and has occasionally masqueraded as a pirate. All Colin's books are available as eBooks and most are also out in paperback, too. His short stories have appeared in several literary mags, including: SN Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Word Bohemia, Every Day Fiction, The Grind, A3 Review, 1,000 Words, Inkapture and Scribble Magazine. He currently lives in a humble cottage in North East Scotland where he writes novels, stories, poems and the occasional song.