by John R McKay
#
Downstairs in the lobby Sean Lange approached the reception desk. He had watched Danny Cooke enter the hotel some time earlier, a brown paper package in his hand, just as ‘Roger Moore’ had said he would. He had tailed him into the lobby but had not been able to follow him into one of the lifts and so had no idea which floor or room he was staying in. He had waited until he felt sure that Danny would be engrossed in whatever this mysterious package contained and thought the opportune moment had now arrived to carry out his task. Despite what he was instructed, he was going to end this right now and he instinctively put his hand into his overcoat pocket, feeling the reassuring touch of the cold metal and polymer of the Glock 17 pistol.
Lange was aware that a hotel like this was sure to have very good CCTV, particularly in the lobby area and so had adopted a disguise. He was wearing thick rimmed glasses, a false moustache and goatee beard and clothing that he would dispose of as soon as possible afterward. He also assumed a slight limp in an attempt to mask his usual gait.
Assuming a mild Scottish accent he spoke to the young woman behind the desk. ‘Hello, I wonder if you can help me.’
The receptionist looked up and smiled. ‘Of course, sir, what can I do for you?’
‘I have a friend staying at the hotel and was wondering which room he is stopping in. He doesn’t know I’m here and I would like to surprise him.’
The receptionist looked at him and smiled again. ‘I’m sorry sir but I can’t give out that information. It’s against company policy and I would get into trouble if I did. Sorry.’
‘OK, I understand, I wouldn’t want that to happen,’ replied Lange and put on a disappointed frown. Then he raised his eyebrows and said, ‘What if you ring his room and tell him that a delivery has arrived for him and he could come down to collect it. Then here I would be!’
She looked at him and frowned. ‘I haven’t seen him for a couple of years,’ urged Lange, ‘it would be such a help if you could do that for me.’ Noticing a Help For Heroes badge on her lapel he said, ‘We served in Iraq together, you see.’
The receptionist paused then smiled again. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘I suppose I can do that. I’m not supposed to but just this once. Can you give me his name?’
‘Cooke, Daniel Cooke.’
She tapped Danny’s name into her computer and then picked up the telephone on her desk and dialled a number. Lange observed her and made a mental note of the dialled number and then immediately turned around without another word and walked quickly to the lift at the side of the reception desk. Ninth floor, he thought, room 910. Here we go.
#
Upstairs in room 910 Danny cancelled the call to his mother and then picked up the hotel telephone. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello Mister Cooke, reception here,’ said a female voice.
‘Oh right,’ said Danny. ‘Is the taxi here?’
‘Not quite,’ she replied. Then she paused. ‘Oh…erm… Sorry to have bothered you Mister Cooke…….my mistake.’
‘No problem,’ said Danny, slightly confused and hung up. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.
Downstairs in the lobby, the receptionist looked around. The strange little Scottish man had vanished. Maybe he had changed his mind and did not wish to meet up with Mister Cooke after all. Very odd, she thought. Then her telephone rang and it was back to work, all thoughts of Mister Cooke and his ex-comrade in arms disappearing from her mind.
#
Lange was alone in the lift. He was aware of a camera in the corner to his right and turned away from it, shielding the Glock he had taken from his pocket. He had fitted the extended barrel to the weapon earlier and now discreetly screwed the suppressor he had brought with him to the barrel of the gun and cocked the weapon, pumping a round into the chamber. He ensured the safety catch was on and then placed it back inside his pocket. He had sewn extended pockets into the overcoat he was wearing in order for him to carry the silenced weapon without it being noticeable by the casual observer. He took three deep breaths and focused his attention on the lift level display. Sixth floor, seventh floor, eighth floor. The doors opened onto the ninth and as Lange was about to step out an elderly couple blocked his path. They stepped aside to let him pass, looking at him with curiosity.
Damn, he thought, more witnesses. He put his head down to avoid eye contact and walked away as they entered the lift and pressed the button for the ground floor. The plan was not to use the lift to make his exit, preferring the stairs, in case his luck was not in and the lift broke or that he would have to stand and wait. He would take no chances.
He followed the signs indicating where in the hotel room 910 was located and a minute later he was positioned a couple of metres outside the door. He could see an open door further along the corridor, a maid’s trolley parked outside it, a pile of white towels stacked neatly upon it. Well, he thought, there is nothing I can do about that. He would make this very quick and hopefully the maid would not see or hear a thing. If she appeared then unfortunately he would have to deal with her too. He took the gun from his pocket and put it behind his back. He approached the door and knocked.
#
Danny sat up on the bed and looked at the telephone at the side of the bed. It should only be a matter of a minute or so before the call came from reception telling him the taxi was waiting for him. He still had not contacted Grace, the call from reception had disturbed him slightly.
He was starting to feel a little queasy. All that had happened today was starting to make him feel ill and he was not sure if it had been wise to eat something so rich for his dinner. He could feel his stomach churning and he was starting to feel light headed.
There was a knock at the door. Danny turned his head to look at it. ‘Yes,’ he shouted, ‘who is it?’ There was no reply. He stood up and walked to the door. There was a spyhole in the centre of the door and he looked through it. Standing outside was a short man wearing a large dark overcoat. He wore glasses and had a moustache and goatee beard. His hands were behind his back. Danny had absolutely no idea who the man was.
He unlocked the door and opened it. But as he did so, the sickness he had been feeling suddenly came upon him with extreme force and the roast lamb, potatoes and vegetables he had consumed only an hour or so earlier exited his stomach violently flying out of his mouth and hitting the stranger full in the chest.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ shouted Lange, taken completely by surprise and staggering back. The shock of what had happened causing him to drop the Glock onto the corridor floor. Hearing the commotion, the maid, who had now finished cleaning the room further down the corridor, stepped out and on seeing the weapon on the floor she started to scream and ran back into the room.
Realisation hit Danny. At first he was about to apologise for what he had just done, but on hearing Lange’s voice he was instantly taken back to almost a fortnight ago, outside the George and Dragon pub and immediately knew that this was the man in the BMW, the man who had called over to him for no apparent reason. The man who Danny now realised had something to do with the killing of Lucy.
For a brief moment both men stood looking at each other, the shock of what had just taken place rendering the pair of them temporarily frozen. Then Danny’s eyes moved to the floor and on seeing the Glock lying there, all the hurt and grief he had been feeling for the past two weeks mutated into anger and rage. Before Lange had chance to react Danny kicked him in the right knee with all the strength he could muster. Lange let out a cry of pain and fell back. He attempted to reach for the handgun but Danny was quicker and kicked it, sending it sliding down the corridor a couple of metres out of Lange’s reach. Lange made another attempt to grab the gun but Danny, now fearing for his life, pushed him against the far wall and kicked him two more times, screaming at him as he did so.
The commotion could not go unnoticed and further down the corridor two doors opened, the residents looking out to see what all the fuss was about. Danny shouted at them, ‘Call t
he police! Call the police!’ as he continued to kick and push at Lange.
Lange was by now starting to regain his composure and he made an effort to swing a punch at Danny. Danny turned, receiving the blow to the top of his right arm but due to the suit jacket he was wearing, the muscle of the arm and the adrenalin now searing through him, he did not feel any pain. The maid leaned out of the room and shouted down the corridor towards them, ‘Security are on the way!’ before stepping back in and closing the door behind her. Lange again tried to step forward towards the gun but as he did so Danny jumped to the side and fell on the floor, covering the weapon with his body.
Lange started to panic. This had not gone well. Not gone well at all. What a complete and utter balls up. From start to finish this whole thing had been a shambles. Realising he could not stay there, he aimed a kick to Danny’s head, but it was weak due to the pain in his leg and was merely a token parting gift to the man who had caused him all his current anxieties. He could not retrieve the weapon as Danny was lying upon it and so he turned and half ran, half hopped to the stairwell to make his escape. He had to get out of the hotel before someone realised that this was more than a mere scuffle between two residents and the police were called. If firearms were reported, as was likely, they would be there in large numbers very quickly. Lange had to get away. And get away fast.
On entering the stairwell, he made his way down to the ground floor, fighting through the pain in his leg and forcing himself to move quickly. When he reached the bottom he took a moment to assess his situation. He could not look suspicious as he left the hotel but he was limping badly and sweating profusely due to his exertions and the large coat he was wearing. To add to this he had Danny Cooke’s puke all over his chest.
Seeing a rest room to his right he quickly moved into it. Thankfully there was no-one inside. He entered one of the two cubicles and took off the coat and the black jumper he was wearing, which he did carefully as the disgusting mess that was once Danny Cooke’s dinner was all over it. He retched as he did so as the smell of it and the adrenalin suddenly made him feel nauseous. Next he carefully peeled off the moustache and goatee beard and flushed them down the toilet before taking a red baseball cap from the coat pocket and putting it on his head. He left the cubicle and closed the door, leaving the coat and jumper stuffed at the back of the toilet on the floor. He moved to a sink and threw cold water over his face before drying it with paper towels. A few deep breaths and then he left the room and made his way into the hotel reception area, being careful not to look or act suspiciously.
He walked as quickly as he could through the lobby and out of the building onto Kensington High Street. As he did so, a number of police cars approached the hotel. He looked around his environment quickly, assessing his options, and saw a number ten bus approaching a stop thirty yards away on the opposite side of the road. He made an instant decision and half ran, half hopped, for the second time in the last few minutes, and was able to join the back of the queue.
Lange paid the driver with some loose change from his trouser pocket and then sat at the back of the bus. He dared not look out at the hotel for fear of anyone noticing his interest and so instead he stared forward. Just another commuter riding on a bus, no-one special.
And then it dawned on him. Yet another momentous mistake he had made. Putting his head in his hands he let out a low moan.
‘Are you OK pal?’ asked a man in his mid-twenties who was sitting on the seat to the side of him.
Lange looked at him, tears starting to fill his eyes. He nodded and then turned his head to look out of the window. As he watched the sights of London passing before his eyes and people going about their uneventful lives in the afternoon sunshine he tried to work out what he would do next. He realised that he was now a fugitive and not even ‘Roger Moore’ would be able to help him. He had left his wallet in the inside pocket of the overcoat. The overcoat that now lay on the toilet floor in the hotel with Danny Cooke’s vomit all over it. The wallet that not only had all of his credit and debit cards, but his driving licence too. At least six or seven means of identification, some including his address. The police already knew of his possible involvement in the hit and run and now with the attempt on Cooke’s life in London, with his name all over this incident as well, it wouldn’t take a genius to make him suspect number one. Lange understood that this time things had developed as badly as they possibly could have. He was hit with the realisation that this time he was by far and away and beyond a shadow of any doubt, well and truly fucked. He could think of no other word for it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Back in the hotel room Danny sat on the bed with his shirt sleeve rolled up. The police had arrived very quickly and now armed officers and detectives had flooded the whole hotel. The gun had been made safe and taken away in a plastic bag as evidence. Paramedics were also in the room and had just finished taking his blood pressure. Now that the adrenalin had waned slightly, Danny was again feeling nauseous and had started to shake uncontrollably. This stranger had wanted to take his life and if he put two and two together, he gathered that this was not the first time. That first time had resulted in the death of the person he had loved most in the world and the thought of it made him angry again. Angry beyond words.
A detective approached him. He had tried to ask Danny some questions a few minutes earlier but he had not been able to understand what the man had been saying, the shock of what had happened causing him to become temporarily incapacitated. He looked up at him.
‘Mr Cooke, I’m Detective Inspector Harry Wilson, have you any idea who this may have been and why he would want to kill you?’
Danny stared at him. ‘I don’t know who he is, but I know that he’s involved in the death of my girlfriend a couple of weeks ago. I’m sorry, I’m going to be sick.’
Danny leapt from the bed and ran to the bathroom. He leaned over the toilet and heaved. A small amount of vomit exited his mouth and splashed into the water. He retched again but this time nothing came up and his stomach and diaphragm began to ache with the strain of it. He retched one more time then took some toilet paper from the roll at the side and wiped his mouth. He threw it down the toilet and flushed it away. He went to the sink and splashed water into his face, drying himself with a white towel from the rail.
DI Wilson was standing at the doorway, watching him. Danny looked over to him and said: ‘I’m so sorry. This is all getting a bit too much.’
‘Don’t worry about it Danny. We need to know what you know. You need to tell us everything.’
‘You really need to speak to Detective Julie Green from Greater Manchester Police,’ replied Danny. ‘She’s involved in the case and knows more than I do. The killing of my girlfriend was no accident and it must be linked to what’s just happened here.’
‘Why do you think someone would try to kill you?’
‘Maybe it’s something to do with the fact that this morning I inherited thirty million quid and property besides,’ replied Danny.
‘Wow,’ said Wilson, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Yeah I suppose that may have something to do with it.’
Danny walked past him into the bedroom. ‘I really need to get home.’
‘I’m afraid that’s impossible at the moment,’ said Wilson. ‘We need a statement from you. And if this is the second time somebody has made an attempt on your life then I’m guessing that if we don’t catch the person responsible it won’t be too long until he tries a third time.’
Danny stared at him. He was right. This can’t be happening, he thought. What have I ever done to deserve this? They can have the money. They can have the whole lot, all of it, if that’s what this is about. Just give me Lucy and my old life back and leave me in peace.
‘Like I said, you need to speak to Julie Green at Greater Manchester Police.’
Danny suddenly remembered about the missed call and voicemail that Julie had left him and took the phone from his pocket. As he was doing this the detective�
��s radio crackled and he left the room to answer it. The paramedic who had taken Danny’s blood pressure looked over to him. ‘Danny, we could do with taking you down to the hospital for a thorough check up, mate.’
Danny looked up from his phone. ‘That’s not necessary,’ he said. ‘I just want to get back home. I need to get out of London.’
Wilson returned to the room. ‘Danny, do you know somebody by the name of Sean Lange?’
‘Who?’
‘Sean Lange. We’ve found some clothing in a gents downstairs, stuffed behind a toilet and covered in sick, which I’m guessing is yours. It’s got a wallet in the pocket belonging to a Sean Lange.’
Danny had heard the name before. Recently. Wasn’t this the name Julie Green had asked him about when he was on the train yesterday?
‘Yes I think I have,’ he replied. ‘Julie Green asked me the same question yesterday. I have heard of him, but have absolutely no idea who he is.’
‘OK. I think we need to speak to Detective Green don’t we?’
‘Yes, that’s what I’ve been telling you,’ replied Danny. ‘She left me a message earlier. I’m going to listen to it now.’
Danny dialled the voicemail number and accessed his messages. Julie’s was the latest: ‘Hi Danny, can you ring me straight away. As soon as you get this message. It’s extremely important. Speak soon.’
Danny dialled Julie’s number. She answered after the first ring. ‘Danny. Thank God. There’s been some developments here and I think you may be in danger.’
‘Tell me about it,’ he replied.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Somebody called Sean Lange just turned up at my hotel and tried to put a bullet in me. Don’t worry, I’m OK and there’s police everywhere.’
‘Jesus. Have they got him?’