Death's Privilege

by Darryl Donaghue

  ‘Sharing with Joel, Gov.’

  ‘That’ll explain why he’s never here. Between your girth and his muscles, I can’t imagine there’s enough space for the pair of you to be sitting down at once.’ Hayward was taken aback; Sarah and Dales smiled. ‘Find your DC, Matt.’ Manford strode back to his office with a very different swagger to how he’d left it.

  ‘No respect, some people.’ Hayward leaned back in his chair.

  ‘He clearly doesn’t like being called Charles. Sarah, grab your stuff, we’ll talk about the Hayes situation on the way.’ Dales picked the Hyundai keys from the wall.

  ‘You know the Getz has the turning circle of a small tank, right?’ Hayward was particular with the vehicles he took out.

  ‘It’s the only one with a working radio. I take it you’ve pocketed the Focus keys as usual.’

  ‘Yes indeed.’ Hayward tapped his trouser pocket.

  Dales looked at his watch, then at Sarah. ‘Standard drugs overdose. Two hours max.’

  ‘That’ll make it two fifteen. Sounds like a challenge. Sarge, stick the kettle on at ten past and we’ll be back before the tea hits the table.’ Sarah's request left Hayward with a very blank look. ‘Two mugs of rooibos.’

  ‘I’m not making anyone herbal bloody tea.’

  Six

  The only space in the Oxlaine hotel car park was between a silver Rolls Royce and a black Bentley. Both luxury vehicles were parked over the lines and it was the first time Sarah had struggled to park a vehicle as small as a Hyundai Getz. She edged it in as Dales looked out of both windows and winced. Michael Bolton played on the radio and Sarah became increasingly frustrated by Dales’ lack of faith in her driving skills.

  ‘I can do this you know. I own a car this size and this is no different to negotiating the yummy-mummy Land Rovers at Sainsbury’s.’

  ‘You own a car with a reverse parking sensor, a reverse parking camera and a class-leading turning circle. You’re in one of Paulson’s Panzers, squeezing in between two of the country’s most expensive cars.’ Superintendent Paulson was responsible for fleet management and acquisition. He’d replaced the entire fleet with far cheaper models, none of which were particularly comfortable drives. It made a lot of financial sense as, given the way the average officer flung a police car round corners and slammed on the brakes at every stoplight, the lifespan of a standard fleet vehicle was remarkably short. Cheap and disposable was the current acquisition trend for all aspects of the force.

  Sarah turned the engine off and heard Dales’ sigh of relief. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Wasn’t me. It was the car.’ He gave the dashboard a pat as if to congratulate it on an ordeal well endured and opened the door as gently as possible. Sarah stood back, judged the excess space in the parking bay and felt reasonably proud of herself. The Getz looked like a small boy on the tube squeezed between two broadsheet-reading city bankers.

  The Oxlaine Hotel was at the border of the Mavenswood patch and the neighbouring Hallswell district. It was off Oxlaine Road, a B road that connected Rhystown and Osbasten. As the maps fell, Mavenswood covered up to the central line on Oxlaine Road, and anything on the other side of the road was investigated by Hallswell. This had remained the standard for around sixty years until, as it was always someday going to, a body was found lying directly across the central line. Rumour had it that the DI from Mavenswood attended first and kicked the body over to Hallswell’s side, and when rumbled by the duty detective chief inspector, quite how no one knows, Mavenswood were taken to task over the situation. It was decided that Hallswell would investigate all incidents that occurred on Oxlaine Road and Mavenswood would cover the hotel itself. In the years since the fateful kick, Hallswell had picked up two traffic fatalities and Mavenswood had suffered one murder, a large-scale embezzlement starting at the hotel and spanning Austria and France, three rapes, one staff-on-staff brawl and countless calls to alcohol-induced violence. The legend coined the phrase ‘don’t kick the carcass’, used to warn junior officers of the pitfalls of shirking responsibilities.

  The hotel had cleaned up its act since those days. New management had taken over and invested a significant sum in both structural and cosmetic building work. The grounds oozed opulence from the sight of the gate on Oxlaine Road. A long, winding driveway lined with tall trees, housing squirrels and small colourful songbirds, greeted guests as they drove towards the pure white building. The extravagant cars outside maintained the aura of elegance commanded by the building itself, and the cloud-blue marble fountain, just in front of the large gold-framed double doors, was carved to exquisite detail.

  ‘It’s no Premier Inn.’ Dales ran his finger down the price list in the brochure as they waited in a side office. ‘Two hundred pounds a night blows Lenny’s budget. Oh wait, wine and chocolates in your room on arrival. That makes it all worth it.’

  Sarah took out her notebook, and prepared a new page for the suicide scene. Dales closed the brochure as Semples opened the wood-panelled door and came in wearing a dark charcoal suit.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t expect to see you both again so soon. Thank you for waiting. And for your discretion. The same can’t be said of your colleagues,’ he said.

  ‘Hello again, Sir. We’ll be investigating what happened in Room 334.’ Sarah noticed Semples hands shaking. He was already stressed enough with Valerie's situation, and now he had this to deal with.

  ‘Please, call me Eric. What a tragic morning it’s been. Many of the staff are in tears, and if I’m honest, I’m a little shaken myself.’

  ‘That’s understandable. Who found the body?’ asked Sarah, poised to write.

  ‘Victor Palupoupous. He’s only worked here a couple of weeks. In a bit of a state as you can imagine. Nice lad. When Miss Hargreaves failed to check out, he went into her room and she was lying on the floor.’

  ‘Is he still here?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve taken him off duty and called in a replacement, so he’s all yours when you’re ready.’

  ‘I take it you’re well covered with cameras?’ She’d clocked three in the short walk between the foyer and this office, one of which was pointed directly at the till.

  ‘Very much so. There are cameras on every floor, the lifts, the function rooms. Our technician isn’t here this morning, so I may not be able to get the footage to you straight away, but you’ll have it as soon as I can get it.’

  ‘Thanks. We’ll also need staff lists detailing everyone who was working overnight. Can we see the room?’

  They took the lift to the third floor. The spotless mirrored walls and the unsightly CCTV camera staring directly at her from the ceiling made Sarah feel self-conscious. She wondered why they couldn’t work them into the ambience of the place. They walked along the corridor to Room 334. The spaces between the doors suggested wide rooms and looked nothing like the cramped, university dorm-style corridors that made up the hotels she frequented. Semples knocked on the door and a uniformed officer opened it.

  ‘Okay, Sir, this fine young fellow here will bring us up to speed.’ Dales gave their names to the scene guard. ‘Whilst we’re in here, could you get us the list of staff who were working last night and the areas they would have been stationed at; a list of anyone who has been in this room since the body was found; all sets of keys to the room as no one is going in or out without our say-so; blueprints of the hotel including camera locations; a log of phone calls in and out of the room; Miss Hargreaves’ movements in and out and copy of the details she used to sign in including any bank cards, et cetera; and, if you would, two, oh three, cups of tea.’

  Semples grudgingly made a note of the requests. ‘How do you like your tea?’

  ‘Got any herbal? If so, a couple of red berries for us and this chap looks like the milky with two sugars type.’ Sarah had converted Dales to herbal tea. He wouldn’t have touched the stuff before they’d met, but now swore it had sorted his gut trouble out. Mrs Dales thought it was indicative of a lactose intolerance problem and had urged h
im to give up dairy altogether. Baby steps, dear, he’d told her, baby steps.

  ‘Sergeant, some of the guests have already started asking questions about the events of this morning. They’ve heard staff crying and seen police officers pulling up outside. If you could keep your presence as discreet as possible, it will not go without our deepest appreciation.’ Semples left the room, looking at his task list and muttering to himself.

  ‘You sure you gave him enough to do?’ Sarah looked around the room to get her bearing.

  ‘Enough to make sure he won’t be bothering us for a while.’

  The scene guard told them he and his partner had arrived at 11:45 and quickly established the scene in the room. No other scenes were being guarded as, from what they knew so far, the incident was isolated to room 334. It was a queen-size room, booked by a single female two days ago. She’d checked in the previous day at 16:35 with one small bag and a garment bag that was unzipped, empty and hooked on the wardrobe handle. Her brown leather shoulder bag was open on the white, still-made bed sheets. A small beige boutique paper bag with brown rope handles fastened with a knot lay on its side on the white bedside table; the rim was covered in white powder. Sarah used her pen to open the bag and saw wraps of white powder inside.

  ‘Posh way to carry drugs. Looks like something from a fancy chocolate shop. Her make-up is open all over her bed; she was in a rush to head out somewhere. Was that purse found like that?’ Sarah walked around the scene, being careful where she stepped.

  ‘It was in the bag. I opened it to check for ID,’ responded the scene guard.

  ‘Move anything else?’ She sketched the room in her book as the scene guard confirmed neither he nor his partner had touched anything. ‘Where’s her phone?’

  ‘No sign of a phone.’

  ‘The rim of the bath looks like the display counter at Harrods. Any more anti-aging creams and she’d have woken up a toddler.’ Dales walked out of the bathroom waving his hand in front of his nose. ‘Why do women think smelling like fruit is in any way appealing?’

  ‘Maybe they don’t do it with you in mind?’

  ‘Well, they don’t doll themselves up to sit indoors and watch the cricket. She was partying with someone last night and by the looks of that dress, it was someone she was looking to impress.’ Dales looked the body up and down. Sheila lay at the base of the bed, black frilly dress hitched up and legs apart, not wide enough to suggest they’d been pulled that way, but wide enough to notice. She looked good for forty-four. It was hard to tell how much was natural and what had been plastered over by the products in the bathroom. Over the next few weeks, the decay and the rot would leave her looking like any other corpse. No matter the money, the products, the implants, she’d look the same as her neighbours lying side by side in the ground. ‘You ever considered curling your hair? It’s a good look, a little eighties, but that’s all rage again now.’

  ‘Seen this? Pretty unusual bag to be carrying drugs around in.’ Sarah pointed her pen towards the rope-handled bag.

  ‘Hiding in plain sight. Affluent-looking woman carrying around something that looks like a lingerie bag, who’s going to question her?’ Dales turned Sheila’s hands at the wrists. There was a trace of white powder under her fingernails.

  ‘I thought chocolates.’

  ‘You would, Gladstone, you would.’

  She didn’t ask him to clarify his comment. It’d been a while since she'd bought underwear that would fit in a bag that small. It’d been a while since she'd bought underwear that wasn’t three for two at M&S. Sarah crouched down over the body and looked up at Dales and the guard. ‘Gentlemen, give the lady some privacy, please.’ Sarah turned Sheila’s body by her shoulders. She unzipped the dress, revealing the clasp of a black lacy bra. No marks on her back save for a Celtic tattoo between her shoulder blades. She lifted her curly, blonde locks to find no marks on her neck and, on pulling down the top of her dress, nothing on her chest. Her thighs had some reddening from the tight dress, nothing more and, although there were no visible marks on her inner thighs, there was no way of telling if she’d had any sexual contact without a proper examination. ‘Okay, you can open your eyes now.’

  Dales turned back around. ‘You know, I have seen a naked woman before.’

  ‘It wasn’t for your benefit.’

  ‘So, what’s your call?’

  ‘We don’t know nearly enough yet. I say we keep the door locked and the scene on until we’ve viewed the CCTV, recover the drugs to print the packaging, run DNA tests and confirm the substance. There are no obvious injuries to the body, but we shouldn’t rule anything out until we know a little more. Could be a simple drugs overdose, could be poisoned cocaine, either way there’s nothing obviously sinister at this point.’

  ‘Good, happy with that.’ Dales turned to the scene guard. ‘Identify a next of kin and have a death message delivered. Make sure they know we’re going to need to speak to them at some point. Seize the drugs, all her personal items. Make sure the wallet—’

  He stopped talking. They all heard it. A faint buzz in the background—the sound of a vibrating phone. Dales reached for Sheila’s bag, rifled through it and turned it upside down on the bed. ‘Nothing here.’

  Sarah opened the bedside table to find nothing. ‘Right, there’s a phone in here somewhere, let’s find it.’ The sound stopped.

  Within seconds it started vibrating again. Sarah looked under the bed from a press-up position. The light from the screen lit up the underside. She stretched underneath, nearly pulling her shoulder in the process, and loosely gripped the phone by its corner. ‘Got it.’ It had stopped ringing by the time she’d looked at the screen. ‘Forty missed calls from Eamon.’

  Dales opened an exhibit bag and Sarah dropped it in. ‘We’ll have it examined back at the nick.’

  ‘No more Bolton on the way back, please.’ Dales put the seized phone into the boot.

  ‘I have the keys, I control the radio. Complain too much and I’ll bring my own CDs in. Count yourself lucky that station plays a range; I could subject you to hours and hours of Janis Joplin.’

  ‘Okay, you win.’ Dales looked at his watch. ‘Looks like we’ll be off on time. Initial actions are all set, photographs taken and the undertakers are on the way, and if we can’t access the cameras until tomorrow, we’ll brief late turn to statement Victor when he comes back on duty, and pick it all up in the morning. Manford will be happy we’re saving his overtime budget.’

  As she started the car, Semples appeared in front of them, out of breath with his hands on the bonnet.

  ‘Officers, I have the CCTV technician here for you.’

  There goes my early finish.

  Seven

  Sarah called her sister, but the call rang through to voicemail. She left a message, asking her to call back as she needed a favour. The chances of her making it home in time for Mark to go to his meeting were getting slimmer and slimmer.

  The CCTV viewing station was comprised of eight screens, each split into four, all manned from a dashboard that resembled an aeroplane’s cockpit. The Mavenswood Council CCTV office paled in comparison, sporting flickering black and white televisions that belonged in a museum, not as part of a security system designed to protect an entire town. The Oxlaine’s set-up was crystal clear, high definition and motion activated.

  ‘It’s all brand new. Puts the last system to shame.’ Semples stood next to Dales, almost within touching distance. ‘The trouble is, it’s so new, no one on site knows quite how to use it. I had to pick Gareth up and bring him here specially to show you.’ He put his hand on Gareth’s shoulder, which the technician seemed to have expected, but still disliked. It appeared as if Semples had dragged Gareth out of bed. His unshaven, greasy face was drawn, and his red lumberjack shirt had one too many buttons undone and hadn’t seen an iron in a while. He scratched his hair, as if picking dead skin from his scalp underneath his clumpy ginger mop.

  ‘Right, Gareth, give these officers whatever
they need.’ Semples returned to stand next to Dales. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, I have some other business to attend to. It’s all been a little manic here today as I’m sure you appreciate.’ He assured them they were in capable hands as he left the room.

  ‘Right, what d’you need?’ Gareth pressed some buttons on the control panel so fast neither of them could follow.

  ‘Let’s start with the foyer camera from around 16:15,’ said Sarah, adjusting the time for a fifteen-minute margin of error. She checked the time on the current screen with her watch: perfect match. Not checking the accuracy of the CCTV camera’s clock was a common mistake and could steer an investigation in the completely wrong direction. Gareth’s fingers danced on the panel and within seconds all eight screens formed a single image. The footage showed the large front doors at the top of the screen, with the receptionist’s desk at the bottom. Her blonde hair was tied in a bun and she wore the standard Oxlaine uniform. She stood, back to the screen, tapping her nails on the desk. A suited man came into shot from the right and waved on his way out, prompting her to momentarily stand up straight and wave before returning to her slouch once the door closed behind him.

  ‘What’s her name?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘No idea, mate. Don’t work here. I only come in to deal with this sort of thing. Want this a little faster?’

  ‘Forwind it a little.’

  ‘Forwind? It’s not a tape, love. All run off a server now.’ Gareth tapped the panel and the footage began running at double speed. The receptionist hardly moved except for the occasional hip movement which the speed of the footage exaggerated into a shimmy.

  ‘You must be very proud.’ Sarah was getting tired of him already. She was tired of Gareth, tired of hardly sleeping and tired of getting off work late.

  There she was. Sheila Hargreaves walked into the Oxlaine at 16:33. ‘Pause it. Run it normally.’ Sheila was casually dressed in a mauve V-neck jumper, a tartan scarf buried underneath a white shirt collar and wide-legged jeans: a look far removed from the little black dress she carried in a black plastic garment bag draped over her arm. Her straight blonde hair made her even harder to recognise. Had Sarah not seen her body up close, she may have kept the footage rolling and missed her completely. The receptionist straightened up and booked her in as Sheila placed her bags on the floor. A retired couple queued behind her, him in tweed sport coat and argyle jumper, her with a coral blue hat tilted to the side and toting a petite trolley bag. He looked at Sheila and pulled his head back with a look of disgust, before whispering something to his wife something clearly hilarious. Sheila didn’t turn around, but shifted uncomfortably at the desk. The receptionist handed her a key card and an information leaflet. Sheila walked off screen, casting a glance at the couple as she left.