But the hotel was quiet, the corridor empty. At the far end was a window. He pushed it open, leaning out to see if there was a way to Simm’s terrace.
He tucked sunglasses into his pocket and swung out to the ledge.
The hotel was built of sandstone blocks, and there were gaps at the joints where years of tropical rains had washed out soft mortar. Using just these crevices for handholds he scaled the walls, skirting round to the American’s room. It was precarious, his backpack threatening to tug him to the street below. He barely noticed, his mind set only on his quarry.
Finally he clambered over the railings onto a wide balcony and crept to the sliding glass doors. He had a clear view of the lounge, but could not see either the boy or Simm.
Further along were more doors, and this time he could see the top of Simm’s head as the obese American reclined on the bedroom sofa, his back to the window. There was no sign of the boy as Doug eased open the sliding door and slipped through.
His knife, a beautiful heavy blade kept in a tailored pouch on the underside of his rucksack, easily accessible in case of emergency, slid into his right hand as he crouched, covering the few yards to the sofa. Like a panther, he sprang, unheard and unseen, grasping Simm’s forehead with his left hand and simultaneously slipping his knife under the man’s chin.
Brown knew from experience that at times of great stress or anger the human body is capable of phenomenal feats of strength. Chemicals surge into the blood, and the brain shuts off the doubts that stop people attempting the irrational, the impossible.
His exceptional knife thrust was driven by rage, a deep seated fury that spanned thirty years to memories of childhood abuse that had been repressed, but not forgotten.
The blood had sprayed, pumping over the little boy whose head was bobbing up and down in the man’s lap. As Simm died, a gurgle of terror bubbled and splashed from his throat, and the child looked up at the terrifying sight that would haunt his dreams forever.
Doug had let go of the man’s head and reached for the boy, wanting to reassure him. But the lad must have seen the madness in his eyes, the knife, and the blood. Oh, so much blood.
He ran, screaming for his life.
That sound had brought Doug back from the brink of insanity, the sight of the naked lad sprinting away from him wrenched his heart. He turned to finish the job, the final cut for Simm. He knew he would only have a few moments to find something that would help him discover more about Simm and his operation before hotel security was alerted.
The boy’s screams faded as he hammered down the stairs.
Doug switched back into his professional persona, the one he had come to Thailand to forget. He was out of there in two minutes, carrying a black leather folder.
He was confident he had managed to leave the hotel without any witnesses spotting him. He had jumped onto a fire escape at the side of the building, a rickety old cast iron stairway, badly rusted and unused. The five star hotel had plush rooms inside but anything out of sight of the guests was left to rot, untended. The last flight of steps were raised and secured to prevent burglars gaining access, and jammed solid from years of neglect. He was forced to lower himself and drop to the floor, rolling to break the fall.
He had made it to this hostel room, and fallen into a troubled sleep. Half forgotten images, vile things lurking in his childhood, tumbled from his subconscious. His anger had built again, and when he got up he knew what he had to do.
Simm was dead but Fan was still out there. Doug had hoped the oriental was unaware of the death of the American, and thought that if he went to the café at 9am there was a good chance he would find him there.
Things had gone to plan, although when he had cracked the Thai’s skull with the handle of his knife, and the man had gone down like a sack of shit, Doug had thought he had killed him.
Instead, he now he had an address. He also had the strange computer that had been inside the black folder, just waiting for attention.
And he was calm.
The calm before the storm.
***
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Remorseless: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate #1) Page 44