I squeezed out of the booth muttering something about the loo, and felt my way through a dark warren of corridors. Mercifully the bathroom was empty. I brushed a film of white powder off the toilet lid and sat down with my head in my hands.
What am I doing?
As News Editor, Mack was under extreme pressure from Rowley to boost circulation figures. He was a killer at playing the corporate game, and making the upper echelons believe he was the man for the job. But Mack wasn’t a natural news hound. He was putting in sixteen-hour days with very little to show for it, and the stress was burning him out. He felt cornered, so he acted out. Took it out on those around him. Most of the staff thought he was a dick, but I understood. My life was hardly a bucket of rainbows, lately, and I recognised a fellow fuck-up. We didn’t have to like each other to use one another as an escape. That’s what I told myself the first time I unzipped his trousers in the deserted newsroom, anyway. Two months later, here we were. Same shit, different bar. Sharp, stabby small talk. Both knowing where the evening would end, neither happy about it. Eventually, a sharp rapping on the door brought me back to the present.
‘What the fuck are you doing in there? Some of us have gotta take a shit.’
I moved towards the mirror, smoothed down my silvery-blonde hair. I took a deep, steadying breath then stood up straight, as though an invisible force had zipped me up.
‘I was about to file a Missing Persons Report.’ Mack gave me a quizzical look, flicking the lid of his silver lighter open and shut. He slid another shot across the table. ‘Chin up. I’m sure we can hold the fort until the great Sophie Kent climbs back onto her pedestal.’ He went for breezy but his tight smile let him down.
I swallowed a last, stinging shot and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘Let’s go.’
As I swayed through the shadows, Mack put a bony hand on the small of my back. I flinched. Five more minutes and those shots would kick in.
Then he could touch me wherever he liked.
4
The air was thick and sour. Last night’s vodka still coated the inside of my mouth. I lay there for a minute as fragments of the evening hovered on the edge of my brain, just out of reach. Slowly, I pushed myself up to sitting and waited for the spinning room to level out. It was still dark. I reached for my phone: 6.38 a.m.
I could make out the snoring mass beside me and the silhouette of a dressing table against the wall. The framed photos on top were illuminated by a sliver of light from a door to the hallway. Mack and a pretty brunette grinning in a snowstorm of confetti. We never really discussed his personal life but I’d heard a rumour that his wife had decided city life wasn’t for her and promptly moved herself and the kids to Wiltshire. For the unpredictable life of a news editor, the ninety-minute commute was unthinkable, so Mack spent most weeknights in a tiny flat above a dry cleaner on Litchfield Street.
I scanned the room for my clothes, trying to avoid the other framed photo. Two little boys, both dark-haired, skinny-limbed copies of their father. I picked up my scattered clothes with the ease of a seasoned player, praying Mack wouldn’t wake up. I was halfway across the room when my phone chimed loudly. I grabbed it and scuttled into the bathroom, stubbing my toe in the process.
The pain was forgotten the moment I opened the text message.
The Rose Hotel. Room 538. She’s dead.
I didn’t recognise the number.
Who is this?
I sat on the cold marble floor waiting for a response, but nothing came. The text could be a prank. Ever since the anonymous text apps hit the market, my daily interaction with nutters had increased tenfold. But what if it wasn’t a prank? The Rose was only a few minutes away.
Hauling myself up, I splashed my face with icy water and rubbed the red gash where the pillow had imprinted on my forehead. Then I turned my knickers inside out, threw on yesterday’s clothes and tiptoed across the bedroom. A newspaper lay on the doormat by the front door. I kicked it to one side, noting the date: 14 February. Happy fucking Valentine’s Day.
The inky sky was turning indigo as I buried my chin in my scarf and crossed Shaftesbury Avenue. A line of red buses snaked along the street, their windows opaque with the hot, angry breath of people going nowhere fast. Rounding the corner into Old Compton Street, I paused by a tiny Vietnamese restaurant that smelled like feet. The Rose’s gleaming brick facade was lit up by a row of spotlights; its green-and-white striped awnings rippled in the breeze. Fishing out my notebook, I scribbled down the number plate of every car I passed. The rule of thumb for any reporter? Write everything down. Random threads of information often weaved themselves into a complete tapestry down the line.
A portly doorman in a bottle-green overcoat smiled as he opened the door. I paused briefly, taking in the scene. The lobby’s marble floor shone like an ice rink and amplified the tinkling of silver against china. Pink armchairs formed a circle in the middle and a shimmering chandelier hung from the ornate ceiling. A waft of buttered toast made my stomach growl. I kneeled down and pretended to get something out of my bag while scanning the lobby for anyone who looked shaken or upset. Always my first port of call; people let all kinds of information slip when they’re in shock.
I couldn’t see any evidence to suggest news had got out yet. If there was any news. The lack of police presence pointed towards the time-waster scenario, but it was hard to tell. A place like this wouldn’t broadcast a scandal. And if someone was dead, the fact that hotel staff didn’t know gave me hope. There was a chance the crime scene wasn’t locked down.
‘Can I help you?’ A chiselled man behind the front desk looked up.
I smiled as widely as my hangover would permit. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
Act like you belong. Confidence gets you everywhere in this job. I strode past the mirrored bar to the stairs and hauled myself up the oak bannister. No one was guarding the landings. If police were here, it would only be uniform. No way would I have got this far if the Scene of Crime Officers had arrived. By the time I reached the fifth floor, my hangover was protesting loudly and I clung onto the bannister with sweaty palms to catch my breath.
In this quiet corner of the hotel, the street noise was muffled, as if the city had been gagged. A familiar crackle of a police radio drifted down the corridor on my right. I held my breath, cursing the deafening thud-thud-thud of my heart in my ears. The corridor was dimly lit; the thick emerald carpet soaked up what little light there was. I crept along until I reached where the corridor veered to the right and pressed my back against the wall.
‘It’s not ideal, but let’s make the best of it.’
The voice was measured, with a pleasant lilt, and I unclenched my fists a fraction. Risking a peek round the corner, I spotted the back of Detective Chief Inspector Sam Durand’s auburn head as he stooped in a hotel-room doorway, his six-foot-four frame filling the space. What’s he doing here? CID weren’t usually on the scene at this point. Still, it was good news. DCI Durand was one of the few police officers who had risen up the ranks without becoming a complete arsehole. Some were power-happy narcissists. Others were by-the-book guys, too straight to take a risk. But Durand was different. Razor-sharp, with an uncanny knack for reading people. And he wasn’t afraid of getting his hands dirty. Thanks to the Leveson Inquiry, my drawer of CID business cards was about as useful as a bikini in a blizzard but, unlike many of his contemporaries, Durand didn’t despise the press. He understood the point of a mutually beneficial relationship, particularly with me. I didn’t care why he favoured me. I used it.
The nuances of my job boiled down to good, old-fashioned trust. ‘Trust is like your virginity,’ Durand once told me. ‘Once it’s lost, you can never get it back.’ I took it as the warning shot he intended it to be. And I worked hard to ensure our trust remained intact. Including scratching his back every now and again.
Four years ago a hot-blooded Albanian immigrant called Ardit Dushku had waged a campaign against women in the Peckham area, sexually assault
ing them before leaving them for dead. After victim number five, the police investigation, headed up by Detective Inspector Durand, pieced together a profile of the suspect, right down to the car he drove, which had been traced back to three of the crime scenes. I’d done the same, and had taken it one step further by tracking down his ex-wife and approaching her for an interview. When I arrived at a rundown bungalow by the side of the A3, my eye caught something on the driveway. A blue-and-yellow sticker with the words Elbasani 1913 emblazoned across it. The edges were puckered, as if someone had tried very hard to peel it off. Later that day, I attended a press conference where DI Durand announced in front of thirty journalists that the suspect drove a silver Honda with an Albanian football sticker in the rear window. After he finished, I sought him out and quietly explained where he could find that sticker. In the trial, when Dushku pleaded insanity, the sticker was one of the incriminating pieces of evidence that proved he was of sound mind. A genuinely insane person wouldn’t have had the foresight to dispose of the one thing that could identify his car. The sticker changed everything. Durand was promoted to DCI and my life got a whole lot easier. It helped that Durand thought I was a straight arrow. Which I was. Mostly.
‘Lacey, secure the floor as far as the lifts. Here’s a list of the occupied rooms. Start knocking them up. SOCOs should be here in ten.’
I pressed myself further into the wall as an officer stalked past wearing plastic shoe covers. A low murmur drifted from the room, then Durand’s voice, softer this time. ‘Someone needs to guard this corridor. Could you keep watch, Andrews?’
Moments later I heard a whooshing sound and took a peek. PC Doug Andrews was bent over, with his hands on his knees, exhaling loudly through his mouth. A shiver ran down my spine. He was a uniformed constable with more than two years in the field. He had seen his share of corpses.
What is in that room?
I pulled out my notebook and sketched a rough diagram of the floor plan. The long corridor I’d walked down had six rooms leading off it, then round the corner a shorter corridor with two further rooms, including 538. I made a note to get hold of the hotel guest log.
I glanced back down the corridor. Lacey would be back any second. I squared my shoulders and strolled round the corner, like I had every right to be there.
Andrews’s eyes narrowed. ‘How the hell did you get in?’
‘I got lucky.’
He puffed out his chest in a clumsy attempt to reassert his manliness. He needn’t have bothered. I’d been there enough times myself. It’s rarely the sight of a body that makes you gag. It’s the smell. Cheap perfume splashed over rotting flesh. It clings to the mucus in your nose so that you can taste it for days afterwards.
I pulled out a box of mints and offered him one. ‘Here, helps with the smell.’ He eyed me suspiciously but shook one out of the box. I nodded towards the open door. ‘That bad, huh?’
Andrews’s lips pursed as he sucked greedily on the mint. ‘You have no idea.’
PC Andrews was not my biggest fan. Our paths first crossed two years ago on his first-ever crime scene. A couple was shot dead in their Shepherd’s Bush home, blood smeared over the walls, their dog’s throat slit. I took one look at Andrews’s ashen face and trembling hands guarding the crime scene and demanded he step aside. Mistaking me for a senior plain-clothed police officer, he let me under the blue-and-white tape. I lasted fifteen minutes before I was escorted out. Grinning, I introduced myself. Andrews was mortified and hadn’t made the same mistake again.
‘Can you confirm if the death is suspicious?’ He glared at me. ‘Where’s your boss, anyway? How come Durand is catching this? This is Belgravia’s jurisdiction.’
Andrews shrugged. ‘He was in the area. Heard the callout and dropped by. Chief Inspector O’Byrne is downstairs with management. That OK with you?’
That didn’t make sense. I wondered if Durand’s appearance had anything to do with the new hotshot DCI who had been brought into the department. Rumour had it this guy was barely thirty, with an unbeaten track record.
‘Come on, Doug. Give me the basics. Male, female, young, old? You know I’m going to find out anyway. Be a hero and help me out.’ The corners of Andrews’s mouth rose a fraction. ‘Or we can play the guessing game until I get kicked out. It might pass the time until your stomach recovers.’
The corners dropped. ‘When Lacey gets back it will be my pleasure to escort you out.’
‘I’m going to make this easy for you. You don’t have to say anything. Just nod if I’m right.’
Andrews rolled his eyes.
‘The deceased is male.’ I watched him closely but he gave nothing away. ‘Female?’ A ghost of a nod. ‘Under forty?’ Andrews nodded again. ‘Under twenty-five?’ Something flickered across his face. ‘Overdose? Stabbing? Come on, I’m on a deadline. Who found the body?’ I heard a cough from inside the room. ‘What did Durand mean when he said “this isn’t ideal”?’ Andrews stared at a spot on the wall over my head. I’d have had more luck interrogating a plank of wood. ‘I’ll get out of your way, I promise. But give me something – anything – that means my trip isn’t wasted.’
Andrews shifted his weight. I knew it was coming.
‘There was some fashion do here last night. We think she was one of the models. It’s hard to tell. She’s . . .’ He swallowed thickly, fighting to keep his face in check.
‘Anything else? Method?’
Andrews shook his head. ‘I wasn’t in there long. Durand needed me out here.’
I smiled encouragingly, pretended I didn’t know the real reason Durand sent him outside.
‘She had a tattoo,’ he added, almost to himself.
‘A tattoo?’ I scribbled it down in my notepad. ‘Where?’
Andrews cleared his throat, snapping back into himself. ‘Right here.’ He pointed to the middle finger on his right hand. My pen stopped moving. ‘The tattoo was upside down from where I was standing, but it looked like a butterfly.’
A chill spread through me. ‘A blue butterfly?’
Andrews looked at me uncertainly. ‘How did you –’
‘Shit, shit, shit.’ I slammed my fist against the wall and Andrews’s eyes widened.
‘You know her?’
‘I need to speak to Durand. Now.’
Andrews nodded and ducked back along the corridor.
I sagged against the wall feeling sick. This couldn’t be happening.
Durand stuck his head round the door and strode towards me, brow furrowed as he peeled off his latex gloves. His auburn hair had grown since I last saw him and hung limply over his collar. He always reminded me of a beaten-up Daniel Craig, but today he looked craggier than usual. You work on your inside sources until you’re close enough to know what they ate for breakfast and what their wife gave them for Christmas. I knew Durand never ate breakfast and his wife had left him in November. I wasn’t surprised to see the button of his grey jacket straining around his middle.
‘Yes?’ Durand knew I wouldn’t ask for him directly unless it was important.
‘I know who she is.’
His eyes, the colourless blue of marbles, flickered over my face but he didn’t blink. ‘I’m listening.’
‘I need something in return.’ Durand started to object but I cut him off. ‘She has dark hair, a birthmark on her left thigh, and I’m betting you found a green woollen quilt somewhere in that room.’ Durand looked startled. ‘Sam, she was a source. I know all about her. Give me five minutes.’
Durand narrowed his eyes. ‘I won’t allow the crime scene to be contaminated. I don’t care how well you knew her.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ I was damned if I was going to leave empty-handed. I pulled out my phone and handed it to him. ‘A quick overview, a couple of snaps, anything you can get. And I’ll give you a name and address, whatever you need.’ And a head-start on your new DCI, I almost said.
Durand rubbed his eyes. He looked as though he hadn’t slept for days.
‘The SOCOs will be here any minute. Let’s make this quick.’ He took my phone and disappeared into the room.
I glanced over my shoulder. The consequences would be dire if either of us were caught. Drumming my fingers against my bag, I craned my neck, looking for signs of forced entry. The door hadn’t been tampered with. I could picture Durand in the hotel room, auburn eyebrows pulled into a deep ‘V’. He once explained to me that he always followed the left-hand wall round a crime scene. ‘Like Hampton Court maze,’ he explained. ‘If you follow the left-hand wall, you get to the middle.’ This technique ensured he didn’t miss a thing, not the smallest blood spatter, nor footprint.
A few minutes later Durand reappeared, holding my phone between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I won’t insult you by explaining what will happen if anyone sees the images on your phone.’
I nodded, momentarily distracted by the cloying scent that clung to his suit. Not a corpse smell. Something else.
Durand led me round the corner away from prying eyes. I pulled up the photo folder on my phone with unsteady hands and studied the screen. Pale sunlight filtered through large windows, bathing the room in a ghostly light. A large, mirrored cabinet stood against green-flocked wallpaper, and on top, next to a vase of blue flowers, were five burned-out candles. I zoomed in on the label. Rose Blossom. That would explain the smell.
Durand peered at the screen over my shoulder. ‘A couple of them were still burning when she was discovered this morning.’
‘Travel candles. Expensive ones. Are they hers or were they already in the room? Only. . .’
Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series) Page 3