Riley got out of the car and approached the hotel entrance. A flatbed trolley loaded with luggage stood near the doors. One of the bags, a large, blue, canvas-sided piece with gold locks and a reinforcing strap hugging its middle, had fallen off the trolley and lay in a puddle like a beached whale.
A clutch of figures stood behind the misted glass under the ceiling lights, deep in conversation. Two of them wore police uniforms. Riley scanned the car park and saw the nose of a squad car partly shielded by a delivery van, steam drifting off the bonnet.
The double doors opened with a hiss, discharging a current of over-warm, recycled air. On the wall behind the desk a clock reminded everyone that it was nearly seven a.m.
Riley was accustomed to coming under the scrutiny of cops; approach a crime scene often enough and it became something you could almost ignore. A mixture of suspicion, interest and wariness.
‘Can we help you?’ One of the uniforms stepped away from the group and into her path. He was built like a prop forward and the brim of his cap was spotted with rain. He had the assurance of someone who was beyond directing traffic or filling in forms. Or maybe it was the black leather holster on his hip, which, Riley reflected, unless things had moved on dramatically in the past few hours, was not standard issue for all traffic patrols.
‘I need a room,’ she responded instinctively. It probably sounded lame, but on the other hand, asking to see a male guest at this time of day sounded even more unlikely. ‘What’s going on?’
For a second the cop said nothing. He looked down at Riley’s hands. ‘Travelling light?’
Riley bit back a reply and wondered if it was the gun which made him so pushy. ‘I’m on my way into London,’ she explained. ‘I thought I’d check availability first. If it’s not against the law?’
His eyes narrowed at the tone in her voice, but instinct told her sarcasm would be a natural response for someone tired and fractious and facing a nosy cop at this time of the morning when all she wanted was a room.
It worked, but only just. He shook his head. ‘Sorry, but we’ve had an incident here. You might like to find somewhere else.’ The way he said it meant: Leave now, we’re busy. Over his shoulder she saw the other cop watching, while a man and a woman who looked like hotel employees looked as if they wanted to be somewhere else.
‘Like where? And what sort of incident?’
The cop’s response was a flat stare, so she turned and walked back to the car, wondering what was going on. Maybe one of the guests had run amok with a meat cleaver. Or maybe there had been a terrorist scare. Whatever it was, it seemed to have everyone on edge. What struck Riley as odd was that armed police didn’t normally attend incidents unless there was a report of firearms or other deadly weapons. In which case, where was their back-up and incident unit?
She was about to climb in the car to call Henry when a youth appeared round the corner of the hotel. He was tall and skinny and dressed in a white shirt and porter’s waistcoat, hunched against the cold and jingling a large bunch of keys. A plastic badge gave his name as Andy. Riley stepped in front of him. ‘Do you know what’s going on? Why are the police here?’
He glanced towards the entrance, then back at Riley, his eyes doing the up-and-down trip but without conviction, as if his mind was hovering elsewhere.
‘Beats me,’ he offered. ‘I only got here fifteen minutes ago. The place was all lit up. Someone said there’d been a fight. The night manager said to go round and check all the exterior doors, and not to talk to anyone.’ He gave a half grin at his small show of defiance. ‘I’d better get back.’
‘Wait.’ Riley needed to know what was happening inside the hotel, and at the very least get inside to see Henry. But she could hardly go back to reception while the police were there. Instinct told her this youth might be the only answer. ‘Pretty unusual, though, isn’t it - armed police at a fight?’ She was hoping he’d respond with a bit of speculation, leavened by some gossip or a piece of solid detail.
‘I suppose.’ He shrugged super cool, like it was old news and all too boring. ‘They’re most likely one of the armed response teams from the airport. They’d be the nearest. The night manager would have dialled 999. It’s what we have to do, when there’s trouble. There are more upstairs, only not in uniform. Maybe somebody died.’
Riley was surprised. This was all moving too fast. First the call from Donald, then the hesitant run-around from Henry and his directions to this hotel. Now this – and with plain-clothed officers to boot.
She dug out her mobile, along with a £10 note, which was the smallest she had. ‘Hang on,’ she said to Andy. ‘Please.’ He said something but didn’t move, anchored by the sight of the money. Riley hit re-dial, and Henry’s mobile number came up. After five rings it was picked up.
‘Who’s this?’ The voice was a man’s, solid and official sounding. In the background came a buzz of other voices and the hollow slam of a door, before somebody made a shushing sound. All she could hear then was the hiss of somebody breathing into the phone. She cut the call. Henry’s phone but definitely not Henry’s voice. Weird.
‘I’ve got to go,’ the youth was saying. He was gesturing towards the entrance and beginning to sidle away, but still with one eye on the note in Riley’s hand.
‘This is yours if you get me inside.’ The words came out impulsively. Riley was reacting on the hoof with no clear thought of how this might pan out, but her instincts told her that whatever had happened inside the hotel was connected in some way with Henry Pearcy. ‘Just get me in, that’s all. I’ll take it from there. Don’t worry, I promise I won’t steal anything.’
He shuffled his feet, greed fighting for supremacy over fear of being caught out. ‘Are you a reporter?’
It was either a lucky guess or the kid was smarter than he looked. ‘That’s right. I happened to be in the area.’
The promise of immediate cash evidently made up Andy’s mind; he turned and walked back the way he’d come, leaving Riley to follow him round to the back of the hotel where the rooms overlooked a second car park and the lighting was sparse enough to throw pockets of gloom everywhere. He stopped at a side door and fiddled with his keys, then turned and held out his hand.
‘You never saw me, right?’ He was staring at her intently.
‘What floor did it happen on?’ Riley asked, parting with the note.
‘Sorry - you’re on your own.’ He pocketed the money and unlocked the door. ‘Close it within ten seconds or the alarm will show on the security board.’ Then he turned and hurried away.
Harry Poustalis, the manager of the SnapFast photo boutique, ducked off the exposed stretch that was Piccadilly, shoulders hunched against the squally rain. In one hand he clutched a polystyrene mug of extra-strong coffee, his preferred method of kick-starting his day, and in his head was an image of sun-blessed Kefalonia, his family island home. He wished he were there rather than here in cold, wet London. As he stopped outside the shop door, he found his way blocked by a misshapen bag of rubbish, its sides torn and pulled apart in a familiar fashion. He supposed it was one of the urban foxes that lived in the neighbourhood. Setting his coffee aside, he gathered the spillage of torn paper and plastic wrappings, grasped the bag and walked with it down the adjacent alley, stepping carefully over more scattered debris. The wheelie bins were already full, so he walked on towards the builders’ skips at the back.
As he swung the bag over the lip of the skip, he almost stepped on a huddled form encased in a grubby nylon sleeping bag. He cursed softly, wondering how anybody could sleep out here among this filth. Every morning it was the same. If this soul didn’t move soon before the contractor’s lorry came round, he or she stood a good chance of being crushed beneath the wheels.
Harry stooped and shook the sleeping bag. The occupant felt small and slight - most likely a kid. Maybe this one needed the coffee more than he did. The way they lived, it was no wonder some of them ended up in the local A&E. He shook the person again and tugged
the zip down, and the fabric fell away. In the same moment that he registered a strong aroma of tomato soup from inside the bag, Harry found himself looking at a deathly pale, pinched face and two sightless eyes staring up into the grey morning sky.
Chapter 4
Riley expected to find herself in a corridor leading towards the centre of the hotel complex. Instead she’d landed in what felt like a large stock cupboard. It was about six feet square, heavy with the mixed aromas of cleaning fluids and polish. By inching her way around in the dark, she found two walls lined with wooden shelves holding cleaning gear and some metal containers. The third was taken up with vacuum cleaners and buckets, and the fourth wall included a door with a thin crack of light showing at the edges. It wasn’t much, but sufficient to give her some bearings. She nosed up to the door and listened. If there was anyone out there, they were being very quiet.
She felt for the door handle. It was a standard doorknob with a small locking mechanism in the centre. She snicked it open and a wave of warm, musty air flowed through the gap, carrying a faint smell of carpets and damp.
Riley slid off her jacket and draped it over the handle of one of the vacuum cleaners. It left her in jeans and a plain white shirt. Might as well try and look like a guest, just in case. As an added extra, she messed up her hair and rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. It was unlikely to be flattering, but this was business.
When she stepped outside, she found herself in a dead-end corridor lit by overhead strip lighting, with a heavily patterned carpet underfoot and an occasional bland print on the bare brick walls between rooms. She walked towards the far end, where a sign indicated stairs one way and reception the other. At a guess, 210, Henry’s room, would be on the first or second floor, but until she spotted a sign, she’d have to run blind. She just hoped it didn’t turn out to be next to the one where the fight had taken place.
A sudden clatter made her jump. It was an ice-making machine and drinks dispenser set in an alcove. It gave her an idea, and she retraced her steps to the cleaning cupboard, where she took down one of the containers she’d noticed on a shelf. It was an aluminium ice bucket, standard issue in every hotel room from Alaska to Zanzibar. She walked back to the ice machine and jammed it under the dispenser.
The noise was horrendous, making her jump. When the bucket was full, she headed for the stairs. Fortunately, nobody seemed to have been disturbed by the clatter, and everything was quiet save for a vague murmur which could have been a television or the grumbling of the heating system.
Riley walked up to the first floor, where the signs indicated rooms 101-199. So, second floor it was, then. As she turned to go up the next flight of stairs, a uniformed PC stepped out of the shadows off the landing and stood looking down at her.
Riley brushed her hair back and peered at the signs on the wall, then gave what she hoped was the goofy smile of the terminally jet-lagged. ‘This place is like a maze,’ she said, stifling a yawn, and climbed the stairs, moving to step past him. But he reached out an arm and barred her way. Riley felt her stomach go cold.
‘Which floor are you on, then?’ he asked, adding, ‘miss.’
‘Three, I think,’ she replied, trying to recall if there was a three. ‘The ice machine up there looked dirty, so I came looking for another one.’ Before the officer could react, she peered up at him and said: ‘Look, what’s all the noise about? It’s worse than Oxford Street. And why are you lot asking everybody questions?’
She was counting on playing the aggrieved and disturbed guest to work, and it did. His eyes slid from her red eyes and rumpled hair to her boots, taking in the ice bucket on the way. Riley was impressed; there was no pause in his look on the way down, proving he didn’t appear to see beyond the fact that she was simply another guest.
He dropped his arm and gave her the benefit of a half smile. ‘There’s been an incident involving a guest on the second floor,’ he explained. ‘Nothing to worry about. I take it you didn’t hear anything unusual?’
‘No, sorry. Like I told your colleague, I had the television on. I couldn’t sleep.’ She rattled the ice bucket. ‘Thirsty, too.’
‘Colleague?’
‘That’s right. Tall man… looked like Wild Bill Hickock.’ When the PC frowned she added: ‘Not the moustache - the gun.’
He relaxed and stepped aside. ‘In that case, you’d better get back to your room, miss. We don’t want another guest disappearing, do we?’
Riley walked up to the second floor and checked the corridor, then pushed open the door, flinching at the sucking noise made by the draught excluders. Voices came from a room just a few doors down on her right, followed by a short bark of laughter. As she approached, a man stepped out and walked towards her. He wore a rumpled suit, with the tired expression of someone who had been up all night and didn’t expect to get to bed anytime soon. Riley yawned, but didn’t catch his eye. They passed each other without speaking, ships in the night. Well, morning.
As she drew level with the open door, she saw the number and felt her stomach lurch. 210. Henry’s room! What the hell was happening here? She paused and looked in, and saw a man standing by a television set in one corner, scribbling in a notebook. He wore a suit and heavy shoes, his feet surrounded by shards of broken glass. Near the door was a roll of coloured crime-scene tape.
The bathroom light was on, spilling out into the room and illuminating a section of pale wallpaper, and Riley could hear a ventilator fan humming noisily in the background. But what caught her attention was a shocking smear of dark red running down the wall and across the white doorframe.
‘Excuse me, miss.’
She turned. The first man was watching her from the open door at the end. She waved apologetically and continued walking away from him, but he called again. ‘Hey - miss?’
It was time to go. Another ten steps took her to the far end of the corridor, with a fire exit on the right-hand side. Using her shoulder to thrust it open, she ran down a set of bare concrete steps coated with a non-slip surface. She heard muffled footsteps pounding heavily along the corridor she had just left, and an exchange of voices.
She hit the next landing on the run and continued on down. She probably had a few seconds before someone thought to use a radio to shut off the downstairs exits. If she could get back to the cleaning cupboard, she had a good chance of getting out and clear before they got organised.
A glance through the glass panel showed the bottom corridor was deserted. As she hit the door a volley of shouting echoed down the stair well behind her. She sprinted along the final stretch of carpet, praying nobody chose this moment to come out of their room. She dumped the contents of the ice bucket in the dispenser then ducked into the cupboard, where she wiped the bucket with a piece of paper towel before replacing it on the shelf and retrieving her jacket.
The rear car park was clear. She shut the door behind her and hurried back to the car. She felt exposed and vulnerable under the rows of windows, but there was no burst of shouting and no heavy footsteps to intercept her. As she reached the Golf and fumbled with the keys, an engine burst into life on the other side of the car park and a white delivery van nosed out past the barrier. Riley tucked herself in behind it and followed it out onto the Bath Road, joining an already growing convoy of commuter traffic heading into central London.
Back at the flat, as if taunting her with the idea of a day not yet done, the answerphone light was blinking to announce a waiting message. She hit the button and began to take off her jacket. A familiar voice filled the room.
It was John Mitcheson.
‘I told you she wouldn’t be back.’ Madge Beckett watched as her husband, George, did a tour of the flat. It didn’t take long. It wasn’t much more than a glorified bed-sit, really, with a separate kitchenette off to one side through a sliding door. American kitchen, the builder had told them when he’d shown them the plans; everyone was having them. A bathroom was just along the passageway with a toilet next to that. It wasn’t much but
their tenant had never asked for more. She’d seemed happy, anyway, staying here over seven years in all. Most tenants moved on long before that, always saying they’d found something better, something they could call home; a real step up, was the implication, as if this was merely a staging post. But with most of them you knew that wasn’t true. This one, though, had seemed different. Settled, she’d been. Like she’d found her place in the world.
‘But just like that? It doesn’t sound like her.’ Madge thought George sounded dismayed, as if the young woman had been his own daughter and she’d run off with their life savings. He flicked at some of the personal objects around the room, on the sideboard and the dressing table, brushing them with his fingertips as if they might tell him a secret. ‘Why would she just leave?’
Madge didn’t know. She shrugged and stared past him out of the window at the rooftops of Chesham. If she squinted hard, she fancied she could almost see the shimmering haze of traffic pollution off the M25 round north-west London.
Jennifer Bush had wandered in one day in answer to an advert in the local newsagents, and she’d taken the flat, as they’d grandly called it, without a murmur. She’d brought in a few things; a CD player with a stack of Asian-sounding music, a small trunk and a load of books, but that was all. A special needs teacher, she’d let slip one day when Madge asked her what she did for a living. For autistic kids and the like. And here she’d stayed, quiet, self-contained and never a noise or a cross word for anyone. Until two days ago. Madge had heard her go out in the early morning, while it was still dark. She’d bumped against something on the way down the stairs, which was unlike Jennifer; she was usually so considerate. Seconds later Madge thought she’d heard a car door slam, but it could have been her imagination.
‘A man, you reckon?’ George said, picking up an object like a small drum on a stick, with some tassels attached. He tapped it against his hand but there was no sound so he put it down again. He sniffed loudly and picked at a partially burned incense stick, stuck into a small pot of white sand. ‘Stuff stinks, doesn’t it? What good does it do?’
NO HELP FOR THE DYING (Gavin & Palmer) Page 3