Then he thought of the private guest areas.
He knew Tribeca policy was never to have any camera access to guest areas, as Jackson Harlington and Oscar Miller had made it clear that this space was sacrosanct. Guests at Tribeca Luxury Hotels were returning home to the ultimate in luxury. That meant they were free from the direct prying eyes of any security cameras.
Roscoe reached for the schedule giving him a minute-by-minute breakdown of the day’s timetable. Had he forgotten about a rooftop event to kick off the day’s proceedings? No – he knew the timetable back to front. He had written it. The day ended with fireworks on the fortieth floor but nothing was to take place outside the building before then.
He looked again at the crowd standing on the front lawns. Some were turning away, some now covered their eyes – but all seemed transfixed by events in the sky. Knowing something was wrong, Roscoe sprang to his feet, ran to the door and, grabbing his phone, headed up the two flights of stairs back into the lobby.
Sprinting across the hotel’s marble lobby, Roscoe’s ripped six-foot frame cut an imposing figure. He looked towards the elevator bank for his assistant Stanley, but Stanley was gone.
At the front entrance, the lobby manager of the new hotel, Anna Conquest, called across to him.
‘Jon, what’s happening?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Roscoe as he keyed the security pad to open the front entrance.
‘We heard screaming outside. Somebody must be hurt.’
‘Have you seen Stanley?’
‘He was waiting by the elevator for Jackson Harlington. Then the screaming started. I didn’t see where he went.’
The front entrance opened and, seeing the chaos outside, Roscoe shouted to Anna to get the police to the hotel. ‘Now!’
But it was too late.
As the watching crowd screamed again, then scattered, Roscoe looked up in horror to see a blood-covered body falling from the sky.
Roscoe ran across the lawn as the body crashed to earth, blood splattering the dispersing crowd. The garden and flowers that had been tended and trimmed to perfection were now sprayed with red. As he reached the obliterated body, he could see, even in its devastated state, that it was the remains of billionaire investor and Tribeca Luxury Hotels major shareholder Jackson Harlington.
CHAPTER 4
STANDING NEXT TO the body of Jackson Harlington, Jon Roscoe turned to face the crowd. He held up his hands as he made a direct appeal.
‘I need everybody to step back away from the body and away from the hotel, right now,’ he commanded. ‘I want everybody to move back into the gardens and I need everybody to stop filming.’ Roscoe was unsure if his last request would be heeded but he pressed on. ‘And I need to know specific information about what people saw.’
A woman screamed out, ‘He cut open his body. Ripped open his stomach!’
‘Did anyone see the attacker?’ said Roscoe, trying to make himself heard above the panic coming from the crowd. ‘Can you tell me, was there more than one person involved?’
‘He was wearing a mask,’ a voice called out.
‘I’ve got a video here,’ called another. ‘It looked to me like he was on his own.’
‘I could only see him. I don’t think there was anyone else with him.’
Roscoe knew trying to get information in this way was hopeless. From the blood and entrails scattered across the garden, along with the state of Jackson Harlington’s body, he knew a ferocious attack had taken place. He needed to get back inside the hotel to track the killer. He started to push his way through the assembled journalists and dignitaries, who were beginning to react with a mix of shock, morbid fascination and a desire to scoop the story. Even journalists and writers who spent their time reporting on the latest advances in luxury travel and on the world’s most extravagant destinations realised they were suddenly part of a far bigger story. As Roscoe tried to make his way back into the hotel lobby, he found his route blocked by journalists peppering him with questions.
‘Is that Jackson Harlington?’ cried one.
‘Who would want to kill Jackson Harlington, and in such a ferocious way?’ asked another.
He felt one journalist grab his arm. ‘Do you think the killer is still in the hotel? Maybe we can help you track him down. He’d have no chance against all of us.’
Roscoe wanted to lash out. This wasn’t a game. He needed to get back inside the hotel. He needed to start the hunt for a killer.
‘Is Mrs Harlington in the hotel? Is the Harlington family safe?’
The questions kept coming as he made his way through the crowd.
‘Is Oscar Miller in danger? Do you think this is an attack on Tribeca Luxury Hotels?’
‘I heard somebody’s room service was delivered cold,’ quipped one of the journalists, and a number in the crowd started to laugh.
‘Yeah, I’d heard he hadn’t got clean towels this morning,’ called out another and the laughter continued.
Roscoe wanted to shout that a man lay dead a few feet away from them, a man they had all seen brutally murdered. How could they stand at the front of the hotel joking about Jackson Harlington’s death? Human nature never failed to surprise Roscoe. Shock played its part, along with the madness of crowds, but it never ceased to amaze him how people could react to tragedy.
Ignoring all those around him, he pushed forward, through the crowd and into the lobby of the hotel, where confusion was taking hold. Anna Conquest was standing by the elevators, preventing anyone making their way further inside the building.
‘Police are on their way,’ she called as he hurried across the vast marble lobby.
‘I’m locking down the elevators,’ he shouted. ‘Nobody goes beyond this point. I don’t want people running round the hotel trying to be heroes. Anna, I’ve never seen anything quite so brutal.’
‘Is it Jackson Harlington?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘He’s dead all right. Cut open and his guts spilled out all over the front lawn.’
‘My God. Who on earth would do that?’
‘I’ve no idea, but I’m pretty sure whoever it was is still inside the hotel.’
Roscoe opened the elevator control pad, entered the emergency code, locking each of the hotel elevators in their current position. Stepping forward, he called out to the crowd gathering in the lobby.
‘The hotel is in lockdown. No one should attempt to access any other part of the building. Do not go beyond the lobby. When the police arrive they will need to take witness statements from each of you. The killer is still at large and there is every reason to believe he’s still inside the hotel. He is clearly an armed and incredibly dangerous individual. No one here should attempt to apprehend him.’
His heart pounding, he turned to Anna. ‘The police will be here within minutes. If anything happens, call me.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To catch a killer.’
‘You’ve just told everybody how dangerous this man is,’ said Anna, her voice trembling. ‘Shouldn’t you wait until the police get here?’
‘I’ll be okay.’
‘Why? Because you’re a little bit crazy?’
Roscoe smiled. ‘Maybe a little bit.’
As he opened the door to the stairway beside the bank of elevators, Anna reached out, gently touching his arm. ‘Be careful, Jon.’
Roscoe looked at her for a moment, and then started to run up the stairs.
Taking the steps two at a time, he made his way up to the fourth floor. At the next turn, he found Stanley Samson collapsed against the door leading to the hallway.
His shirt was soaked in blood.
CHAPTER 5
FROM THE MOMENT he’d met Stanley, Roscoe had recognised what a huge contribution he would bring to his team. His boundless enthusiasm and determination to do the right thing were combined with a sharp intelligence and a deductive mind. And when the two men had started working toget
her, Roscoe had got to know and grown to respect a man who was always thinking ahead and ready to risk his own safety to get the right result.
Now, crouching at Stanley’s side, Roscoe thought of how, since he’d been a small child, his friend had dreamt of becoming a police officer and working every day at New Scotland Yard. At the age of nineteen he’d applied to become a member of London’s Metropolitan Police Service; at the age of twenty-one he’d applied for a second time; and at the age of twenty-three he’d applied for his third and final time. Each time Stanley had failed the force’s physical – perhaps his love of chocolate-frosted doughnuts played no small part in his failure. Three months after his third failed application, however, Stanley had been recommended for a role as a civilian employee with the London police force, and after two interviews with Jon Roscoe he was in.
When Roscoe resigned from the Metropolitan Police and was soon after appointed to the position of Global Head of Security at Tribeca Luxury Hotels, he’d had no hesitation in offering the role of his assistant and de facto number two to Stanley. At first, Stanley had hesitated. He loved his job working with the police and perhaps still hoped one day he might become a commissioned officer. But two weeks of no longer working alongside Jon was all it took for Stanley to realise that while working in the Metropolitan Police might have been his dream, working with Jon had made it a reality, so he gave his notice and headed out of New Scotland Yard. Since joining Jon at Tribeca Luxury Hotels, Stanley had loved every single day, working on different challenges across the world. He simply couldn’t imagine working with anyone else.
Minutes earlier, standing in the lobby of the new hotel and hearing the glass shatter on the floors above, Stanley had been the first to react. Recognising there was no help to be given outside the hotel, he had made his way up the stairs in the hope of finding the killer attempting an escape.
And that was when he’d heard the noise on the stairs above him: footsteps flying down the stairs, a body crashing from side to side as it made a rapid descent. With no time to react, Stanley decided to stand his ground. He quickly made his way up to the fifth-floor landing, giving himself the space to tackle the man head-on. While he might not be the quickest, he had the strength and weight to bring most men to the ground.
One-on-one, Stanley knew he could take the man down.
A man appeared at the top of the flight of stairs, wearing a black ski mask to conceal his face.
Jumping down three steps, he launched himself forward, knocking Stanley sideways. Stanley grabbed hold of the man’s wiry frame, and the two grappled on the floor. Stanley felt the man wrap his hands around his throat and start to squeeze. Seizing hold of his adversary’s arm, Stanley sensed the strength of the man but could tell he didn’t possess the same basic power as he did. Turning his body, he flipped the man over and pushed himself free.
But the man was quick and jumped Stanley before he had a chance to recover. Suddenly the pair were rolling down the next flight of stairs, still locked in combat. They hit the fourth floor landing and Stanley was able to pin his opponent to the floor.
He had the man trapped.
And then a desperate, gut-wrenching pain ripped through his stomach and flooded across his body. He’d been stabbed. Stanley started to shake as pain poured through every sinew.
Powerless and unable to move, his strength ebbing away, he lay paralysed as the man ripped the knife out of his stomach and raced back up the building.
Seeing Stanley lying in the corner of the stairs, Roscoe knelt beside his friend. He lifted Stanley’s head to speak to him, gently holding him in his arms. He could see immediately Stanley was badly hurt and was beginning to lose consciousness.
‘Talk to me, buddy,’ he said, desperately trying to keep Stanley awake.
‘He went back up the stairs, Jon,’ whispered Stanley, summoning all of his energy to speak. ‘Go after him. Don’t worry about me.’
‘Not until we get you some help.’
‘You can’t let him get away.’
‘I’ll get him, but first off we’ve got to sort you out.’
‘You’re the best, Jon,’ said Stanley, the pain surging through his body. Wave after wave swept across him. He closed his eyes, ready to embrace the darkness. Softly his head fell into Roscoe’s arms and he drifted away.
‘Stanley!’ Roscoe cried, ripping off his jacket and bundling it up to support Stanley’s head.
Stanley opened one eye. ‘Can’t a guy get any peace and quiet round here?’
‘Thank God! I thought you were checking out on me. We’re going to get you some help, buddy, I promise you.’
Carefully he opened Stanley’s blood-soaked jacket, seeing the size and severity of the knife attack. Blood continued to ooze from the wound. He cursed himself for leaving Stanley alone to chase the killer, telling himself that he should never have gone outside. He was the one who knew how to stop a killer, not Stanley.
Roscoe tore off his shirt and pressed it onto Stanley’s stomach in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Stanley yelled out as the pain shot through him.
‘It’s okay, buddy. We’ve got to stop this bleeding.’
‘It’s not good, is it, Jon?’ Stanley murmured.
‘I said I was going to get you some help, and I will.’
Roscoe bent down and summoned all his inner strength. With a guttural cry he strained every muscle in his body and lifted Stanley into his arms.
Staggering under Stanley’s not inconsiderable weight, he made his way down the four flights of stairs to the lobby. At the foot of the stairs, he kicked open the door and stumbled out. Carefully he lay Stanley down on the marble floor. As he did so he collapsed, exhausted.
Down on his knees beside his friend, Roscoe called out urgently across the lobby, ‘Man down! I need help here right now.’
CHAPTER 6
COVERED IN SWEAT and smeared with Stanley’s blood, Roscoe shouted again.
‘I’ve got a stab victim. He needs immediate medical attention!’
Aware that his blood-covered T-shirt was sticking to his body, Roscoe staggered to his feet. Two paramedics raced across the lobby.
‘He’s been stabbed in the stomach,’ he explained as the two women approached. ‘I’ve tried to stop the bleeding, but he’s still losing a fair bit of blood.’
As the paramedics knelt beside Stanley and started to tend to him, Roscoe took a step back. He felt dazed. He wanted to give them space to work on Stanley and to give himself space to think where he went next. Minutes earlier he was drinking a coffee and looking forward to the opening of the most prestigious hotel in London. Now he was standing in the lobby of that hotel, covered in the blood of one of his closest friends and colleagues, while the owner of the hotel lay dead on the front lawn. A killer was on the loose somewhere within the hotel’s forty floors and he had no idea where. He knew the killer had been in the Presidential Suite because that was where Jackson Harlington had been killed. He knew the killer had access to private rooms. But where he would head next, Roscoe had no idea.
He looked out across the marbled lobby, a vast room filled with dignitaries and journalists. Some looked fearful, but all of them were waiting in anticipation to see what happened next. He had noticed a number of the journalists snapping pictures of him as he’d carried Stanley into the lobby, and he imagined them already appearing on Twitter feeds and news websites around the world. Hotel staff had started to congregate in the lobby, adding to the general levels of confusion. Roscoe realised if the killer could make it to ground level he might easily take the chance to slip away in the midst of all the chaos – that was, if escaping the building was what the killer wanted to do. But now he wasn’t so sure. Why had he run back up into the hotel after attacking Stanley? Why not head for a way out?
Roscoe knew he had to try to get inside the killer’s head; he needed to see his brutality close up. He wanted to see what had happened on the thirty-eighth floor.
‘He’s going to be okay, you know,�
�� said Anna Conquest, making her way to Roscoe’s side as he unlocked the elevator bank.
He turned to face the lobby manager, who even in a time of crisis seemed to him to radiate a calming beauty. ‘Hey. I didn’t see you there.’
‘You were a million miles away. Stanley’s in good hands now, Jon,’ she continued, placing a reassuring hand on his back.
Roscoe breathed out and nodded.
‘I know, but it should have been me, not Stanley, chasing down the killer.’ He looked across at the paramedics still tending to Stanley. ‘That should have been me.’
‘You did everything you could. You went straight upstairs without a second thought.’
‘I was wasting my time looking at video screens when I should have been out there,’ said Roscoe, pointing towards the hotel gardens. ‘But I’m not going to make that mistake again.’
‘What are you doing?’ asked Anna as the elevator doors opened.
‘I’m going up to the Presidential Suite. I need to have an idea of what I’m dealing with.’
‘Surely you should wait until the police get here?’
‘Too late – they already are.’ He gestured across the lobby and paused as he watched the Metropolitan Police enter the building. ‘And look at the corrupt fool they sent us.’
CHAPTER 7
ROSCOE SEIZED ANNA by the hand, pulled her into the express elevator and hit the button for the thirty-eighth floor. As the doors closed in front of them, he could see Inspector Peter Savage looking directly across the lobby towards him. Roscoe’s expression of indifference was intended as a direct challenge to the inspector.
‘Jon, what about the police?’ asked Anna as the elevator raced its way vertically through the building.
Roscoe grinned, readying himself for the chase.
‘I need to see the Presidential Suite before that crook.’
The Hostage: BookShots (Hotel Series) Page 2