The clerk raised her eyes to the heavens in an exasperated look.
‘Madame Geneelia; mystic, fortune teller, and medium to the stars. Makes a mint predicting disasters and makes our life a misery when she’s here.’
Palmer shrugged ignorance.
‘Never heard of her. Do you think if I asked her nicely she might be able to tell me what time your ruddy manager is going to appear, or would that be too far in the future for her to forecast?’
The sarcasm was lost on the clerk, who was saved from any more of Palmer’s caustic tongue by Sergeant Singh’s intervention from the far end of the counter. Covering the phone’s mouthpiece she called across.
‘On his way now, sir; apologises for the delay, but definitely on his way.’
Best Sergeant he’d ever had, was D.S. Gheeta Singh. An untapped information technology genius that he’d had transferred from the Yard’s systems data team into his squad, after being tipped off about her capabilities by his old mate George Frome in Forensics, whose computer analysis systems she’d recalibrated singled-handed. Palmer might be an ‘old school’ copper at heart, but he was astute enough to know his department needed to be ahead of the game with computer technology, and the benefits it brought to his team. He had called in a favour or two to check her CV, and it was obvious that had Gheeta gone into a civilian systems and software development company, she’d be on ten times the D.S. salary; and that told him that she, like him, had been bitten by the bug that all policemen and women have deep inside them; she wanted to catch villains.
It was also obvious that she needed a challenge and stimulation to keep her satisfied with police work. His department had given her that, and now, four years down the line and with the minimal funding that Palmer could shift her way, she had written a full analysis software programme that eclipsed the old HOLMES system, plus many bespoke ‘add-ons’: programmes that checked and cross-checked data in seconds and threw up any threads or coincidences; the basic building blocks of police investigation work. She had installed direct access intranet lines into all the public and government information networks that the department might need for cross referencing clues, including the Registry Office mainframe, Land Registry, DVLC, local government and council electors’ lists, credit ratings bureaus, and many more. Most were legal, but Palmer was not daft, and knew some were hacked into, their passwords proving no match for Gheeta; and also that some would probably need a magistrate’s order to look into if he went through the proper channels. But the proper channels took ages, and when you were dealing with serial killers, you didn’t have ages.
Gheeta had enlisted a civilian computer operator called Claire to do the data input work and checking of the reference bases; Palmer nicknamed her ‘JCB’, because ‘she just keeps digging away’. JCB was late-twenties, married to a young city slicker, and she and Sergeant Singh held long conversations in computer jargon that sidelined Palmer like a cat lover at Crufts. He had no idea what a zip file, hard copy or IPS was, and always thought his mailbox was the hole in his front door, not something floating up on a Microsoft Cloud, whatever that was. Claire answered to DS Singh, and competently managed the team room across the corridor from Palmer’s office when the pair of them were out on a case, like today. If needed, a quick call to Claire for information would soon have reams of the relevant material downloaded through DS Singh’s mobile onto her laptop for Palmer to read; checks and counter-checks could be done in seconds, rather than hours or days. Yes, as investments go, DS Gheeta Singh had been one of Palmer’s best; not quite as good as his Premium Bonds, because he could get his money back off of them, but the saving in time and energy more than made up for the money they’d spent on the systems.
He put the case files down as Gheeta came towards him, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow as she joined him.
‘He’s on his way now, sir. Had a problem in the kitchen apparently.’
‘Good.’
They moved to the end of the counter, which seemed to be getting busier as residents returned from their day’s business and checked in, claimed their room keys, picked up any messages, and made off to the row of lifts that seemed to be on a never ending yo-yo journey of ups and downs. The three main revolving doors from the street swished around continuously like big industrial machines, disgorging wet guest after wet guest into the warm, welcoming foyer of the Majestic.
‘I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, Chief Superintendent. Please forgive me.’
Palmer turned to find the early middle-aged hotel manager approaching, smile in place, and hand outstretched in friendship. Palmer took it, and noticed a good, firm grip, which was a bit of a surprise. He’d always imagined hotel managers’ handshakes to be, well, a bit limp. The manager continued.
‘Granger, David Granger. I’m the manager of the Majestic.’
He was, of course, as befits a hotel of this class, in the required black jacket over grey and black striped waist coat and trousers, plus a shoe shine to blind you at fifty yards and large hand-tied bow tie; he reminded Palmer of a 1940s film star. Brylcreemed jet black hair was the icing on the cake, too evenly black to be its natural colour; plus a manicured top lip moustache that sat atop a permanent smile. Dapper, that’s the word, thought Palmer. Flunky, that’s the word, thought Sergeant Singh. Palmer introduced himself and Sergeant Singh, and they followed Granger behind the reception desk and through a door marked ‘private’ into an office; an office of luxurious opulence akin to the Guest Lounge upstairs.
Granger shut the door behind them, closing off the human noise, and flopped into a large captain’s chair behind an equally large mahogany desk, while indicating Palmer and Singh to take one of the various sofas available.
‘Peace,’ he said, as he pulled at his bow tie and untied it, to fall like a string of liquorice over his waistcoat. ‘What a day. What a bloody awful day.’
He pressed an intercom on the desk and barked into it at the voice that answered ‘room service’ politely.
‘Janie, it’s Granger. I’m in the reception office, dear; with guests. Be an angel and get us a pot of tea, a pot of coffee, three cups, and plate of mixed sarnies. Quick as you can, love. Thanks.’
He clicked off the intercom with a flamboyant jerk of the wrist.
‘Right then, Superintendent, fire away. How can we help you?’
Palmer was surprised by the common London accent Granger had. He’d expected ‘plum in the mouth,’ but detected a hint of cockney hiding behind the clipped sentences.
‘Well sir, first off it is Chief Superintendent, and we are probably going to bore you to tears. You see, my department specialises in serial murders, and – ’
‘Bore me?’ Granger said with a laugh. ‘Chief Superintendent, I spend hours and hours listening to rich, obese, over-wealthy, extremely loud, and utterly selfish people complaining that their mini bar hasn’t the right brand of mixer, or that room service took over ten minutes to deliver a freshly cooked meal at three in the morning, or a similar triviality. If serial murders are boring compared to that lot, bore on, give me excess of it.’
They all smiled.
‘Twelfth Night, eh?’
Palmer’s knowledge of the bard surprised Gheeta. It didn’t surprise himself, though it was the only bit of Shakespeare he remembered, having had to learn it by heart for his English Lit. O Level, way back when exams counted for something. That one hadn’t, obviously, because he’d failed it; but the lines had stuck with him.
‘Well sir, what I mean is that we will have to go back over all the information you and your staff have already gone through with the local CID. You see, we have our own systems, and unfortunately they come at a crime from a different angle to the CID systems. We need first-hand information to programme into our data banks. Detective Sergeant Singh here is in charge of that side of the department, and no doubt she’ll be asking for lots of information.’
He nodded towards Gheeta and passed her the ball. Gheeta took over as she opened her laptop and clicked it on
.
‘Access to your software is the first priority, sir. I’ll need access to any computer files that refer to staff lists, staff shifts, guest lists, guest bills, including breakdowns and telephone calls made and received in the period of two months before the murder and a week after.’
She smiled at Granger, anticipating his concern.
‘Don’t worry, sir; we are covered by the Data Protection Act, so any information we download will be kept on secure servers and destroyed once the case is closed. I’ll need passwords to those files I’ve mentioned, which I’ll copy and send down line to our main frame so we can examine the files forensically without further disturbance to you.’
Granger pursed his lips. He was a bit apprehensive about having ‘Mister Plod’ trawling about in the hotel’s eighty-thousand pound computer systems; no matter how attractive ‘Miss Plod’ was.
‘I shall have to refer to head office for the go ahead on that one.’
Palmer threw him a false smile.
‘Of course, sir. Could you do that now, so we can get started straight away? We have been here rather a long time already without any action, so if there were to be a problem from your head office I’d have to get a couple of my chaps to pop round to the local magistrate for a seizure warrant, and then we’ll cart all your computers off and do it that way.’
He flashed his ‘so don’t muck about with me, sonny boy’ smile at a slightly taken aback Granger. Sergeant Singh always had a job keeping a serious face when Palmer did one of his quick changes; Mr Nice Guy could turn into Genghis Khan in the space of one sentence. Mind you, he usually tried the ‘nice guy’ bit a little longer before bringing down the big hammer, but this time he was obviously fed up with waiting so long for Granger to appear, and wanted him to know in no uncertain manner that when it came to the crunch, there would only ever be one winner: Palmer. What she didn’t know of course was that the thought of Mrs P.’s steak and kidney pie, with extra gravy, was also having its effect.
Granger shook his head, as though to clear away cobwebs.
‘Of course, of course, Super... Chief Superintendent, go ahead. You have immediate access to anything you need. We must get these awful murders cleared up, or the London hotel business will disappear. I didn’t mean to be obstructive. It’s been one of those days.’
He threw Singh a glance.
‘Please carry on; feel free.’
Palmer relaxed.
‘Right then. We’ve had three hotel guests murdered in their rooms, at three different high class hotels. Got any ideas?’
Gheeta noted the ‘can you help us’ subliminal Palmer had just dropped in, to get back in the ‘nice guy’ mode.
‘Got to be an ex-staff member with a grudge, wouldn’t you say?’
Granger took a deep breath.
‘Possibly yes, but he or she would have to have one hell of a grudge against three different hotels. We aren’t even in the same company group.’
Palmer agreed.
‘Yes, and easier to burn them down than kill their guests. But why pick on the guests, eh?’
‘That’s easy,’ Granger said, feeling better now that he could offer an answer. ‘No guests, no business. So far the murders have been kept fairly quite in the press. A death in a hotel isn’t news. Lots of wealthy elderly people take up residence in hotels; some pass away, so a press release from us about a resident’s death would go unnoticed. But a press release about one celebrity being bumped off would bring the house down; let alone three being killed in different hotels.’
Palmer grunted.
‘I must say you certainly kept the lid on them; I had no idea about the deaths until the case was given to my department.’
‘The PR departments of the hotels worked together to keep that lid firmly shut,’ Granger explained.
‘They’ve done a very good job. Right then, what about your management structure here; do you delegate?’
‘Yes, I do – well, I do as much as I can. Although it doesn’t seem to have much effect; there are still not enough hours in the day. I’ve got a front of house manager who runs the reception area, a security manager who tries to keep the thieves and call girls out, a property manager for maintenance and repairs, a housekeeping manager for keeping the rooms ship shape and clean – ’
‘Quite a few managers then?’ Palmer butted in.
‘Yes, and they all have their under managers and staff to delegate to as well.’
‘Right, now if you wouldn’t mind I’d like to take a look at the victim’s room, if I may; and I’m sure Sergeant Singh would like a quick rundown on your PC systems.’
The hotel’s housekeeping manager was summoned and led Palmer off to the second floor room, while Granger set about familiarising Sergeant Singh with the hotels back office and bookkeeping systems, which were fairly basic and took her all of five minutes to understand and plug in a USB to download the lot; she’d then upload them onto the team computers at the Yard through her mobile phone for Claire to start running comparable software alongside, and see what that might throw up.
‘No use for old fashioned notebooks and pencils anymore then is there, eh?’ Granger said, making conversation as Singh worked.
‘No sir, far from it. It’s all about information and speed of retrieval these days. Every clue we might find is usually on a computer somewhere.’
She pulled out the USB.
‘It’s amazing when you think that your whole system is now copied onto this tiny chip.’
‘Yes, amazing; and quite worrying really, if it got into a competitor’s hands…’
‘It won’t, sir. And if it did, they’d need the password; and three wrong goes at that, and it wipes itself clean automatically.’
‘How damned clever. Seems technology is taking us over, Sergeant. Everything on Wi-Fi, and no need for us humans, eh?’
‘Not quite at that point yet, sir,’ she said, packing her shoulder bag. ‘I think it’s very likely you’ll be seeing a lot of me and Detective Superintendent Palmer over the next few weeks.’
Looking at DS Singh’s deep olive skin, sharp trim features, large brown eyes and wide smile, Granger didn’t think that would be a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.
Chapter 5
From the window of the dead ballerina’s room on the seventh floor, the pelting rain, caught on trapped swirling winds between the high buildings, seemed to be coming up from the street rather than down from the sky, making Palmer’s face a target as he leant out. Pulling his head back into the room to avoid, it he closed the window. Traces of graphite left on the handle by the Forensics boys brushing for fingerprints smudged onto his hand. He wiped it off on the bed duvet, much to the annoyance of Mrs Drummond, the housekeeper who Granger had detailed to accompany Palmer to the room as she had been the one to find the body. She pursed her lips and forced herself not to point out the existence of a bathroom, complete with soap, water and towels, which would have been preferable to the duvet.
In her early sixties, Mrs Drummond was past retirement age but had been persuaded to stay on by the Majestic management, as her hand on the tiller of perhaps the most stressful and difficult job in any hotel had always been a firm one. Her no-nonsense attitude made sure it all ran very smoothly; linen was changed on time, rooms cleaned and vacuumed until spotless, nothing less would do; bathrooms gleamed, and even the fruit in the bowl got a wipe over. She took no prisoners, staff or guest, and had a stamina and fitness that belied her years. The only clue to her age was the grey hair knotted into a schoolmarm’s bun atop her thin face.
She’d taken an instant liking to Palmer as they travelled up in the lift; but after him wiping his hands on the duvet, it was quickly dimming. He was one of the old school and she liked that, noticing the shine on his shoes, the crease in his trousers, and the clean white shirt. What she didn’t know, of course, was that without Mrs P.’s intervention each morning, Palmer would most probably resemble one of the dossers who made their home under a bench in t
he Royal Park opposite the hotel every night, and solicited her for a ‘spare a bit of change, missus?’ as she made her way to the underground station on her way home.
She stood as straight as a pike staff in her green surge hotel trouser suit, the high collar of the white blouse held by a gilt clasp in the shape of the hotel initials: MH. An enamelled lapel badge told her name and position, and her pass key hung on a chain from a wide belt. Elegant had been Palmer’s first impression.
He waggled the window too and fro.
‘Take a bit of an effort to chuck a body out of that gap wouldn’t it? Even a thin ballerina’s body.’
‘It was open. The lock had been opened. We closed it after the police had finished.’
‘I see,’ Palmer said, peering closely at the lock. ‘Standard serrated barrel key; buy them at any hardware shop. Not very secure, is it?’
She smiled a ‘passing the buck’ smile.
‘Security isn’t my department, Superintendent.’
Granger and Sergeant Singh entered the room.
‘I’ve finished with the computers for now, sir, and sent it all down the line to Claire.’ Gheeta sat on the bed as she opened her laptop.
‘Anything of interest here to note, sir?’
‘No, not really.’
He pulled the window shut and shot the catch across.
‘Do we know if the girl was dead before she was thrown out of the window?’
Gheeta pressed a few keys to bring up the autopsy reports on the victims and scrolled down to that of the ballerina’s.
‘She was killed by the impact of the fall, sir.’
‘No medicine or drugs in the stomach?’
More scrolling of the screen.
‘None found, sir. Nothing unusual at all in the PM. Post mortem,’ she added by way of explanation to Granger and Mrs Drummond.
Palmer turned away from the window, brushing the rain from his jacket sleeves.
‘Inside job then, Sergeant; inside job.’
Granger and Mrs Drummond both stiffened and looked at each other in a startled way. DS Singh was used to Palmer’s ways and knew that a copper-bottomed explanation would follow. It did.
POETIC JUSTICE & A KILLER IS CALLING: The DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad series, cases 3 & 4. Page 2