by T S O'Rourke
‘Okay, thank you, Mr. Winterbottom. You’ve been very helpful. I think that’ll be all for now. I’ll ring you again if I need any more information, okay?’
‘I don’t mind as long as you don’t cause any more disruptions at the hotel.’
Winterbottom hung up and Carroll thought about the guy’s name. Winterbottom. The thought crossed Carroll’s mind that perhaps, somewhere out there, there was a Springbottom, a Summerbottom and an Fallbottom. There were most certainly Longbottoms to be found lurking around the countryside, but Shortbottoms were thin on the ground. Fatbottoms mostly, Carroll thought. That’s what you’ll find wandering the streets of London. Fat bottoms.
Forensic Scientist Noel Harrigan had phoned while Carroll was busy with Winterbottom. Grant had taken the call. There was only one set of prints that they lifted from the hotel room that were the same as the prints that had been found on Jo Mac’s body. Mainly on her shoulders and breasts. The earring that Carroll had been given by the Gibsons hadn’t given up any fingerprints at all. But what they had obtained, was a definite match with the blood from the earring and the semen sample taken from the victim. Whoever owned the earring was responsible for Jo Mac’s murder. DNA samples don’t lie, Harrigan had said.
The two detectives looked at each other across their desks. They both had a piece of news to share, a lead to go on. Their smiles told the story.
‘So, what now, Tonto?’
‘Well,’ Grant said, ‘we can be sure that the murderer was wearing oil-stained jeans and some sort of sportswear. And we now know that the semen and the earring are from the same person. That was forensics on the phone just now. What did you get?’
‘The night duty receptionist’s details. Fancy going to see her?’
‘Why not?’
The tensions that were so obviously present earlier in the week were now easing. Grant had even begun to feel bad at the thought that because Carroll was white, and what was worse, Irish, he must be a racist. Carroll was proving to be anything but that in Grant’s eyes. No more visions of white hoods or impending nigger jokes. No more looking for double meanings in every second word. This, he thought, would make working with Carroll much easier.
Sharon Walpole was an ugly woman – unlike her day-time colleague, Emma, whom Carroll had so much admired for her posterior charms and what he himself had thought was an exquisite turn of ankle. Sharon Walpole was just plain ugly. It must have something to do with the fact that she works on the night-shift, Carroll thought, greeting her at the door of her house.
Rented accommodation, Grant thought, looking at the young woman stood before him. A girl who works in a hotel during the night couldn’t afford such a nice house. He was wrong. Sharon, it turned out, had been left the house by her uncle Ted, who had dabbled in the property market before drinking himself to death. Carroll didn’t really see how that was relevant to their inquiries, and proceeded with a more direct approach once pleasantries were put to one side . Sharon stood wrapped in a dressing gown, framed by the kitchen door, staring at the two detectives who had taken a seat without being asked.
‘Can you tell me what it is you are here for?’ she asked, with her brow furrowed.
‘It’s to do with last Sunday night at the Towcester Hotel. You were on duty in the reception area that night?’
‘Yeah, I do nights four times a week, usually the weekends....’
‘So, you were on the desk that night?’ Carroll asked.
‘I just said so, didn’t I? Is this about the murder inquiry I’ve heard about?’
‘Yes, it is. Okay, about twelve midnight or just after, a woman came in to visit someone in room thirty-nine, yes?’
‘Yeah – she looked like a tart....’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘She was wearing a really short leather skirt that showed the tops of her stockings when she walked. What else would she be doing visiting a hotel in the middle of the night dressed like that?’
‘And you knew she was a prostitute, but didn’t say anything?’
‘It was none of my business. If a guy rents a room for the night, he can do whatever he wants, you know....’
‘What time did she leave the hotel?’ Grant asked.
‘She was only there for a half an hour or so – he must’ve been eager. Listen, I’ve got work tonight and I need to get some sleep, okay?’
‘Just one or two more questions, Sharon. Did the woman call a taxi from the lobby of the hotel, or did she just walk out?’
‘I don’t remember.’ Sharon looked a little bored with the conversation.
‘Well, then please think,’ Grant said, looking over at his partner.
‘I think she headed over to the café across the road, but I’m not sure.’
‘Did you see her leave the café or meet anyone outside it?’
‘No – now can I get back to bed?’
‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful, Sharon. We may need to speak to you again, and if we do, I’ll give you a call first, okay?’
Sharon shepherded the two detectives out of her house and closed the door behind them. Yeah, she was ugly. Greasy hair and a rather obvious and protuberant overbite. She would never make a toothpaste commercial, Carroll thought. Not in a million years.
‘So, she went for a cup of tea,’ Grant said.
‘Looks like it, but I suppose we’d best check it out anyway, yeah?’
‘Suppose so, man. Shall we?’
Carroll wasn’t in the mood for another few hours of asking questions. The idea of a nice quiet pint grew quickly from desire to necessity. It was as if he had to have a drink in order to survive. His suggestion to Sam that they go for a ‘quick one’ was greeted with more than a little annoyance. It was only three in the afternoon, there were reports to be written up, and DCI Jones wanted to have another word with them about their progress on the case. Forcing himself into the mould, Carroll tried to shake off his new-found desire for a beer and applied himself to the task at hand.
Grant drove through the city streets like a Sunday driver, and his partner couldn’t stand it. Whatever it was that was making him irritable, it wasn’t Sam’s driving. Grant liked being right all the time, even if he wasn’t, Carroll thought. Always on time, always looking the part, always polite with people he was interviewing. How did he manage to maintain such a level of professionalism while his wife was spreading her legs for the men of London? Carroll just couldn’t figure it out.
Dan thought he had seen another side of his partner the night before in the King’s Head. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was just the beer. Maybe Grant was a tight-arsed idiot with more opinions than sense. The guy should’ve been sent out on a white fuckin’ horse with a Colt .45 strapped to his side. He hadn’t even bought a round of drinks the night before, but sat there dumbly staring into space when the glasses fell empty. Dan was just wound up. It happened often, and would soon pass. Hopefully before he opened his mouth and put words to his thoughts.
The café wasn’t anything special. A counter full of salad rolls and baps wrapped in cling-film, a fridge full of cold fizzy drinks, huge tea and coffee pots, and an old woman wearing an apron and a greasy smile.
‘Breakfast is over for the day, gentlemen,’ she said on seeing the two men stare at the menu board as they entered. No sausages, no beans, no rashers, no black pudding. Only tea, coffee and sandwiches after two in the afternoon, she had said. Carroll took a ham roll and a cup of coffee. Grant had a coffee. The old woman had been working on Sunday night, serving the pimps and prostitutes of Piccadilly until four in the morning.
She didn’t seem to think Jo Mac had been with anyone. She just sat in the corner with a mug of coffee, a bar of chocolate and had a cigarette or two. Nothing special. She only stayed about twenty or thirty minutes. She couldn’t say whether Jo had used the phone or had hailed a cab outside when she had finished her coffee. All in all, the visit to the cafe was of no help whatsoever, except that they now knew that Jo Mac hadn’t met
or left with anyone. It seemed she had just gone for a quick cup of coffee and a smoke – presumably to get the taste of James O’Brien’s rubber-coated penis out of her mouth. The cup of coffee she had was probably very, very welcome, Carroll thought as he munched away on his ham roll. The thought of a pint surfaced again in his thirsty mind.
Chapter 10
There were no signs of life in the house, and the back door was slightly open. What more could a body ask for? It was just a matter of pushing it in and hey presto! You were inside and stumbling around a new experience.
The kitchen was of the expensive variety, with fitted units bearing doors of mahogany, or some such hardwood. An oven in the wall, a separate hob, a huge fridge freezer and a breakfast bar gave the appearance of money. There had to be money around this house. There just had to be. It was only a matter of going through the whole place methodically, turning out every drawer, every pocket, in the hope that either cash or credit cards would turn up. If that failed, then there was always the TV and video. They’d be worth a few quid.
The living room was decked out with fake wooden panelling that made the room look and feel like an elevator in a smart hotel. It was way too small to carry such heavy panelling. It was as if the occupants had enough money to do with the house whatever they wanted, but not quite enough to live in a house as big as they would like. That explained the tasteless mix of decor.
Whatever it was about African wood-carvings, someone somewhere was making a killing. Sculptures of African tribal chiefs and bare breasted women adorned the mantelpiece and the top of the TV set, with, of all things, a bust of Beethoven on the upright piano which stood in the corner. A piano that looked like it had never been played and probably came in kit form, minus hammers and strings. It was a house owned by a couple of wannabes.
All of the drawers in the living room contained papers and bills. The house belonged to a married couple and, from the look of it, they had a child or two. There were toys scattered around the floor – the kind of toys that belonged to a four or five year old boy. The child, no doubt, was to be found in a playgroup or pre-school during the day, while his mother and father spent the day advancing their careers in mind-numbing office jobs.
Up the carpeted stairs, along the smooth banister. A bronze pot at the top of the stairs containing dried flowers, and above that, a rather horrible print of some Aboriginal dot painting. Lizards, birds and kangaroos, all cavorting around the canvas like a menagerie out of control.
Whoever had designed the place didn’t seem to know what it was they wanted. Perhaps the differences were down to the husband and wives’ different backgrounds or social standings. One was a wood panelling would-be Lord of the manor, the other an apologist for the white races’ misdeeds over the last few hundred years. They would definitely be strange bedfellows, no matter what they looked like.
The bathroom was another design gem, with a sunken bath and a multi-directional shower – heads coming out from all angles. The kind that you could fix so that the spray went up your arse and in your eyes at the same time.
There were gold fittings on all of the fixtures, including the shell-like sink unit and bidet. How many people actually use their bidets on a regular basis? It was one of those questions that no one would ever be able to answer.
There were three bedrooms, each decked out differently, as you might expect. One, a spare room, looked like something from a Laura Ashley showroom, with long floral drapes and pretty little lampshades. They were all in sickly pastel colours – the sort that would drive the occupant crazy if they stayed more than a couple of days.
It looked like something straight from the pages of a romantic novel. All flowery and safe, all cosy and warm, away from the real world – the world where you are only as good as the money in your pocket, the car in your driveway, and holiday destination in summer. There would be nothing of value in the guests room, nor in the nursery, which was also decorated in a typically repulsive style. Orbitals hung mercilessly from the ceiling, teddy bears stood propped up in the corner and there was an overriding smell of tired children. Yeah, just what you’d expect.
The door to the master bedroom was ajar. The guy pushed it and walked in, discovering a naked and disembowelled body draped over the bed. The shock froze him to the spot and then brought forth a convulsion of vomit, which splattered on the shag-pile carpet in a perfect circle.
He immediately ran down the stairs and out the front door, turning only once in his bid to get away from what he had just discovered. It wasn’t the kind of thing he usually came across while breaking into houses.
****
Mrs. Cynthia Slater picked up her little boy from the playgroup at five-thirty, going then to the supermarket to buy some groceries. It was difficult keeping a house and a job, not to mention a child. At the age of thirty, Cynthia had crumbled under the pressure of her parents, who wanted some grandchildren to spoil, and had her little boy, Johnny. That was five years ago. It all seemed easy then. Only now, little Johnny was proving to be an expensive handful.
Between nursery bills, clothes and toys, Johnny was stripping their combined income of around ten grand a year. Cynthia still felt she hadn’t lived, hadn’t travelled, and now it looked like she never would. Not with the mortgage she had taken on with her husband, Chris. Although both held down reasonably good jobs, they were finding it increasingly difficult to stretch their income to cover the things they had enjoyed before they had Johnny.
The days of fun and the nights of dancing were all but a memory for Cynthia Slater, and indeed for her husband, who could usually be found working at his desk until seven or eight every evening. She was now used to arriving home to an empty house. No welcome, no warmth, she thought as she parked her car in the driveway.
Johnny was playing up. He hated the child-seat in the back of the car. He couldn’t see out, and that annoyed him greatly. His protestations were driving his mother up the wall.
‘Come on then,’ she said, undoing the straps on his little seat. ‘We’ll have you out of there in a jiffy, and then Mummy will make you some dinner....’
‘I want chocolate!’ Johnny said.
‘After your dinner, darling, after your dinner....’
Cynthia, trying to hold onto her little boy and three bags of shopping, barely managed to get to the front door without catastrophe. As she fumbled with her keys, she noticed that the door was open. She left the shopping on the doorstep and put Johnny back in the car.
Slowly, she opened the door and shouted into the house: ‘Hell! Hello, is there anyone in there? Come out now if there is, and I won’t phone the police. I promise I won’t phone the police, just come out....’
The reply was a deafening silence. Perhaps they had already left, she thought, taking a small step into the hallway. Maybe the video and TV or microwave are gone.... Trying again, she shouted into the house.
‘Look, will you please come out....’ She was shaking by now, but growing ever confident that the house was empty. Still, she didn’t want to take the risk of going in alone.
From behind came the sound of a car. It was Maggie Cocker from next door, with her husband, Wilfrid. Cynthia rushed over to their car as the couple emerged.
‘Good Lord, Cynthia, are you all right?’ Wilfrid asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost....’
‘I think my house has been burgled and I don’t want to go in – the front door was open when I got home....’
‘Calm down, Cynthia. Wilfrid will have a look for you, won’t you Wilfrid?’ Maggie said, helpfully.
Wilfrid didn’t look like he was up to tackling a burglar. He was nearing seventy, and was painfully thin.
‘Yes, darling, I’ll check it out,’ Wilfrid said, putting on a brave face. ‘It’ll probably be empty now, anyway,’ he said, hopefully.
Wilfrid Cocker wasn’t a brave man. Instructing his wife to phone the police while he went into the house, he took his first tentative steps inside, speaking loudly as he did.
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br /> ‘Listen now, I’m coming in, if there’s anyone in there, you’d best get out,’ he warned, as he crept slowly into the hallway. There was no reply.
The living room was empty – as was the kitchen. Papers strewn around the floor told the story of a burglary, but there were no obvious signs of sound or movement in the house. Confident that the house was empty, he called out to Mrs. Slater.
‘It looks like you’ve been burgled all right, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone in the house now. I’ll just check upstairs,’ he said.
Wilfrid was sweating. He wasn’t used to such excitement, and that, together with the stair climb, had him panting for breath by the time he reached the top. Checking the nursery and spare rooms first, he slowly made his way to the master bedroom. As he did so, an area police car pulled up in the driveway. Mrs. Slater looked relieved at their presence.