by Paul Gitsham
‘Seems a bit of a strange setup to me,’ said Sutton. ‘If Anish was going to the hotel regularly to pick up drugs, why would he book a room for the night? That doesn’t make sense. Surely he’d just turn up, buy the drugs and leave?’
‘And if he was buying drugs, he wasn’t buying very much,’ said Richardson. ‘I’ve been comparing the images of him arriving and leaving from the hotel, and that backpack he’s carrying has barely changed in shape. There isn’t much in there.’
‘Well Kimpton is not an idiot, he knows how the system works,’ said Sutton. ‘I reckon that was our only shot at interviewing him without some bloody solicitor telling him to no comment when we ask him to confirm his name and date of birth.’
Warren agreed. Kimpton had been out the door like the proverbial rat up a drainpipe the moment Warren had finally given up trying to elicit the name of the person who told him about the broken fire exit.
‘Well, we’re not done with him, but in the meantime, I think it’s time to have a word with the hotel handyman, Leon Grime. And whilst we’re at it, let’s bring in Kimpton’s kitchen hand, Shane Moore, and see what he has to say for himself.’
Middlesbury Rental Vehicles was an independent firm specialising in short-term rentals for small vans and cars, and longer-term leases of mid-size vans and lorries. It was based on the East Lane Industrial Estate.
Richard Latham was a late-middle-aged man of average build with a comfortable-looking beer belly and a shock of grey hair. He closed the book of crosswords he was working on as soon as Hardwick introduced herself.
‘You said that Anish Patel hired a car from you a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Yeah, he’s been renting cars from us about once a month since the start of the year. According to our records, he always returns them in perfect condition with a full-tank, or near as damn it.’
‘So, what happened this time?’
Latham shrugged. ‘Returned first thing the following day. We weren’t open when he turned up, so he left it parked outside and posted the keys in our secure drop box. The tank was almost full and there was no damage.’
‘Is that normal?’
Latham pinched his lip thoughtfully, before shaking his head. ‘I’ll be honest, I can’t remember. Customers tend to book online or by phone, so I don’t bust a gut to open the shop early unless somebody has arranged a morning pick-up; I work shifts down the homeless shelter in the evening so I like a bit of a lie-in if I can get it. Rental usually ends at midday, so I check all the vehicles are back by that time, give them a quick once-over, and ring around if somebody is late or hasn’t filled the tank.’
‘And did that ever happen with Mr Patel?’
‘No, like I said, he’s a good customer. To be honest, the late fine is a bit of a joke. As long as they don’t bring it back half-empty or after we’ve closed for the evening, I usually waive it. With both Hertz and Europcar down the road, we try not to annoy customers too much.’
‘Did he pay on a credit card?’ asked Hardwick. She was almost certain that the answer was no, but if Anish did have another card that they were unaware of, it would answer a few questions.
‘No, cash, but we ring-fence a deposit against the card we have on file.’
She handed over a copy of the photograph that they had borrowed from the Patels. ‘Do you recognise this man?’
Latham looked at the picture carefully. ‘Yeah, that’s him.’ His expression turned to one of embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. I’ll be honest, I don’t watch the news these days. It’s all about bloody Brexit and the new Prime Minister. Too damned depressing. My youngest daughter saw his face in the Middlesbury Reporter and thought he looked familiar.’
‘Were you the one that served him?’
‘Yeah. He used our online booking page, then came by Thursday evening.’
‘And how did he seem?’
Latham shrugged. ‘Normal. He paid the cash, picked up the keys as usual and drove off.’
‘Do you know what he needed the car for?’ asked Hardwick.
‘No idea. I know he doesn’t go far in it, it rarely has more than a couple of dozen miles on the clock.’
‘I don’t suppose you have any CCTV footage of the drop box?’ asked Hardwick, she’d noticed a couple of cameras on the outside of the building, and in the reception area where they were currently talking.
‘No, I’m sorry. We tried to fit one, but there’s nowhere to attach it that can’t be easily vandalised.’
Hardwick repressed a sigh; that would have been too easy. ‘Can you give me the details of the car that he hired?’
‘Sure, I can print it out for you.’ He turned to his computer, manipulating the mouse. He gestured towards a laser printer on the far end of the counter.
The car was a white Ford Focus; basic specification, about three years old.
‘Where is the car now?’
Latham returned his attention to the computer. His face fell.
‘Oh dear.’
‘Scotland!’ Grayson dropped into his chair.
‘Sorry, Sir, the current renters of the car are on a driving holiday of the UK.’ Warren winced. His own response had been much the same when Hardwick had returned from Middlesbury Rental Vehicles. ‘They booked it for two weeks last Sunday. The good news is that Police Scotland have already tracked them down and impounded the vehicle, but who knows what’s happened to any forensics over the past few days.’
Grayson groaned. ‘How long will it take to bring it back here?’
‘It’s already on the back of a low-loader, but they’re right out in the sticks. We’re looking at tomorrow morning at the earliest,’ Warren paused. ‘We’ve also agreed that when our Scottish colleagues return, they will take a replacement car back to the couple – they’re already going that way anyway …’
Latham had been crestfallen that his car would be impounded, and doubly upset when the German couple currently renting it had threatened to write a scathing review on TripAdvisor if they didn’t get a replacement vehicle the next day.
‘Dare I ask how much that’s going to cost?’ asked Grayson.
‘You’ll probably be happier not knowing. On the plus side, we’ve solved the mystery of Anish Patel’s missing Mercedes. He left it, along with the keys, with the owner of the car hire place. It’s been sitting in their car park for the past ten days.’
Chapter 19
‘He was a bit shifty, but I can’t quite put my finger on why,’ admitted Karen Hardwick after she and Moray Ruskin had finished interviewing Shane Moore, the seventeen-year-old catering student who assisted Nicholas Kimpton in the kitchen of the Easy Break Hotel.
‘He confirms what Kimpton has already told us,’ continued Ruskin. ‘They do split shifts, finishing the evening shift around nine-thirty, out the door by about ten. They have serving staff to take the food out, so they spend all night in the kitchen with just the occasional loo or fag break. It’s usually so quiet he plays on his mobile phone or they go through some of Kimpton’s old cookery books.’
‘There’s a little bit of hero-worship going on there,’ warned Hardwick, ‘so bear that in mind. It sounds as though Moore looks up to him as a bit of a mentor.’
‘Did he mention the fire exit?’ asked Warren.
‘Yes. Reluctantly,’ said Ruskin. ‘He admitted that everyone knew that the fire door had been tampered with. The hotel manager has tried to clamp down on cigarette breaks, so everyone turns a blind eye. Kimpton uses it himself.’
‘Gut feeling?’ said Warren.
‘He was honest, up to a point,’ said Ruskin.
‘I agree, I think there may be more he’s not telling us,’ said Hardwick. ‘He broke eye contact when we brought up the fire exit. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to find out that there’s a bit of drug-dealing taking place.’
Warren considered what they had told him. ‘Well, given that we have yet to work out where Anish Patel got the cash that he preferred to use inst
ead of his bank cards, you have to wonder if there is a connection. Kimpton has previous for drugs.
‘Good work, both of you. It may be something or it may be nothing; we’ll bring him back in again if we need to.’
At that moment, Warren’s desk phone rang: Andy Harrison.
Waving his thanks to the two constables, he listened intently to what the crime scene manager had to say, before hanging up and accessing his email. Moments later he headed straight for Tony Sutton’s cubicle.
‘Any sign of Leon Grime, yet?’
‘Should be here any minute, Boss,’ replied Sutton.
‘Good.’ He held up the tablet computer on which he’d opened the photographs Harrison had emailed to him. ‘Take a look at these before you speak to him, I think you’ll be interested.’
Leon Grime was in his late forties, with several days’ stubble. He’d arrived at the station looking more curious than nervous.
Grime’s hands were gnarled and pitted, his nails dirty – the hands of a manual worker. Were they also the hands of a killer? Tony Sutton pushed that thought away, not wanting his suspicions to show on his face and scare Grime. The longer Sutton could keep him relaxed and cooperating, the better.
‘Thanks very much for giving up your day off to help us, Mr Grime,’ started Ruskin, smiling at him.
‘Of course, anything I can do to help. Terrible thing that happened,’ he continued. His voice was surprisingly soft, traces of a North East accent lingering. Grime apologised profusely for taking so long to come into the station.
‘You caught me on the way back from Newcastle. I try and pop up and see Mam about once a month; I had a bit of holiday needed using, so I went up Thursday and came back this morning. I took a bit of fresh veg up for the home; just some cabbages and sprouts. The residents love it.’
Sutton wondered if Grime was like David Hutchinson, who had also moved from the North when he was young? Pure east of England until he’d had a few pints or Newcastle United were playing, when he suddenly sounded like he’d just come wading out of the River Tyne.
‘First of all, do you recognise this man?’ asked Ruskin, pushing a tablet computer showing a headshot of Anish Patel across the table.
‘Oh, aye, I’ve seen him on the telly. That’s the poor sod from room 201.’
‘And did you know him at all?’ he asked.
‘No, never met him. I hear he was a regular, like, but I rarely see the guests. Purely behind the scenes, me.’
‘I believe you’re in charge of maintenance,’ said Sutton.
‘Yeah, pretty much. Facilities Manager is my actual title, but basically I’m a handyman. Been there sixteen years. I keep the place running, fix anything that needs fixing. A bit of plumbing, a little bit of electrical. Painting, decorating, you name it really.’
‘What were you doing Thursday the 24th and the Friday?’ asked Sutton. ‘Were you working those days?’
‘Aye, just the usual. Couple of blocked toilets on the Thursday morning, then I spent the rest of the day and Friday doing a bit of refurb up on the fourth floor: new LED lighting to save a bit on the leccy bill, and some painting. Nothing too fancy.’
‘What about 201? Have you done that recently?’ asked Ruskin.
Grime frowned. ‘It’s been a couple of years since we spruced up the second floor. I don’t remember any issues with the plumbing in there recently, so I would say it’s been a few months since I’ve been in.’
‘What time did you finish those days?’ asked Sutton.
‘Five o’clock. Just enough time to get home, have my tea, and then off to the Newlands to play a bit of pool. I had a league game on the Thursday. Friday I just sank a few with me mates.’
‘And what time did you get there?’
Grime pursed his lips. ‘On Thursday, the game started at six-thirty. Then I stuck around for a couple of pints. Friday, I probably got there about seven.’ He gave a shrug. ‘No work in the morning, so I probably stayed a bit later than I should have. At least that’s what the missus said.’
If Grime realised they were establishing if he had an alibi, he didn’t seem especially bothered. Did that make him innocent or arrogant?
‘Tell me Mr Grime, would you also be in charge of maintaining the CCTV cameras?’ asked Sutton.
‘No, that’s the job of the CCTV firm. Look, is this about that bloody camera over the fire exit? I’ve been on at them for ages to fix that thing, but they can’t figure out what the problem is. They just keep on saying it’s an old system that needs upgrading. And surprise, surprise, they can sell and install us one for a small fortune,’ he snorted. ‘That isn’t going to happen, not under the current owners.’
‘And what about the fire door?’ asked Ruskin.
‘What about it?’ For the first time since he’d arrived, Grime broke eye contact.
‘It has a broken lock and the alarm has been disconnected,’ said Sutton.
‘Really? I had no idea,’ said Grime, but his voice had lost its confidence.
‘Forensics have had a look at the alarm,’ said Ruskin. ‘Somebody just bypassed the wiring to make the door think it’s closed when it’s not. Also, the lock has been tampered with, so it doesn’t actually lock when you clash the door. You can’t open it from the outside, there’s no handle. But since there’s no alarm, you could just prop it open to make sure you don’t get locked outside.’
‘I had no idea,’ said Grime. ‘But that explains the fag ends outside. I’ll bet the cheeky bastards have been using it for a crafty smoke.’
Sutton chuckled. ‘Well, all credit to them for doing their best.’ He shook his head. ‘I tell you, if some people put half as much effort into doing their job as they do skiving off …’
Grime joined in with the laughter. ‘Yeah. Well thanks for letting me know. They’ll be pissed off when I fix it Monday.’
‘Anyway, moving on,’ said Sutton, reaching over and swiping the screen of the tablet. ‘Do you recognise this?’
Grime squinted at the screen. ‘Looks like my toolbox.’
‘Are you sure?’
Grime looked a little closer. ‘Yeah, I recognise the paint spots,’ he pointed. ‘It also has my initials on the handle.’
‘Can you tell me what tools are normally in the box’ asked Ruskin.
‘Wait, what is this about?’ asked Grime, starting to look nervous.
‘Just answer the question if you don’t mind, Leon,’ said Sutton.
Grime shrugged. ‘Mostly the stuff it came with. Screwdrivers, hex keys, a tape measure, hammer.’ He frowned in concentration. ‘Christ, it’s like the Generation Game,’ he laughed nervously. Sutton and Ruskin said nothing.
Grime continued. ‘Um, pliers, an adjustable spanner. I think that’s mostly it.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘I swapped one of the screwdrivers for an electrical-testing one, and I added some wire strippers.’
‘What about a knife?’ asked Ruskin.
‘Chucked it, it was crap. I bought a decent Stanley knife which fits in the same space.’
Sutton swiped to a picture of the toolbox opened up. There were empty spaces in the moulded plastic insert.
‘Can you tell me where the hammer and the Stanley knife are? They don’t appear to be in there.’
Grime frowned. ‘I’ve no idea. I’m sure they were in there the last time I checked.’
‘When was that?’ asked Ruskin.
Grime glanced upwards, as if trying to remember. ‘I’ve mostly been painting and decorating lately. I fitted some new energy-saving lights, but I used my electric screwdriver for that,’ he shrugged. ‘Sorry, could have been a couple of weeks.’
‘And do you take your toolbox home with you?’ asked Ruskin.
‘No, I leave it in my office.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Which is where you probably found it.’
Sutton swiped the screen again. ‘Are these your tools?’
Grime blanched. The hammer and the Stanley knife were laid out on a ta
ble, next to a ruler. Under the bright light that the photo had been taken under, there was no mistaking the blood on both tools. The paint spots matched those on the toolbox.
‘Shit.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Look, everyone knows the combination to my office, anyone could wander in there and help themselves to my tools.’
‘Of course,’ said Sutton. ‘The CSIs saw that when they went in.’ He gave him a reassuring smile.
‘Going back to that dodgy CCTV camera,’ said Ruskin. ‘You said that the CCTV company can’t work out what’s wrong with it?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘Well they aren’t much good.’ He swiped the tablet again. ‘This is a photo of the junction box near the fire exit. The cable from the camera leads into it.’
Sutton watched Grime’s face carefully.
Ruskin swiped the screen again. ‘Now I’m no technical expert, but even I know that if you disconnect the aerial lead you lose the picture. Which is what appears to have happened here.’
Grime swallowed. ‘Cheeky bastards. They were going to charge us a fortune to replace the system.’
Sutton shook his head in disgust. ‘I’m thinking of getting a system at home, I’ll have to steer clear of those buggers. Who did you say they were again?’
‘North Hertfordshire Security Solutions,’ said Grime.
‘I know it,’ said Ruskin. ‘In fact, I called them earlier. And you’ll never guess what they said?’
Grime said nothing, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
‘They said that they haven’t had any complaints at all from you,’ continued Ruskin. ‘In fact, they haven’t had any contact with you since the service contract expired two years ago. Now why is that?’
Grime licked his lips.
‘Whilst we’re at it, could you also tell us why the inside of the junction box for the CCTV, including the cable connector, is covered in your fingerprints?’ asked Sutton.
Grime said nothing.
‘Not to mention the wiring to the alarm on the fire exit,’ said Ruskin.
When Grime finally found his voice it cracked, his tongue thick in his mouth. ‘I think I’d like to speak to a lawyer.’