by stewartgiles
THREE
WINGS
“Don’t you think you were a bit hard on him sir?” Whitton whispered as they followed Mike back inside the hotel.
“Whitton,” Smith said, “I’m tired and I’m sick and tired of the namby pamby attitude of people these days.”
“You’re starting to sound like a Yorkshireman,” Whitton smiled.
“This is the room here,” Mike said nervously, “room one two three.”
He inserted his master key in the lock and opened the door. Smith went in first. His cell phone rang in his pocket. It was PC Baldwin.
“I’ve managed to find out the fire station that took the call last night sir.”
“Do you know which of them cut the man down?” Smith asked.
“Yes sir, but they’re not at work now. They’re only due back on duty this evening.”
“Get hold of them and tell them to meet me at the Royal York as soon as possible.”
“But sir,” Baldwin protested.
“Just do it Baldwin,” Smith said. He rang off.
“I think you need some sleep sir,” Whitton said. She followed him into the room.
“Where was the man hanging?” Smith asked Mike, “up here?”
He pointed to a light fitting on the ceiling.
“That’s right,” Mike said, “he was just hanging there like I said.”
Smith walked around the room. There was a double bed on one side of the room and a table with two chairs around it on the other. There was no other furniture in the room. He stood on his tiptoes and tried to touch the ceiling. At six foot one and with his arm outstretched he was still over three feet short. His phone rang. It was Baldwin again.
“The two fire fighters will be there in five minutes sir,” she said.
“Good work Baldwin,” Smith said,
“They’re not too pleased about it.”
“Life’s a bitch.” Smith rang off.
“Something’s not right here Whitton,” he said.
“It never is with you sir,” she sighed.
There was a knock at the door and two men walked in. They looked exhausted.
“Firemen I presume,” Smith said.
“You lot think you’re superior to us for some reason don’t you?” one of the men snarled.
“Not at all,” Smith said, “I have tremendous respect for what you guys do. Detective Jason Smith.” He held out his hand. “And this is Detective Whitton.” He purposefully omitted their ranks.
“Jimmy Neill,” the man said. He shook Smith’s hand. “And this is my colleague John Scorcher. Don’t even start. He’s heard all the jokes before.”
“You were called upstairs to cut down the man who hanged himself,” Smith said.
“That’s right,” Neill replied
“And did you put the chair back around the table after you’d cut him down?”
“What chair?” Scorcher said.
“I assumed you stood on the chair to cut him down.”
“There was no chair,” Neill said, “we are the fire department, we have things called ladders.”
“Did you put the chair back?” Smith addressed Mike.
“The chairs were both where they are now,” Mike replied.
“So when you entered the room, the man was just hanging there? There was no chair underneath him?”
“The chairs were where they are now,” Mike repeated, “what is this all about?”
“Think Mike. A man hangs himself in one of your hotel rooms. The ceiling light has to be at least ten feet off the ground. How the hell do you think he got up there? Did he suddenly sprout wings and fly?”
“Shit,” Whitton said. “Sorry,” she said immediately.
“Shit is what it is Whitton,” Smith said.
He looked at Neill.
“What did you do with the cord that was around the man’s neck?”
“It was still around his neck when the paramedics took him away,” Neill replied.
“Whitton,” Smith said, “looks like we’re off to the morgue again. Mike, make sure nobody comes into this room until I say so. You’ve just had a murder in your hotel.”