Terminal Black

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Good luck,’ whispered Alex. Then he turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The Westminster Inn was smart, designer-cool and anonymous, a modern edifice of glass, marble, polished aluminium and white stone. Inside the lobby was an atmosphere of subdued lighting and two check-in console pillars for the busy client with little time to spare.

  It reminded Harry of the deck of the Starship Enterprise, minus the tight suits and pointy ears. The warm, gently scented air was humming with the soft sound of a busy establishment, with an undeniable sense of activity held discreetly in check behind soundproofed walls so as not to upset its up-market clientele.

  Harry asked a hovering receptionist if they’d had a Mr R. Ferris registered any time over the past ten days.

  The man, tall and slim as a male model on a photo-shoot, sported a badge proclaiming his name to be Paolo. He fluttered his fingers over an on-screen keyboard with the dexterity of a concert musician, then shook his head. ‘I am sorry, sir, but we haven’t had anyone of that name.’

  Harry showed the man his ID card. The next question might be a little tricky. ‘How about a Miss Nathalie Baier? Same time-frame.’

  ‘Of course, sir. One moment, please.’ Paolo repeated the exercise, pursing his lips, then looked at Harry in surprise. ‘Sorry, sir – for a moment I forgot that name. Are you not with them?’ He nodded across the reception area to where two uniformed police officers had appeared from a side door, followed by a woman in a smart suit and a hair-do like tightly-coiled fine copper wire. She looked almost distressed as she shook hands with them in turn, before disappearing back through the door without a backward look.

  Instinctively Harry said, ‘They’re uniformed division. Why are they here?’

  The receptionist looked puzzled. ‘They are here about a car accident in this area a few days ago. A woman was killed. Hit and run. So tragic.’ His eyes moved sideways as if he were looking for a way out of the conversation.

  Harry had a horrible presentiment ‘Are you talking about Miss Baier?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir … you should speak to the manager about that.’

  Harry passed him a folded note. ‘Let’s agree a short-cut.’

  Paolo took the note with a weak smile. He did the dancing thing with his fingers and confirmed, ‘She was a guest, from Geneva, Switzerland.’ He looked around cautiously and his voice dropped. ‘She was found not far from here with no identification, so they thought she was passing by. Then someone discovered one of our guest key-cards lying near where the body was found, and returned it. That’s when we found she had left the hotel a few days ago without checking out, but had not returned.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘So sad, do you not think? That nobody knew she was gone?’

  Harry wasn’t sure if he meant in the physical or terminal sense, but nodded and said, ‘Have you seen this man recently?’ He showed him the photo from Rik’s flat.

  Paolo studied it and shook his head. ‘I’m not sure, sir. We have so many people passing through …’ He shrugged. ‘I cannot be certain. Sorry.’ His liquid eyes slid past Harry’s shoulder as a luggage trolley rolled towards the lifts. A small queue had formed up at the adjacent check-in console. Harry got the message and stepped away, then turned back. ‘Just one more thing. When was this accident?’

  Paolo touched his console screen. ‘Last Friday thirteenth was the last time she used her key-card, when exiting her room. At twenty-two hundred hours and three minutes.’ He made a sad sound. ‘Friday 13th is considered not lucky, I think.’

  Harry thanked him and moved away. He wondered where Miss Baier would have been going so late at night. Was it to meet Rik? If the WhatsApp message meant anything there was evidently a connection, but why? He walked over to the door where the woman had gone and knocked. A voice called what he took to be an invitation to enter and he stepped inside. He was in a small office suite, and the woman with the coiled hair was sitting behind a desk bearing a triangular brushed-steel Manager sign. She was brushing at her eyes with a tissue.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked. Her voice sounded shaky as she dropped the tissue to one side.

  Harry waved his ID card again, careful not to let her see his name. ‘I’m sorry to double up here,’ he said. ‘I know you’ve already spoken to the other officers, and I don’t want to upset you further. But I wanted to check something about the dead woman, Miss Baier.’

  The manager looked at him vaguely as if her mind was elsewhere, then stirred herself back to the moment. ‘Of course. Excuse me … we have a lot going on at the moment. Even so, it’s a tragic accident and we always do whatever we can to assist the police.’

  Harry didn’t correct her misunderstanding but said, ‘Has her room been cleared?’

  ‘Yes. It was done a few days ago.’ She frowned. ‘I was off sick at the time, otherwise I would have queried it. The stand-in manager didn’t appear to know anything about it and presumed the guest had skipped. I suppose he wasn’t to know about the accident, but he’d no idea what that does to our figures; we don’t have defaulters in this establishment.’

  ‘So this was before she was identified by the key-card turning up?’

  ‘That’s correct. By the time I did a double-check of the room everything was gone.’ She tapped irritably on her desk. ‘I told those two policemen about it just now, but they didn’t seem to know anything. And now you come along asking more questions. I thought we had joined-up policing these days. Which station are you from?’

  ‘Different departments,’ he said smoothly, avoiding the question. ‘It’s tough keeping track of everything – probably a lot like your job, I imagine.’

  She looked slightly mollified by the sympathetic comparison. ‘Tell me about it. It’s like herding cats – most of them foreign.’ She stood up, ‘Now, I’m afraid I must get on, Detective …? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Cramer,’ Harry said. ‘Ben Cramer. Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out.’

  Harry left the office wondering about the connection between the dead woman and Rik. And who had cleared her room? He was certain it wasn’t the local cops, otherwise they’d have left their footprints all over it. He wondered if he was grasping at straws, hoping that Rik’s whereabouts would pop out of the woodwork.

  He stepped into the bar off the lobby, where it was quiet, and dialled Cramer’s number. It was picked up after two rings. He told him what he’d learned at the hotel, and that there had to be a connection between the dead woman and Rik.

  Cramer sounded sceptical. ‘She’s not Russian, is she?’

  ‘You tell me. Can you find out if her possessions are in a local evidence room? I’d like to take a look.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you. Stay close.’ The connection went dead.

  Harry went out for a walk. In the absence of direct action he needed time to think. Needles in haystacks didn’t bother him; at least you could always set light to a pile of hay and see what was revealed. But this was a puzzle of another kind. Rik could be anywhere in the world by now, and the dead woman merely a chance encounter of time, date and location.

  His phone rang. It was Cramer. His voice was tight.

  ‘Who did the manager say collected the woman’s effects?’

  ‘She didn’t. Just that the room had been cleared and she assumed it was police. What’s going on?’

  ‘The local cops have no record of it. The first they knew about the woman was when she was picked up and pronounced dead at the scene. When a key-card was found nearby they made the connection. No property has been recovered or registered.’

  Harry thanked him and cut the call. A dead end. What the hell was going on? The Security Service chasing down a former officer who’d gone missing, purportedly in possession of information he shouldn’t have; an empty flat with no clues to speak of; a dead woman who might or might not be connected; and someone – not the cops – having cleared her effects from the hotel.

>   That pointed to someone knowing she was dead before the cops did and making sure nothing was left behind.

  He rang Davis. When the tech answered he said, ‘Can you check if everything about Nathalie Baier at the Westminster was printed off? I’m thinking bar bills, restaurant, phone calls – anything you think is useful.’

  ‘Got it,’ Davis said, and disconnected.

  Harry took a cab back to Rik’s flat and let himself in. Back to square one sometimes helped focus the mind. And while he wasn’t in a position to go running off round the globe in search of a man who might still be in London, it was the only thing he could do. One thing working for Five had told him was, never assume you’d covered every angle. Life wasn’t like that.

  He’d barely set about going through the flat again when his phone pinged. An incoming message. It was Davis.

  Got something.

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘I checked the hotel files as you asked,’ said Davis, when Harry got back to Waterloo Court, ‘but there was nothing else on Baier. However, I was trawling the hotel’s interior footage and noticed some suits talking to staff members not long after you were there. I took a closer look.’ He tapped a key and showed footage of two men talking to hotel workers and taking notes. In the background was the hotel manager, looking agitated.

  ‘Pity we can’t hear what they’re saying,’ Davis said. ‘I thought there might be a connection with your problem.’ He worked the keyboard and brought up some footage of the exterior of the hotel, showing a dark and shiny saloon car parked at the kerb. ‘This vehicle was outside.’ He pointed at the screen to a pale patch of something behind the windscreen. ‘See that square? It’s a government-issue I.D to warn off cops and parking wardens.’

  ‘Security Service?’

  Davis shook his head. ‘No. I checked. They stopped issuing the passes six months ago; they were being copied and used for private business in the west end. Whoever these two were, they weren’t authorized.’

  ‘Is there anything about Baier on the hotel database?’

  ‘Only the standard: home address, passport and Visa card details. I haven’t had time to run footage of her actually in the hotel, but I can do that later if you like.’

  ‘Do it,’ Harry said. ‘What about the RTA?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘She was killed near the hotel. And yes, I’m grasping at straws, but it’s all I’ve got.’

  Davis looked at him without expression. Then he nodded and sat back. ‘I can do that. But I’m going to need some privacy.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I need to get help on the next bit, to save time. A mate of mine works with the monitoring division of the Met’s Roads & Transport Policing Command. If there’s been an RTA he’ll have it listed. But I never told you that or my balls are fried.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Harry. He knew when to recognize a special offer when it was made. ‘Can you do it without your mate talking?’

  Davis nodded. ‘Guaranteed. He’s playing away from home – with my sister. If he doesn’t do as I ask, I’ll tell his wife.’

  ‘That’s harsh.’

  ‘It is, but I love my sister more than my mate. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got something.’

  ‘Make it a text,’ Harry said. ‘More secure.’

  Davis gave him a lop-sided grin. ‘That’s what I meant.’

  Harry left him to it and went for a walk. He didn’t want to but he was too impatient for progress to sit still and wait. He made his way to the river and turned east. It was easier going than heading into the centre, and less wearing on the nerves while waiting for Davis to call.

  Just over an hour later, after circling back towards Waterloo, he got a beep. You shld see this. D.

  Harry acknowledged receipt and hurried back to Waterloo Court.

  ‘My mate the philanderer has his uses,’ Davis told him dryly. His face was bland but his words were loaded with excitement, as if he’d discovered a winning lottery number but didn’t want to let on. ‘He’s setting up a track of the van, but that might take a while. In the meantime, he showed me the RTA details. Also, I found something else.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Davis tapped his keyboard and the nearest screen lit up. It showed an internal scene of a long corridor with doors off to each side. The carpet was dark with a vague pattern, and wall sconces glowed dully as if more decorative than functional.

  ‘Is this the hotel?’

  ‘Yes. I guess you won’t have seen this part. It’s on the sixth floor, rooms three-hundred to three-twenty. I’ve edited it down to save time and saved the original if you need it.’ He stabbed at the screen with a finger. ‘Watch this door. This is where it all begins.’

  The door in question moved, then opened. A woman stepped out. She was slim, in a knee-length coat open down the front and what looked like heavy boots. Her hair was cut short but she was moving too quickly to get a clear fix on her features. She walked away down the corridor. Davis worked the keyboard, catching her again as she exited the lift into the lobby. The light was better and it was clear that the woman was carrying what looked like a laptop bag in one hand with another smaller bag over one shoulder. She walked through the reception area and out through the main entrance, turning left and out of sight.

  ‘Watch this,’ said Davis. He tapped the keys and this time showed a street scene, taken from high up. The street lights were on and the area beyond lay in darkness. ‘This is the area back from the hotel, and there’s the Baier woman walking away along the street.’ He pointed to a female figure moving away. Her pace was brisk and purposeful, and she was staying close to the buildings, her collar around her face and shoulders hunched against the cold. ‘See that?’ The screen froze and Davis looked up at Harry in expectation.

  ‘See what?’ said Harry. ‘She’s walking down the street.’

  ‘Not her. That.’ Davis tapped the screen again, this time on one corner. ‘I was tooling back and forth between street cams to see if the cops had called at the hotel before. Might be a regular thing what with Parliament being so close. Anyway, I got this segment from ten minutes earlier, before she left the hotel.’ He tapped the keyboard and the screen began running again, showing pedestrians in the background, a car pulling out of a narrow street and the square shape of a van at the kerb. Harry could just make out a logo behind the driver’s door but it was just out of reach of the lights. ‘Now watch this.’ Davis switched to another camera, this time in daylight. ‘This was the day before. Same van.’ He switched again. ‘And this was earlier that day. Same again.’

  Harry’s heart was hammering as he realized Davis had stitched together a near-complete record of events in and around the hotel, leaving out anything not immediately relevant.

  ‘Can we trace the van?’

  ‘I tried that. The logo’s a fake … at least, no longer used. It was a delivery company and it went bust several months ago. The van probably got sold off at a winding-up auction.’

  Harry watched as Davis re-ran the three segments, completing the moving jigsaw puzzle. He checked the registration plate each time. It was the same.

  ‘Three times – is that likely?’ he said. He wanted it to be too much of a stretch, the same van used on three days in the same area. But he knew nothing about deliveries. Maybe it was commonplace and he was beginning to snatch at anything that looked good.

  ‘No idea.’ Davis shook his head. ‘Watch this. It’s taken from a different angle and further back along the street. It shows Baier leaving the hotel the night she was killed. The van’s on the right of the screen.’

  ‘Keeping watch.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Night-time, with the flare and movement of vehicle lights confusing against the picture. A lone figure in the distance was walking away from the hotel entrance. Nathalie Baier. Harry switched his look to the other side of the screen, and sure enough the nose of the van was just visible. He couldn’t see the driver, but a puff of exhaust smoke w
as drifting into view, curling around the wing and dispersing into the night.

  He glanced back towards Baier just in time to see her turn the corner.

  ‘Where’s she going?’

  ‘Wait one,’ said Davis. His voice sounded tense. The van jumped, moving sharply away from the kerb. Baier was no longer visible.

  Davis cut the screen and moved to another camera shot. This showed another street with a turning to one side.

  ‘This is looking back towards the corner where Baier turned. She’s just walked off-camera. Now watch.’

  A vehicle swung round the corner, the headlights flaring against the lens and flooding the screen with white light. Then the light dimmed as the vehicle moved by beneath, and Harry caught a snatch of the registration plate.

  The same van.

  Davis nodded and moved his fingers on the keyboard. ‘This is from the RTA footage. I don’t think they’ve had time to analyse it yet, but they’re starting further back than we are – and we know where the woman came from.’ This time the screen showed a familiar figure turning the corner towards them, a bag in one hand and another slung over her shoulder, coat collar turned up.

  The next footage was a jumble of conflicting lights throwing shadows everywhere. Headlights came round the corner after the woman, but this time the camera must have been mounted higher on the building because the light wasn’t so invasive. It was the same van, this time moving fast.

  Harry felt an awful prescience as the vehicle moved towards the camera. It was a common-enough scene, a pedestrian and a vehicle on a city street, repeated a million times every day. Then everything changed.