He had a quick peek in the other two bedrooms, Mandy’s and the one that had belonged to Mark’s dead sister, Beth. Both were empty. Beth’s was stripped and bare. He trotted back down to where Mandy was leaning against the front door jamb, blowing smoke out into the atmosphere.
‘Didn’t think he was in,’ she said.
‘Where will I find him?’
‘No idea. He comes, he goes.’
‘What’s he up to, these days? Who’s he knocking around with?’
She considered Henry with amusement. ‘Why the hell are you asking me?’
‘You’re his mum,’ Henry said, the inflexion rising in his voice. ‘Mum’s usually know things about their kids.’
‘Not this one.’ She exhaled a lungful of smoke that hung lazily around Henry’s head. He guessed she wished she was blowing it up his ring piece.
‘I need to speak to him urgently, Mandy. Have you got a mobile number for him?’ He asked only in vague hope because he remembered that Mark had been one of the few kids who didn’t have one of the evil devices. That situation could well have changed. Judging from the gear in his bedroom, Mark was probably now kitted out with a stolen one to match.
‘Far as I know, he hasn’t got one,’ she said unhelpfully, ‘but I’m not sure.’ She sounded totally unconcerned about her son. Henry wanted to give her a slap. ‘You going now?’ she prompted him. ‘I’ve got a busy evening.’
‘I’ll bet,’ Henry said. ‘When you see him, tell him to call me.’ He flicked her one of his business cards. ‘He knows my number, but here’s a reminder.’
She picked it from between his fingers and made to close the door, almost shoving him out. Henry hesitated on the top step, then went to the side of the house and beckoned for Rik to join him.
As they drove away, Mark Carter emerged from the coal-hole and walked cautiously to the front corner of the house and watched the Focus disappear, proving that even the most experienced cops can overlook the obvious.
Mark jerked a middle finger at them.
‘Frustrating, but he won’t be far way,’ Henry said to Rik, pulling his mobile phone out and answering it. It was Alex Bent.
‘Boss, interesting new twist.’
‘Fire away.’
‘We’ve had the manager of a clothing and footwear shop on from the town centre, a shop called Lucio’s, just a bit further up Church Street than the Winter Gardens, opposite side of the road.’
‘I know it.’ His daughters had bought stuff there.
‘Well, the guy’s the manager, not the owner, and he says that the owner comes in everyday and is always there at the end of the day when staff leave. Apparently, he stays on and leaves later.’
‘Only he didn’t turn up today,’ Henry guessed.
‘Spot on — and his description fits that of our dead man.’
‘Would that also explain one or two of the keys in his possession?’
‘It would.’
‘Where is this manager guy now?’
‘Still at the shop, stayed on himself for a stocktake.’
‘OK, we’re just leaving Shoreside… can you get hold of the keys from the old man’s property and one of the photos of him from Jerry Tope’s presentation and meet us at the shop. We’ll be there in about five minutes.’ Henry ended the call and turned to Rik. ‘I love developments.’ He rubbed his hands together exaggeratedly.
Karl Donaldson was dropped off outside the hotel, pausing at the entrance to inhale the night air. Walking through the foyer he decided against using the elevator and trotted up the stairs instead because he wanted to get silently to his room. He didn’t want to advertise his return to his neighbour, wanted to get in quietly and get some sleep before tomorrow’s early flight to Manchester.
This motive for a quiet approach was the only thing that saved his life.
He came up the stairs and paused on the penultimate step before turning into the corridor leading to his room. He checked the corridor before stepping into it and saw it was silent and empty.
Not realizing he was holding his breath, he exhaled with relief, and started to approach his room, four doors down on his left. He found himself tiptoeing like a cartoon character. He was pretty sure he could get in without disturbing her. After all, he’d been trained in silent approach tactics, and he saw it as a transference of skills to get into his hotel room avoiding a sexy woman as opposed to a terrorist or master criminal. He had his pass card ready, aware that slotting it into the reader would unlock the door with a loud click.
He reached the door, leaned back and looked slyly at Vanessa’s door, and inserted his card when he heard the door behind him on the opposite side of the corridor being opened.
Nothing unusual in that.
The pass card turned on the green light with a click and a whirr.
Simple curiosity made him turn slightly to look at the guest emerging from the room opposite. He was about to smile at whoever came out. The door opened — and Donaldson once again came face to face with a masked man, the guy’s face obliterated by a balaclava. There was a revolver in his hand — silenced as before. The same man he’d faced in the cell.
Donaldson computed that the man wasn’t expecting to see him. There was that awful moment of dawning recognition. Just a fraction of a second. Almost nothing, but for Donaldson it was the moment that saved his life and exactly the moment his neighbour’s door opened. Another distraction.
The guy’s gun was down at his side and he was still partly obscured because he was still half behind the room door that he’d opened inwards with his left hand, which meant he was encumbered.
Then he started to react, to bring up the gun.
Donaldson spun one-eighty in that moment of hesitation and distraction and hurled himself across the corridor, a distance of maybe three metres.
The man realized his position, not the best from which to kill a man.
As the gun came up, Donaldson saw that although it would be a rushed shot it would probably hit him somewhere in the groin region, maybe taking out a testicle or two, or even a penis.
He ducked to his right and the man tried to follow him with the muzzle, but was still hampered by the door.
Vanessa screamed, the sound filling the corridor with horror.
The man had to take a step back to open the door and free himself from his disadvantageous position. At the same time, Donaldson realized that if the man were to get out, then he would be unable to defend himself, so he had to take the fight to him. All this went through Donaldson’s mind as he ducked right, so he immediately weaved left and threw himself at the door with the intention of trapping the man behind it. He put all his weight into the manoeuvre and it worked, pinning him in the ‘V’ between door and wall, but ensuring that the man’s hand was still free. That became Donaldson’s target and he grabbed the man’s right forearm with both hands and pounded it against the wall.
The gun discharged, the bullet driving into the ceiling right above the two men. Then it went off again, but this time Donaldson had managed to wrestle the man’s arm down parallel with the floor, and the bullet smashed into the patio doors at the far end of the room, disintegrating them spectacularly.
Donaldson had the man’s arm tight up against the wall.
The man fought back, heaving his weight against the door, his whole body tensing with muscle as he forced the door back against Donaldson.
Both of the FBI agent’s hands went for the gun, trying to tear it out of the man’s grip, but the reaction to this took him by surprise. The man simply opened his fingers and let the gun drop to the floor, kicked it away into the room, and with a supreme effort, tore his arm free of Donaldson’s fingers, then put all his power behind the door, keeping it there as a barrier between them. He got himself into a better position like a man trying to push a tractor and Donaldson, despite his undoubted strength, felt himself being pushed backwards as the man, inch by inch, managed to close and lock the door against Donaldson, who roared with anger and pounded it with frustration.