‘This is yours if you get me inside.’ The words came out impulsively. Riley was reacting on the hoof with no clear thought of how this might pan out, but her instincts told her that whatever had happened inside the hotel was connected in some way with Henry Pearcy. ‘Just get me in, that’s all. I’ll take it from there. Don’t worry, I promise I won’t steal anything.’
He shuffled his feet, greed fighting for supremacy over fear of being caught out. ‘Are you a reporter?’
It was either a lucky guess or the kid was smarter than he looked. ‘That’s right. I happened to be in the area.’
The promise of immediate cash evidently made up Andy’s mind; he turned and walked back the way he’d come, leaving Riley to follow him round to the back of the hotel where the rooms overlooked a second car park and the lighting was sparse enough to throw pockets of gloom everywhere. He stopped at a side door and fiddled with his keys, then turned and held out his hand.
‘You never saw me, right?’ He was staring at her intently.
‘What floor did it happen on?’ Riley asked, parting with the note.
‘Sorry — you’re on your own.’ He pocketed the money and unlocked the door. ‘Close it within ten seconds or the alarm will show on the security board.’ Then he turned and hurried away.
Harry Poustalis, the manager of the SnapFast photo boutique, ducked off the exposed stretch that was Piccadilly, shoulders hunched against the squally rain. In one hand he clutched a polystyrene mug of extra-strong coffee, his preferred method of kick-starting his day, and in his head was an image of sun-blessed Kefalonia, his family island home. He wished he were there rather than here in cold, wet London. As he stopped outside the shop door, he found his way blocked by a misshapen bag of rubbish, its sides torn and pulled apart in a familiar fashion. He supposed it was one of the urban foxes that lived in the neighbourhood. Setting his coffee aside, he gathered the spillage of torn paper and plastic wrappings, grasped the bag and walked with it down the adjacent alley, stepping carefully over more scattered debris. The wheelie bins were already full, so he walked on towards the builders’ skips at the back.
As he swung the bag over the lip of the skip, he almost stepped on a huddled form encased in a grubby nylon sleeping bag. He cursed softly, wondering how anybody could sleep out here among this filth. Every morning it was the same. If this soul didn’t move soon before the contractor’s lorry came round, he or she stood a good chance of being crushed beneath the wheels.
Harry stooped and shook the sleeping bag. The occupant felt small and slight — most likely a kid. Maybe this one needed the coffee more than he did. The way they lived, it was no wonder some of them ended up in the local A amp;E. He shook the person again and tugged the zip down, and the fabric fell away. In the same moment that he registered a strong aroma of tomato soup from inside the bag, Harry found himself looking at a deathly pale, pinched face and two sightless eyes staring up into the grey morning sky.
Chapter 4
Riley expected to find herself in a corridor leading towards the centre of the hotel complex. Instead she’d landed in what felt like a large stock cupboard. It was about six feet square, heavy with the mixed aromas of cleaning fluids and polish. By inching her way around in the dark, she found two walls lined with wooden shelves holding cleaning gear and some metal containers. The third was taken up with vacuum cleaners and buckets, and the fourth wall included a door with a thin crack of light showing at the edges. It wasn’t much, but sufficient to give her some bearings. She nosed up to the door and listened. If there was anyone out there, they were being very quiet.
She felt for the door handle. It was a standard doorknob with a small locking mechanism in the centre. She snicked it open and a wave of warm, musty air flowed through the gap, carrying a faint smell of carpets and damp.
Riley slid off her jacket and draped it over the handle of one of the vacuum cleaners. It left her in jeans and a plain white shirt. Might as well try and look like a guest, just in case. As an added extra, she messed up her hair and rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. It was unlikely to be flattering, but this was business.
When she stepped outside, she found herself in a dead-end corridor lit by overhead strip lighting, with a heavily patterned carpet underfoot and an occasional bland print on the bare brick walls between rooms. She walked towards the far end, where a sign indicated stairs one way and reception the other. At a guess, 210, Henry’s room, would be on the first or second floor, but until she spotted a sign, she’d have to run blind. She just hoped it didn’t turn out to be next to the one where the fight had taken place.
A sudden clatter made her jump. It was an ice-making machine and drinks dispenser set in an alcove. It gave her an idea, and she retraced her steps to the cleaning cupboard, where she took down one of the containers she’d noticed on a shelf. It was an aluminium ice bucket, standard issue in every hotel room from Alaska to Zanzibar. She walked back to the ice machine and jammed it under the dispenser.
The noise was horrendous, making her jump. When the bucket was full, she headed for the stairs. Fortunately, nobody seemed to have been disturbed by the clatter, and everything was quiet save for a vague murmur which could have been a television or the grumbling of the heating system.
Riley walked up to the first floor, where the signs indicated rooms 101–199. So, second floor it was, then. As she turned to go up the next flight of stairs, a uniformed PC stepped out of the shadows off the landing and stood looking down at her.
Riley brushed her hair back and peered at the signs on the wall, then gave what she hoped was the goofy smile of the terminally jet-lagged. ‘This place is like a maze,’ she said, stifling a yawn, and climbed the stairs, moving to step past him. But he reached out an arm and barred her way. Riley felt her stomach go cold.
‘Which floor are you on, then?’ he asked, adding, ‘miss.’
‘Three, I think,’ she replied, trying to recall if there was a three. ‘The ice machine up there looked dirty, so I came looking for another one.’ Before the officer could react, she peered up at him and said: ‘Look, what’s all the noise about? It’s worse than Oxford Street. And why are you lot asking everybody questions?’
She was counting on playing the aggrieved and disturbed guest to work, and it did. His eyes slid from her red eyes and rumpled hair to her boots, taking in the ice bucket on the way. Riley was impressed; there was no pause in his look on the way down, proving he didn’t appear to see beyond the fact that she was simply another guest.
He dropped his arm and gave her the benefit of a half smile. ‘There’s been an incident involving a guest on the second floor,’ he explained. ‘Nothing to worry about. I take it you didn’t hear anything unusual?’
‘No, sorry. Like I told your colleague, I had the television on. I couldn’t sleep.’ She rattled the ice bucket. ‘Thirsty, too.’
‘Colleague?’
‘That’s right. Tall man… looked like Wild Bill Hickock.’ When the PC frowned she added: ‘Not the moustache — the gun.’
He relaxed and stepped aside. ‘In that case, you’d better get back to your room, miss. We don’t want another guest disappearing, do we?’
Riley walked up to the second floor and checked the corridor, then pushed open the door, flinching at the sucking noise made by the draught excluders. Voices came from a room just a few doors down on her right, followed by a short bark of laughter. As she approached, a man stepped out and walked towards her. He wore a rumpled suit, with the tired expression of someone who had been up all night and didn’t expect to get to bed anytime soon. Riley yawned, but didn’t catch his eye. They passed each other without speaking, ships in the night. Well, morning.