NO HELP FOR THE DYING (Gavin & Palmer) Page 5

  It was clear the old lady hadn’t noticed that a pane of glass had been removed from the kitchen door. She was either blind or the break-in had occurred since she last fed the cat.

  Riley thanked her and walked round to the front and back down the drive. There was little point in going inside, even if she could sneak past the neighbourhood watch unit. Whoever had removed the glass must have taken a chance on daylight entry, which meant they’d probably watched the old lady leave before going in. Still, she wondered what they’d been looking for.

  She headed south towards Ruislip and Hayes and dropped down to the A4 Bath Road. Traffic was busy, the usual stop-start build-up to what would be gridlock in a couple of hours. A pass along the front of the Scandair Hotel revealed no obvious police presence, so she doubled back and turned in off the main road, tucking the Golf into a space in the rear car park. She studied the other cars. Most of them were fleet-type vehicles, shiny and uniform, and the sight of a man unloading a flip chart and a couple of briefcases from a Nissan confirmed it was a landing-pad for company meetings and conferences. Riley waited until the man was struggling across the tarmac towards a single swing door in the main building, and caught up with him in time to hold it for him.

  ‘Give you a hand?’ she said with a smile, and offered to take one of the briefcases. If there were any kind of police presence inside, it would help if she could merge into the scenery.

  ‘Oh. Cheers.’ The man looked grateful and surprised, and gave her a quick once-over. His eyes seemed to waver a little at the jeans, but he still managed to pigeonhole her as one of his own kind. ‘You must be from the south-west team. I’m Mike Hutton.’ He stuck out his free hand. It had the sweaty, over-strong grip of the professional hand-shaker. ‘I hear we’ve pretty much got the whole place this afternoon. Should be noisy in the bar tonight.’ He grinned at the prospect and gave her the kind of sideways look which was clearly a come-on for later.

  Riley gave a meaningless smile and nodded, and followed him along the ground-floor corridor to a conference room. Outside stood a pile of boxes containing glossy sales catalogues and scratchpads. There were two men in the room, both in shirtsleeves. They were laughing at something in a newspaper. Hutton breezed straight in, evidently on familiar territory and keen to join in. His bulk conveniently blocked her from view, so she set the briefcase down inside the door and ducked away before he could make introductions. On the way, she snatched up one of the catalogues.

  Up on the second floor she peered through the landing door towards room 210. There was no sign of activity, so she gently eased the door open and padded along the carpet, ready to flap the brochure and play lost if a uniform appeared.

  The door to 210 was slightly open, with a strip of crime-scene tape stretched across the gap. Riley checked over her shoulder, then pushed the door back until it bumped against the wall. No lights, no movement, no sign of a forensics team. But perched on the bed was a policeman’s peaked cap. No doubt belonging to a uniformed plod left here to watch the place. He’d probably sneaked off for a fag break. Thank God for easygoing cops. It was decision time.

  She knew there was a risk that the policeman might come back at any time, but she figured she had to take the opportunity while it was still off-limits to the cleaners. The place would have been searched carefully by the forensics team - if one had been called - but without a body, the procedure might not have got as far as a full scene of crime unit investigation.

  She ducked beneath the tape and stepped into the room, clicking the door shut behind her. If anybody asked, she’d play dumb or tired. Failing that, she’d have to run again.

  The room was standard - a double bed, twin bedside cabinets, a table and two chairs, television, a dresser with a hospitality tray and kettle, and wall-hanging space for clothes. With its Royal blue carpet, curtains, bedspread and seat covers, it looked like a thousand other hotel rooms from Bangkok to Bolton. Only the smears of blood on the wall and doorframe were non-standard.

  Riley checked the bathroom first. It had been emptied but not cleaned, and one glance was enough to see it held no clues. Back in the bedroom, the nearest bedside cabinet revealed a soft leather bible and a paperclip, but nothing else. The other cabinet held a hotel notepad and another bible. This one had a simpler, paperback cover bearing a logo of an oil lamp with a flame. She recognised the logo of The Gideons.

  The dresser held a copy of the Yellow Pages, a guest information book and a plain, polythene laundry bag, and a glance at the wall-hanging space showed nothing but a bunch of the hangers nobody considers worth stealing because they can’t be used at home.

  She stood and mused for a while, conscious that the longer she stayed, the greater the risk of discovery. Plainly there was no obvious clue here as to why Henry had called her, or where he had gone. And if he had brought any clothes or papers with him, they had already been taken away for examination. Only the blood on the wall and the fact that his mobile phone had been picked up by a policeman showed something disturbing had happened.

  A metallic clatter echoed along the corridor outside, and she went to the door and listened. If the cleaners had been given the ok to come in and do their thing, now was the time to move. She opened the door just a crack and peered through as the rear view of a service trolley, pulled by a woman in a green overall, disappeared down the corridor.

  Riley ducked out beneath the tape again and walked the other way. She was nearing the door at the end when a movement behind the glass pane revealed a dark sleeve and a flash of a metal shoulder tag. At the same time, she heard a man’s voice and a woman’s answering laugh echo up the stairwell. Fag break over, then.

  She began to turn back, then noticed one of the doors nearby was unlocked. She nudged it open and slid inside, praying she didn’t bump into a male guest in his chuddies. To play safe, she called: ‘Room service’. But all she got was a strong smell of air-freshener and the clinical feel of a room recently tidied and ready for occupation.

  Heart pounding, she closed the door and sat on the nearest bed, waiting while the policeman walked slowly past the door and went into room 210. Then she heard the blare of a television and a burst of canned laughter. Great. She’d chosen to coincide her visit with one of London’s finest bunking off work and watching an afternoon game show. She peered through the spy-hole in the door, but couldn’t see if he’d left the door open behind him.

  She flicked through the brochure and waited. The general sales pitch was something to do with seating systems for conference venues and about as interesting as having her teeth filed. She dropped it on the bed and checked through the nearest cabinet for something else to read.

  There was nothing other than another Gideon. This one was another plain paperback, and other than a pencilled smiley face on the flyleaf, showed few signs of having been used. Must be a budget room for low-cost heathens. Riley rolled across the bed and checked the other cabinet in case anyone had left a magazine, but it was empty.

  She picked up the sales brochure again and was halfway to the door when a thought struck her: why was there a leather-bound bible in one room and a cheap paperback in another? Would The Gideons really use leather-bound bibles when the others were just as good? With at least three hundred rooms in this place alone, to repeat that in every hotel in the country would be hugely expensive. But why was this suddenly an issue? After all, a bible was a bible was a bible.

  Suddenly, the television went quiet and heavy footsteps passed the door. She waited until she heard the door close at the end of the corridor, then slipped out and headed back to 210.

  The bible query had taken root, and was suddenly too insistent to be denied. As she drew level with 210, she cursed herself for extending the risk level and flipped a mental coin. It came down heads.

  The door was still open, although the tape had now gone. The police must have finished with it. Riley was inside and back out again in seconds, this time with the leather bible concealed inside the sales brochure. She wasn�
�t sure what the laws were on removing evidence the police had overlooked, but she was pretty sure the courts had a ruling for it somewhere. Apart from that, if she was stopped now, she was going to have to do some quick thinking to explain the relationship between seating systems and food for the soul.

  Back in the car, she stared at the bible, turning it over and riffling the pages. Unlike the paperback versions she’d seen, this one was heavier, the leather covering soft and pliable, like an expensive calfskin. The only decoration was an indented scroll in each corner; no title, no picture of an oil lamp and flame. She flipped it open. The paper was thin, and held the sort of text you would expect to see, with one exception: there was no mention of The Gideons. Instead, stamped across the flyleaf in rich, blue ink were the words:

  THE CHURCH OF FLOWING LIGHT. WELCOME ALL WHO ARE UNLOVED, AND ENTER HERE.

  In one corner were the initials HP.

  Henry Pearcy.

  Chapter 8

  The welcome message was followed by a telephone number. Riley stared at it, trying to gauge if there was something she was missing, or whether she was trying to read too much into it. It was a bible, that was all. Not a Gideon, but so what? But unless the uncanny arm of coincidence meant someone else with the same initials had passed through recently and left behind their very own copy, this bible had to belong to Henry Pearcy. How had the police overlooked it?

  She turned to the greeting on the flyleaf. It was different, certainly, but hardly unbiblical in tone. Still, a hell of a way to get inside the heart of a lonely resident of an airport hotel: to appeal to the unloved side of their nature. She wondered how they approached the terminally depressed or the deeply suicidal.

  A shadow suddenly loomed up at the car window. It was Mike Hutton, the salesman with the flip chart. He was mouthing something at her. She lowered the window a crack.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The boss wants to see you. He says if you’re with us you should have reported in earlier. You’d better get your suit on, too, he’s a stickler for that.’ His gaze dropped to the bible on her lap and faltered, as if he’d found her doing something unwholesome.

  ‘Thanks,’ she told him, turning the ignition key. ‘But I’ll pass. Tell him I’ve just been made a better offer.’

  By the time she got back to Holland Park, it was late afternoon and a chill was descending, lending a sharpness to the emerging street lights. She parked the car in a nearby street and walked back to the flat, head buzzing with unanswered questions. After all this she was no nearer knowing whether Henry’s bible being left in a hotel room was significant or not. As far as she could recall he’d never voiced religious leanings, although few people of his age ever do. Religion was the third side of the conversational triangle along with sex and politics, and only the young seemed intent on discussing them openly with little or no embarrassment and precious little in the way of experience.

  ‘Miss Gavin?’ The voice carried the familiar air of tired authority, and Riley felt her stomach flip. A man stepped out from a plain car parked at the kerb in front of her building. He was tall and stocky, with the look of one who knows not to take anything or anyone for granted. A uniformed officer stood on the other side of the car, idly flicking raindrops off the roof, but watching her carefully.

  ‘That’s me,’ she confirmed, and saw curtains twitching in the flat below hers. Mr Grobowski, no doubt keeping an eye on things. Give it a couple of hours on the local grapevine and this was going to do her street credibility no end of good.

  The policeman nodded but made no move towards suggesting he wanted to go inside out of the weather. He had a fleshy face and an unfashionable moustache that looked as if it had begun life as a dare and become a fixture. He flashed his card but in the poor light she couldn’t read it closely. ‘DS McKinley. I’d like to ask a couple of questions, if that’s all right?’ The way he said it meant her agreement was immaterial. He looked as if he’d had less sleep than she had. He consulted a small notebook. ‘You made a phone call at oh-five-thirty-one this morning to a mobile belonging to one Henry Pearcy. This was followed by another at oh-five-fifty-three, then again at oh-seven-ten. Would you care to tell me why you were calling him?’

  Riley felt her stomach tighten. Of course, Henry’s phone would have revealed her number. It would have taken the police no time at all to get her address. The fact that McKinley had gone straight to the question of why she was calling meant they had enough information to bypass the bit about did she know him and where they had met.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, deciding on as much of the truth as she dared use. ‘He left a message for me earlier, saying he was on his way overseas and suggested we have a drink. He wanted to tip me off about a story he’d picked up. I arranged to meet him, but when I rang again to confirm where, I had trouble getting through. Is something wrong?’

  McKinley stared at her while chewing his lip. His face was expressionless, and Riley couldn’t tell if he believed her or not. On the other hand, what could he accuse her of?

  ‘I said-’

  ‘I heard what you said, miss,’ he murmured. ‘Bit early, though, isn’t it, to be talking about having a drink?’

  She shrugged. ‘He probably meant coffee. I didn’t think about it at the time.’

  ‘And you were quite happy to get up and drive out to meet him, were you?’

  ‘Why not? I’ve been up earlier and driven further for less.’

  ‘Further than where?’ His eyes glinted as he stared at her, suddenly leaning forward slightly like a gun dog spotting a kill.

  Riley swallowed. Shite. That was a stupid slip. She told herself to play it calm. ‘To Heathrow. Some hotel on the Bath Road, he said. And before you ask, DS McKinley, I was already up when I got his call.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I don’t have to answer that. What hours I keep are my business.’

  McKinley nodded. ‘Fair enough. Well, being a reporter, you’ll know all about crime investigations, won’t you?’ The warning was as clear as a clap of thunder: Don’t mess with me, otherwise I’ll turn your life upside down.

  ‘Of course. But what’s that got to do with me? And what crime? Has something happened to Henry?’

  ‘Have you been in contact with Mr Pearcy since your last call?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Look, what’s happened?’ Riley decided to act out the part, since if she clammed up and tried to brush him off, he’d probably go to town on her.

  ‘Have you been out to the Heathrow area at any time in the last eighteen hours?’

  Something told her McKinley was waiting for her to say more, and she guessed he knew that she - or someone very like her - had been to the hotel where Henry had disappeared. It was time to come clean. Well, clean-ish. ‘I went out there this morning,’ she admitted, putting on a sheepish look. ‘I was halfway there and forgot which room he’d said he was in. So I rang - to find out.’

  ‘Which room did he say?’

  ‘Two-ten.’

  ‘You went into the hotel?’ The question was casual, like it didn’t really matter and he was only going through the motions. He even looked off to one side, as if his heart wasn’t in it. But his eyes were too sharp.

  ‘As far as the foyer. I was stopped by an armed officer. He suggested I leave, so I did.’

  ‘And you haven’t heard from Pearcy since?’

  ‘No. I told you. I rang him again, but got someone else - a wrong number. Look, why is it so difficult to tell me what happened?’

  The detective chewed his lip some more as if debating the issue with himself. ‘The hotel management called to say a fight had taken place early this morning in one of the rooms. A passing patrol found signs of a struggle having taken place in a room registered to Mr Pearcy. His passport was under the bed, so it doesn’t look as if he caught his flight out. But we’re checking on that.’

  ‘What sort of signs?’

  ‘Evidence of an injury. We have reason to believe Mr Pearcy left in
a hurry… or was forced to leave by a third party.’ His face was blank, giving no hint of which option he preferred.

  ‘Was anyone seen going to his room?’ Riley suddenly realised she had completely overlooked the presence of security cameras and felt the blood drain from her face. The thought that they had her on film skulking around the corridors made her feel sick.

  McKinley didn’t appear to notice. He nodded. ‘We’re checking all that. Do you know if Mr Pearcy had any enemies - anyone he might have had a disagreement with, either recently or in the past?’

  It was a standard question but she couldn’t think of an obvious answer. Reporters picked up their fair share of hate mail, but she couldn’t envisage Henry being on anybody’s hit list. ‘No. I can’t. He wasn’t the sort.’

  ‘The sort?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  He shrugged and handed her a card with his name and number on it. ‘Please call if you hear from him.’ He climbed back into the car and was driven away, leaving her with a feeling that in spite of his casual attitude, he hadn’t taken anything she’d said at face value.

  She went inside and paced around the flat for a while, watched by the cat. She was just beginning to realise that in the absence of anyone else as a prime suspect in Henry’s disappearance, the police had her. She not only knew Henry, but had phoned him earlier, just prior to his disappearance. She had also turned up at his hotel shortly afterwards, compounding the problem. Even a raw recruit fresh into Hendon wouldn’t need long to make a connection out of that.