.
Peter had stood outside of the room for several minutes, wondering what he should do next.
As far as he could see, there was nothing special about the door. It was a hotel door, like so many thousands of other hotel doors he had seen. The number had been stuck on in three separate black digits. The door looked new, and the carpet in the hallway was also new.
There was nothing remarkable about what he saw.
He was confused.
He had found his way up the stairs to the door by following a deep seated instinct that had surfaced as if from nowhere.
He had known where room 326 was. He had known that the number he had seen in his dream was related to that room in this hotel.
But why? How?
There were no answers. Just more questions.
When Peter had arrived in Zermatt he had fallen quickly in love with the town, the area, the mountains. But now, he could feel that same fascination and attraction beginning to morph and change within him. The ‘pleasant feeling’ that he had experienced upon arrival, was now being twisted and mutated into an uncomfortable feeling of dread.
He was beginning to NOT enjoy himself.
Perhaps it was time to go home.
This whole thing was beginning to spook him out.
.
A voice from behind caught him by surprise.
"Hallo, wie konnen wir Ihnen Dienen? Brauchen Sie was?"
Peter turned, slightly shaken by the voice. He had been so caught up in his own thoughts he had not seen the hotel chambermaid approaching, carrying a pile of fresh towels.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand."
"Sorry," said the chambermaid. "Are you looking for something? Can I help you?"
He saw her glance at him, and then at the door, and then back at him.
"Ach, Sind Sie noch einen Reporter?...Are you a reporter?"
"Yes," replied Peter, momentarily thrown off balance. "How did you know?"
"Typisch. Immer dasselbe," she said. "Wenn Sie.., sorry, if you want to know more about ze murder in Zimmer 326, then please do not disturb unsere guests. Bitte, talk to ze Manager. Shall I take you to him?"
"Murder? What murder?"
"Verzeihung, wir sollten...we are not allowed to talk about zis with guests. Shall I call the manager for you?"
"No," Peter quickly replied. "Nein. That is fine. I will find him myself, thank you."
He turned slowly and started to walk down the stairs.
Glancing back over his shoulders, he saw that the chambermaid was peering over the banister, watching him. He saw her pull out her mobile phone, and dial a number.
Peter hurried down the rest of the stairs, three at a time, and left as quickly as he could through the front door, just making it out in time before he heard a voice call after him from reception.
He ran down the street, and ten minutes later he was safely back in his own room at The Omnia Grande.
.
--------------------
.
"Do you have a business suite?" he asked the friendly woman at reception, but guessing that the answer would be no. The hotel was probably not large enough to provide that sort of service.
"Yes, of course," she replied, surprising him. "Please go through the second door on the left." She pointed at a door in a corner just opposite from where they stood at the reception desk.
She handed him a card. "And here is the password for the laptops. It will also give you thirty minutes free Internet access."
"Thanks," Peter replied.
Hurrying into the little room, Peter found two laptops, a printer, and a few telephones. Shaking, and scared, he sat down at the laptop, switched it on, and immediately started to search for anything that he could find out, about the murder in room 326 in the other hotel. He tried a number of different keywords in Google- 'Hotel Matterhorn Superior', '326', 'Zermatt', and immediately found over a hundred references. Unfortunately they were all in German.
He opened up the first one and fought the urge to vomit.
'Zermatt Abend Zeitung.' It was from three years ago. He didn't understand the title, the words, or anything that it said.
But he did recognise the picture of the girl who was spread across the middle of the page, so obviously the face of the murder victim.
It was the face of the girl that he had remembered from his dream.
Peter shivered again. For the fourth time in two days.
..
Chapter Twenty Seven
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.
The Craigmillar Estate
Edinburgh, Scotland
7 p.m.
27th February
.
.
Big Wee Rab stood at the door to old Mr Wallace's.
He had been watching him all day, waiting for the moment when he could break in and search the place, looking for the stash of cash which Rab knew had to be hidden somewhere in his council flat.
Rab had been thinking about it. He probably only needed a couple of thousand pounds to escape the estate, catch a train to the south of France and start a new life.
He'd already packed a wee rucksack, and dug out his passport. He'd checked, and it was still valid for another eleven months, so that was fine. His mum and dad had got them all passports when they'd been planning to move abroad and start a new life in Holland. Then his dad had got caught, was found guilty of theft and grievous bodily harm to a security officer, and he was banged up ever since. The passports had never been used. Looking back, Rab realised they'd probably got the passports not to go on holiday, but to run away. Ironically, Rab was probably going to use it for the same purpose.
But this time he was going to succeed.
Old Mr Wallace hadn't left the flat all day: Rab had been sitting in the car watching. Then just as he was about to give up, the old man appeared at his doorway, dressed up for an evening out at the local bingo.
Big Rab was on.
This was his chance.
He watched as the old guy toddled off down the street, saw him stand at the bus stop, and then get on the bus as it collected all the old wrinklies who were heading for their big night out on the town.
Rab grabbed his bag and jumped out of the car. He pulled his hoodie up over his head, hurried quickly across the road, up the path and got to the front door.
He bent down into his plastic bag, pulled out a small crowbar, and put it against the door lock. Tonight's tools had been freshly stolen from B&Q earlier that afternoon, along with some thin, black gardening gloves which he wore to prevent any fingerprints being left behind.
He hit the crowbar with a hammer a few times in just the right place, and the wood on the inside of the door splintered and gave way. The door opened abruptly and Rab stepped inside.
He pulled out a torch and went straight to the bathroom.
Rab had been thinking about this for days. If it was his flat, and he was going to hide something, where would he put it? The bathroom. Definitely the bathroom. Behind the panel stuck to the side of the bath.
The bathroom was at the back of the flat, so Rab was pretty sure that it would be okay to put on the light. Kneeling down beside the bath, he lifted the crow bar and the hammer, and started to force the edge of the wood panelling away from the side. At first it didn't seem that it wanted to budge, so he applied a bit more force, and then impatiently smashed it a few times with the hammer. Eventually he succeeded in breaking off half the panel. He peered inside with the torch, almost gagging at the rank smell of damp and rotting wood.
There were lots of cobwebs, lots of dust, but no bags full of money. No hidden savings. Nothing.
"Fuck!" Rab shouted. "Where the fuck is the cash?"
He stood up, anger beginning to bubble inside him, in spite of the calming effect of the spliff that he had been smoking in the car.
Rab pushed open a couple of doors, quickly finding the bedroom. Looking at his watch, Rab realised that he had already been in the flat for fifteen minutes.
Opening the bedroom wardrobe, he rummaged inside, pulling out any clothes that got in his way as he tried to find any boxes or bags that could be hidden towards the back. He grabbed a seat from the kitchen and climbed up, checking the top of the wardrobe to see if anything was hidden on top. Nothing!
He tried pushing the wardrobe across the floor, to see if there might be any loose floorboards where something could be hidden underneath. But the wardrobe was far too heavy, and he realised the old man would never be able to move the wardrobe by himself... so the cash couldn't be there!
Rab was getting worried now. He'd been in the flat for thirty minutes and still had found nothing.
He lifted the bed, emptied the pillows, pulled out draws from the bedroom dresser. Lots or rubbish, a few old watches, piles of letters, photographs and other pieces of crap, but nothing worth any real money.
In the kitchen he went through the food cupboards, emptying tins of tea, and coffee, bags of cereal, looking for tins with false bottoms: checking anything that might appear normal to most people, but which would form ideal places to hide money.
At one point he thought he'd struck lucky. On the table in the kitchen, in full view of anybody who came in, he found a big old biscuit tin. Picking it up, he could instantly feel that it was full of paper. He ripped off the lid and looked inside. It was full of official looking brown envelopes. He pulled one out, ripped the letter out of the envelope and started trying to read it.
It was a letter from Mr Wallace to the council complaining about Big Wee Rab’s gang, and asking for the council to 'do something to protect the decent folk of Craigmillar from the scum who have no respect for anyone else'.
Rab screamed, throwing the tin against the wall, and letting the letters fly all over the kitchen.
For the next ten minutes Rab went on a rampage, storming round the rest of the council flat, emptying anything that could possibly contain any money or hidden valuables. In the sitting room he pulled up the cushions from the sofa and armchairs, sticking his hand around the edges of the seats.
Nothing.
The more he searched, the less he found, and the angrier he got. As the rage swept over him, any caution that he had started with was swept away, and soon he was like a madman, smashing ornaments, shouting and swearing.
Another fifteen minutes had passed, and apart from a half-empty cheque book, a nice watch, fifty pounds, and a few old war medals and ribbons, Rab had found nothing. With everything else stuffed in his pockets, he was standing in the front room looking at the medals, shining his torch on one of them and trying to read what the writing on it said, when he heard a voice, and the light went on, catching him completely unawares.
"Put down my Cross, ya big bastard. Get your fucking filthy paws off my Victoria Cross!"
Rab turned, startled. Mr Wallace was standing in the doorway of the front room, his metal walking stick raised high above his head, ready to step forward and bring it down on Rab's head.
He was just about to lunge at the old man and push him aside to make good his escape, when a police officer entered the room from behind Mr Wallace, saw Rab and dived for him.
It only took a second for Rab to react. He was on parole. If he got caught, he would be sent back down, and they'd lock him up and throw away the key for good.
As the police officer lunged for him, he took a quick step upwards onto the sofa, sidestepping the police officer. As the copper moved forward, Rab grabbed the police officer's shoulders and arms, pulling him quickly forward and using his momentum to swing him hard against the wall on the other side of the room.
Mr Wallace swung the walking stick down at Rab, but his reactions were too slow, and Rab had already moved again, jumping to the floor beside the wall, barging into the old man with his shoulder and pushing him back through the doorway and into the hallway. They both tumbled backwards, Rab landing beside the old man on the floor.
Agile and young, Rab sprang back up quickly, and in an instant was on his feet, darting for the door and out into the street.
A few seconds later he was sitting back in his car, panting for breath and taking a few vital seconds to decide what to do next. It was only then that he realised that he still had a couple of the old man's medals in his hand. He tossed them on the floor, started the engine and drove off, his wheels spinning noisily before finding traction.
It wasn't until he'd driven all the way to Galashiels in the Scottish borders that he finally began to stop shaking and calm down.
.
Things hadn't exactly gone according to plan. Instinctively, Big Wee Rab knew that he was in the shit.
..
Chapter Twenty Eight
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.
Zermatt
Switzerland
27th Feb
.
.
Peter sat in the bath, the warm shower raining down above his head. He was shaking. He'd been shaking for over an hour. He had never been so scared in his life.
He wanted to go home.
He'd had enough of Switzerland. Of the dreams. Of the fucking 'sixth sense' that he seemed to be developing.
Why did he dream the number '326'?
And what was all this sudden fascination with the Matterhorn?
Had he actually chosen and gone on a random holiday, or was it more than a coincidence that he had wanted to come to here?
He remembered being in the travel agency, and the fascination he'd felt with the picture of the Matterhorn: the sudden desire to go and see it, to be there. The urgency.
And what about the dream he had had of being at the top of the Matterhorn in summer, or the 'vision' when, as clear as day, he'd imagined what it would be like to stand on a ledge on the sheer vertical cliff face of the Matterhorn above the Hörnlihütte.
How, why, had he felt so struck with the name plate on the wall, luring him into 'Berg Gasse'?
And then...shit...how had he KNOWN what the inside of the hotel 'Matterhorn Superior' would look like?
Then all this shit about room 326? Why did he dream the number? Why did he think that the number was so special? What made him walk up to the room?
Last of all, most of all, most fucking scary of all of it...because it was so personal, so ridiculous, so not possible...how had he dreamt the face of the girl that had been murdered?
How?
"Just,... tell me please, just FUCKING HOW!!!!???" Peter shouted loudly.
Then, as if in answer to his own interrogation, his subconscious presented him with the answer. An answer so obvious, it dawned on Peter just how ridiculously obvious the answer truly was.
Peter was a reporter. He spent his days, almost every day, glued to the news. The newspapers, the television, the internet, absolutely anything where news was shown or produced. He was constantly surrounded by it. And when he was not surrounded by it, he was making it himself.
Peter's life was the 'news'.
Obviously, he had read about this years ago, or he had seen the photograph of the attractive girl who had been killed someplace before. The girl was very attractive...she would easily have caught his attention. He would have noticed the photograph, and it would have made an impression on him. How could someone murder someone as beautiful as her?...And then, once his interest in the story had been caught, he would have seen or followed any footage on the TV that had anything to do with the case. He probably even saw some film report shot inside the hotel...hence his knowledge of the layout of the reception area and the bar...and subconsciously he would have made a mental note and remembered the number of the room in which the brutal murder had taken place.
Obviously he had read and seen it all, and then when he came to Zermatt, his subconscious would have fed him with all the material from the story from three years ago.
That was it.
So bloody simple.
.
Peter started to calm down.
In fact, now he thought about it, the
whole thing, the urge to come here in the first place was probably, no, ...definitely..., sparked by the photograph of the Matterhorn that he had seen in the travel brochure. As soon as the travel agent had skimmed over the photograph, his own little subconscious mind would have woken up and screamed at him: "Oi! Peter! There it is...That's the place...That's the town where that murder took place!"
It made perfect sense now.
Peter lay back in the bath and closed his eyes.
Suddenly, Zermatt was not such a bad place after all.
.
After the bath and the soothing shower, Peter felt ravenous. So hungry he could eat a horse. Which was probably possible, given that there were no cars in Zermatt, and there were millions of horse drawn carriages instead...surely, no one would miss just one horse?
"If I did eat a horse, in a fancy Swiss restaurant", he thought to himself, "then I could start my meal with a 'hors d'œuvre', then have some horse meat, served with horseradish sauce." He started to laugh..."Oops," he chuckled to himself. "I'd better stop laughing before I laugh myself hoarse..." He laughed to himself again. Peter knew he was not a funny guy, but he also knew that he was under so much stress just now, that if someone had said to him any of the stupid "Why did the chicken cross the road?" jokes, he would have laughed, no matter what the punch line was.
He needed a beer. Or ten. Except, of course, that the Doctor had cautioned him against drinking alcohol.
He dressed, grabbed his thick jacket and hurried down the stairs.
.
Walking through town he kept an eye open for a restaurant that would serve "Swiss fondue". The horses of Zermatt would be relieved to hear that he had decided to try out one of Switzerland's world famous dishes, before he left for home.
As he walked through the town, he deliberately avoided the street corner that led to the Berg Gasse, and took a circuitous route through the town, seeing some of the other smaller streets and enjoying the rest of the town that he had not yet visited.
After looking at several restaurants that seemed particularly inviting, he chose one that offered a 'Free drink with every meal!' As he walked through the door, he wondered if the restaurant would be full of other Scots people who had seen the words 'free drink' on the wall outside.
BOX SET of THREE TOP 10 MEDICAL THRILLERS Page 12
