by Ed James
‘No, you don’t.’ Reed got between them and settled into a low crouch. ‘Lisa, can you work with your usual guy to get the external footage?’
‘Fine.’ Bridge got up and trudged off.
Reed stopped the guard getting up. ‘We’ve got a warrant and if I see you so much as looking at the equipment, you’re getting locked up.’
‘I know the drill. Don’t have to brief me.’ Then the guard gave Fenchurch a cheeky wink. ‘I know you.’ He joined them standing, looming tall. A chain dangled round his neck, holding a keycard and a tiny USB drive. ‘Simon Fenchurch, isn’t it?’ He held out a hand. ‘Jim Muscat. PC Muscat, as was. Based at Leman Street until March, but I got my twenty-five and got out. You must remember me?’
Fenchurch would have imagined so with those eyes, but he just couldn’t recall. Then he gave Muscat a professional smile. ‘How you finding this?’
‘Cakewalk, mate.’ Muscat’s mouth hung open and he thumbed behind him. ‘Until someone finds a dead body on your watch. It’s common in hotels, but this is my first one.’
‘Did you find her?’
‘Nah, the cleaner did. Joanna. Half past one.’ Muscat’s voice had slid up an octave. ‘Poor thing’s in a bit of a state. She told me and . . . Not sure what I could do other than call it in, you know?’
‘Wondering if you can help me, Jim.’ Fenchurch settled a serious gaze on Muscat, treating him like he was still on the Job. ‘We’ve got a bit of a mystery concerning the guest’s identity.’
‘I know what you mean.’ Muscat frowned. ‘Thought I recognised her from somewhere but . . .’
He knows her face as well. Bloody hell.
‘One thing you might be able to help with, Jim. How did the killer get in the room?’
‘Why you asking me?’
Fenchurch pointed at the security console behind the desk.
‘Oh. I already looked for DC Bridge. The machine’s on the blink. Got a guy coming to fix it next week.’
‘Can you get them in any sooner?’ Fenchurch clapped Muscat’s arm. ‘Anyway, how about you flex those old police officer’s muscles and look up the guest on the system?’
‘Would love to help.’ Muscat tugged at his collar. ‘Trouble is, I’ve not been here that long and young Katerina hasn’t showed me the system yet. She’s the receptionist. Well, for weekends anyway.’
‘Do you know where the girl who found the body is?’
‘Joanna. She’s with a cop. Uzma Ashkani, used to know her from my time on the force. Lovely girl. Not many Indians on the force, though.’
And Uzma was supposed to check in when she arrived . . .
Fenchurch motioned at Reed as he set off. ‘Kay, can you work with Jim here and see if he can get us a name?’
‘Simon.’ DS Uzma Ashkani stood in the doorway, hand on hip, her expression as dark as her hair. Her smile betrayed how much she liked herself. She joined him in the corridor and pulled the door behind her, marked Staff Only. ‘So Dawn asked me to step in and make sure everything’s above board.’
Nothing like being audited.
‘Sergeant, you were asked to let me know when you’d arrived.’
‘And you were busy.’ Uzma put her hands on her hips again. One of her less annoying habits. ‘You dislike me because I’ve worked for DCI Mulholland for six years, don’t you?’
‘It’s nothing to do with that. So long as you remember who you work for, we won’t have a problem.’ Fenchurch held her gaze until she looked away. ‘Have you spoken to the cleaner yet?’
Uzma motioned inside the room at a middle-aged woman sitting on a sofa, eyes red, a tissue bunched up in her fist. She looked up at them and Fenchurch could see in her eyes that sitting there red-faced and crying wasn’t exactly a novel experience. ‘Name’s Joanna Page. She found the body. You’re welcome to join me.’
Fenchurch entered the room and leaned against the nearest wall. Bare breeze blocks. Six comfy sofas paired off. A fridge hummed next to a water cooler.
Uzma put her notebook on the table and sat back, running a hand through her hair. Still hadn’t lost that supercilious smile. She spoke in a soothing tone. ‘Can you take us through what happened today?’
Joanna took a moment to compose herself, tugging at her skirt and tights. ‘I’m a cleaner here at the weekend. Just doing my rounds, listening to that new St Vincent album, when I opened that door and . . . Jesus Christ. Got a bit of a fright. I mean, I often see guests in their beds, even at that time, but she wasn’t answering. And she was smiling at me? I mean, it freaked me out. I went inside and—’ Joanna burst into tears, her body racking with each fresh wave.
Fenchurch leaned in to Uzma. ‘Stay with her and see what else you can get.’
Uzma raised her eyebrows. Then shifted over to the other seat and put an arm around Joanna. ‘Hey, it’s okay.’
Reed was in the bar. The Third Planet: all marble and glass and stripped wood. A giant wall of whisky sat by the cash register, a priceless collection of Scotch from all over the world, if that was still Scotch. The Arsenal and Spurs fans had left their drinks, half-finished pints of Peroni and Stella still covering most tables. The giant TV screen had moved on from the live match to some pundits talking shit in a studio high up in the stadium.
A couple of DCs were taking statements from hotel staff.
Reed wandered over, her trainers squeaking on the floor. ‘You okay, guv?’
‘Uzma. Say no more.’ Fenchurch grimaced. ‘What you up to?’
A beanpole trudged up to them. At least six foot six. Skin and bones. And he looked young, despite his failed attempt at a beard. He held out his hand. ‘Oliver Muscat-Smith.’
Fenchurch shook it. ‘Any relation to Jim Muscat?’
‘My old man.’ His eyes bulged, just like his father’s. ‘Parents never married. Not together any more. I’m the bar manager here.’
‘You seem a bit young.’
‘Okay. Deputy bar manager.’ Oliver sighed. ‘Okay, I’m a trainee barman, but . . .’
‘So, Oliver.’ Reed folded her arms. ‘You were saying?’
‘Was I?’ Oliver looked her up and down, teenage lust twinkling in his eyes. ‘Oh yeah. I was telling DS Reed here that I didn’t see anything weird.’ He gave her another appraisal. ‘I’ve got a good eye for the unusual and special.’
Reed puckered her lips. ‘Have you, now?’
‘Anyone pops in here, I can tell you when they were last in, what they were drinking, how much they tipped me. Whether they tried to hit on me.’
‘You sound quite experienced for your age.’
‘Happy to show you what I can do.’
‘I bet you are, son.’ Fenchurch laughed. ‘You still at school?’
‘Nah, left in the summer. I’m eighteen, in case you’re wondering. Started this gig full-time in July. Before that, I did back-office admin, then I worked reception. Cushy number, that, but this is me now. Training to be a proper cocktail waiter. Get a gig on a cruise ship, maybe on someone’s private yacht. Big bucks out there.’ Oliver’s eyes scanned around the bar area. ‘Not in here, mind.’
‘You know the victim?’
‘Not seen her, sorry. I try to keep out of that part of the hotel as much as I can in case someone asks me to do something.’ Oliver grinned wide. ‘You know, I’m six foot seven. Means I can reach things a lot of people can’t.’ He flashed his eyebrows at Reed. ‘Got size sixteen shoes.’
Fenchurch glowered at him. ‘We don’t know the victim’s identity.’
‘I didn’t kill her, mate.’
‘Not saying you did. You said you worked reception. Wonder if you can maybe get us the victim’s name?’
‘Why can’t Kat do it?’
‘Who?’
‘The receptionist.’ Reed’s face tightened and she spoke in an undertone. ‘Guv, I tried speaking to her but Uzma stopped me when she gave her age. Still a minor. Waiting on her mother turning up. And besides, she’s crying. She saw the body and it freaked her ou
t.’
‘Okay. So, Oliver, given that your old man says he doesn’t know how to use the system . . .?’
Oliver rolled his eyes. ‘Can barely use the bloody telly . . . Follow me.’ He marched through to reception, strutting like he was on a dance floor, and walked over to where his father was scowling at the computer. ‘All right, old timer?’ He pushed his dad away and knelt in front of the desk. ‘What’s the room number?’
‘218.’ Muscat shot his son a wink. ‘Sometimes you need an old-timer, eh?’
‘Not very often.’ Oliver typed at the machine. ‘Okay. She checked in just before seven last night.’ Then he frowned. ‘Oh, bloody hell.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Name is Elizabeth Windsor. Oh, someone’s having a laugh, ain’t they?’
‘Did she book it?’
‘Course she didn’t. She’s the Queen.’
‘I mean whoever is pretending to be her.’
‘Right. No. Says here that the booking was made by Maximum Exposure PR.’
A PR agency? Great . . .
Chapter Four
It’s still nagging at me, guv.’ Reed was out of the car first, buses and lorries buzzing past behind. Her forehead twisted again. ‘People keep saying they recognise the victim.’ She slammed the door and charged off down the road. ‘Who is she?’
Fenchurch caught up with her by the building, a brick pile in prime Hackney, a few doors down from the Empire. Buses, trucks and cars thundered past, a cacophony of engine noise and dubstep. He pressed the buzzer more in hope than expectation. MAXIMUM EXPOSURE was etched in battered brass on the door.
‘Max Exposure, how can I help?’ The sort of voice you’d hear on kids’ TV, all lilting and jaunty.
‘Police.’
And the door clicked open, just like that.
‘Staffed on a Saturday. Interesting.’ Fenchurch stepped through to a large reception area, bigger than the hotel’s.
Reed walked up to the desk and flashed her warrant card. ‘Is Mr Maxfield in?’
The receptionist peered over his thick glasses, obviously more for show than function. ‘Ben’s not taking visitors.’
‘We’re police, son. Be a good lad and get him, yeah?’ Reed smiled at the lad then watched him trudging off.
Fenchurch rested against the reception desk, the white plastic dented in a few places. Too low, as well.
‘It’s good to get back to work, though.’ Reed pressed her lips together. ‘Two weeks with Dave and my kids. Driving me bloody potty.’
The receptionist reappeared. ‘Guys, I’m afraid that Mr Maxfield is very definitely not taking any visitors today, so—’
‘Just get him out here, son.’ Reed waved him back. ‘Now.’ She watched him traipse off again, though he was slightly faster this time. ‘The evidence trail stops at the hotel room door. Need Sherlock bloody Holmes to solve this.’ Then she licked her lips. ‘Benedict Cumberbatch can solve me any day.’
‘Grow up.’ Fenchurch poked his fingernails into the reception desk’s cracked plastic. ‘It’s not a locked-room mystery. That cleaner told us the door was open. It’s how she got in.’
‘Suppose.’
Something clattered behind the desk and the receptionist was back, though this time he was accompanied by a middle-aged man. Spiky black hair, obviously dyed, his face lost under stubble and Botox. Wearing teenagers’ clothes: skinny-fit jeans that looked like they stopped the blood flow to his feet. Ben Maxfield, his jaw clenched. ‘What can I do for you?’
Reed held out her warrant card. ‘Mr Maxfield, we’ve got a dead body at the Bennaceur in the Minories. Room was booked by your firm, in the name of Elizabeth Windsor.’
‘Very, very pleased for you.’ Everything he said was dry, sarcastic, like he barely meant any of it.
‘We need to identify the victim.’
‘I’m afraid that I’ve got far too much work to get involved with this.’ Maxfield sat behind the desk, feet up on the cracked plastic. ‘Now, you need to leave.’
‘Are you refusing to speak to us?’
‘I’d love the luxury of a couple of hours just chatting with you, Sergeant. As it is, my phone’s ringing every five minutes with some tedious, tedious editor trying to get me on the bleeding record about— Well. That would be telling.’ He smirked. ‘Now, I really need to get back to it, okay?’
Reed bent down to him, their foreheads level. ‘You caught the bit about a dead body, yeah?’
‘I haven’t killed anyone since 1985.’ Maxfield’s head jerked back as his hands shot up, palms out. ‘Joke!’ He settled on his elbows, tilting his head to the side. ‘Sergeant, I have every sympathy for you, I really, really do. It’s just that I’ve got so, so, so much work on.’
‘So you’re not going to speak to us?’
Maxfield pushed himself back up to standing. ‘Not even if you took me back to the police station.’ The phone on the desk started ringing and Maxfield reached for it.
Fenchurch grabbed his arm. ‘Now, do you want to come to the station, or are you going to talk?’
Maxfield got up and walked over to lean against the window, silhouetted by the sun. ‘When I saw it was you, a celebrity, I wondered if you’d like representation?’
‘I’m hardly famous.’
‘It’s not just celebs, you know. Those news stories about you and your daughter? So, so heartwarming.’
‘We just need the name of the woman in the hotel room.’
‘I tell you, I could’ve done a much, much better job of finding your daughter.’ Maxfield clapped his hands together. ‘And without so, so many deaths. It was like an Arnold Schwarzenegger film by the end, wasn’t it?’
‘Sir.’ Fenchurch crossed his arms. ‘The victim’s identity. Please.’
Maxfield ran his palms together, slowly. ‘Part of my trade is keeping my lips sealed.’
‘You going to open them for me?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Come on, then.’ Fenchurch grabbed Maxfield’s shirtsleeve. ‘You get to choose which cells you spend the night in.’ He left a pause. ‘Hackney or Leman Street. Either one gets pretty rough on a Saturday. The sort of people we lock up are very good at hiding blades where we can’t find them.’
‘Trying to intimidate me won’t work. I’ve dealt with much, much better than you.’
‘Is the victim a client?’
‘Oh, are we playing twenty questions?’ Maxfield rolled his eyes. ‘Of course she’s a client. I don’t pay for random strangers’ hotel rooms.’
‘Name, now.’
‘Simon, Simon, Simon. I can only give yes or no answers. I mean, come on.’
‘Is she a celebrity?’
Maxfield weighed it up, staring out of his window, then back down. ‘Ish?’
‘That’s neither yes nor no.’
‘Well spotted. You might make a detective one day.’
‘Just tell me.’
‘But I’m having so much fun here!’
Don’t let him get to you. Fenchurch cleared his throat. ‘I just need her name. That’s it.’
‘I’ve got a policy to only talk once I’ve seen a body. You could be up to anything here. So until I see her cold, dead flesh, then I’m not talking.’ Maxfield rubbed his fingertips together, his forehead creasing. Then he stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘And besides, I’ve been on holiday. Splashed all over the Sun and the Mail and the Star, if you’ve been following it.’
‘I don’t read those papers.’
‘You don’t look like you can read.’ Maxfield covered his mouth with his hands. ‘Sorry. Look, if you must know, I was staying on a client’s yacht in the Med. Glorious, glorious weather. Such, such gorgeous Pinot, too. They own a vineyard in California. Invited me out in October for Halloween in a Californian vineyard. Divine.’
‘I assume the yacht’s owner isn’t the client I found murdered in a hotel room?’
‘You’re welcome to assume anything, but you’d be very, very right,
my good sir. Ding ding ding!’ Maxfield looked at Reed for a reaction, mouth open, eyes wide, like a gameshow host. Then he grumbled and leaned back against the window. ‘Different client entirely.’
‘You’re not going to tell us, are you?’
‘Probably not. I mean, it’s like they don’t train you lot to ask the right questions, isn’t it? I’m world-class at avoiding them, so you’d think—’
‘What do you think, Kay?’ Fenchurch took his time walking to the door. ‘Perverting the course of justice?’
‘I’m not perverting anything!’
‘Two-year sentence. Minimum.’
Maxfield caught himself. Then shut his eyes like he was meditating. ‘Okay.’ His brow creased. ‘Look, an associate was dealing with this while I was away. I genuinely, genuinely don’t know anything about this case.’
‘So why all this evasion?’
‘It’s like a sport with me. I enjoy making the little people squirm.’
‘Just tell me who’s lying dead in that hotel room.’
‘All I’ll tell you, until you prove that she’s dead, is that my client is a woman who needs her profile managing over a week or two.’ Maxfield puckered his lips. ‘I just can’t tell you. Sorry.’
‘You’re choosing this—’ Fenchurch stopped himself, otherwise he’d end up knocking his block off. ‘Listen to me. The victim has a husband or maybe a wife, someone who’ll mourn her death, who’ll want justice. Don’t you want to help them instead of playing charades?’
Maxfield winked. ‘Two words. It’s a saying. First word.’ He started thrusting his hips. ‘Second word.’ He thumbed at the door.
‘Very funny.’ Fenchurch jabbed a finger at Maxfield. ‘Someone will mourn this woman’s death. I just need a name. That’s it.’
‘Sorry, but I can’t help.’ Maxfield yawned into a fist. ‘Please leave.’
‘What a prick.’ Fenchurch got in the car and sent a raging glower at the Maximum Exposure office like it would do anything. ‘You ever see anything like that?’
‘A few times.’ Reed yawned, like she’d caught it off Maxfield. ‘You think he’ll help?’
