Death's Privilege

by Darryl Donaghue

  Gareth leant forward to move to the next screen. ‘Wait. Keep it here a second.’ The lady waited by the door and the man presented the key card and said something to the girl. Sarah couldn’t read his lips, but whatever it was, it had the receptionist throwing her head back with laughter and his wife smirking again. They left; she went back to tapping her nails. ‘Next camera. And zoom it out. Show us Sheila’s movements on one screen and the third floor corridor and the foyer on separate screens.’ Gareth seemed happy to demonstrate his smooth working knowledge of the CCTV system and within seconds they had an eye on the three areas of the Oxlaine. Sheila took the lift to the third floor, walked along the corridor and slid her key into Room 334 at 16:42. ‘Okay, play it faster again until she leaves.’

  ‘No need. The cameras are motion-sensored. They’ll kick back in if a door is opened or someone gets out of the lift.’ Gareth leant back in his chair and crossed his feet on the control panel table. The third-floor screen blinked black and came back on showing 17:35. A man in a blue polo shirt walked past Sheila’s room. Another blink at 18:10 as the same man returned; 18:21: a young couple walked by; 19:01: a woman in Oxlaine uniform; 19:05: the same woman walked back.

  At 19:38 Sheila Hargreaves left her room, paced towards the lift holding a bottle of wine. She wore the dress she would later die in and a necklace with a large green stone, possibly an emerald. She walked past the reception desk, stopped to rummage through her bag and returned the key card.

  ‘Outside camera.’ The screen flicked to a top-down shot of Sheila struggling to walk down the stone steps in her unwieldy heels. She raised her hand to the cab driver and got in the driver’s side rear door. The cab pulled away out of shot. ‘Any other angle that’ll get us a shot of that plate?’ One tap and they were looking at the driveway. It was dark, the only light coming from the knee-high lamps that lit the side of the drive. Gareth slowed the footage to a crawl as the car came into view. They watched frame by frame as the car edged closer, hoping it would illuminate the plate. GX05 UTG.

  ‘I’ll run it through the box.’ Dales pressed some buttons on his police radio before giving up and calling the control room for a Police National Computer check from his mobile.

  Sarah watched the outside camera blink on and off waiting for Sheila to come back. She looked at her watch: 16:30. By the time she finished up here, got back to the station and briefed the late turn, it’d be gone eight o’clock at the earliest. Since starting this fast track programme, she’d finished late more often than she’d been home on time. She spent her days off either catching up on sleep or revising for the exam. She’d hardly seen Mark or the kids, but they understood how important this was to her. The screen continued to blink, awoken by every slight movement, but recording nothing of relevance.

  ‘I’ve just got to make a call. Could you pause it if any blonde females come back in?’ She didn’t want to leave it up to Gareth to decide who to follow and who to ignore. “Blonde female” was wide enough so she wouldn’t be missed. Sarah stepped into the corridor and called her husband.

  ‘Mark, I’m going to be late. I’ve tried getting in touch with Heather, but she’s not picking up.’

  ‘I was supposed to be out tonight. There’s the investors meeting, remember?’ She wasn’t used to him sounding angry. He’d had a temper when he was younger, but had mellowed into his thirties.

  ‘I’m sorry. I tried getting out, I just can’t leave work at the moment.’

  ‘Sarah, this is big for me and I’m having to stay here and look after the kids.’ He lowered his voice for the last part.

  ‘Looking after the kids shouldn’t feel like a burden, Mark.’

  ‘It’s not, you know I don’t feel that way, but tonight was important, I’m expected to be there. We’ve spent years working towards this.’

  ‘I’d be there if I could.’

  ‘But you’re not.’ His voice hung on the phone expectant of a response she didn’t have. She’d told him these few months would be busy. She just wanted to get through this programme and then things would settle down.

  ‘If I could leave on time, I would, but it can’t be that way just yet. It’s not a nine-to-five job. Listen, I’ve got to get back. The sooner I finish up, the sooner I can come home. We’ll talk, I promise.’ They said goodbye and Sarah came back into the CCTV room.

  Dales ended his phone call as she walked back in the room. ‘The car comes back to Quick Cabs, a new firm out in Osbasten. Clean check, no reports. Quick Cabs are going to check driver records and passenger details, but guess what?’

  ‘They’re going to need a form?’

  ‘They’re going to need a form signed by an inspector.’ Sarah was used to this kind of bureaucracy, but Dales continued to take umbrage at everything he possibly could. ‘Gareth here found our woman coming back in.’

  Sheila walked back into the Oxlaine at 20:45 and took her heels off. The receptionist handed her the key card. Sheila leant on the desk, trying to steady herself before walking to the lift. She wiped tears from her cheeks.

  ‘Back almost within an hour. No necklace and she’s now got the beige bag with her.’ Sarah jotted down the times and camera numbers as Sheila got out of the lift on the third floor, holding her black heels in one hand and steadying herself along the wall with the other. She paused outside the door, arched her back, stretched out her neck and arms rather awkwardly, before dropping her heels and taking her phone out from her bag. She looked at it a little longer than required to read the incoming caller ID, put it back in her bag without answering and opened the door, kicking her shoes through as she did so. ‘One of forty missed calls.’

  At 04:42, a man in Oxlaine garb walked into shot from the left of the reception screen. He spoke briefly with the girl behind the desk, who shrugged her shoulders. He opened the front door and went outside.

  ‘Flick to the outside camera.’

  It was hard to make out what was going on through the rain. The front of the hotel was well lit, but the raindrops on the lens distorted the images, curving the light and blotting areas out of focus. He stood on the stone steps and pointed towards the ground’s exit. Another figure pleaded with him, arms open and pointing behind him into the hotel. He waved his arm from side to side, not letting them pass, and pointed towards the exit again. The figure was thin, certainly next to the far broader security guard, and kept its distance despite clearly having an axe to grind about something. She couldn’t see a face underneath a hooded top that hung low, almost to the neck, but it was clear the trespasser was shouting. He put his fingers to his lips and held an open hand towards the hotel. The figure sat on the edge of the fountain, folded their arms and put their head down. When it looked like he was about to walk back inside, the security guard took two large steps towards the fountain, picked up the scrawny shape and threw them from their seat. They rolled back to their feet, jumped up and down, pointing to the hotel. The guard advanced, chasing the figure a few metres along the driveway and letting them sprint the rest themselves. The gate camera gave a clearer shot of the clothing at least: a full grey tracksuit, complete with Nike tick across the front and bright white trainers.

  ‘Let’s add Mr Security Guard to the list of people we need to talk to,’ said Dales. ‘Happy?’

  ‘Yeah.’ They watched the rest of the footage up until the body was found, to be certain there was nothing else of relevance. The next person to enter Room 334 was the porter at 11:15. ‘We’re going to need copies of all of that.’

  ‘Got a hard drive?’ Gareth smirked at Sarah, looking like he'd won something.

  ‘Hard drive? We’ve got some discs?’

  ‘Discs aren’t going to cut it. This is a high-definition video capture system. A few seconds of this stuff will eat those discs. You’re gonna need to bring me an external hard drive for all the times you want.’

  ‘Won’t a USB stick do it?’

  ‘Not big enough, love.’

  ‘Alright, how long will it take?’ It wa
s getting late. Portable hard drives weren’t found hanging around the station; she’d have to apply to the High Tech Crime Unit and head over there to get it. That wouldn't be possible until the morning at the earliest.

  ‘Once you get me the drive, about four hours I expect.’

  ‘Okay, how long are you going to be here for?’

  ‘You want it done tonight?’

  ‘Let’s wait till morning,’ said Dales. ‘Can you be here at eight? We’ll have you a hard drive and be ready to go.’

  ‘Eight?’

  ‘Yes, Gareth, eight, that gives you plenty of time to watch Dexter’s Laboratory and have your Rice Krispies.’

  ‘Funny.’

  Semples hadn’t returned with the documents and they now had further names to add to their request. Sarah texted Mark to say she wouldn’t see him before he went to bed. If she called, it’d only descend into slinging words they’d both regret.

  ‘Texts already?’ Dales propped himself on the reception desk, waiting for the girl to come back, preferably with the bundle of paperwork they’d requested.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sarah put her phone on silent, not wanting to read any reply until she was free of distractions.

  ‘It starts with a call in good time. Honey, I’ll be off late, don’t wait up, leave dinner in the fridge—a pre-planned kind of call. That call then gets later and later and soon you’re calling home five minutes before the end of your shift. The table’s already laid and whilst you’re hanging around the office for a briefing, your partner’s tucking in next to an empty plate.

  ‘It’s not your fault. You leave it that late because you know how much you’ve disappointed them recently, so you hang on, you hope that the late turn will volunteer or the lazy bastard on your team who’s always last in and first out is going to throw a lifeline your way for change. When that doesn’t happen, you call. Your other half starts making dinner just for themselves and the kids, and you pick up a takeaway on the long drive home. Your kids start reading to themselves at night. They do their homework without your help and keep their dreams to themselves. Soon, you’re making calls after shift’s over.

  ‘You start assuming your shift will end at seven on a day that’s due to end at five, so you make fewer evening plans. What’s the point? The chances of making that show, that game, making your friend’s birthday, even your own anniversary: all of that is a distant memory. That’s all for other people, not for us. We don’t get that life.

  ‘Before long, it’s just texts. Short apologies you may as well save as a template and schedule your phone to send at the same time every night. Sending those texts becomes the only part you’ll take in family events. Your partner announces you won’t be home again. The kids are disappointed at first, but the frowns soon turn to shrugs and after a while, no one even bothers to check their phone. You see, in the hour after thankless hour you’ve spent in the office, just one more enquiry, one more loose end, they’ve been learning to get by without you. And when it finally breaks you, when that something inside snaps and you clamber back, clawing to retrieve the things you love, you realise you’re nothing more than a stranger to your own family.

  ‘Back there, you wanted to drive to a shop, buy a hard drive, come back here and wait till the early hours for that footage, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I did.’ Sarah hadn't seen this side of him before. They hadn't known each other very long, but he seemed to have her pegged.

  ‘Some things can’t wait. But when they can, put them off and give yourself a breather. You can’t solve the world’s problems in a day. Part of this job, this way of life, is figuring out your priorities. Manage that, and it’ll give you everything you want; don’t, and it’ll take it all away.’

  Semples scurried from behind the reception desk carrying a folder under his arm. ‘Did I interrupt something?’ Mr Semples exchanged looks between them and when neither officer replied, he just continued talking. ‘I have everything you asked for: staff lists and contact details, phone calls in and out of the office, passport photocopy from her check-in, names of the night turn staff and I hear you asked for the security guard too, his details are also enclosed.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, we’ll be back around eight in the morning,’ said Dales.

  ‘Victor should be on his way back in for his night shift. If you hang around for a short while, you'll be able to see him this evening?

  Dales looked at Sarah. ‘Your call?’

  ‘I’ll ask the night-turn DC to take it.’

  By the time she arrived home, they’d all gone to bed. Dales’ words flew around her head as she tried to sleep. She’d never heard him speak like that before. Everything was usually followed by a quip or some sarcastic remark. He’d been serious back in the foyer and she wondered about the life he’d had, the things he’d given up for his career, for his sanity. He’d lived through interesting times and, with the job changing so much, it was clear he’d struggled to change along with it. She respected Dales; he’d saved her job back in Sunbury.

  Father Michael’s murder would stay with her forever. In part for its sheer brutality—officers had retired without seeing such savage injuries—and in part, mostly if she were honest, for the sense of being overwhelmed and alone. She’d done her best in less than ideal circumstances and made mistakes along the way. Mistakes she thought would cost her job, and she was convinced would have, had Dales not stood up for her.

  He’d traded his role at the Major Crime Team to tutor her, and having only four years left until retirement, the chances of him getting back into MCT were pretty slim. Once an officer left a job like that, they went right to the back of the queue, and the queue was likely to be far longer than he had left in service. She didn’t want to let him down; he’d put his faith in her for a reason, a reason she may never know or understand.

  He’d been right about the effects of making the wrong choice. She saw it when she looked at him; the situations he’d faced, the positions he’d been in and the people he’d been surrounded with had taken a toll that showed on his face. Couple that with a lifelong smoking habit, terrible diet, long hours and a high-stress role, and Dales wasn’t a well man. His speech had come from the heart. She’d wanted to ask him about it, to find out what lay behind it all, but they had different ways of surviving. Her preference for confronting emotional problems clashed with his tendency to push them down, down to the core, down so far they never resurfaced. She’d had a glimpse of that core tonight. Listening to the old-timers talk, she wondered if anyone who stuck at this game ever ended up happy. They’d talk of friends deep in depression, those they’d lost to alcohol abuse, drug addiction, suicide. The ones that survived had more broken marriages than they could count on one hand, neglected families refusing to speak to them and child support bills only slightly longer than their prescription lists. She knew they didn’t all end up like that; she knew she wouldn’t, at least.

  Eight

  The next morning, Semples greeted them at the entrance to the Oxlaine and took them to conference room six on the fourth floor. He gave the grand room a suitably grand introduction.

  ‘This is the Stratus. It’s our largest and most regularly requested meeting room, including a sixty-inch, crystal-clear conference screen, with inputs for PC, Mac and all the major brands of tablets, high-speed Wi-Fi, twenty-two microphones under the table and, of course, free tea and coffee thrown in and served by a personal server.’

  As pleasant as it was to see how the other half live, the only things Sarah needed were a pen, a notebook, some peace and some quiet. ‘There won’t be any need for that, Mr Semples.’ Sarah sat down at the top corner of the table and Dales took the seat next to her. ‘Can we have Margaret in first, please?’

  ‘Yes, of course, she’s just outside.’ Semples left the room and a tall blonde woman of Slavic appearance entered the room as if it was a catwalk.

  ‘Margaret Levskchin? I’m DC Sarah Gladstone and this is DS Steve Dales. Just call me Sarah
. As I’m sure you’ve been told, we’re investigating the death yesterday of Sheila Hargreaves, a guest at this hotel. At this time, we don’t believe anyone else was involved in her death. We viewed the CCTV and it shows you checked Sheila Hargreaves in at around 16:35. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What hours did you work that day?’

  ‘I worked four p.m. to midnight.’

  ‘And who do you normally work with?’

  ‘We’re normally alone, unless it’s busy, then I can call someone to help. That day was quiet all day, so I was mostly alone.’ Sarah listened closely to her accent. The short answers were clear, but the longer responses were harder to follow.

  ‘Did anything unusual happen during your shift?’

  ‘It was a slow shift. We don’t get any trouble here. Most of the guests are regular visitors; they come here as a break from the city or to use the conference rooms or the meeting rooms like this one for business. We host a certain type of person here. I take the key cards when they leave and return them when they come back in. Very little tends to happen.’